by Jake Aaron
*****
While I continued driving an ambulance in July and August, yearling Gunnar underwent field training at Camp Buckner, about 21 miles from West Point. For five-and-a-half days a week, he learned about Army weapons and tactics under the leadership of new first classmen. In turn, a few officers had oversight over the firsties. Mornings began with five-mile-long “reveille” runs in uniform tee shirts, running shorts, and combat boots — before breakfast.
The wake-up experience for these runs was another lesson in motivation. Rudely awakened from a deep slumber under warm covers into the cool morning air every duty morning summoned a deep dread of coming muscle pain and burning lungs. The compensating lure was the reward of hearing the familiar voice of Cousin Brucie from a New York City radio station on some cadet’s transistor radio. “The Battle of New Orleans, “Lonely Boy,” and “A Big Hunk o’ Love” were the hot hits that reverberated in Gunnar’s mind through the long runs.
The days were long, so Gunnar normally slept whenever he got a chance, he wrote. One day, he was napping in the back of a deuce-and-a-half truck, despite sitting up and wearing a combat helmet. Laughter woke him. He looked up to see a classmate dropping his trousers and underwear, aiming his bare buttocks at a civilian car behind the two-and-a-half-ton combat vehicle. “Mooning” was not even a word back in Alamogordo. I gave up a full-ride to Stanford for this, he exclaimed to himself. His classmates were supposed to be the cream of the crop. They had the achievements and test scores on their resumes to prove it, anyway. Gunnar did not laugh — at first.
Leading peers had its own set of problems, Gunnar explained. No one in the back of the Army truck had any authority over the loose group. The repressive environment of West Point invited out-of-sight rebellion. He knew he had to be indirect. Pretending to be amused, Gunnar joked, “Knock it off, guys. Some of us are trying to sleep here.” Then he laughed. He quickly became the short-term butt of all sorts of ridicule and mock punches. No longer the object of attention, Mooner pulled his pants up and sat down.
Gunnar wanted to keep the attention his way and off Mooner, “Hey, guys, mind if I snore?” More derision and verbal abuse came his way. Mission accomplished, Cadet Gunnar! Cadet Douglas MacArthur couldn’t have done it any better.
When Gunnar told me this during Reorganization Week in September, I asked, “Couldn’t you just tell the jerk to behave?”
“That’s the thing about leading peers. It’s an art — depends on the situation. If I’d tried to order a classmate to do anything, he would have blown me off. Even when we later have rank as upperclassmen, it’s a matter of time and place on whether an order will be followed.”
While decrying the immaturity of classmates, Gunnar reveled in the hijinks of newfound freedom as a yearling himself. Back in the barracks during evening study hours in October, he joined three of his classmates in an “experiment.” They tried various parachutes to see which worked better on getting a gerbil to the ground safely after going out a fifth-floor window. He was also the ringleader in an inventive practical joke. At night, he doused a tennis ball with lighter fluid, set its top on fire, and threw it hard into the room of other third classmen. Another classmate immediately shut off the lights, and a third slammed the door of their unsuspecting victims, produced a surprisingly eerie sight. The breaking of multiple regulations was a welcome outlet for their pent-up desire to rebel.
“Gunnar,” I told him later in the fall, “you all are so isolated up here in your rock-bound highland home, that you don’t get exposed to the wildness of college life. We occasionally have someone blowing off steam from the intensity of pre-med studies running nude across the quad — ‘streaking.’ Keep in mind that Mooner is a future general. Streaker is a future doctor. That’s part of the perspective I want to share. The other is that getting into med school is so competitive that there is very little trust among students. Everyone is trying so hard to get top grades. There are some real sharks among us. At least, you trust your peers.”
Gunnar was amused, “With a few exceptions! My theory is that, no matter how elite a group is, anytime you create a subgroup, a new stratum forms. Result: Accentuated good behavior at the top and bad behavior at the bottom of the subgroup.”
Gunnar, psychologist-solder.
*****
That fall I experienced peer leadership problems of my own. I became very active in the upcoming presidential election on campus and in the community. My enthusiasm for the candidate quickly marked me for leadership. I was disappointed again and again in my classmates who would volunteer for jobs and then not follow through. When I held them accountable, I consistently got the same response: “Well, I guess I’m just not a true believer like you!” The candidate was John F. Kennedy, who promised a revival of America’s spirit.
I was all out for this youthful man. I expected great things so I spent time I could not afford making telephone calls and attending rallies. I wanted a president who was worthy of being my brother’s commander-in-chief. I campaigned for JFK with Gunnar-like enthusiasm.
*****
Gunnar and I flew home from the East for Christmas. Having been deprived of his Christmas at home last year, he was doubly insistent that all traditions had to be followed. He checked in advance on having enough decorations, a large tree, candy, fruit cake, mistletoe, egg nog, etc. Nothing could be left to chance in Alamogordo. Aunt Cece satisfied him by having a second celebration of Christmas at the cabin in Ruidoso December 27th, to make up for last year. Gunnar never seemed to be in higher spirits. He was especially appreciative of Aunt Cece’s green-chile fruit cake.
I worried that Gunnar had become obsessed with Lt Col Stringer. He was going over to his house continually. First I wrote that off to his identifying with a persecutor. Understandable from the perverse plebe system. Then I saw Emily Stringer, two classes behind us in high school. She had really blossomed. And it appeared that Gunnar and her father were now great buds.
When it was approaching time to fly back East, we all had to laugh when Gunnar groused, “I feel like slitting my wrists!” We laughed only because we knew he didn’t mean it, but he meant something. He explained, “I’m headed back into what is called ‘Gloom Period’ at West Point. There is a pall across the campus until spring. I kid you not. The skies are gray, the buildings are gray, the uniforms are gray. It is cold and wintry. It is so bad they bring in the United States Military Academy (USMA) band to play at supper to cheer us up. Alex, you remember coming up to see me in January last year, how bad it was. … I’m really okay!”
He could say that, but I saw him drift further into despondency as we flew into La Guardia. Gunnar could tell I had the twin radar on. He consoled me, “I’ll be better when I see my old buddies at West Point. Misery loves company. ‘Only the Lonely,’ as my buddy Roy Orbison moans.”
I gave him a manly punch in the ribs. “Gloom period is never powerful enough to get to ‘No Sweat Olson,’ is it?” I gave him another sharp fist tap in the chest.
Gunnar snapped out of his downward spiral. “Alex, I don’t know how you do it. I have survived academics on partial credit for engineering test problems I couldn’t complete. You are expected to know everything about life: anatomy, physiology, biochemistry, histology, microbiology … . And you must survive in a jungle of cutthroats. I’m proud of you!”
“Thanks for reminding me, brother. This time I punched his shoulder and smiled.
“Alex, despite all the negative you’ve just heard from me, remember the very-long, dark moment I told you about? I was in the exact same spot marching to dinner one day at West Point, pivoting again on my right foot when it happened. I had the greatest sense of belonging, a feeling of continuity. I felt as if I could get in touch with the past and future at that one splinter of time. I realized that some of the cadets around me would perish in battle, as their predecessors had. Knowing this, they still hung out at the doors of heaven or hell, pick one. That’s what it means to join the Long Gray Line.
&
nbsp; I was tempted to let my sharp tongue loose with, “Wow, Gunnar, they really do a number on you cadets.” I was also aware that the libertine attitudes of my Northeast elite college were tainting my old hometown values. No wonder some say the Academy molds patriots, that it’s a priesthood of arms. I also noticed my brother did not think of himself endangered by inevitable future combat.
Instead, I honored my brother, “I’m glad you made the right choice for yourself. If you went to a real college, you wouldn’t have to wrestle with confusing feelings like that!” I kidded him. Of course, I had to slug his arm to offset how concerned I was for him. Sadly, I never experienced any strong institutional feelings like that. I know I missed my Mom and Dad, and Gunnar when he was away.
*****
As I visited Gunnar one weekend in the spring, I noted Gunnar was a markedly changed man from the plebe I knew a year before.
He paused and then explained, “I do feel a lot better. Upperclassmen repeatedly say that their yearling year is the most carefree. You begin to have a few free moments. You get one weekend leave a semester. And you have few responsibilities, other than those to yourself. You start having a squad to be responsible for in the next year, and bigger groups the year after that.
College — Junior Year
I watched the June Week parade that preceded the class of 1960 graduation. I congratulated Gunnar on having another tough year under his belt. “So Gunnar, how is the ‘cow’?” I asked concerning his new status as a cow — a second classman.
“She walks, she talks, she’s full of chalk. The milk extracted from the female of the bovine species is highly prolific to the nth degree,” he recited from his memory of fourth-class knowledge, specifically a response to “How is the Cow?” Gunnar knew I’d recognize his wit. “And I’m fine, too. Thanks.” I guess, you’d have to have been there — and be read into West Point’s strange jargon and customs.
I flew home, and Gunnar spent the rest of June on the East Coast. His class used West Point as a hub for various orientation tours of Air Force, Army, and Navy facilities. He learned the capabilities of Air Force fighters, bombers, and tankers. I should say his classmates did; Gunnar already knew them. He toured a Navy destroyer and submarine. In between tours, he practiced leading his classmates in calisthenics and teaching basic Army skills.
*****
Uncle Walt, Aunt Cece, and I picked up Gunnar at El Paso International. As he drove us home in the Edsel, I noticed he was more relaxed than a year ago when he was beginning his summer leave. I knew his first act after unpacking was to head to the Red Rooster in Uncle Walt’s beloved Edsel. Knowing that, Uncle Walt had it professionally detailed before Gunnar’s arrival. Gunnar was always a little nostalgic after running into classmates who had taken different tracks. John Winters, who had gone to the New Mexico School of Mining and Technology in Socorro, was particularly pleased with his path. When we discussed this, I reminded Gunnar, “You could go there if want — or MIT, Stanford, or Berkeley.”
“Alex, thanks for reminding me. I hope I’m not a masochist, but I think I’ve found my home — on the Hudson. My home kicks the hell out of me, and then I return to it. What a life!” He tried to force a smile.
During that July leave from West Point, Gunnar came home early one night, just after 11 PM. He ran into Uncle Walt, “Up getting some milk, Uncle Walt?”
“Yeah, helps me sleep. You just getting back from the Chicken Place?”
“Yes, sir, the Chicken Place,” Gunnar smiled. When Gunnar told me that, Chicken Place became our inside joke, the new family name for the Red Rooster. Uncle Walt also had a knack for creating his own lyrics to popular songs, without knowing it — or maybe he did and didn’t care. My favorite was “Betsy Wetsy’s Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” I kid you not. I could not make that up.
*****
Uncle Walt had nailed down the ideal summer job for me. I needed a break from preparing for a medical career. As a high-ranking civilian, he was at the Officers’ Club overhearing two colonels arguing their case before the club’s manager. Each insisted his teenager be the choice for the remaining slot as lifeguard at the pool. The two colonels left in a huff as the club manager took their pleas under advisement. Uncle Walt pulled the club manager aside, “I have a solution for you. You pick the most qualified for the position and let neither colonel win.” I was the solution.
Uncle Walt was highly intelligent, but I had never seen that kind of savvy in him before Gunnar and I moved in. I think he learned from Gunnar. You just got smarter being around Gunnar.
*****
Gunnar spent August serving with an active duty army unit. He flew to Panama’s Fort Clayton. He was assigned to the 193rd Infantry Brigade. His primary duty was to act as a second lieutenant platoon leader — a “third lieutenant,” in Gunnar’s words. He also got orientation at various Army facilities in the Canal Zone: Fort Kobbe, Fort Sherman, Quarry Heights, and Fort Amador. Gunnar was impressed with the battalion of airborne forces from Fort Kobbe that stood alert at Howard AFB for quick response to regional emergencies. He bookmarked the jungle warfare training center at Fort Sherman to be on his wish list. Quarry Heights was the command and control center for the US Army Caribbean. Fort Amador guarded the Canal Zone’s Pacific flank. It was appropriate that he see the Panama Canal in operation, since West Point-trained U.S. Army Major General Goethals brought the long-troubled project to a successful endpoint — the world’s largest engineering effort.
This was Gunnar’s first field experience with the regular Army. He went on maneuvers with his battalion near Rio Hato. His company did a night amphibious landing on the beach there. Despite my notion that all of Panama was tropical, Gunnar described that area as arid and desert-like. He displayed a lot of initiative in training his infantry platoon on modern tactics and weapons. He did this to fill a void — too much down time, too many “smoke-‘em-if-you’ve-got-‘em” moments, he wrote.
His company commander was a seasoned captain who graduated from Virginia Military Institute and hated West Pointers and “especially me,” Gunnar wrote. Nothing he did pleased the captain. The captain singled out Gunnar to work Sunday afternoons. Gunnar dreaded the fitness report the captain would send to the Academy.
*****
I next saw Gunnar Labor Day weekend in New York City. It was sunny and muggy. We walked through Central Park, climbed the 354 stairs of the Statue of Liberty, rode the Staten Island Ferry, and saw West Side Story on Broadway. We couldn’t get tickets to Bye Bye Birdie, his preference. West Side Story was also sold out, but I happened to mention Gunnar was a cadet at West Point. We got the royal treatment. Not only did we get in free, but we had seats upfront, center stage.
Gunnar was optimistic about the coming academic year. He really looked forward to studying “thermo” — thermodynamics but was skittish on “juice” — electrical engineering. Anything was better, he said, than the calculus and differential equation courses that were now behind him. He had compared the Academy-unique “special topic memoranda” on calculus with texts used by civilian contemporaries and found the latter much more straight forward. Gunnar joked, “Some say there’s the right way, and there’s the Army way. I’ll go one better: There’s also the West Point way.”
Both of us enjoyed the City. Walking around Times Square was like being at a circus. With a background of outsized neon lights, the cultures of the world were on display. Naked frat boys running through the streets pledge week, sidewalk music, “hot” watch vendors, pretzel kiosks, and scalpers were just the beginning of a long list of amusements. Gunnar elbowed me, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Alamogordo anymore.”
Our people-watching extended down into the subways, which snaked under Manhattan and surrounding boroughs. As we rode the IRT, BMT, and IND lines, I hoped for no assaults or muggings. Gunnar was 100% into protecting the American public with his life. He had also been trained not to hold back in a fight. He seemed like such a nice guy …
*****
/> This was the year that Gunnar had his first leadership position during the academic year. He was a squad leader as a second classman, a “cow.” He was in charge of two other cows and seven plebes. He inspected his plebes at reveille, breakfast, dinner, supper, and parade formations. He had his plebes report to his room thirty minutes before supper formation to monitor their professional development. Some squad leaders used the occasion to haze their plebes. Gunnar tutored his fourth classmen on military knowledge, checked their academic progress, and looked for opportunities to inspire them. Always a showman, Gunnar put his plebes in the right frame of mind playing mood music, like Percy Faith’s “Theme from a Summer Place,” on his Philips battery-operated, portable record player. It was fair to say, the plebes never knew what to expect when they entered his room.
The Academy was constantly evaluating and rating each cadet, as Gunnar had learned in his two previous years as a cadet. In his plebe year, he was shocked to find that an instructor had submitted a review on his performance of duties as a section leader of 14 other cadets in a calculus class. After that he started to notice how pervasive yet unobtrusive the process was. Before that, only the annual rating of peers and underclassmen had stood out in his mind.
“Alex, my first rating included these comments from my calculus teacher: ‘lacks sense of humor.’ I remember being totally perplexed. If anything, the fourth-class system was designed to make you professional, which meant no smiling, joking, or displaying of emotion. It taught a monotone voice and a poker-face.” More of the double-binds.
“Anyway, the rating that came from the captain in Panama was very critical, as I expected. I did show emotion at that review. I had done my very best. My tactical officer counseled me, ‘I can tell you are disappointed, but you should not be. The Army keeps a database on raters. We know this captain is a very tough grader. With that in mind, you really distinguished yourself down there in Panama. Your other ratings are very favorable, too. The command structure will be taking a very hard look at you. Am I being clear?