17 October 2016 Family Heritage By
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- Chapter 3 1970-1974
- "A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, or tolerate anyone who does"
Chapter 2 1954-1970 Address: 21 Woodlawn Avenue Bridgeton, New Jersey 08302 Bridgeton was a town of about 18,000 people, originally settled by the Swedes in 1686. Its name is descriptive - three bridges cross the Cohansey River that runs through town. The largest employers when I grew up there were an Owens-Illinois glass manufacturer and numerous processing plants for agricultural products. Tomatoes were a significant cash crop, so Ritters Ketchup Plant was an economic mainstay. In late August each year, over one hundred trucks loaded with recently picked tomatoes from nearby fields would line up on Broad Street waiting to deliver to Ritters. The pungent smell of recently processed hot ketchup wafting through town for a three week period was almost nauseating. Trucking companies transported out potatoes, asparagus, apples, peaches, and milk from the nearby dairies. State Highway 49 each summer carried a steady caravan of cars and stationwagons loaded with beach paraphernalia headed to the " Jersey Shore ". Bridgeton had one high school, one radio station (WSNJ), a local hangout, "The Sweet Shop" where soda fountain jerks served coke floats while the jute box blared deafening dance tunes each afternoon, and the one movie theater, "The Laurel", where a teenage rite of passage was to neck on the back row until a uniformed usher shone a flashlight at the couple breaking up their Friday night tryst. There was so much history and tradition - the old Broad Street Church built in 1795 still used for city-wide Thanksgiving Day services. The Cumberland National Bank built in 1816 where my family had always banked. The high school football stadium was supposed to have been built in eight months in 1938, but it dragged on for two years, prompting local wags to say that President Roosevelt’s New Deal WPA didn’t stand for the Works Projects Administration, but rather “We Poke Along!” Bridgeton was a quiet little town, an ethnic melting pot of German, Italian, Jewish, Polish, Japanese (many of whom in 1942-1943 were transferred from the internment camps in California to work in the fields for Seabrook Farms), and African cultures. At school during the late '50s and early '60s we had air raid drills. We thought it was kind of amusing to stand in the hall of Hopewell Township School with your arms around your head and covering your face. I had no comprehension of the psychological pall that the specter of nuclear attack had cast over the American mentality at the time. At one point in the third grade I didn't have anything interesting for our weekly "Show and Tell" time, so I decided to wow 'em by memorizing Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. After I recited the speech in its entirely for my class, the teacher, to my chagrin, paraded me before five other elementary classes in our hall to replicate my feat. I learned at a tender age what would later be reaffirmed in the military, "If you stand out in a crowd, you're going to get volunteered for something" John Kennedy was the first President I can remember. JFK’s 64 live press conferences televised from the State Department auditorium were a treat because of his witty and clever responses to questions, and how telegenic he was. In October 1962, I followed the developing Cuban Missile Crisis by reading the New York Times newspaper each day. The gravity of the situation became clear to me when JFK gave a speech on TV one evening announcing that he had ordered a U.S. Navy blockade of Cuba. My brother Hal laughed at something he said, and Dad snapped at him and said, "This isn't funny, we are on the brink of a nuclear world war." I had trouble going to sleep that night. I kept listening for the whine of some incoming Russian missile. Space was a prominent part of my education through the fourth grade. Each time there was a manned flight (Alan Shepard, Gus Grissom, and John Glenn) we would have the radio newscast piped into each schoolroom over the PA system. At that time we had school prayer, and the teacher would have us bow our heads and pray for the astronaut's safety. Each summer starting in 1957 all the family would go to Ocean City for 2 weeks. We rented an apartment, usually the second floor of a home about three blocks from the shore, near 26th and Wesley where Grace Kelly’s family had a summer home. Dad worked as usual, but Mom and us kids would get up late and spend all day at the beach. I would raft and body surf, get tanned, search for sea shells, play pick-up games of volleyball, ah the halcyon days of the Beach Boy era! At night we dressed up to go on the Boardwalk. We would go to a movie, listen to a concert on the Music Pier, or just stroll up and down the shops that lined the 2 ½ mile Ocean City Boardwalk. On Sundays we would attend the Ocean City Tabernacle, a non-denominational Protestant Association that actually founded Ocean City in 1879, then go to Simms Restaurant on the boardwalk for milk and a sticky bun. I can recall Aunt Clara in 1959 when she was the hostess at Watson's Restaurant in Ocean City. Watson's was a popular seafood restaurant about three blocks from the boardwalk, and the line waiting to get in on those tranquil summer evenings by the seashore would often be over a block long. If Mom, Dad, Stella, Hal, John and I were in the back of the line, Aunt Clara would spot us and call out "Party of six in the back, your reservations are ready". We would sheepishly walk past everyone else in line knowing that a) Watson's did not take reservations, and b) there were always at least four other parties of six ahead of us. Watson's had a gimmick that under certain plates were tickets to obtain free fudge at a shop called the Copper Kettle on the boardwalk, and Aunt Clara always surreptitiously arranged for one of us kids to have a ticket under our plate. The waitresses were college girls who got tickled at Aunt Clara's playfulness. In 1962 after being a Cub Scout for two years, I joined the Boy Scouts. Troop 99 of the Cohanzick District was the largest troop in South Jersey and was affiliated with the Central Methodist Church in Bridgeton. We had troop meeting each Monday evening from 7:00-8:30 p.m. I was in the Beaver Patrol, one of six patrols in the troop. We went on weekend camping trips about every two months to a different state park in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I'll never forget the first camping trip I went on to the Delaware Water Gap State Park cradled among the Kittatinny Mountains in Northwestern New Jersey. We didn't arrive until 11:30 p.m. Friday, and on the drive up, kids from my patrol were throwing things out the back of the station-wagon in which we were riding. We were long on enthusiasm, short on good judgment. When we got to the campsite, our Scout Master, Tech Hetteroth, a large barrel-chested man about 45 years old who was with the 1st Marine Division in the Pacific in World War II, was infuriated with our behavior and told us our punishment would commence early Saturday at 5 a.m. He got us up, made us dig latrine holes until 7 a.m., permitted us to eat a meager breakfast and then made us run laps until we dropped. The rest of the trip included hiking, crafts, and field cooking. It was ironic that when I first went on camping trips, I took, or rather Mom packed, a large duffel bag full of clothes. By the end of my scouting years, I barely filled a small knapsack full of things I needed - what a veteran. In April 1965 I completed the requirements for the rank of Eagle Scout. I just loved the merit badges, they were so colorful on my sash. As soon as I got a new one, I would pester Mom to sew it on as quickly as possible, and I would swell up with pride as I gazed at it each night before I went to bed. Boy Scouts was a very significant part of my life growing up. I learned how to set goals, then accomplish them. I learned basic skills, responsibility, and small unit leadership. After I made Eagle, I participated in the Sea Scouts for about a year, then dropped out of Scouting when I got involved in high school athletics. Our daily cuisine was varied and had alot of fried foods. For breakfast on weekdays Mom rustled up either hot oatmeal, cream of wheat, french toast, or scrambled eggs with plenty of orange juice. For supper we had seafood at least twice a week - flounder, roe, scallops, clams, crab, and naturally, oyster stew. Other meals included sauerkraut and pork with mashed potatoes, scrapple, meatloaf with corn or beans from our garden, spaghetti, fried liver with onions (yuk!), split pea soup with ham, and corn or apple fritters. On Sunday we either had a roast with mashed potatoes and gravy (my only culinary skill was mashing out by hand all the lumps out of the potatoes), lamb with mint jelly, or pork. Mom liked to bake desserts, and Dad had an intemperate practice of buying pastries from a local bakery. Our strawberry patch each summer provided us ample provision of delicious strawberries all winter to complement Mom's shortcake. In 1959 Dad took me to my first major league baseball game at Shibe Park/Connie Mack Stadium at 21st and Lehigh in Philadelphia to see the Phillies play the Milwaukee Braves. I’ll never forget seeing the field for the first time, and thinking how awesome the green grass was! Shibe Park, built in 1909 with just 33,000 seats, was the first steel and concrete ballpark, had a brick colonial revival exterior, and the most distinctive feature was a French Renaissance church-like dome on the exterior roof behind home plate.38 This classic old ballpark was the home field of the Philadelphia Athletics from 1909-1954, so Ty Cobb, Cy Young, Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson and Lou Gehrig played ball there. During the “Golden Age of Ballparks” (1909-1913) Philadelphia’s Shibe Park, Chicago’s Wrigley Field, Boston’s Fenway Park, and Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field were built. The urban setting was a central part of their character. Designed to be in harmony with the architecture of the neighborhood, these ballparks had to conform to the layout of the city streets, creating interesting angles and contours. I think that baseball is timeless, and attending a ballgame makes a connection with people from one hundred years ago. Back then, men wore a tie and a Stetson Hat, women wore dresses, you traveled to the game not in cars, but rather by trolley or horse. Since there was no P.A. system or electronic scoreboard blaring noises between innings, the only sounds you heard were the crack of a ball against the bat, and the vendors calling out their wares. Decorum was always expected and maintained, and certain parks observed moral proprieties (beer wasn’t sold within Shibe Park until 1961!) It was such a tranquil setting against the bright green grass, no wonder city dwellers referred to that place as a ball park. A hobby has been to attend a game at every major league ballpark in the country. So far I’ve been to the three “Classic Parks” Fenway, Wrigley, and Yankee Stadium. I have also been to several of the “Retro Parks” - Camden Yards, Jacobs Field, and The Ballpark at Arlington, Houston, Cincinnati, and Pittsburgh. Since they keep building new parks, this hobby will be a lifetime pursuit! During the summer of 1966, I began working for my Dad. He bought some clam grounds in the Great Bay on the New Jersey shore. More specifically, he purchased about twelve acres of bottom, and the acreage was divided into lots or sections by straight tree limbs stuck into the ground. The water depth in these inlets along the shore measured eight to fifteen feet. He also had two garveys, open decked boats about 25 feet long, 6 feet wide, with sides about three feet high and in-board engines. Hal and I (and later John) would get up at 3:30 a.m. each weekday, get dressed and go to the kitchen where Dad would be sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee reading his Bible. We would then drive to Oyster Creek, a commercial marina where our boats were docked, get in the boats and travel the four miles out into the bay, and start working by 6 a.m. We used either tongs, which are scissor-like tools that had teeth at the ends to scoop up the clams which were sitting on the top of the mud bottom, or we used rakes with long handles. We would simply let the tide drift us along in the boat and the rake would scoop up the clams. As we got to the line of our lot, we would dump the clams in our boat, start up the engine, and travel to the opposite side of the lot and repeat the process. It was strenuous work for your upper body and legs because you had to continuously pull up a rake loaded with clams. We had a transistor radio playing the entire day. I memorized every rock-and-roll song written between 1966 and 1970. We stopped at noon each day because it would get unbearably hot with the sun reflecting off the water. We would then start counting and separating the clams by size. I usually caught around 1,600 clams per day. We then bagged them up to deliver to a shipper who purchased them from us. These clams were delivered to restaurants in the Atlantic City area that evening, and most people were unaware that they were eating clams less than eighteen hours out of the water. I once calculated that I caught approximately 105,000 clams in my abbreviated maritime career. Each spring vacation from school we overhauled the garveys - scaling off the barnacles, putting a protective copper coating on the bottom, painting, and working on the engine. Our family church was Berean Baptist Temple, a three hundred-member congregation under the auspices of the American Baptist Convention. Established in 1893, only three successive pastors held the pulpit from 1902-1975, a reflection of the church's predictability. Countless "three point sermons and a poem" depicted Jesus more as a moral teacher than a Savior. I dutifully attended Sunday School and children's choir, and was an usher in my high school years. The sanctuary was ornately designed, with polished oak ceiling trusses, a sprawling pipe organ, and beautiful stained glass windows. On sultry August Sunday mornings long before air conditioning, it was humorous to observe everyone vigorously fanning themselves with those colorful hand-held fans donated by the local funeral parlor. I can recall that by the 11th grade I wasn't getting anything out of church, and would pretend to be busy doing usher duties in the foyer because I couldn't bear to sit through another dry and meaningless philosophical discourse sprinkled with religious platitudes. My freshman year at BJHS (Bridgeton Junior High School) I took Civics, English, Algebra, General Science, and Typing. The week before school started my sophomore year, the BHS "Bulldog" football team went to an eight day football camp which was actually a secluded resort in the South Jersey pine barrens with cabins that could sleep about eight guys. The athletic regimen consisted of getting up at 6 a.m., doing exercises until 7 a.m., breakfast, padded drills in the morning, lunch, scrimmage in the afternoon, and then we would stagger to a lake where we'd just sit, exhausted and sore, in the cool pine water. After supper the coaches conducted blackboard drills going over individual assignments for each play, and finally Taps at 10 p.m. My sophomore year I took Geometry, Biology, Spanish, English and World History. Once a year during my high school years Mom and Dad took John and me to New York City for a weekend. We would stay at the Essex House, eat at a nice restaurant, see a sporting event at Madison Square Garden, then attend a Broadway play on Saturday evening. The next morning we usually attended Norman Vincent Peale's church, the Marble Collegiate Church in Lower Manhattan. Mom and Dad had taken “escape weekend” trips to New York City their entire marriage, and had attended the original stage productions of Sound of Music , My Fair Lady , and Camelot. “This is not what I want to do on a Saturday” I grumbled to myself. It was February, 1968, and I was a high school sophomore bent over on the deck of the John C in the Delaware Bay. It was one thing to work summers for Dad, but now even on Saturdays during the school year, when all my friends were playing basketball, seeing girls, or just sleeping late! I thought it extremely unfair to be forced to work such a grueling and physical job as a deckhand. It was cold, windy, and I was soaked from the waves crashing against the bow as I held on for safety. (The movie “The Perfect Storm” accurately depicts life as a deckhand). Dad was not only steering the John C, but more importantly he was controlling the dredging. This entailed having the deckhands on both sides of the boat throw overboard a dredge which would drag along the bottom for about five minutes until full of oysters. Dad would then pull in the dredge using a mechanical winch. When the dredge reached the surface, the deckhands would reach down to pull it on board, dumping out the contents of oysters and loose shells. We would then throw the dredge overboard once again for another drag. My daily quota was to cull out 35 bushels of oysters. Each time I had filled my steel-wired bushel basket, I would stand up, find a burlap bag, and dump the bushel of oysters into the bag, then quickly get back to work as the next dredge was coming to surface. As an immature 16 year old, my only goal was to reach my quota as quickly as possible so I could quit for the day. Then it happened. I was about to dump my 10th bushel into a separate bag when Dad leaned out of the pilothouse and yelled to me “What are you doing?” I was in no mood for answering obvious questions, but since he was the captain, and I was the captive, I held my tongue and replied “I’ve finished my bushel, so it’s time to bag it”. He shocked me by saying “No you haven’t. That bushel is only ¾ full. Pick it up and shake it and see what you have”. Because I could tell that arguing was pointless, I complied. Sure enough, when shaken, the oysters settled and were far from the top of the basket. Dad looked at me and explained “When a customer opens a bag of oysters with my name on it, he is paying not only for a product, but also my reputation for honesty. Put more than a bushel of oysters in a bag, because a man’s integrity is worth more than mere money”. Years later, I was sitting in church one Sunday and heard a sermon on Luke 6:38 “Give and it shall be given unto you, good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, they will pour into your lap. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.” As that long-forgotten incident came rushing back, a smile slowly came over my face. I am grateful to have had a Dad who courageously put a speck of sand in the midst of my complaining and grumbling. Just as a pearl is created by sand irritating an oyster, so too a job requirement, an act of discipline, or an object lesson can be the catalyst that one day will be recognized as a pearl of wisdom. My junior year I took Spanish II, US History, Physics, Algebra II and English. Our English Lit class occasionally made day trips to Princeton University to see a local repertory company perform a Shakespearean play. Then my senior year I took English, Trigonometry, Chemistry and U.S. History II. The 1969 football season I was 5'8" tall, 185 lbs, and a left guard (#66). John was a sophomore 6'3", 215 lbs, and next to me at left tackle (#75). We were 3-5-2 that year. I was named to the All-Cumberland County Football Team my senior year, which meant that I was chosen as the best left guard among three schools - Bridgeton, Millville, and Vineland. John was a much better player than me, and in his senior year was properly recognized by his selection to the All-South Jersey Football Team, as the best left tackle among over fifty high schools. Quarterbacks, running backs, and receivers obviously get all the press and name recognition, but I really enjoyed playing an inconspicuous position. It was gratifying to have a back return to the huddle after a spectacular thirty yard run, the crowd cheering him, and he looks you in the eye and whispers, “Thanks for the block." I suppose that the station of left guard on a football team fit my persona. Our schedule included Atlantic City, Vineland, Cherry Hill West, Oakcrest, Cherry Hill East, Pennsuaken, Holy Spirit, Mainland, and Burlington. My most memorable game was against our archrival, the Millville "Thunderbolts". The previous year they humiliated us 76-0 when most of our first string players were injured. So my senior year we were bent on revenge. The week prior to the game, townspeople crowded the practice field psyching us up for the contest. Saturday morning the Chamber of Commerce gave us a steak breakfast and by kickoff at 1:30 p.m., a throng of 5,000 was in the stands. My opponent was their right defensive tackle, W.C. Gaskins, a 6'2", 240 lb black athlete who ran right through me the first play of the game to sack our quarterback. The only way I could contain him was to throw cross-body blocks all afternoon, tangling up his legs. He kept kicking me in the ribs each play, but there is something worse than getting pummeled, and that is letting your QB get decked, so I kept throwing those blocks. It was a glorious day, our team playing with a single-mindedness and confidence while W.C. was beating up on me. When the final gun sounded, we had won 22-8. That evening I didn't go the Victory Dance, my ribs were so bruised I could hardly breathe, let alone move about. We used to have a little tradition at home after a game, if we won Dad cooked us a steak dinner, but if we lost we got hot dogs. I didn’t date in high school because Dad had convinced me that guys who spent time with girls were soft, and not real men. I suppose he used this stratagem to keep me from being distracted from my goal of going to West Point. Anyway, there were two or three girls I thought were cute, and I enjoyed being with them. I would go over to their homes to have dinner with their parents who thought I was real nice - they figured I was harmless enough around their daughters. I did take a girl to the Senior Prom because Dad said I needed to learn how to conduct myself with a young lady. The turn of the century song “I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old Dad” summed up my love life. I was physically attracted to girls, but wouldn’t get serious until I met someone like Mom. I had alot of questions about girls, and Mom and I would have many late night talks. She was very encouraging, interested in what I was feeling, and personified a Christian lady for me. I graduated from high school 11th out of my class of 590, and was mesmerized with the thought of departing for West Point to the extent I was beginning to mentally and emotionally distance myself from my high school friends. I was stupefied at how adults could live so mundane an existence, living in the same town year after year, having the same friends, seeing the same sights, and displaying such a provincial attitude. I never fully enjoyed life at the moment, because I was always looking to some future expectation that would finally give me peace. Only as an adult have I begun to appreciate my youth. I think it was George Bernard Shaw who wrote, "Youth is a wonderful thing, too bad it has to be wasted on the young." Chapter 3 1970-1974 Address: Company E-1, USCC West Point, New York 10996 The United States Military Academy at West Point is located approximately fifty miles north of New York City on the west bank of the Hudson River. Founded in 1802 on the recommendation of George Washington, over the years this institution has become the repository of a heritage of values and traditions exemplified by three hallowed words - Duty, Honor, Country. An overwhelming sense of history permeates the entire post, where such distinguished men as Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, Douglas McArthur and Dwight D. Eisenhower had their youthful characters shaped. To take one's place in "The Long Gray Line", the continuum of young men who for 168 years had stood ready to defend our nation was a solemn privilege. Rather than relinquish one's identity, each cadet becomes a unique reflection of the noblest of human choices, selfless devotion to a cause greater than oneself. I entered West Point at 7:30 a.m. on July 1, 1970. The Class of '74 matriculated 1,350, and we lost fifty the first day, one hundred more by Labor Day, finally graduating 833 on June 5, 1974. Nobody said it was going to be easy. The justification for, and morality of, U.S. involvement in South Viet-Nam was an emotionally charged issue from 1965-1975. I viewed as a fait accompli that upon graduation four years hence I would become Second Lieutenant cannon fodder in what in 1970 had the appearance of an interminable conflict. Around 9 p.m. that first day at the Academy, my entire class was herded into South Auditorium in Thayer Hall for an introductory briefing. After forty-five minutes of information about what was expected of us, a Major opened the program up for questions. A new cadet asked what was foremost on everyone's mind, but were hesitant to voice, "Sir, what do you think of the War in Viet-Nam?". A pregnant pause ensued, no one moved, not even a cough broke the tension of the moment. To his credit, the Officer did not evade the issue, but offered a stirring response that I shall never forget (paraphrase) "There is continuing public debate concerning the U.S. presence in Southeast Asia. An Army Officer must ever remember that he is a Servant of the State, and the elected leaders of government must be given the latitude to determine, no matter how slowly, or at what cost in human lives spent on a foreign battlefield, the course of our nation. The Officer Corps must never pursue military power to usurp the reins of government whenever we disagree with our civilian leaders. After the reality of two years of combat, I believe there is something far worse than my dying in what history may one day regard as a controversial war, and that is to recant my sworn oath to defend the Constitution, and disrupt the normal process of the people altering the policies of our country through democratic elections." As I sat there trying to grasp the significance of that speech, I remember thinking to myself that one day I wanted to have strength of convictions like that. The first two months are endearingly termed "Beast Barracks". It is similar to basic training, except that we were treated as apprentice officers. One of the most illustrative events I can recall was a particular bivouac towards the end of July. At twilight some mess trucks brought in our meal. Up to that point, the upperclassmen had always exercised RHIP (rank has its privileges). Yet as we stood in line for the food, the seniors did not exercise their prerogative, but let us go first. When I later asked why, one senior replied that in case there wasn't enough food, it was more important for us, the subordinates, to eat. Honor is a basic tenant of the Academy. The Honor Code "A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, or tolerate anyone who does" is based on the concept that intent is more important than the action - “did you intend to deceive, or to withhold information?” There was zero tolerance, and no appeals, just immediate separation from the Corps. I have made it a practice to disclose any potentially negative situation, and my recommendation on how to deal with it, to my superior within one hour of my recognizing the situation. I will let him decide how serious it is, and if he agrees with my assessment. I admittedly run the risk of raising the specter of something that may never occur. A Commander once told me “Make sure you tell me bad news rather than my Commander surprising me with the bad news.” More importantly, however, is that each of us should be accountable to someone, and since human nature will always rationalize and justify one’s actions, we must be willing to have everything we do, say, or even think exposed to the light of day. I will not compromise my honor for career, possessions, or reputation. The daily regimen of Plebes Monday through Friday was: 5:30 a.m. Reveille 6:00 Inspection by Squad Leaders 6:15-6:50 Breakfast 7:00-7:30 Clean rooms for inspection, and last minute studying 7:30-12:00 Classes 12 p.m.-1:00 Lunch 1:00-3:15 Classes 3:30-5:45 Intramural sports or parades 6:00-7:00 Dinner 7:10-10:50 Mandatory study restricted to your room 11 p.m. Taps Saturdays we had class until noon and then an inspection parade until 1 p.m. We then had free time until 6 p.m. Sunday but couldn't leave the post. The United States Corps of Cadets (USCC) during my years at the Academy had 4,200 men (women were first admitted in 1976), and was organized into four regiments. Each regiment was then subdivided into three battalions and each battalion had three companies. My company for the four years was E Company in the First Regiment. My class of '74 in E-1 started out with thirty-four and we graduated twenty-seven. (Our most distinguished classmate was Dave Patreus, who would be promoted to 4 Star General and command U.S. Armed Forces in Iraq 2007-2008.) Plebe year at USMA (United States Military Academy) was replete with both physical and academic hazing. Physical hazing took various forms - proper posture was developed by having one's heels against a wall and holding a pencil horizontally against the same wall with the back of the neck for three minutes; if that Plebe showed even a flicker of anger or frustration a clandestine "character building" session after Taps would be conducted with five or six upperclassmen screaming emotionally charged insults trying to get him to crack. Mealtime in the Mess Hall was often interrupted by demands of the Plebe to recite all the athletic and social events occurring that week at the Academy, plus any or all of the approximately twenty-five speeches, songs, and other snippets of West Point lore. We had calculus 1 1/2 hours a day, six days a week for the first year. Other academic classes Plebe year were: Engineering Drafting, Astronomy and Astronautics, Basic Engineering Design, English Composition I and II, World Regional Geography, Spanish I and II, and Fundamentals of Military Science I and II. Required PE classes were: boxing, wrestling, survival swimming and gymnastics. For intramural sports I played football in the fall, wrestling in the winter, and cross-country in the spring. Hand held calculators by Texas Instruments were being field-tested throughout the Corps my last semester, but the entire four years I was there we depended on the slide rule, or "slip stick" to perform mathematical calculations. To ensure we studied, there was a daily quiz at the beginning of each class. I lost twenty lbs the first four months. We were not permitted to have radios or stereos in our rooms until after Christmas. I didn't go home until December 19th, almost six months from when I last left. I had trepidations about flunking out, therefore I studied all the time. It was a relief to finish my Plebe year, although it hadn't changed me much. I had always derived my self-esteem from my accomplishments, but that performance treadmill was getting increasingly steeper since I had to compete with outstanding academic, athletic and leadership talents exhibited by other West Point cadets. After a thirty day leave in June 1971 I returned to the Academy. Our second year of summer training took place at Camp Buckner, a resort-type facility about twenty miles outside the post nestled in the Catskill Mountains of New York State. The camp had huge lakes, and approximately 14,000 acres of forests available for military exercises. It was really a picturesque setting. The eight weeks there we acquired advanced combat skills - night patrolling, mountain climbing and rappelling, helicopter assaults, escape and evasion techniques, negotiating obstacle courses, weapons proficiency (M-60 machine guns, mortars, M-79 grenade launchers) and small unit tactics. We double-timed everywhere and got in phenomenal physical condition. Academic classes my second year were: General Chemistry and Organic Chemistry, Physics I and II, Differential Equations, Probability and Statistics, Psychology, Solid Mechanics, Comparative Literature, History of Modern Europe 1500-1870 and 1870-1960, Intermediate Spanish III and IV, and Military Science Command Functions. To borrow a phrase from Plebe Calculus, "It should be intuitively obvious to the casual observer" that the curriculum of USMA was eclectic. I can recall a chemistry class in "The House of Pain" (Bartlett Hall, the Science Building). Each day we had to work graded problems standing up at a blackboard. Once I made a careless mistake on a problem and the instructor, Major Haslett made the sobering observation, "Mr. Bickings, that stupid error, resulting from your carelessness, is the reason why you're in Section #7 instead of Section #1." (In each subject you were ranked in Sections, limited to fifteen cadets each, according to GPA). At first indignant at his remark, I soon made an honest self-appraisal and realized that my impulsiveness could prove to be a fatal flaw. I decided to compensate for this foible by emphasizing attention to detail and exhaustive planning and organization in every endeavor thereafter. As a result of tearing a shoulder muscle in boxing class Plebe year, I had to swim about 1,000 yards each day my Yearling Year to rehabilitate my arm movement. One afternoon, only one other cadet was in the pool area, Mr. Polosi, a junior who was being "silenced" by the Corps for cheating, but because of a legal technicality could not be dismissed. I lifted my head out of the water to do a turn, and he asked me, "Want me to count your laps for your?' I thought to myself, what a gracious gesture, so I nodded - since I couldn't speak to him. Following the end of that academic year, I and about three hundred of my classmates flew to Fort Benning, Georgia for Jump School (parachute training). The first week was Ground Week: getting into shape by running two miles each morning on the "airborne track", and learning how to do PLFs - parachute landing falls. The second week was Tower Week: exiting from a 34-foot tower onto a wire that carried you fifty yards away, simulating exiting an airplane. The third week was Jump Week: making five jumps from an Air Force C-123 plane flying at 1300 feet altitude. From the time of the order "stand up - buckle up" to the static line, to literally getting pushed out of the door by the rush of the guys behind you, to getting caught in the prop blast was sheer terror, but once that chute opened, floating effortlessly through the air for approximately one minute was an indescribable thrill - until the descent came to an abrupt and jolting landing. We received our "Silver Wings" (a uniform insignia) at the school graduation on June 30, 1972. That afternoon, per my written orders, I boarded an Air Force C-141 plane bound for Mannheim, Germany. Since there was little heat on the plane, and it's cold at 20,000 feet altitude, we were issued blankets and a lot of coffee. I was assigned to C Company, 5th Battalion, 68th Armor, 8th Infantry Division for 30 days to experience the life of a Second Lieutenant. I was in the field most of the time on tank firing ranges at Baumholder, except for a three day tour that the local American Express office sponsored to Paris - what an memory! The Cathedral of Notre Dame , the Eiffel Tower, Napoleon’s Tomb, the Arc de Triumph, Moulin Rouge Night Club, Versailles, and an underground wine cellar in the Champagne district. I completed my assignment, then commenced a thirty day leave seeking some adventure. I flew alone Frankfurt to Tel Aviv, Israel. I stayed in Tel Aviv that evening, and the next day took a public bus to Jerusalem where I spent three days meandering around the city and its environs - the Mount of Olives, the Old City. I then went to the Dead Sea, Tiberias, the Sea of Galilee where I swam all day, then back to Tel Aviv. I traveled alone through Israel for six days. I flew into Rome, stayed there two days, then took a train to Basal, Switzerland. I hopped a fence at midnight to board a train that was leaving the station for Germany, but I didn't have a chance to purchase a ticket, and I didn't have any Deutsche Marks with me. I thought that having American Express Travelers Cheques would be accepted by the train porter so I could buy a ticket on the train. But, as Johnny Carson would say "Wrong, locomotive breath." I was arrested, booted off the train at Freiburg, Germany, and spirited to the local jail, where I was incarcerated. I finally got out when the constable exchanged my American Express Travelers Cheques into Deutsche Marks. I got back on the next train passing through to Frankfurt and caught a 747 back to New York City. The seven weeks I spent alone in Europe and the Middle East gave me confidence in my ability to handle myself in new situations. My parents were aghast at my brief escapade. For two weeks no one had any idea as to my whereabouts, and in retrospect I suppose that it wasn't very judicious on my part, but it sure was fun. Mom drove me back to the Academy to start my third or Cow year, and I remember sitting in the passenger seat of the car disconsolate that I would fail the toughest academic course of that year, EE - Electrical Engineering. I knew I wasn't a good student at math and science courses, but had a predilection for languages and history. I feared the embarrassment of having to tell people that I flunked out of West Point, and then completing my degree at another college. Mom tried to encourage me, but I doubted the confidence she had in me. I was growing tired of facing new challenges in my own strength. The other courses that academic year were: Physics III, Thermodynamics, Topics in European History, History of Russia, Military Readings in Spanish, Spanish Language through Literature, Introduction to U.S. Constitutional Law, The Uniform Code of Military Justice, Military Science Combined Arms Operations, U.S. Government and Economics of National Security. In January 1973 I was selected to be part of the contingent from West Point to travel to Washington D.C. to march in President Nixon's second inaugural parade. The weather that day was bone-chilling, but marching up Pennsylvania Avenue past the President's reviewing stand in front of the White House was quite a thrill. Former First Lady Mamie Eisenhower was in the reviewing stand next to President Nixon and Vice President Agnew. In February 1973 I was despondent about not yet meeting a Christian girl with whom I could develop a close friendship. I remember praying earnestly one evening for the Lord to introduce me to someone I could relate to and who could help me with an obvious void in my life. I couldn't discern the nature of the void at the time, but I now know that it was a lack of a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. One of my favorite courses was Spanish. I had taken two years in high school and now my third year at West Point. We were frequently required to give individual extemporaneous talks of approximately three minutes in Spanish, the topic of which our instructor presented to us as we ambled to the front of the room. Spanish helped my self-confidence because I felt literate in another language. As a result of my fluency in Spanish, I was selected to be an exchange cadet for two weeks in June 1973 to the Mexican Military Academy - the "Heroico Collegio Militar" in Mexico City, along with three other USMA Cadets. We lived in barracks at their "West Point" in the heart of Mexico City for ten days. We went on numerous tours, and to the United States Embassy for a reception one evening where I met the Chinese and Soviet Ambassadors. We then flew to Acapulco for four days and stayed at Las Brisas, a resort with villas on the side of a mountain overlooking Acapulco. At this point all of the grousing about the spartan existence of being a USMA cadet dissipated in the gentle breezes off Acapulco Bay - “ Pinch me to see if this is a dream!” We were provided jeeps, and each villa had a private pool strewn with fresh hibiscus flowers each morning. The owner of Las Brisas hosted a soiree for us, many of the local luminaries attended, and each of us had a beautiful senorita as a date, but her mother came along as her chaperone! When I left there, I started my First Class Trip. All seniors traveled to different military posts around the country to garner firsthand information concerning which branch they would like to select. We first went to Fort Benning, Georgia (Infantry), then to Fort Bliss, Texas (Air Defense Artillery), Fort Sill, Oklahoma (Field Artillery) and finally to Fort Hood, Texas. While at Fort Sill, at 7 p.m. on Saturday, June 16, 1973 at a Lieutenant Colonel's residence just north of Snow Hall, I met the blind date that I had previously signed up for - it was Nancy. I was immediately enchanted by her petite beauty ( she was 5'1" tall, and 98 pounds) and demure demeanor. She had just completed her sophomore year at Texas Woman's University in Denton, Texas. My first thoughts of her brought to mind Philippians 4:8 “Finally brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be any praise, think on these things." Within about thirty minutes I knew that she was the answer to that prayer in February. We visited that evening at the Fort Sill Officer's Club. As I recall, we subtly explored each other’s attitudes towards work, school, religion, family, etc. As the night waned, it became obvious to both of us how much we enjoyed each other's company. I left Nancy at midnight as she boarded a bus in front of Snow Hall to return to Denton. She had been wearing a long evening gown, but had now changed into a blouse and short skirt. I remember thinking “Wow, the girl I’m falling in love with has great legs!” I would next see her in Fort Worth where she was a contestant in the 1973 Miss Texas Pageant as Miss Texas Women's University. Not knowing anybody in town, I was sequestered in a hotel in Fort Worth for five days and only got the opportunity to visit with Nancy twice - both times with her chaperone. I had never before attended a beauty pageant and found the talent competition interesting, the evening gown competition captivating, and the bathing suit competition breathtaking! I met Nancy's parents, Clarence and Jean Zabel, and her sister and brother-in-law, Judy and John Hayden, for the first time that week. Nancy and I next met for the Labor Day weekend in 1973. I flew into the new Dallas-Fort Worth Airport shortly after its recent opening for air traffic, then she came up to Bridgeton for the Columbus Day weekend, at which time I asked her to marry me. I flew into Amarillo on December 26, 1973 to visit Nancy's home in Hitchland for the first time. The evening of the 27th, with Nancy seated beside me, I asked Clarence and Jean for their daughter's hand. I felt awkward and inarticulate in expressing my feelings, but Clarence accepted my pledge to love Nancy and care for her, and I was very relieved. The next day Nancy and I drove to Collins Jewelers in Liberal, Kansas to pick out her engagement ring. Our engagement period was a whirlwind romance characterized by long distance telephone calls and airplane trips, patronizing both Bell Telephone and American Airlines. It was a dangerous time, because we were play acting to impress each other, rather than discovering if we were truly compatible. I pray that one day our girls will avoid repeating that mistake, and will not only seek spiritual discernment from mature Christians about a young man, but just as importantly, will act on warning signs rather than naively hope they can "live happily ever after." Academic courses my Senior year were: Bridge Design I and II, The Napoleonic Wars, U.S. Wars 1773-1968, Topics in European History, International Relations, National Security Seminar, Readings in Philosophy, and U.S. Army in Stability Operations. I would graduate with a Bachelor of Science Degree with an elective concentration in National Security and Public Affairs. In the Academy's effort to produce "Officers and Gentlemen" any Public Display of Affection (PDA) was prohibited. It wasn't considered genteel to hold a young lady's hand, embrace her, or - gasp - kiss her in public. One can imagine how a group of red blooded young men were chafing at this Victorian Code of Conduct. The Academy did, however, provide a harmless outlet for these yearnings. "Flirtation Walk" is a secluded sylvan path winding along the edge of the Hudson River that was off limits to Officers. Cadets and their "one and only's" could stroll and stop under "Kissing Rock", as if one needed a rock to suggest kissing! In February 1974 each senior selected his branch (one of the combat arms) and first post. I chose the Field Artillery because of the proximity of Fort Sill to Texas Women's University so it would be only a two hour drive to Denton to see Nancy each weekend that I was at the Officer Basic Course. I chose Fort Riley, Kansas as my first assignment because it was close to Hitchland, and I didn't want Nancy to be too far from her parents after we got married. I selected to go to Ranger School, and eight-week Army infantry leadership course in the mountains of Southern Georgia and the swamps of Northern Florida because everyone else was - but it was a half-hearted decision, succumbing to peer pressure. I didn't want to be away from Nancy for eight weeks, and I was tired of being hazed. Towards the end of my senior year, I was ambivalent about leaving the Academy. My enthusiasm for academics was flagging rapidly. I wanted to get out and be productive, but on the other hand, I knew that in the future I would be nostalgic about West Point. I would sit in the Mess Hall as the evening meal was winding down, and knew that I’d never be able to recapture one single day of being a cadet. I felt so natural in a uniform, so at peace with an ordered, formal life of tradition and respect for authority. I loved to walk out to Trophy Point at night and meditate as I watched the barges journey silently and inexorably up and down the Hudson River. I was proud each day of my cadet career, and felt a tremendous obligation to reciprocate the time, effort, and money spent on me to become a commissioned officer. My final class standing was 321 out of 833. Nancy, Mom and Dad, Stella, Jean and Clarence came up for my graduation on Wednesday June 5, 1974 - the day I had dreamed of since that memorable July 1st four years earlier. I was grateful to share this important moment with Nancy, that she had a clear idea of that season of my life. I was also pleased that the West Point experience brought such joy into Mom and Dad’s life. Now to begin my 30 year Army career! 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