"This was a most unusual man, a veiled man, so seemingly forthright, so ready to volunteer his thoughts, yet in the end so secretive, so protective of his purposes and the hidden processes of an iron logic behind them. A reviewer of his published diaries commented on his "closed, calculating quality" and went on: "Few who watched him carefully indulged the fantasy that he was a genial, open, barefoot boy from Abilene who just happened to be in the right place when the lightning struck." Another perceptive comment was made by the war correspondent Don Whitehead, who covered the European theater and the invasion for the Associated Press. "I have a feeling," Whitehead wrote years later, "that he was a far more complicated man than he seemed to be- a man who shaped events with such subtlety that he left others thinking that they were the architects of those events. And he was satisfied to leave it that way." Eisenhower conveyed warmth but there was a chill inside him. An early sorrow, the death of his first son, had seared his emotional nerve endings. "This was the greatest disappointment and disaster of my life," he wrote, "the one I have never been able to forget completely. Today when I think of it, even now as I write it, the keenness of our loss comes back to me as fresh and terrible as it was that long dark day." He came to question whether attachment to another person was a luxury that could be afforded. In 1947, he was told of the crack-up over personal loss of a wartime associate and wrote in his diary: "makes one wonder whether any human ever dares become so wrapped up in another that all happiness and desire to live is determined by the actions, desires- or life- of the second." The associate in question was Kay Summersby, his driver and secretary, to whom his himself appears to have become attached, and his words bear the mark of a steely will."