Uncle Noble

80 years ago this week, my “Uncle” Noble and the 9th Infantry Division sealed off the Cherbourg Peninsula eleven days after D-Day during WWII. I was thinking about him while watching the Band of Brothers on TV. When Easy Company jumped into Normandy for their first wartime engagement, Noble and the 9th had already been in combat for over 1 1/2 years.

 Noble was Dad’s best friend, after his brothers, Mick and George. Both he and Dad joined the Army when underage in 1940, over a year before WWII started. They were in B Company, 60th Regimental Combat Team (RCT), of the storied 9th Infantry Division. 

Dad and Noble in ‘41 or early ‘42.

Mom, Dad, “Uncle” Noble and “Aunt” Myra were great friends through the years and got together several times a year.  The four of them had a close friendship that lasted a lifetime.  I learned a lot about life, and about enjoying life from all of them, but particularly Dad and Noble. They told stories from their time in the Army – almost always funny stories of things that happened. The serious stuff?  The stories of death and destruction? Those didn’t make it to the kitchen table where folks gathered, drinking coffee and listening, as these two combat veterans told their tales. 

Noble’s actual WWII story is interesting.  It’s one you can’t really tell without also telling the story of the 9th. 

Dad and Noble’s wartime experience started on November 8th, 1942, when the 9th took part in the Invasion of North Africa. Until D-Day happened, it was the largest wartime amphibious assault ever. After three days of battle, they took Port Lyautey, Morocco and the Vichy French surrendered.  After some downtime, in January of ‘43, the 60th RCT was the only unit selected to take part in a review for President Roosevelt who was at the Casablanca Conference. Dad and Noble were both there and told us funny stories of the comments in the ranks as Roosevelt passed their unit in a jeep for the review. “Hey Rosie – who’s leading the country while you’re over here?” “Hey Rosie – Who’s keeping Mamie warm while you’re over here?”

Roosevelt Reviewing the 60th RCT During the Casablanca Conference

Things got tough again after that. Starting in February, they fought their way across Algeria and then Tunisia. Station de Sened, Maknassy, Bizerte – forgotten names now, but deadly locations in the spring of ‘43. The Germans eventually surrendered at Bizerte, on May 9th, 1943, just over a year before D-Day. 

The 9th wasn’t finished though. A little over two months later, in July of ‘43 they took part in the invasion of Sicily.  The 60th conducted the famous “Ghost March” through the mountains of Sicily, which the Germans originally thought were impenetrable. Dad was shot three times there, and almost died. It took them a few days to evacuate Dad to an aid station, and then a hospital. The war was over for him and they eventually sent him back to the States. 

Chicago Tribune Asking for a Picture After Dad was Wounded.

In fact Dad’s wounds were so severe, Noble thought he had died, or would die shortly. As they evacuated him, Noble and the 60th continued the fight. 38 days after the invasion began, Sicily fell on August 20th. Noble was there when Patton addressed the Division on August 26th, congratulating them for their efforts.  

In September of ‘43, the 9th deployed to England for rest and refitting. With just over nine months until D-Day, the 60th had already fought in four countries on two continents.

On June 10th, D-Day plus 4, Noble and the 9th landed on Utah Beach. Their mission? Attack towards Cherbourg and cut off the peninsula. This they did and on the 17th of June, reached the ocean on the other side of the peninsula, and eventually, captured the port of Cherbourg itself. If you’ve forgotten your history, Cherbourg was critical for the allies to establish a port on the Atlantic Seaboard. Back home, the news singled out the 9th for their efforts. 

Ernie Pyle and Time Magazine Talking About the 9th on the Peninsula

From there, they started on the great chase across France. The 9th advanced over 600 miles by the end of September thru France and into Belgium. In 3 1/2 months they were engaged in three major campaigns and were only out of action for a total of five days. 

The 9th was among the first units entering Germany itself. For actions on December 12th in the Hurtgen Forest area of Germany, Noble’s unit, B company 60th RCT, received a Distinguished Unit Citation for combat actions in Germany. At the time, the company probably had around 80 or so men.

Noble and B Company, in Action Just Before the Bulge

Just after the 12th, The 9th was pulled out of the line due to the heavy casualties they had sustained. It was “resting” in the Monschau Forest area of Belgium, when on December 16th, 1944, the German winter offensive, the “Battle of the Bulge” started. Thrown back into combat, the Division beat back the enemy at the northern edge of “The Bulge”. 

The Battle of the Bulge, The Ardennes, the fight across Germany to the Rhine River – Noble saw all of that. On 7 March, when the American 9th Armored Division captured the bridge across the Rhine River at Remagen, Noble and the 60th RCT were among the first Infantry units to cross under heavy fire and defend the bridgehead from the East side of the Rhine. 

The 9th at Remagen

On across Germany – The Ruhr, The Hartz Mountains… On April 26th, 1945, a patrol from the 60th RCT linked up with the Russians at the Elbe River. The war in Europe officially ended on May 7th. 

Noble spent 2 1/2 years in combat, fought in seven countries and survived without a scratch. Miracles do happen. 

In 1950, a minor miracle also happened. 

In July of that year, a knock came at my parent’s door and Mom answered. A young couple was standing there and wanted to know if William Hall lived there.  Mom said yes and called Dad.  All of a sudden there was yelling, and exclamations, and hugging, and dancing and back pounding – it was Noble, and his new wife Myra.  

It turned out Noble and Myra were traveling from a vacation in Wisconsin back to Southern Illinois where they lived, when they passed our hometown – Ottawa. Noble thought Dad had died in Sicily, and then remembering he was from Ottawa, decided to stop in and see if he could find Dad’s parents and offer his condolences. He looked the name William Hall up in the phone book, and stopped off at the local VFW to see if anyone knew of Dad or his relations. They then drove to the address from the phone book, assuming it was my grandfather’s home. Instead, he and Dad saw each other for the first time since August of 1943 in Sicily. 

I was born in ’55 and named Max Noble Hall in honor of Noble.  I always enjoyed seeing him and Myra over the years during their visits.  Later, at West Point, and then while spending my own time in the Army, I often asked myself if I was measuring up to these men from B Company of the 60th RCT.  

Noble and Dad in the Mid-‘70s in Ottawa. Still Ready to Kick Ass.

I feel so lucky having known them and having heard the stories Noble and Dad told. It’s only in the last decade I’ve matched those stories up to the details in history books. I can tell you they greatly underplayed what they did for America and the free world. What I wouldn’t give for another day with Noble and Dad – listening to the stories, and this time, asking more questions. 

The “Greatest Generation” is mostly gone now. I think it’s important we not let them, or their stories be forgotten. 

Here’s to you Uncle Noble. Thanks for everything you did for this country and being an influence in my life. It’s a debt I can never repay. 

Addendum:

• Some of this blog was extracted from a blog I did a few years ago about Dad and three of his buddies from the 9th. You can read it here if you want: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/06/17/dad-deason-boggs-and-noble/
• I relied on the book, “Eight Stars to Victory, A History of the Veteran Ninth U.S. Infantry Division”, published in 1948, as background for much of the factual information in this blog. 

Eric

On a beautiful sunny day, sixteen of us attended the funeral of our brother, Eric Franks. The service was perhaps, more poignant, as it was the Friday before Memorial Day. It’s always bittersweet when members of the West Point Proud and Great class of ‘78 gather and say goodbye to a classmate. 

At our 45th class reunion last fall, we held a memorial service for the 82 classmates who have passed away. This year, since January, at least ten additional classmates have died. The rate of our passing seems to have increased, but I suppose we are at that age. The youngest of us is 67.  The oldest, maybe 71. 

For those who pass away, a contingent of classmates typically attends the funeral services. Depending on when and where it is, there might be only one or two of us able to make it, or as at Eric’s, as many as 16 or more. It’s not only a last chance to honor a brother, but also an opportunity to spend time with each other and catch up in person. The sands drop through the hourglass more quickly these days and I think we all know it. Bittersweet indeed.

And so it was with Eric. Over the years, Cath and I saw Eric and his wife Robin at various reunions, or mini-reunions. The past few years, we also met them, along with our classmate Gus Hellzen and his wife Janice for an occasional beer or lunch on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. All three couples were married over 45 years ago in the weeks after our June, 1978 graduation. Our wives also made the journey through West Point and the Army.

B-3 Company-Mates and Wives at a Class Mini Reunion in 2022: Hellzens, Wells, Franks, Halls and Powells.

At the service, most classmates in attendance were from the MidAtlantic region, but some flew in from Alabama and Florida among other places. Classmate Brad Andrews, a close friend of Eric’s was one of two speakers giving a eulogy. He told stories of Eric from our cadet days and his time in the Army, including Panama. He talked about Eric becoming a renowned and pioneering Orthopedic Surgeon and the impact he had both on his patients and on other doctors. He also spoke of Eric having cancer and how it didn’t slow him down, even at the end of his life. At the end of his talk, he called the attending West Point graduates to attention and we rendered a final hand salute to Eric. 

After the service, we gathered outside the church and a group photo was taken, something that has become a tradition at funerals, but also other times when some of us gather together to celebrate life and each other. The photos are usually posted to our class Facebook Page, or our email server. “Yes,” we seem to say, “we are still alive, celebrating our brother, each other and The Long Grey Line. Grip Hands.” At funerals in particular, the phrase “Grip Hands”, from the song The Corps* is more real and more important. 

Class of 1978 at Dr. Eric Franks funeral in Salisbury, MD. L-R: Charlie Bartolotta, Max Hall, Bond Wells, Bob Rush, Craig College, Kevin MacCaffery, Kevin Beam, Bob Maszarose, Charlie Dixon, Adolf Ernst, Brad Andrews, Jack Paul, Hank Gillen, Chris Maxfield, Gus Hellzen & Jim Galloway.

Most of us eventually made our way to Robin and Eric’s home for lunch and libation. It was a lively time, with more laughter than tears as far as I could tell. We met with family and friends of Eric from throughout his life. At one point, Gus poured small glasses of WhistlePig** for all who wished to join us in a toast – “To Eric – Grip hands and be thou at peace. Proud & Great ‘78! Here’s to Eric.”   And then, echoing from our formal events in the military (in an Army that was still mostly male in our early days), his second toast, “To the ladies!”

Eventually Cath and I said our goodbyes and left for the drive home. Along the way, we talked of the day and what a fine tribute to Eric it was.

During the drive, I also thought of some of the words Brad used in his eulogy for Eric. He quoted Samual Johnson, saying “To my question, as to whether we might fortify our minds for the approach of death, he answered in a passion, ‘No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.’ “

Our hearts are with Robin, their children Erica and Ricky, and with their families. Here’s to you Eric – You led a life worth living. Be Thou at Peace.

Eric and Robin

Addendum:

• Here are the words to “The Corps”:

• WhistlePig Rye Whiskey holds a special place with our class. If you want to learn why, you can read more here – We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let our classmates down […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/
• Thanks to Gus Hellzen for the photo of Eric and Robin at the start of this blog. Thanks to Cathy for the photo of classmates at Eric’s service.

Mooseburgers

The last time I saw Tim, I was back in Ottawa for my Brother-in-Law Jack’s funeral. I didn’t know it would be the last time, although I suspected it might. Mark, Howard and I were invited to Tim and Renee’s home for a lunch of Mooseburgers, with Tim serving as grill master.

Cath and I had visited Tim and Renee a few weeks before, while in Ottawa for my 50th high school reunion. After flying into Chicago, we stopped by and spent a few hours at their place in St Charles. It was good to catch up. They were supposed to make the reunion as well, but couldn’t. At the time, Tim was a 4+ year pancreatic cancer survivor, but things were going downhill the last couple of months prior to the reunion.

When Jack died of brain cancer a couple of weeks later, I returned for his services and to see my sister Roberta. I called Tim and Renee to see if we might get together, and I think Tim came up with the idea of the group lunch. Old buddies, Mark and Howard were invited and both quickly said yes. The five of us met on the 14th of October.

Tim, Howard and I have known each other since before kindergarten. Mark came on the scene around 5th grade and we have all been buddies ever since. As to Renee, Tim and Renee met through Cath and I in the early ‘90s. What started as friendship turned into love, and they married.

Tim and Renee’s Wedding.

The lunch was a good time. Renee made some wonderful appetizers and our conversations were wide-ranging. Yes, we talked about Tim’s cancer, but we also talked about the Bears and the White Sox, and as is inevitable when together, retold stories from our youth and good times together over the years.

After a while, Tim shuffled out to the grill and cooked the Mooseburgers. They’d brought the ground moose back last summer from their annual vacation to their place in Maine. I believe a cousin shot the moose and gave them some of the burger. Renee let us know that although he was weaker, Tim insisted on cooking. The burgers were great, and cooked perfectly. There was more talk and Tim, his voice somewhat raspy, eventually grew tired. It was time to go. We hugged Renee, fist-bumped Tim and said our goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mark drove north to Wisconsin, while Howard and I headed south. It was the last time all of us were together.

Mooseburgers

Tim and I continued to text almost daily after that. The last one from him was on November 8th, when he congratulated me on the Virginia election results. After that, the link went silent. Cath and I stayed in contact with Renee and others, and knew Tim’s condition was worsening. Late on the night of December 4th, Renee called and let us know Tim passed away. After talking a while longer, I sent our love her way and hung up the phone. I silently cried dry tears.

I’ve known Tim for about 65 of my 68 years. Tim…June…Junebug… There are so many stories. Although I know there are groans in some quarters when we re-tell them for the 1,000th time, they still bring a smile to my face. In my mind, rather than a film, I see thousands of snapshots of our times together. The number of actual photos is more limited. Unlike now, back in the day we didn’t have the technology, or the desire, to capture everything going on. I think our lives are a little richer for that.

The “snapshots” of those times blur together. Some of the memories are blurry as well, while others are crystal clear. They span two continents, several states and seven decades.

I can turn the kaleidoscope of those decades in my mind and several pictures emerge – earning my God And Country Scout award in ‘68 with Tim and Howard; Tim, Howard and Mark serving as groomsmen for Cathy’s and my wedding in ‘78; multiple visits by Tim and Howard to our home in Germany in the ‘80s; introducing Tim and Renee in the ‘90s and then they married; ski trips to West Virginia in the ‘90s and 2000s with Tim never leaving the cabin; wonderful Bordeaux Dinners at Tim and Renee’s home near Chicago in the 201Xs; all four couples together at Camp Kishauwa in ‘22.

Tim, Howard and I Receiving our God and Country Awards.

I turn the kaleidoscope a second time and different pictures emerge – in the 60s, Tim and I in Boy Scouts sharing a tent at Camp Kishauwa; the Ottawa Gluttons eating team at OHS in ‘73; shipping a keg of bier from Germany to Tim in Chicago in ‘86; visiting Tim and Howard at their iconic Chicago apartment on numerous occasions in the ‘90s; New Year’s Eve dinners at the farm with Tim and Renee in ‘99 and the 2000s; Cath and I visiting Tim and Renee’s beloved Maine for a vacation; endlessly talking and texting about politics and history during Covid.

At Howard and Tim’s Apartment in Chicago in the Early ‘90s.

I rotate the kaleidoscope again and more memories race through my mind – Mrs Finkeldye’s first grade class; drinking biers at the Butler’s House in our high school years; church youth fellowship; Tim saving me from the MPs in Germany; Tim sleeping on the couch with our dog, Top; Tim and Renee with Cath and I skinny dipping in Lost River; Tim and Renee at the Hash; Tim, Howard, Mark and I decades ago on a New Year’s Eve at 3AM in a picture forever frozen in time – all of us young, with our whole lives in front of us…

New Year’s Eve 1978.

There were no photos taken of us at the Mooseburger lunch. We didn’t need or want any. What I’ll remember is the fellowship and love of old friends spending a few hours together. I’ll always remember that lunch. Always. The memory of it will spark a kaleidoscope of images – an endless stream of snapshots in an infinite number of combinations.

Rest in peace Tim. I love you.

Addendum:

Here are some previous blogs featuring Tim:

• Earning our Boy Scout God and Country awards – https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/09/12/god-and-country/
• The Ottawa gluttons eating team at OHS – https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/17/the-ottawa-gluttons/
• In 1986, Tim and I found a way to ship a Keg of German bier from a Monastery, home in a transport plane: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/10/09/shipping-bier-from-germany/
• In the ‘80s when we lived in Germany, several family members and friends visited us. To “help” them overcome jet lag, we made sure the first couple of days were action packed with eating, drinking and activities to keep them occupied. It almost proved one friend’s undoing in 1987 […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/09/12/tim-and-bobbys-visit/
• The night wasn’t supposed to happen. As a matter of fact, in today’s post 9-11 world, it couldn’t happen. They never would have made it through security. But in 1991? Yea, my buddies Howard and June sprung me from O’Hare Airport during a layover, and we had an unexpected night in Chicago. It was July 2nd, 1991 and I’d been in Omaha, Nebraska running tests on the President’s “other plane” for […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/06/30/an-accidental-night-in-chicago/
• This slightly blurry photo from New Years Eve, 1978 captures Mark, Howard, Tim and me. We are, perhaps, slightly inebriated. Our youth has passed, and our adult lives stretch in front of us. Looking at the picture now, 42 years later, I think about our friendship and the transience of […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/12/27/old-friends-dunny-howard-june-and-ben/

Dad and Pearl Harbor

It was December 6th, 1941. Dad, Noble and other men from B Company, 60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division had weekend passes. They left Fort Bragg, North Carolina that Saturday for nearby Fayetteville. They didn’t know it yet, but the next day their world would change forever.

That weekend, Dad was a little over 18 years old and had been in the Army for about fifteen months. The 9th Infantry Division reactivated in August of 1940, and Dad joined the unit in September of that year, at the age of 16.

Dad (on the left) in 1941 in the Bravo Company Motor Pool.

In 1940, the population of Fort Bragg was 5,400. One year later, there were 67,000 troops at Bragg and Fayetteville was on the way to becoming a military town, with bars, clubs, restaurants and everything needed to “entertain” the troops, for better or worse.

Fayetteville, 1941.

Dad and the other boys of Company B received their weekend passes that fateful weekend and probably left Bragg around noon. Typical weekend passes went from noon on Saturday to 6PM on Sunday. They usually rented a room or two to use as a base for their partying. Over the years, he told me about some of those weekend passes. Real food, beer, clubs, blues, jazz, dancing and trying to link up with girls. They’d party into the night, and then the next day, after a big breakfast, party some more until they eventually returned to Post. I heard stories about fun times in North Carolina (Fayetteville and Charlotte) in Tunisia and Algeria, and late in the war back in Washington DC. Let’s just say, Dad knew how to party.

For this particular weekend, he didn’t tell me about any of that. What he talked about was the return to Fort Bragg late Sunday afternoon on December 7th.

Dad and several others were returning to the Post in a cab. I think he said there was a formation at 6PM for accountability purposes, but maybe they just had to sign back in. He and his friend, Noble, had partied it up pretty good and were a bit hungover. As they neared Fort Bragg, two things happened. First, traffic was backed up to drive onto the Post – they were checking IDs or checking IDs more closely than normal. Second – the cab driver turned on the car radio.

By 1940, AM radios were considered a standard feature in automobiles. The stations carried news, some radio shows and music. There weren’t lots of stations, and the programming wasn’t all that varied. This time however, the boys of Company B heard the words that would change their lives. An NBC announcer read the following statement, relayed earlier from station KGU in Hawaii:

• BULLETIN: We have witnessed this morning the attack of Pearl Harbor and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by army planes that are undoubtedly Japanese. The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. One of the bombers dropped within fifty feet of Tanti Towers. It’s no joke -it’s a real war. The public of Honolulu has been advised to keep in their homes and away from the army and navy. There has been severe fighting going on in the air and on the sea …(There then was an interruption, followed by this) . . . We have no statement as to how much damage has been done but it has been a very severe attack. The army and the navy, it appears, now has the air and sea under control.

There is a five-hour time difference between Honolulu and the East Coast. The attack on Pearl Harbor started at 8AM and lasted about 90 minutes (not the three hours in the news bulletin). That means the attack ended about 9:30AM Honolulu time, or 2:30PM East Coast time. The Honolulu station was somewhat delayed in reporting the news, and then of course, in the pre-internet age, it took longer for stations in the Continental US to pick up the bulletin and rebroadcast it. My guess is Dad, Noble and the other guys were hearing this news around 4:30PM or so that afternoon.

What did they do at this point? Wait in the cab to drive onto Fort Bragg? Get out of the cab and run onto Fort Bragg? Leave the cab and start talking with the other gathering soldiers? None of those things happened.

Instead, they directed the cabbie to make a U-Turn and drive back to Fayetteville. They were going to hit the bars again, even though they would be Absent Without Leave (AWOL) and miss the evening formation. They knew instantly this was going to be a shooting war, training was going to get tougher and opportunities to leave Post become slimmer. They weren’t going to miss this chance for a last shebang.

Dad and Noble in ‘41 or Early ‘42 on a Different Weekend Pass.

And of course, when they returned to Fayetteville, they weren’t alone. Soldiers were everywhere drinking and partying. I think Dad said he thought half his battalion was in town. They joined the crowd and partied into the evening. There was a great deal of talk about when and where they would deploy.

Eventually, they returned to Bragg late that night. According to Dad lots of guys had hangovers at morning formation on Monday, December 8th, but nothing was really done about them missing the evening formation. There was too much work to do.

On the evening of the 8th, President Roosevelt gave his famous “A Day which will live in Infamy” speech to a joint session of Congress. The speech was broadcast live by radio and attracted the largest audience in American radio history, with over 80% of Americans allegedly tuning in to hear it.

President Roosevelt Speaking to Congress on Dec 8, 1941.

Eleven months to the day later, on November 8th, 1943, the men of the 60th Regimental Combat Team, including Dad and Noble, landed on the beach under fire in North Africa at Port Lyautey, Morocco as a part of Operation Torch. The counteroffensive had started against the Axis powers in the European Theater of Operations.

When dad joined the Army in 1940, it was for a three-year hitch. It would be 5 years before he was honorably discharged in August of 1945. He took part in the invasions of North Africa and Sicily, where he was wounded and almost died. I think partying several extra hours on the evening of December 7th was probably justified.

— Never Forget —

Addendum:

• In 1940, the population of Fort Bragg was 5,400. By the following year, it reached 67,000. Various units trained at Fort Bragg during World War II, including the 9th Infantry Division, the 82D Airborne Division, the 100th Infantry Division, the 2nd Armored Division and various field artillery groups. The population reached a peak of 159,000 during the war years. This past year, Fort Bragg was renamed Fort Liberty.
• Here is one other Pearl Harbor blog I’ve done: The plaque is only a small one, over in front of The South Ottawa Town-Hall on 1st Avenue. The Hall is still used for occasional meetings, but 1st Avenue is pretty sleepy in that area, so I don’t know how many people actually ever see the plaque. When I walk by, the words always compel me to stop. And think. And remember … Herman Koeppe was 19 the day he died […] https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/11/30/never-forget/

Grip Hands

It was raining as I left our West Point 45th reunion last Sunday. I took the longer, slower route home to Virginia rather than drive Interstate 95. Tired and emotionally spent, I didn’t trust myself on a route that would have more traffic. I knew I would be thinking about West Point, the reunion and my classmates.

And of course, that’s what happened. The reunion, mixed with memories of West Point and my time in the Army cycled through my brain. Was it really 45 years since we graduated? It turned out the answer was yes.

Due to health issues, Cathy didn’t make the trip (she’s OK). It was a tough choice for her not to go to this reunion, but it was the right decision. Having dated since high school, and marrying each other right after my graduation from West Point, she too made the journey through my time at the Academy and in the Army. We’ve known many of these folk for nearly fifty years and together we have attended every reunion since the fifteenth. If I were to pass away, she would be welcomed with open arms by my classmates at any event, and they would help her in any way they could.

On October 25th, the day before the official start of our reunion, someone noted online the conditions were a bit nicer than 40 years previously on the same date. That was the day Operation Urgent Fury, the United States intervention in Grenada began at dawn. Several members of our class* were in the 82D Airborne Division and a part of the operation. It was a reminder that although we were “Cold Warriors” against the Russians, many of our classmates spent time in combat around the globe.

CPT Marion Seaton in Grenada. “We Were Soldiers Once, and Young”.

I arrived early Thursday afternoon and the weekend passed in a blur. The reunion hotel was a little over an hour from West Point. With 500+ attendees, there are no hotels at West Point or in the immediate vicinity large enough to host a gathering of our class. As is always the case at these five year reunions, not unlike our days at West Point, they are jammed with activities. We joke about it of course, but it’s true. I’m doubtful many other college reunions have days starting at 6:45AM. ;-).

After arriving, I found Tony Matos, who had just arrived from New Hampshire. As importantly, Tony brought the 312 bottles of WhistlePig Whiskey we were going to distribute to classmates. Regular readers of this blog will recall that a group of us did a tasting at WhistlePig in Vermont last spring and bought two barrels (you can read about that tasting and why we did it at the link in the addendum). We dutifully transported the cases of whiskey to our distribution room and classmates started picking up their bottles. All were gone by Sunday morning.

The Successful Conclusion of Operation WhistlePig.

By Thursday night, things were in full swing. Around 300 classmates (about one third of our living class members) along with 250+ spouses, partners and family members were there. Dinner, drinks, and for some of us, cigars ensued. My time was divided between dinner with several of my company mates and then circling the rooms seeking out other old friends. Handshakes, hugs and toasts, along with conversations occurred several times – How are you? … Where’s Cathy – is she OK? … Do you remember … whatever happened to … where are you now … we have to do better at staying in touch … Eventually I made my way to bed and a restless night’s sleep.

On Friday morning, we boarded buses for West Point. Our destination was the Cadet Chapel. Our first event, and for me one that has grown increasingly important, was a memorial service honoring classmates who have passed away. At our fortieth reunion, 50 classmates were so honored. This time the number was 82, including my company mate Dan Zimmerman. At the fortieth reunion, Dan sat with Cathy and I at the memorial service. This time, his name was one of the 82 called out loud. I thought a lot about Z-Man during the service. I have to say, the meaning of “The Long Grey Line” has changed, grown and become more real with the passage of time.

Memorial Service at the Chapel.

After the service, my buddies Jay, Steve and I, along with many of our classmates, walked the half mile from the Chapel to Ike Hall, although I also noticed there were more classmates taking the provided buses. Age catches up with all of us at some point. At Ike Hall we had lunch, along with a class meeting and a presentation by the Supe (Superintendent), before eventually busing back to the hotel.

At the hotel, Tony, Gus, Bob, Bill and I resumed distributing the remaining WhistlePig bottles. Classmate Al Aycock was distributing bags of coffee – the beans spent time in one of our empty whiskey barrels before bagging. We repeatedly received thanks from classmates for the arduous journey we’d made to Vermont for the WhistlePig tasting the previous spring. ;-).

After a short fifteen minute nap, it was time to get ready for the formal dinner that evening. More good food, drinking, talking and dancing. Perhaps because this was day two, things were slightly slower than the night before. It wasn’t as rushed and more faces were familiar now.

Random Pictures From the Weekend.

Saturday morning came early. We boarded buses for West Point at, wait for it … 6:45AM. Yes, you read that right, 6:45 in the morning. It was for a good reason – Two regiments of the Corps of Cadets were having a parade at 9:00AM, and our entire class was a part of the reviewing party. I remember as a cadet having parades and passing in review for old grads during their reunions. To put things in perspective, in the fall of 1977 our Firstie (Senior) year, the class celebrating their 45th reunion was the Class of 1932. Yikes! Back then, while waiting to pass in review, we made jokes about the OLD GRADS and of course could never see ourselves on the other side of the parade ground in the future. I’m sure the same thing was happening on this Saturday, but I have to say they looked squared away when they marched past us.

The Corps of Cadets, Passing in Review.

The Army football game that afternoon was a forgettable loss, but something happened later that left a strong impression on me. After the game, Clem, one of my company mates and his wife Nancy hosted a post-game tailgate and several of us B3ers stopped by for a beer. Three Yearling (Sophomore) cadets were there as well – members of the Class of 2026. Talking with them and listening to them made me feel good about our future, and the future of this country. If they are any indication of the quality of current West Point cadets, we have nothing to worry about. The United States Army, and our Officer Corps are in good hands.

The last evening was special. There was no official event that night, and I was invited out to dinner by Jose Morales, one of the alumni from the Whistle Pig tasting in the spring. There were perhaps 18 of us at the dinner . Some I knew, some I didn’t. It didn’t matter. We were all one big happy family, talking, laughing, telling stories, eating and drinking.

One Big Happy Family at Saturday Night’s Dinner.

The next morning, I left for the drive home around 8AM. I’m not big on long goodbyes and wanted to hit the road. I spent the next six hours driving in the rain and thinking about the weekend. I wasn’t just thinking about the details of the weekend itself, as I recounted here. I was also thinking about this special brotherhood I have the great good fortune to be a member of. As time goes by, I cherish it more and more. I think we all do. It’s hard to explain to others who haven’t been a part of it.

We members of the West Point class of 1978 share a special bond that has only grown stronger with the passing of time. Yes, we still tell the old stories from cadet days, or our time in the Army, but it’s more than that. Those stories only represent the surface of our commonality. We rose to the call of Duty, Honor, Country as cadets and during our time defending this nation. Most of us have found ways to contribute to the greater good, even after our time in service to our nation ended.

As Plebes, we were required to memorize many things. Some mundane, some of no apparent use, and some that were important. One of those requirements was the song “The Corps”. As I grow older, the song’s lyrics speak to me more directly than when I was a cadet and first memorized them. We all know our time here on Earth is limited and we all need to make the most of the time we have. Grip hands indeed.

The Corps

Addendum:

• * Classmate Marion Seaton provided the photo from Grenada. In his words, “Chuck Jacoby, Brent Holmes, Dale Tatarek and I were having the time of our lives on a little spice island 40 years ago this week. We were all part of the 82nd Airborne’s mission to secure the Island of Grenada. I was the C Battery 1/320 (Airborne) Artillery Commander. We were chuted up to parachute with our equipment into Grenada. Our original plan was for the 105 howitzers to be dropped from the C141B on the first pass and we would jump on the second pass over the Drop Zone. The jump would’ve been dangerous, certainly due to the hostile fire, but more importantly, because of the dispersion of the equipment and troops onto the ground. There was a huge body of water to our left and the Ocean to our right. We would’ve lost a lot of jumpers and equipment. Lucky for us, The Rangers jumped the day before from C130s below 400 feet. They secured the Drop Zone, so we were able to fly in rather than jump. Over the course of the battle, Charlie Battery fired 152 rounds in support of the Division and Rangers.”

Marion, A Bit Before his Unit’s Jump into Grenada was Cancelled.

• Dale and Jan Hamby were in charge of this reunion overall and did a great job. While a host of people worked with and for them, our class owes them a debt for the wonderful time we enjoyed. Dale’s comments after the reunion were pretty spot on: “Personally, we are determined to do a better job staying in touch with those we were able to reconnect with this weekend. We hope you will too. The reunion reminded us how important these connections are, and life is just too short not to make them a priority. Besides that, it was so great to relive cherished memories that our kids don’t want to hear about for the 50th time!”
• Here’s the blog from our whiskey tasting at WhistlePig: “We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let our classmates down” […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/

A “The Corps Has” Old Fashioned

The Corps Has… Every West Pointer knows the phrase. When we were Cadets, we laughed at it, and thought it untrue. As Old Grads, many of us use it, and believe it is true. “The Corps Has”, short for “The Corps has gone to hell” is a grad’s way of saying “Things aren’t as tough now, as when I was a cadet.”

The academy was founded in 1802 and is the oldest of the United States’ five service academies. The phrase “The Corps Has” has no doubt been around since 1803. Every class, once they graduate, seems to think those after it have it easier.

A friend from the class of ‘64 reminds me regularly (half in jest, but only half) that as Plebes, they stayed at the Academy their whole first year, and couldn’t go home for Christmas break like we did.

Friends from my Class of ‘78 regularly bemoan the fact that current cadets no longer have meal formations three times a day like we did.

I think you get the drift. And that doesn’t even get into how the whole Plebe System has changed over the years. The Corps has gone to hell. Although for as long as it’s been going to hell, you’d think we’d logged enough miles to get to hell and back by now. ;-).

With the Passage of Time, Some of Our Memories Get a Little Hazy.

Recently, on June 26th, ‘23, the class of 2027 had their first day at West Point, more commonly known as “R” Day (Reception Day). That evening, I posted a picture of a whiskey Old Fashioned I was drinking on our class Facebook page and offered a toast to the class of ‘27. They will graduate 49 years after we did. I don’t care how much easier it may have become; one thing I know for sure is you never forget your first day at West Point. It may become blurry, but you won’t forget it. Ever.

In the comments to the post, one of my classmates, Joe Mooney, brilliantly suggested having a “The Corps Has” Old Fashioned, by using WhistlePig whiskey in it. Our Classmate, Dave Pickerel, was one of the founders and the Master Distiller at WhistlePig Distillery. I started thinking about it. How would I make/what would go into a “The Corps Has” Old Fashioned?

After some additional thought and a few practice rounds, here’s my version, with explanation, of a “The Corps Has” Old Fashioned*.

Simple Ingredients for a Good Drink

Ingredients

• 1 Sugar cube
• 2-3 Dashes of Smoked Cherry Bitters
• 1 Teaspoon warm water
• 2 ounces WhistlePig PiggyBack Rye Whiskey
• Large ice cube or ball of ice
• Small piece of Orange peel
• And, you will need matches or a lighter

Instructions

1. Add a sugar cube to a rocks glass. These days, most recipes for an Old Fashioned start with a teaspoon of simple syrup. To hell with that. Since we are Old Corps, we are going to start the way the original Old Fashioned started – with a sugar cube.

2. Shake 2 or 3 dashes of the Smoked Cherry Bitters** onto the sugar cube. Why Smoked Cherry instead of the Angostura Bitters called for in the original Old Fashioned? The Smoked Cherry Bitters add just a bit of haze to the drink. Sort of like the haziness of our memories of West Point. (If you can’t find Smoked Cherry bitters, look for another smoked bitters, or use regular Angostura.)

3. Add the Teaspoon of warm water to the glass. Muddle the sugar cube until it dissolves in the bitters and water (TA-DA! No simple syrup needed. 😉 )

4. Add the Rye and stir. Why WhistlePig PiggyBack Rye? First, as I previously mentioned, our deceased Classmate, Dave Pickerel, after a stint as the master distiller at Makers Mark, was one of the founders and the master distiller at WhistlePig. Every bottle of PiggyBack actually has his birth and death years on the neck of the bottle (1956-2018). Also, it’s Rye, not bourbon. Rye is spicier than bourbon, which is generally sweeter. While there were some sweet times at West Point, I’d have to say overall the experience was more on the complex and spicy side. It certainly wasn’t for everyone.

5. Add the ice. Stir until chilled.

6. Use a lighter or a match to singe the orange peel a bit (note, I said singe, not burn). Express the orange peel over the glass and then drop it in. Stir a few more times. Why singe the orange peel? It adds a little smokiness to the peel when you express it. It doesn’t change the drink…much. But somewhere in the background it adds a touch of something you can’t quite place, but think you remember. Not unlike that first summer at Beast Barracks, the memory of which seems clear and hazy at the same time.

7. Raise your glass in remembrance of our fallen classmates and toast the Corps of Cadets.

Ah, Yes. A Very Good “The Corps Has” Old Fashioned.

The Corps Has? No, not really. Every year young men and women report to West Point at the start of summer. I suspect those four years always have been and always will be a challenge. The demands and tests evolve, but are always there. Thank God there are still those today who answer the call.

Addendum:

• * You might ask why I selected an Old Fashioned as the starting point/base for the drink. Well, the Old Fashioned is the granddaddy of all cocktails and as with many cocktails, the history is a little muddled. Cocktails were first mentioned around 1805 and generally consisted of some combination of alcohol, bitters, sugar and water. At the time, the alcohol was probably whiskey, gin, brandy or rum. As the 19th century was coming to an end, people started adding other things to their cocktails – fruit, fruit juice, soda water, or tonic as examples. This increased the number of people drinking cocktails, but irritated some of the people who had been drinking them for for a while. They wanted the “old fashioned cocktails”, not the new fangled stuff. Sometime around 1890, the Whiskey Old Fashioned became the first named cocktail. It may or may not have been invented by Colonel James E. Pepper at the The Pendennis Club in Louisville, KY, before he allegedly brought the cocktail to the Waldorf-Astoria hotel bar in New York City. Since West Point is the senior service academy, it seemed right to use the oldest known cocktail as the base for the drink.
• ** You can probably find smoked or spiced cherry (or smoked orange) bitters online, or at your local liquor/wine store. If you want a treat, try ordering them online from Artemisia, a local farm here in Virginia. In addition to growing vegetables, they make several unique bitters and herbal wines (similar to vermouth, but better). They are currently sold out, but should have them again in about a week. Their link is: https://www.artemisia.farm/ For those who live in Northern Virginia, you can also find them at The Whole Ox, in Marshall, Va.
• Thanks to classmate Joe Mooney for coming up with the idea for a “The Corps Has” Old Fashioned with WhistlePig. It was a great idea.
• Thanks to classmates Joe Mooney and Bill Moeller for reviewing this blog and suggesting some ideas.
• Our West Point Class of ‘78 45th class reunion is coming up this fall. Here’s the story of us selecting two barrels of WhistlePig PiggyBack Whiskey for sale at the reunion (all bottles already sold out) – – – We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/
• There are many Old Fashioned recipes, but the basic one uses: 2 oz Bourbon or rye, a tsp of simple syrup, a couple dashes of Angostura bitters and a slice of orange peel.

Operation WhistlePig

We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let any of our classmates down.

I’ve recounted the history of our classmate Dave Pickerell in a blog before*, but will briefly summarize it here, as it is fundamental to this story. The Army, in its infinite wisdom, sent Dave to grad school for a master’s degree in chemical engineering. Later, after teaching at West Point, Dave left the Army and joined Makers Mark Distillery, where he was the master distiller for 14 years. He then struck out on his own and became known as the “Johnny Appleseed” of craft distilleries, and helped many, many distilleries start-up. Eventually, he also became a founder and the master distiller for WhistlePig Whiskey, which makes some of the best rye whiskeys in the world. Dave passed away a few years ago, but his legacy lives on at nearly 100 distilleries across the country.

Dave Pickerell as a Cadet, and Then Later in Life.

A little over a year ago, our West Point Class held a mini-reunion at the Biltmore in North Carolina. On one of the evenings there, we did a whiskey tasting of several whiskeys Dave had an impact on*. The tasting was to honor Dave, and our other departed classmates. Everyone had such a good time at that event, it became the genesis of Operation WhistlePig.

We originally talked about doing a class tasting for our 45th reunion in the Fall of ‘23, but the logistics at West Point became a bit difficult. Bill Moeller then came up with the idea of purchasing a barrel of WhistlePig for the reunion. Classmate Tony Matos, who lives in New Hampshire not far from the WhistlePig Farm Distillery, became point man and started working with Mark Kanya of WhistlePig to understand the dynamics of a barrel purchase. In the meantime initial funding was lined up through classmate Jeff Manley, and a survey of classmates was completed to gauge interest. 206 classmates responded saying they were interested. A barrel of whiskey holds 156 bottles. We were on.

Of course, you don’t just buy a barrel of whiskey. Each barrel is different depending on multiple factors. WhistlePig invited “around ten of us” to a barrel tasting at the farm. We were to select “our barrel” from three different barrels we would taste from. It would then be bottled in a special release, with a small label honoring our class, and our fallen classmates. The team grew from four to six, then eventually to ten of us. In addition to Tony, Bill, Rob Grubbs and I (Rob, Bill and I organized the Biltmore tasting), José Morales, Al Aycock, Gus Hellzen, Jim Steiner, Jack Cronin and Rusty Roberts were added. Our number was set, as was our date, the 3rd of May. Reservations were made at a nearby Airbnb for May 2-4, and then it was just a matter of waiting for the big day.

Tony, who did a great job coordinating the event overall, sent an email to the Class on May 1st announcing Operation WhistlePig was about to commence. He was flooded with responses from classmates with good wishes, others wanting to immediately order a bottle, and some wanting to join us and help select the barrel. Tony graciously explained to folk why it wasn’t possible, although after checking with WhistlePig, three folk who were relatively local at the time were added for the tasting itself – Bob Rush and his wife Erica, and Ron Hall. They joined us for the tasting, but not the entire three days.

Tony’s Announcement to the Class About Operation WhistlePig.

On the second of May, we gathered. Classmates flew in or drove from Texas, Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina and Georgia. Others arrived from Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. We included a retired Two Star, guys who departed the military not long after our initial five-year obligation, and everything in between. There were handshakes and hugs all around. Not all of us knew each other, but we were all brothers and it didn’t matter. This was going to be good.

That first evening passed in a blur, aided by some liquid lubrication. I and a couple of other guys cooked dinner the first night – Steak Tips, a New England specialty. Preparing the meal in the main house, I have to admit I felt a bit like Clemenza in the Movie “The Godfather” cooking away, with guys standing around talking and drinking. Over dinner, we didn’t solve the world’s problems, but we took a stab at a couple of them. José asked a couple of questions for which there were of course no correct answers but made us all think.

We also discussed whether we should consider buying two barrels of whiskey instead of one, in anticipation of additional sales based on Tony’s email from the 1st. Rusty immediately volunteered to lead the financing of the second barrel, and Tony quickly notified WhistlePig we were now looking at purchasing two barrels.

Dinner the First Night.

As is always the case for me at these gatherings, I’m humbled when I listen to many of the stories told – from time in the Army, in government, or in business. Stories from hotspots around the world over the years, and as I’ve said before, war stories both figuratively and literally. Beer, a couple bottles of WhistlePig, several bottles of wine and a few cigars later, most of us made our way to bed.

The next morning, Jim and crew fixed breakfast – bacon, toast and eggs to order. People were feeling surprisingly good, considering the damage we had, perhaps, done the night before. I’m sure the anticipation of the trip to WhistlePig later that morning had something to do with it. We eventually climbed into two vehicles and arrived at the WhistlePig Farm just before 11AM.

Arriving at WhistlePig.

At the farm, we were joined by Ron, Bob and Bob’s wife Erica and began a tour. Jesse Ray, accompanied by our contact Pam Spaulding, showed us key parts of the farm and distillery. Of course there were some tastings involved at various stops, including Maple Spirit (distilled maple syrup – a bit of a rum flavor), Piggyback (the 6 year old Rye that our barrel selections would also come from) and a wonderful WhistlePig 15 year old rye. I noticed that we, as a group, had become a bit louder. We grabbed a picture of us after trying the Maple Spirit – I think you can see we were off to a good start.

Smiling Classmates After the Distilled Maple Syrup Tasting

We returned to the tasting room and a wonderful lunch. The WhistlePig crew told us some great stories about Dave, some of his work, and some of his sayings. My favorite saying from Dave – “One of the great things about working at a distillery is you get to drink your mistakes.”

After lunch, we were ready to start the business at hand. First though, WhistlePig revealed a nice surprise. Since we were now considering two barrels instead of one, we would taste five samples instead of three. I believe that elicited a “Hooah!!” from the class. Mark Kanya walked us through the barrels, but didn’t reveal their proof numbers, as he didn’t want to prejudice us. Finally, it was time to taste.

Five Barrels to Taste!

What followed was a minor dose of reverence and a major dose of fun. We tasted, and tasted again. Conversations sprang up and died away. Comparisons were made by those sitting next to each other, sometimes with concurrence and sometimes with “What, are you crazy?!” Now remember there were five barrels. All were 6 years old. All came from the same rick-house. All were 100% rye. All were good. And yet, we had no problem finding differences.

Whiskey Tasting – Maybe Serious Business, or Not…

Finally, it was time to make our selections and Rob Grubbs took charge with a chalk board. Each of us came forward and wrote down our top two choices. We anticipated going a couple of rounds, but it turns out it wasn’t even close. Barrels 8516 and 8494 won, hands down.

Barrels 8516 (2) and 8494 (4) Were the Easy Winners at the Tasting!

After the official tasting, they opened the bar and we tried other WhistlePig products at our leisure. Some of us returned to the winning bottles for another taste and confirmation we’d made the right choices. A few went to the museum, while others of us stayed at the bar. There, Mark’s assistant, Amber Star, who also happens to be an opera singer, entertained us with stories and after some prodding, an amazing a cappella version of Ava Maria – it was beautiful and somehow fit the afternoon.

As we gathered together again shortly before departing, Pam read us a tribute to Dave another friend, Savannah Burnett, sent her. It was wonderful of her to share it with us. She also gave us a WhistlePig bottle signed by Dave and filled with a bit of each of the products Dave was associated with over the years. A whiskey, or spirit connoisseur, would call it an “Infinity Bottle” due to the blending of so many different whiskeys – we plan to auction it off at our 45th reunion. It should also be noted that a West Point Coin was presented by José to Mark for his excellent organization of the tasting. As a side note, should he ever be challenged by one of us in the future and he doesn’t have the coin with him, he will be required to buy a round ;-).

Pam Presenting the Class with the Dave Pickerell Signed “Infinity Bottle”.

We finally said our goodbyes to WhistlePig, and to Ron, Bob and Erica and drove back to our Airbnb. Bill cooked a salmon dinner for us and the ten of us again gathered at the table.

We were mellower than the night before but had great conversations. Yes, we told and laughed at old stories again, but we also talked about the present and the future. Over more wine, whiskey and cigars, we discussed our Class and the impact we may have had on the Army and on our country. Eventually we drifted off to our individual rooms and the night ended.

When I woke up the next morning, a couple of guys were already gone. Rob made breakfast for us and then Tony and Jim drove the rest of us to the airport. More hugs and handshakes at the airport and we parted ways. Operation WhistlePig was over … For this year.

I’ve thought about the wonderful times we had at this whiskey tasting, and at other reunions. The camaraderie, the brotherhood, the love for each other. Although we are not yet in our “twilight”, I think General Douglas McArthur summed it up pretty well at the end of his West Point Farewell Address in 1962:

“The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished — tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen then, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory always I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country…”

For this whiskey tasting get-together, maybe the echoes and re-echoes were: Duty, Honor, Country and WhistlePig as well. For my classmates who may be reading this blog, I’ll add this – Standby! A Warning Order is about to come out on how to purchase a bottle.

Addendum:

• The staff at WhistlePig was wonderful. Pam Spaulding, Jesse Ray, Mark Kenya and Amber Star took amazing care of us.
• * You can read the blog about Dave and the whiskey tasting our class did about a year ago here: When Rob asked if I would help host the whiskey tasting for the West Point Class of ‘78 mini-reunion at The Biltmore, I immediately said yes. We honored classmate Dave Pickerell, later known as The “Johnny Appleseed” of Craft Whiskey, and all of our departed classmates […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/04/19/pickerell-the-biltmore-and-the-whiskey-tasting/
• “Arriving at WhistlePig” photo courtesy of Gus Hellzen.

The Indoor Mile

“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I finished the Plebe indoor mile run in under 5:30! As I slowed, my stomach suddenly double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.

During my time at West Point, the Academy frequently talked about developing the “whole man” (with the admission of women in 1976, this changed to the “whole person”). We cadets were always being tested and evaluated. It was true about leadership, about academics, and was certainly true about physical fitness. For most of us, somewhere in all that testing was an Achilles Heel. With some it was a particular academic course, for others, some physical education test or class.

Plebe Year at West Point.

As Plebes, there were four required gym classes: Swimming, Wrestling, Boxing, and Gymnastics. For me, I’d been a swimmer all my life and a lifeguard for a few years, so the swimming class was easy, and I earned the equivalent of an A. Wrestling? I made West Point’s intercollegiate wrestling team as a freshman walk on, so I validated wrestling and took handball as an elective instead. Boxing was a challenge at first, but once I learned the basics, AND learned getting punched in the nose wasn’t a showstopper, I did OK. Gymnastics was a different beast.

The pommel horse, the rings, the vault, parallel bars, the trampoline, mats for tumbling … I forget what other torture devices were there, but it was like I was in a cursed land. My two sisters would tell you I wasn’t particularly coordinated as a kid. As a matter of fact, they would say I was a bit of a klutz. It all came home to roost in Gymnastics class. I was passing, but just barely.

At some point during the class, I learned we would do a timed mile run as a part of the course. Running of course has nothing to do with gymnastics, but those things happened at West Point. Just another chance to excel. Now, I had never been a runner, but since it was wrestling season, I was in great shape. Probably the best shape of my brief life up to that point. I started thinking I might be able to earn a good score on the mile run and improve my overall Gymnastics grade.

Hayes Gym* is where we practiced Gymnastics. It was “a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling and hardwood floors.” Above the gym floor, an elevated track rings the room. It takes 11.7 laps to run a mile on that track and that’s where we would complete the mile run.

Hayes Gym in 1910, the Year it was Built, and Again in 2009. Note the Elevated Track.

My personal view at the time (and that of at least a few of my classmates) was that many of the instructors in the Department of Physical Education (DPE) had a bit of a sadistic streak in them. One of our instructors was Army’s gymnastic coach, Ned Crossley and some classmates recall his scoring as particularly brutal. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t true. Having said that, all of the DPE instructors had ways of questioning you, challenging you, or prodding you that often seemed to taunt you a bit as well.

The instructor who spoke with us about the mile run was a little like that. To receive a max score, you needed to run under 5:30. The instructor explained what we needed to do to run a 5:30 mile. At 11.7 laps per mile, “all” you needed was to run each lap at a 28 seconds per lap pace, and then run like hell for the last half lap. Simple. Easy Peasy. Any cadet could do it. And so on. Of course the vast majority of us could run no where near that fast.

At the time, I don’t believe I’d ever run a mile (or any other distance) for time. I’d certainly run laps in High School sports, run in formation at West Point for Company morning runs during Beast, and we ran our asses off in wrestling practice. But none of this was ever done for time. That was about to change.

My pea brain went to work. 28 seconds was two seconds less than 30 seconds for each lap. 28 seconds for the first lap… 56 seconds for two laps … 1:24 for three laps … 1:52 for four laps and so on. I’d do the math in my head on the run. As long as I could keep the pace going, I had a shot.

A couple days later, it was my turn to do the run. As I recall, there were a few of us running it at the same time, although I don’t recall exactly how many. What I do remember was taking off when “go” was called. The first lap – 27 seconds! The next couple of laps I was under the pace. After that, I was a bit erratic, with some over and some under, but the average was OK and at the half mile mark, I was on pace. The final few laps? I’m not sure I was really paying attention any longer. The air was stale. The air was acrid. 3/4 of a mile and still on pace. My lungs were burning. I was sucking in as much oxygen as I could. 11 laps done. My legs were lead. It was down to just over half a lap left. I didn’t see anything other than the track in front of me. I don’t know if the other Plebes were in front of me, or behind me. All I know is I ran as hard as could. I rounded the final curve.

“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I beat 5:30. I slowed down and suddenly my stomach double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.

Recovery took me a while. I may have heaved a second time, and certainly had the dry heaves. Eventually I made my way to the shower, and then to whatever my next class was that day.

A couple weeks later, I passed gymnastics with some room to spare.

In my remaining years at West Point, I never ran that fast again. Not even close. We had PT tests on an annual basis with a two mile run next to the Hudson River. I never approached anything close to that time, even when adjusted for a slower time due to the extra distance. The two miler was always a challenge for me and I was always nervous about failing it. The thought of maxing out my run score never entered my head.

Years later, I took up running on my own for fun and to stay in shape. I became a decent runner, and clocked several personal bests – an 11:44 two mile ( a sub six minute/mile pace); a 39:58 10K (a sub 6:30/mile pace) and a 68 minute and change 10 mile race (a sub 7 min/mile pace). I remember all of those. The one I still marvel at? The 5:28 mile on the indoor track at West Point. I had no business running that fast. How the hell did I ever do it?

Addendum:

• * Some info on Hayes Gym from the Academy itself: Hayes Gym was built in 1910. The second level of Hayes is what most cadets and USMA graduates think of as “Hayes Gym”. It is a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling, hardwood floor, and elevated track (11.7 laps to a mile) that rings the room. The Department of Physical Education (DPE), teaches applied gymnastics (now called “Military Movement”) in Hayes, taking advantage of its historical and unusual support structures. The gym has eighteen 21′ vertical ropes and two 60′ horizontal ropes (suspended 12′ from the floor). There are also 10 pull-up bars that are each 5′ wide and are suspended from the ceiling with vertical supports in such a manner that they can be “run across” (with proper technique), as is done during the Indoor Obstacle Course. The gym’s floor space is filled with gymnastic’s apparatus and pads, such as vaults, bars, and rings as well as 1″ and 4″ tumbling mats. Nowadays, the military movement equipment remains in place year-round.
• The Indoor Obstacle Course is another “fond” memory of Hayes Gym for most West Point Grads, as it was also known to induce retching at it’s completion. I may do a blog on it in the future, but it’s hard to describe to those who haven’t experienced it. To get a flavor for it, here’s a YouTube video of Cadet Elizabeth Bradley completing it just a couple of years ago and breaking the female record while doing so. For all my macho buddies out there, I would love to see you try to beat her time. Good luck on that unlikely event. GO ARMY! https://youtu.be/Dw5rR1yqyp8 .
• Thanks to classmates Gus Hellzen and Jerome Butler for their contributions to this blog.

A Plebe Christmas

I distinctly remember returning to West Point after Christmas my Plebe year. It wasn’t fun. As a matter of fact, the last couple of days at home became bittersweet as I started thinking about returning to West Point as a Beanhead* for another five months.

It wasn’t just returning to the Plebe System (Fourth Class System) that affected me. We had first semester finals two weeks after returning. Also, have you ever visited West Point in winter? In the Fall, West Point is one of the most beautiful places in the country. In the winter? Not so much, unless you have a fondness for the color grey. January to March at West Point is called “Gloom Period”**, with good reason.

If I’m honest with myself, it wasn’t Gloom Period, or finals that brought me down. It was going back as a Plebe for another five months. Before you enter the Academy, you hear all about how tough Plebe year is both mentally and physically. It’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another to experience it for six months, have a break, and then know you are going back for more of the same.

Official Plebe Photo

Coming home to Ottawa that December, Christmas break was great. Being a real person again was even better. Everyone wanted to know how West Point was, and of course I told them the good stuff, while minimizing the actuality of Plebe life. The time at home divided out between family events, dates with Cathy and partying with my friends.

During the day, I spent time at home, or went to see Grandma, various aunts and uncles, and church or family friends. I remember racing around town fitting in as many visits as I could. It was good to catch up with so many people, but also a bit exhausting.

Cath and I went on dates most evenings and tried to make up for lost time. The last we’d seen each other was Labor Day Weekend, when she visited West Point with my folks. In the interim, we’d written so many letters back and forth, I lost count of the actual number. While home, there was even a formal holiday dance at Ottawa High (Cathy was still a senior in high school). I wore my dress uniform, and felt so much older than the high school “kids”, who in reality were only one or two years younger.

At Home Before Going to the OHS Winter Formal

Since she was still in school, Cathy had a curfew most nights. After our dates ended, I often linked up with my buddies Howard, Tim, Mark and others. The drinking age in Illinois was 19 at the time for beer and wine, but nobody really checked. We made the rounds at Berta’s, The Flamingo and Russell’s Tap before finally making it to bed. The next morning I’d wake up and start the cycle all over again. As I recall, sleeping in wasn’t an option.

I’d taken a couple of text books home with me to study over break, but of course I never cracked them. The days and nights raced by.

Finally it was New Year’s Eve and just a couple days before I would return to West Point. I remember going to a party with Cathy at our friend Jack’s home that night. Many of our friends were there. It was a great time, and as the clock struck midnight, there were kisses, handshakes and toasts all around. It was wonderful and things seemed almost perfect.

Maybe an hour later, it hit me. This was all going to end and I would return to the reality of Plebe life. The exhilaration from midnight rapidly disappeared. I crashed and a forlorn feeling took over. I found a quiet spot in an empty room and just sat there thinking. The dread I felt was visceral. Cathy found me a few minutes later and could tell something was wrong. She asked if I was OK and I struggled with words, then just gave up trying to explain. The thing is, she felt it too. We stood there hugging for I don’t know how long.

I more-or-less bounced back the next day and enjoyed my last day or two of freedom. Finally, it was time. As a Plebe, I think I was required to travel in uniform, and when Mom, Dad and Cathy drove me to O’Hare, that’s what I wore. Back then everyone could walk all the way to the gate, and that’s where we said our final goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mom gave me a care package and with a last wave and a smile, I boarded the plane for New York.

A Smile for Mom, Dad and Cathy as I Boarded the Plane to New York.

At the airport in New York (LaGuardia I think), cadets were everywhere. Most of us made our way to buses for the final fifty miles to our Rock Bound Highland Home on the Hudson. The bus I was on was pretty quiet, with Plebes and upperclassmen alike lost in their own thoughts. By now, I’d steeled my mind for the return to school and Plebe life. I was as ready as I was going to be.

And of course it wasn’t as bad as things looked on New Year’s Eve. I made the Dean’s list that first semester, and by late March or early April, Gloom Period was lifting. As for dealing with upperclassmen and the 4th Class System, that too passed. As the Semester wore on, things became easier and and finally, in June, Recognition Day happened. We were no longer Plebes, but full fledged members of the Corps of Cadets.

To this day, I remember that New Year’s Eve and the roller coaster of emotions I felt. Speaking with Cathy, she too distinctly remembers that night. I recently told her I thought I’d write a blog about New Year’s Eve Plebe year. She immediately knew what I was talking about. I laughed a bit and said something like “I didn’t know you remembered”. She quickly answered “How could I forget?”

Addendum:

• *Beanhead – one of the many less flattering terms upperclassman used for Plebes at the time.
• ** Gloom Period – If you want to read more about Gloom Period, you can do so here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/21/gloom-period/
• I’ve often thought of that New Year’s Eve over the years and the feelings I experienced that night. I’d contemplated writing a blog about it before, but couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Then, during Christmas season this year, one of my classmates posted an email on his own feelings about the return to West Point after Christmas. Several others chimed in. Some were worried about academics and getting separated due to grades. Others, like me, thought about the return to the 4th Class System for several more months. Still others talked of the general malaise around our return, with Gloom Period settling in. A few told (now) funny stories about missing flights, late arriving girl friends, and even running into the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders during a stopover on the return to the Academy. It’s interesting what binds people together. My classmates and I laugh and now tell stories of those times that seemed so serious back then. Time and distance have brought perspective and a camaraderie that has lasted a lifetime. I feel lucky to be a member of the Proud and Great Class of ‘78. Thanks for the memories, and the continued friendship my brothers.

Davie

Davie was the gentlest soul I have ever known. He also had a memorable lust for life. When he died last week, the world became colder, less kind, and a little less forgiving. I mourn his passing, and there is a weight on me.

Davie and I first met through our running group, The Mount Vernon Hash House Harriers* (MVH3), in ‘90 or ‘91. Back then, we were all in decent shape, and could both run for miles and drink copious amounts of beer, sometimes at the same time. There were lots of good times running around different parts of Northern Virginia. We’d run, eat and drink, and then maybe party some more. At the time, Cath and I only lived about 1/2 mile from Davie, and frequently found ourselves in his hot tub on Saturday afternoons, some time after The Hash finished.

Random Hash Photos from DC, Orlando and Trinidad

Later, when The Hash started hosting it’s annual Red Dress Run (yes, all members were required to wear red dresses on the run), some of Davie’s outfits were legendary. Wearing his Carmen Miranda fruit plate hat still draws chuckles from those who were there.

At the Red Dress Run – Davie with his Carmen Miranda Hat, and the two of us a Different Year

Our friendship grew to be much more than just The Hash. We started doing other activities together, including dinners out, hikes in the woods or up Old Rag, and visits to our then cabin in West Virginia. Sometime in the mid ‘90s Davie organized an annual ski trip for 8 or 10 of us to the wilds of West Virginia. He’d rent a big group house, where we’d ski during the day, and take turns cooking dinners at night. There was more hottubbing, beer drinking and partying in general, but what I remember most was the fellowship we all had with each other. It was the best of times and something we looked forward to every year.

Hikes, Ski Trips, and Parties – Alway a Fun Time

In the late ‘90s, Davie came out to us. We always suspected, although we weren’t sure. It was very different then, than it is today, and coming out was a real act of bravery. It took him over half an hour and some tears before he finally came to the point he was gay. Cathy and I told him we loved him, and it didn’t matter, we still loved him. We shared hugs and tears all around at that point. It’s also what made me realize no one chooses to be gay – no one would want to willingly go through the pain and fear of potentially being an outcast of society. God, or genetics, or some combination of the two made Davie gay, and also made him the wonderful person he was.

We eventually moved to the country, a little over an hour from our old home. We saw Davie less frequently, but still had great times.

For his part, Davie, who always loved to travel, was traveling even more. He was a recognized expert on waterways for the Army Corps of Engineers and frequently flew around the country and the world for conferences, and to speak at some of those conferences. He also travelled on his personal time and loved to bicycle. I remember one trip when he went to Vietnam and rode by bike from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). He told great stories of that trip and one he biked in South Africa.

When covid hit, we didn’t see each other for a couple of years. We texted and had a few random phone calls, but that was it. One of the unfortunate realities of covid was the year or two it robbed from all of us. It’s easier to recover from the loss of a year or two when you are in your twenties. When you are in your sixties, you may still think death isn’t imminent, but you notice it hanging around out there on the horizon.

We saw Davie three times this year, including twice at Nats’ games. The final time we shared together was at our home during our annual Oktoberfest Hash, just two weeks before his death. Davie arrived early and we hugged as always. He didn’t do the trail that day, instead, hanging around the house drinking beer and eating brats. It was a fine autumn day and we spent time talking about nothing. They were the kind of conversations you have when you don’t yet know one of you is going to die in two weeks. It was wonderful.

Davie at the Oktoberfest Hash this Year

The day we found out Davie died was a grey, misty day. His death was sudden and unexpected. Calls followed to others. When you call someone in the middle of the day that you normally never call in the middle of the day, they know something is up. Still, there is the shock of the specific news.

It stayed grey, misty and rainy for two days before the sun finally re-emerged. It certainly fit our mood. The depression felt like a weighted blanket on my forehead and temples. It was a visceral, oppressive feeling. The opening stanza of W.H. Auden’s melancholy poem, “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” came to mind –

“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”

Yes, the sun is out now, and certainly life goes on. I always think we who are living have a duty to keep the memories of those who have died alive. For my part, I will remember Davie’s smile and the twinkle in his eyes. I will recall his gentleness, and his lust for life. And I will chuckle at his fruit-plated hat, and the many other stories I haven’t shared here.

When I think of Davie, his personality, and how he enjoyed life, I often think of the opening lines of the great Joan Armatrading song, “Everyday Boy” –

“Well I’ve never met anyone
With your courage,
And the way your enjoy life
Puts me to shame.
Just an hour with you,
And I understand
Why we had to meet…”

Davie was our friend, whom we loved. We will miss him always.

Addendum:

• * MVH3 is a part of a world wide group known as the Hash House Harriers, which started in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia in 1938. Hash, in this case refers to bad food, not pot. The runs are hare and hound in nature, with a marked trail. Typically, beer and food are served after the run. Hashers have the playful motto of “we are a drinking club with a running problem”. You can find out more about The Hash here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers
• If you haven’t heard the Joan Armatrading song, “Everyday Boy”, give it a listen. It’s worth it. Ditto on the WH Auden poem “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” – find it online and give it a read.
• Special thanks to my wife Cathy, and our friend Tia Perry who both contributed thoughts and ideas to this blog.
• Thanks to Sharon Gustafson Schoen for the pic of Davie with the Carmen Miranda hat. The hat was actually made by our old friend Renee Ayer, who wore it at a previous Red Dress Run. Thanks also go out to Ann Simon for the last photo of Davie at Oktoberfest.