I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  I was so proud of my twin who could take all the harassment this crazy place could dish out, and I was glad I was not a cadet.

  *****

  I visited Gunnar at West Point most weekends, studying medical texts on the bus to and fro. On nice fall weekends, the two of us usually ran several miles, starting with the excruciatingly steep hill by the Cadet Chapel. Then we usually had a long wait to use the tennis courts. That routine was our custom. I asked him how he was able to see me on Saturday afternoons when many of his classmates had to stand inspection and march back and forth in the area of the barracks. Gunnar said he tried to avoid getting too many demerits or committing gross infractions.

  “For all the bellyaching I do, Alex, sometimes I even feel good. Our rallies for the football team are a spirited group phenomenon — bonfire and all. When they’re at night during study hours, so much the better. It may be a Northeastern thing, but I’m still trying to get used to the combination of doughnuts and cider served at the rallies. Sweet-sweet? I’d go with sopapillas, honey, and enchilada sauce. That’s just me.

  “Something you’ll get a kick out of, Alex, is taking care of biological needs. On long bus trips to football games, we’d never make our destination with thousands of cadets needing a rest break at some facility. Solution: Have everyone get off the bus in an open field, form a long line — shoulder to shoulder — to urinate. As you know, our school colors are black, gray, and gold. You’ve heard of the Long Gray Line. Picture the Long Gold Line.”

  *****

  I spent half of my Christmas break with Gunnar at West Point. Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece came up to join us. Gunnar explained half-heartedly, “One of the great traditions at West Point is that plebes don’t go home for Christmas.” We skied on the Academy grounds, took in movies, toured the post museum, and had some good long walks around the grounds. Unlike the skiing in the West we had done, the ski trails at West Point were perilously close to trees. Another way to get rid of plebes, Gunnar said half-jokingly. The frigid cold amplified by a nor’easter got the attention of us New Mexicans.

  “Any way for you to escape the bitter cold?” I asked Gunnar.

  “Well, there is a shortcut underneath the mess mall. The steam tunnel there is foreign to me. It is one thing to have all this Gothic architecture above ground. It is another to have underground passages like some horror movie. It makes me feel claustrophobic in the long subterranean, dimly lit passage.

  “Changing the subject, as a future doc, Alex, you probably would be interested in how tired we are all the time. Falling asleep in class or at chapel is punishable. We try to look after our classmates by elbowing them when they’re nodding off. The self-cure is to stand up, which we’re allowed to do in class — just rise from your desk and stand at the back of the room. One of the guys in my section, however, did just that and still literally fell flat on his face because he was so tired.”

  “He didn’t!” I shot back in disbelief.

  Aunt Cece followed, “Don’t tell me he got demerits for that?”

  “He did, Aunt Cece. He also brought the whole section into convulsive laughter. The ‘P’ — the officer-professor — was a good West Pointer. He acted angry and offended — doing his duty. Inside, I bet he was busting a gut,” Gunnar laughed.

  Aunt Cece sneered, “I just don’t think that’s funny at all!”

  “It’s not,” Gunnar laughed. “It’s pathetically funny!” He laughed again. Then he chuckled at Aunt Cece’s being offended. Then we all laughed.

  “God help us, Gunnar, we have all sunk to this level,” Uncle Walt observed and laughed.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Walt, I didn’t hear that. I nodded off,” Gunnar laughed.

  Everyone roared. Aunt Cece laughed, too. She caught herself and chided everyone, “It’s not funny. It’s callous and depraved.”

  “It is, isn’t it,” Gunnar laughed.

  *****

  “One thing I’ve learned at West Point is to lie low once you’re out of line. Two offenses quickly becomes your reputation,” Gunnar recollected later. “My classmate who fell flat on his face after going to sleep standing up, remember him. Within a month he was overdue at taps. You just don’t lose track of your men in the Army, so his cadet’s company commander and several other firsties contacted their tactical officer and scoured the post after midnight. They didn’t find the missing plebe. Later, around 0400, the plebe woke up hidden away in one of the back cubicles of the library, where he had dozed off. The librarian didn’t see the head-down figure in the back when he closed up.

  “To answer your next question, the sleeper did receive a significant number of punishment tours and demerits. Those are somewhat easier to take in a cadet’s mind than the constant verbal harassment and catcalls that follow you after that, especially as a plebe. You can tell how true that is by some of the outlandish nicknames some our generals carry with them through their lives. To this date, my classmate is known as “Sleepy,” like one of Snow White’s dwarfs.

  “I can think of one exception to this rule. One of my classmates from Hawaii has a biological quirk that gives him a reaction to overheating or overexertion. He passes out when no one else does. What do you think, Alex?”

  “Well, could be heat exhaustion, heat stroke, blocked carotids, or an arrhythmia — for starters,” I answered.

  “In any case, it could not have been pleasant for him on forced marches in Beast Barracks, but he hung in there. I think everyone looked up to him for his tenacity. No punishment, no ridicule, no snickers, no cutesy nickname — except ‘Pineapple.’”

  I preempted her sensibilities, “Now, Aunt Cece, it could have been worse.”

  *****

  As we strolled around the campus, Gunnar recited facts that fascinated us all. Like most sites at West Point, there was a colorful history to it. Battle Monument, standing over 45-feet high and 5-feet in diameter is the largest polished granite of its kind in the Western Hemisphere. It bears the names of over 2,000 Regular Army officers who died during the Civil War. The tradition regarding it was the upperclassman challenge: “How are they all?” The plebe answer was, “They are all fickle but one, sir.” That one was Lady Fame atop it.

  After Gunnar gave his spiel, I probed, “There’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

  “This is family time. I’m not going there,” Gunnar announced.

  Nearby was legendary Flirtation Walk, the sign said visitors prohibited unless escorted by a cadet. “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Not so fast, Alex. The tradition is that those guests are dates of cadets. The path leads to a point anchoring the Great Chain that was stretched across the Hudson River. It deterred the passage of British warships during the Revolutionary War.”

  Having had more time to absorb the customs and traditions surrounding the United States Military Academy, Uncle Walt shocked us all. “Gunnar,” he conceded, “I’m starting to see why you like this place.”

  Gunnar, who had loosened up a little over the holidays, replied, “Well, it’s a good thing they’re keeping us here over Christmas. If I came home, I’m not sure I could make myself return here.” He had a wry grin. I knew he meant it.

  Uncle Walt immediately laughed at what he thought was a good joke. Aunt Cece did not. She could tell Gunnar was half-serious.

  Gunnar went on, “The same was true for the first eight weeks here. I would see guys get injured or sick. They’d be admitted to the hospital. Then it seemed it was 50/50 on whether they would resign. Seeing that, I toughed it out on a couple injuries back then. I knew if I got comfortable out of the fire, I just might not be able to step back into it.”

  Uncle Walt got it. “I’m proud of you, son — er, Gunnar.”

  Gunnar grabbed Uncle Walt’s hand, shook it, and reciprocated, “Uncle Walt, you are a great dad!”

  Aunt Cece started to tear up. I smiled and told Gunnar, “It’s not nice to make your aunt cry.” I slugged his upper arm to let him know much I liked him.

 
*****

  I saw Gunnar off and on through the winter and spring on weekends. He had more adventures and tales of being hazed and occasional hijinks. What really cut him to the core was losing friends — classmates who either couldn’t or wouldn’t stay. One of his classmates had been on the honor guard at the Tomb of the Unknown at Fort Belvoir, VA, before coming to United States Military Academy. Although he helped the prior service roommate enough with academics — the latter’s weakest area, Gunnar felt that the man lost the will to get through the four years. “When a close classmate leaves, Alex, it’s like having part of your soul carved out. You feel it in the pit of your gut every time you think of it.”

  One of his roommates, Hank Lanier, was really a character. Hank explained the Academy as a ponzi scheme. “Think about it. The founder started a small abusive pyramid scheme promising it was good for the men who agreed to the one-sided bargain. He told the first cadets, ‘Trust me. It’ll be good for you.’ Do you think he ever had to undergo the discipline and harassment he built into the system. I think not!”

  “So, Hank, how do you cope with the fourth-class system? You don’t strike me a the docile type?” I asked.

  “I try to think of the solace of closing my eyes at night, steak night on Wednesday, weekends, and being recognized in June as a human being. Not to be sloppily sentimental, but the retreat ceremony in the summer of Beast Barracks was a religious experience. The plaintive bugle call, the ceremonial lowering of the flag, and the echoes of the cannon sent chills up and down my spine. We have other positive moments as well. Two yearling roommates were overly abusive to all the plebes in the company. The night before laundry pick-up, all cadets throw their dirty clothes out into the halls in big olive drab cotton bags. After taps that night, a smart plebe organized the other company plebes to quietly pile every available bag against the door of the offending yearlings At reveille, the two couldn’t get out of their room. Fellow upperclassmen thought it was funny and appropriate and walked on by pile of bags. The two culprits were late for formation and got quilled — written up for demerits.”

  I looked askance at brother Gunnar and smiled.

  Gunnar said, “What?” and shrugged. He knew I knew he instigated the retaliation against the yearlings.

  “Alex, you should know your brother is something else. He’s basically such a good cadet, a hard charger, that the upperclassmen seem to respect him, especially the ‘hives’ in the company. The hives are the very studious, smart ones. A couple of them know how hard he tries, and they see him illegally studying in the ‘sinks’ — the shower area — with them after lights out. But I think he’s a hick from Texas!”

  Gunnar couldn’t resist, “Arizona, if I recall correctly.”

  Hank laughed, “Podunk is Podunk.”

  “Says the man from Michigan,” Gunnar jabbed.

  “It’s Minnesota,” Hank grinned.

  “Yeah, one of those places with water,” Gunnar smiled.

  “So, Alex,” Hank turned to me, “do you know why the wind comes from all directions at West Point?”

  “Hank, I would guess it’s a combination of orographic lifting of air by the mountainous terrain and the thermal gradient created by the nearby Hudson River. Yes?”

  “No, Alex, it’s easier than all that: West Point sucks!”

  *****

  You know by now that West Point has its own little lexicon. I kept overhearing the initials BJ. I asked Hank about the meaning.

  “Oh, it means ‘before June.’ If a plebe is overly familiar with an upperclassmen, he’ll be reprimanded for being BJ. June is when we get recognized. Before that, we’re supposed to be good little plebes and know our place. Your brother is anything but BJ.

  “At a full brace, front-edge of the chair, Gunnar was sitting next to a yearling at supper. The yearling was talking to the table commandant to his left. The yearling held his open right hand toward Gunnar for an expected bowl with cake on it. In his peripheral vision, Gunnar saw the lingering hand and grabbed it with his right hand and shook it. That’s the exception to the wait-until-June rule. Technically, that meant Gunnar could call the yearling by his first name and fall out — not brace — if alone with him. You know Gunnar. He didn’t want the yearling getting additional grief from his classmates and did not take advantage of it.”

  Hank smiled. “I forgive Gunnar. By the way, that is the only premature handshake I have ever heard of. Other than Gunnar’s experience, I think it’s a myth.”

  “Hank, you’re funny,” I remarked. “No wonder Gunnar likes you.”

  “Other than that,” he’s got good judgement. He’s definitely the smartest guy I’ve ever known. Don’t ever tell him, but I think he’s a great man,” Hank spoke from his heart.

  “I think so, too, Hank,” I said sincerely. I liked Hank.

  *****

  Hank had unique insights on West Point. At another time he told me,“You know, Alex, this strange place is paradise if you have obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Being on time and neat are the obvious things, but the way we lay out our rooms demands all edges of items have to be tangent to the edge of something else. That holds for a folded ‘brown boy’ quilt on a bed as well as folded underwear in a locker. Food menus are known in advance and predictable. Everything has its place and order. Gunnar has probably told you we always step off on the left foot when marching. You can understand why a free-spirit like Edgar Allan Poe did not stay to graduate here.”

  I smiled, “And by extension, Hank, I think you can see why I wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

  *****

  In the late spring, we had a truly spectacular Saturday. It was sunny, 72 degrees with a light breeze. After parade, I noticed cadets carrying little gray, boxy suitcases in their left hands headed in the direction of Trophy Point with their girlfriends. Gunnar explained they had blankets in the cases to spread out on the ground along Flirtation Walk. He went on, “Speaking of blankets, you’ll love this — another unique custom here is for upperclassmen to go up on the roof of the barracks during a little free time with a blanket. They sunbathe. It’s doubly strange to me, being from the Southwest. I guess, in the East, you celebrate any ten minutes of sunshine that befalls you. Back in New Mexico, we were always looking for shade. And you guessed it, sunbathing on the roof is a privilege plebes don’t get.”

  “Gunnar, do you have to request permission to breathe?” I asked half-jokingly.

  “Funny you should ask. Making sandwiches is a privilege. A plebe has to have permission to make one. Otherwise, he eats the ingredients separately on his plate. Yes, I’ve sampled a BLT one ingredient at a time. You know about plebes taking small bites. Did you know we have to ask permission to take big bites? Double-timing, I think I’ve told you, takes permission from an upperclassman. Oh yes, plebes having ice in their cold drinks is also a privilege that requires special permission. The premise is to take away all of your rights and then mete them out slowly as privileges.”

  I tried to hide it, but Gunnar’s descriptions so horrified me. I think I was as ready as he was for his suffering as a plebe to end. No one hurts my family.

  As I attempted to recover my center, I probed Gunnar, “Have you ever felt like quitting?”

  “Alex, to be honest, if I have, I’m not aware of it. I am so determined to run the gauntlet this fourth-class year, that I have not considered quitting or I buried that memory so deep I can’t recover it. However, there was one moment marching to the noon meal in September that I want to tell you about. It was the strangest thing. When my squad was turning left, while I pivoted on the ball of my right foot, an eternity passed. I experienced the coldest, deepest, longest, blackest mood of my life — separate from anything immediate. I think it was an overall commentary on my inner view of my life then — perhaps a deep abyss I wouldn’t acknowledge. When I say the experience was long, it objectively was less than a microsecond, yet I felt that it was timeless and infinite. It was so profound that I think I can recall it at will. I choose
not to. It gives me a morbid chill. I think it’s unhealthy to recall it.”

  “Gunnar, did you ever discuss that experience with anyone else?”

  “No, Alex, I haven’t. It’s very personal. I’m not one for psychotherapy, but I hoped telling you might lessen the moment’s intensity. I could only share that with someone I trusted completely. That’s you.”

  I cannot tell you how honored I was for Gunnar to say that to me. I would kill for him.

  Disliking sloppy sentimentality, Gunnar skillfully turned the conversation, “Something else that I’ve noticed about the East Coast — the overindulgence in alcohol in the stands at football games. I never saw that back in New Mexico college football. It’s quite common for fans in the East to share a leather wine bag and get totally schnockered. Their conduct is often over the top. I’m not even sure they know who is playing after a while.”

  *****

  The Friday before Armed Forces Day, I checked into the Commodore Hotel in Manhattan. Before I got in line, I gave my clothing bag to the concierge. I was planning to meet Gunnar tomorrow after he marched in the huge New York City parade for the first time. As I waited in one of four separate, long check-in lines, I recognized a second classman several people ahead of me. Gunnar had pointed him out to me to put a face with one of his stories. I saw the cadet chatting up a stewardess in front of him. He laid his clothing bag across one of the nearby velvet cordons that divide the lines. I overheard him bragging about being specially chosen to represent West Point before high schools in the city to recruit future cadets. That gave him an extra Friday evening off post for a long weekend — a rare privilege.