by Jake Aaron
In February, the Class of ’62 celebrated 100th night — one-hundred days until graduation. Emily came up for the dinner and formal ball. From his letters, I knew they still had not had the marriage discussion. I was sure they were both dancing around the issue.
In the spring, Gunnar picked me up at my school in his brand new red Corvette. We went through a rain shower with the hardtop off. I was agitated and uncomfortable. Gunnar grinned, “Infantry weather, that’s what we call rain at West Point. It’s a life lesson: Embrace the hardship; live with it; move on.” I would have settled for an umbrella or towel.
Later, as we dried off in a restaurant in Manhattan, Gunnar elaborated, “At West Point, rain is dubbed ‘infantry weather.’ Supposedly it bogs down your discouraged enemy, and you’re so tough you love it.” He chuckled, “Whenever there is a possibility of rain cancelling a parade or inspection, plebes are required to deeply and repetitively shout, ‘Odin! Odin! Odin!’ It’s a prayer to the Norse god.”
“Brother, please tell me you won’t visit these strange customs on your kids — when you have them.”
Gunnar leaned back in his chair. “One of my instructors came to class one Monday and surprised us with a revelation. Usually they would not share anything personal. This one did. He said, ‘You know we had an honor code violation at the house this weekend. My eight-year-old son lied to me. What could I do? I couldn’t throw him out of the family?’”
*****
Spring break found many of Gunnar’s classmates headed to the beaches of Florida for suds and sun. Gunnar was glad to meet Uncle Walt, Aunt Cece, and me in New York City.
“It’s is a far cry from the City in the winter,” I said. “I could not believe the freezing air blowing down the canyons between skyscrapers this last winter. You’d think the big buildings would block that!”
“The good news,” Gunnar added, “is that today the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming. It is fantastic weather.”
While we did the usual touristy things, what I remember most was eating at Mama Leone’s in Manhattan. “I’ll be right back with your pizza,” the pert waitress announced.
Gunnar halted her, “Wait a minute. Are you going to cut it in six slices or twelve?”
The waitress paused, “Six, of course.”
“Good,” Gunnar replied, “I’m not sure we could eat twelve.” That was Gunnar.
*****
After all the stories about General Douglas MacArthur, Gunnar felt honored to see him in person on May 12 in Washington Hall, the cadet mess hall. Gunnar proudly explained, “As you know, there are so many legends about MacArthur. I got to shake the hand of a real five-star general. He spoke to us without notes for over half an hour. The 82-year-old man was riveting. Truly, I think his ‘Duty, Honor, Country’ talk will be remembered as one of the greatest speeches of all time. It was masterful, mesmerizing, and inspiring! Even the most jaded of my classmates were unusually respectful. The event was not to be missed — especially since it was mandatory.” Gunnar smiled at his humor.
I had a way to bring things down to earth, “Was it worth the shower formations, clothing formations, and little green chair?”
Gunnar did not smile. “Alex, indeed, it was! … Well, maybe, not the little green chair.”
I only knew the horrid look little green chair inspired in Gunnar, so I could refer to it. He refused to explain it to me.
*****
Uncle Walt, Aunt Cece, Glen, Lt Col Stringer, Emily, and I were all at West Point for June Week, Gunnar’s graduation. There were activities to keep Gunnar constantly on the go. During a downtime for us guests, Glen had a staff car take the two of us to a nearby rifle range. A friend of his at the Academy provided an M-1 and ammunition. Afterward, I was not surprised to hear him say, “Alex, you’ve still got it. When will you let an old man win?”
“Glen, we both won with Gunnar. How about my brother!”
“Your mom and dad would be proud — of him and you. So you didn’t need my help getting into medical school?”
“No …” I began, wondering how he knew of my admission. I hadn’t told him.
“With your hands — dexterity, hand-eye coordination, I’ll bet you want to be a surgeon.”
“That’s what I’m thinking so I don’t have to waste my bedside manner on stupid people.”
Glen liked my tough-guy humor. He laughed.
“On the other hand,” I joked, “I may aim for psychiatry, although I have a problem with crazy people …”
“Alex,” he grinned, “we must be related.”
Back at the Thayer Hotel, I checked myself in the mirror. I wondered: Do I look like Glen? He did spend an inordinate amount of time around the house when I was a kid.
*****
Gunnar said every year at West Point seemed to go by twice as fast as the year before. “That probably doesn’t give plebe year its due,” he added. The principle was there, in any case. First-class year seemed like a blur of activity and celebration, Gunnar reported. To that end, many engaged cadets had scheduled their future wedding at the Cadet Chapel immediately after graduation. One of Gunnar’s forward-thinking classmates was not even dating anyone when it was time to throw one’s hat into the lottery for a wedding time. Nevertheless, he insisted on reserving a time “just in case.”
Gunnar did not reserve a slot for getting married. When Gunnar had expressed doubts about whether he was ready to be married, Emily was relieved. She loved Gunnar, but she did not want a military life like the one she had grown up in. She also had heard too much about the winds of war coming from Vietnam. From all appearances, Gunnar and Emily enjoyed June Week together anyway.
*****
Graduation Parade on the Plain was spectacular. It was also a circus, as Gunnar had explained. If you listened very closely, you could faintly hear alarm clocks going off at various times during the ceremony. A few daring plebes had hidden alarms clocks atop their heads, inside their ‘tar bucket’ parade hats. When awards were announced, Gunnar received numerous trophies: top this and top that. I punched him afterward, “Damn, Gunnar, give your classmates a chance!”
“Like you do me, shooting?” he replied. He had a point. Some things, you just can’t compromise on.
Subsequently, at Gunnar’s graduation and commissioning ceremony, I saw President John F. Kennedy address the class on its future mission. I was troubled by the open-endedness of his charge: “And we go forth confident of support and success because we know that we are working and fighting for each other and for all those men and women all over the globe who are determined to be free.” I wondered whether the United States had the resources required to free all people. The culmination of the ceremony was cadets tossing their hats into the air at the field house. I got a photograph of the event, celebrating the end of four long years. It was an overhead starburst of white. The accompanying jubilant roar was even more memorable.
Afterward, we caught up with Gunnar, who was shocked that a classmate would take the trouble to bring him his hat of four years. We got pictures of Gunnar with numerous classmates and professors. I never saw Gunnar so happy. He was bubbling over with suppressed emotion. He quickly turned outward, carefully thanking all his guests for attending his graduation. When he got to me, he added, “Alex, did you come to see me or your guy?” He meant JFK. I hadn’t wanted to add to his Academy burdens by telling him how disillusioned I was with his commander-in-chief. I smiled.
Gunnar posed for several family pictures. Afterward, I knew something was up when he gave me a knowing sideways glance. Here it came. He proudly proclaimed, “I say it officially today, for my first time: The Corps has …”
Over his fours years, Gunnar had said many times he hated that expression. The words said a lot by saying very little. It was the utterance of someone who has made it and looked down on how easy those after him have it. Some claim the rest of the statement is: ‘gone to hell in a handbasket.’ Gunnar liked to leave the rest to imagination of the list
ener. I agreed, in the same vein a vague threat instills more fear than a specific one.
*****
On graduation leave, Army second lieutenants Gunnar and Hank drove separately to Florida.
Gunnar in his red Corvette and Hank in his black one. From Patrick AFB, they caught a hop, a free ride on a military flight on a space-available basis. They planned to get to Brazil. They wound up catching a National Guard flight to waypoints in Central and South America. Flying over the vast Amazon River at 10,000 feet in an unpressurized C-124 Globemaster was an eyeopener. From Recife, Brazil, they talked their way onto a Brazilian Air Force C-54 to get to Rio de Janeiro. I got postcards from Ipanema Beach.
Gunnar wrote of chowing down on marvelous filet mignons at sidewalk cafes. He said he struggled with understanding Portuguese, but the locals seemed to understand his Spanish. Hank wrote that Gunnar had saved a tourist drowning in the powerful riptide at Ipanema. I was not surprised.
During that time, I worked as a volunteer at the local nursing home. I tried to do a scientific sampling of good advice from the experienced seniors on how to live life. The long-term survivors leaned unmistakably toward taking more risks. As I contemplated that, I realized that many of their previous peers who took the riskier paths were not around to give advice. So much for my survey.
On return to Alamogordo, Gunnar still had 30 days of leave. I decided to take the month off to be with him before he shipped out to wherever. He was quite the hit driving around the Red Rooster in his red Corvette — as if he needed the car for that. He let me drive the Corvette as much as I wanted. It was great for driving up to the mountains around Ruidoso and Cloudcroft to fish and hike. Of course, we had to borrow the Edsel to go out on the mesas to shoot. He feared bottoming out the low-slung sportscar on the irregular, washboard dirt roads.
*****
“You’ve come a long way, Gunnar,” I led as we overlooked the spectacular Tularosa Basin from Sunspot’s 9200-foot elevation’s panoramic view. Whooshing winds had us repeating our words. I could see the shadows of the Organ Mountains on the other side of the basin, White Sands, Holloman AFB, and Alamogordo through crystal clear air. “After your plebe year, I asked what big lessons you had learned. I’ll now ask you the same question.”
“Wow, Alex, I think the five seconds are already over where I tell you everything I know. To answer your question, I’ve spent four years crossing off calendar days with a just-get-through-it mentality. Pure survival mode. I think that, if I’m going to enjoy life, I’ve got to shift gears to savor the day, not just look forward to its end. Emily helped me realize that. She has been a great friend. I also have to give her great credit for knowing herself and not pushing us toward a marriage that would fail.
“Supposedly, West Point grads are good at grasping the big picture and not sweating the small stuff. I think that comes from doing little else for four years but sweating the small stuff. That may or may not be a lesson for me. There are merits to the everything-counts school of thought.
“When I threw my hat up in the air in jubilation on Graduation Day, I realized that West Point had pulled back the invisible veil keeping me from understanding. I learned that life is very often pushing against resistance — adversities, personal inertia, imagined problems. Those factors are not to be wished away. They are to be leaned into with faith that we can overcome them. They are the stuff of life.
“I also think I’ve learned seventy-five percent of life is being appropriate. The other half is being on time.”
“Pretty bad, big brother. Advanced calculus, and you still can’t add.” I punched him in the chest to let him know I still liked him. He caught himself before he broke my arm. He and a classmate had been sharpening their reflexes for hand-to-hand combat, he explained as he released my wrist.
“What about you, Alex,” he turned the tables. “What have you learned?”
“I’ve learned not to loan my vinyl records to … anyone … and …” I quickly replied.
“That’s it?” Gunnar challenged.
“I learned it pays to study hard. I did well on the MCAT — Medical College Admission Test. I get my pick of medical schools. I completed my undergraduate degree summa cum laude.” The wheels were turning in Gunnar’s head. I went on, “So you’re probably wondering what life would be like if you had gone to college instead of trade school at Hudson High?”
“Something like that,” Gunnar answered. “You can still read my mind!”
“I can tell the next thing you’re about to say,” I smiled.
“That my plebe year, first-year medical school, is just beginning?” Gunnar answered.
“Exactly!” I answered in truth. I seldom lied to my brother. When I did, he knew it.
Soldier Boy
In the fall of 1962, “Soldier Boy,” by the Shirelles, made me think of Gunnar every time it came on the radio as I studied medical texts with my transistor on low volume.
Army Second Lieutenant Gunnar reported to Fort Benning, GA, for three weeks training at the Airborne School. “There heat and the humidity made running — doing the ‘airborne shuffle’ — in combat boots all the harder,” Gunnar wrote. “We ran, then we ran, and then we ran some more. My previous First Class Trip orientation at Airborne School had been more pleasant, for sure. I still dream about practicing PLFs — parachute landing falls. I abruptly wake up to my mind’s words, ‘green light,’ meaning clear to jump out of an airplane. I qualified with a series of jumps and am now proud to wear the silver airborne wings on my uniform.”
*****
The Cuban Missile Crisis in October took the world to the brink of nuclear war. Television took the run-up to potential nuclear war worldwide. Because my dad had worked closely with atomic weapons, coming so close to full-scale nuclear war was particularly disturbing to me. I, personally, blamed failed President Kennedy for that debacle. His incompetence at the Bay of Pigs led inexorably to the showdown in Cuba. He clearly did not have a grasp of international politics. I rued the day I had urged others to vote for him. He hurt my credibility. I had weeks of apocalyptic dreams about the end of the world in balls of nuclear fire.
When the Missile Scare was over, Gunnar wrote that he had been standing alert on the ramp of an Air Force base in Florida for over a week. He was assigned to an ad hoc unit that had its parachutes and gear next to an aircraft ready to fly to Cuba and airdrop into the expected fray. He said the tension was beyond anything he had ever seen before.
*****
Fortunately, the crisis ebbed away. Gunnar cycled into the next two-month Ranger class at Fort Benning. Following that, I saw him in Alamogordo after the New Year.
As a doctor-in-training, I was horrified at what I saw. My greeting was with astonishment, “Gunnar, are you all right? You must have lost 25 pounds!”
“It’s par for the course. 20-hour days, little food, long patrols, forced marches with full field gear — Ranger School was no picnic. I learned a lot about field craft doing recon, ambushes, and raids — lots of small unit tactics. It’s over, thank God! I’ve got some soft-tissue damage in my right ankle. It happened toward the end. By golly, I wasn’t about give up the ground I had taken by having to recycle to another class.”
Aunt Cece kept pushing him to eat more: “You look starved, Gunnar. You need to eat something!”
“I can see you’ve lost muscle mass,” I said. “You need to make sure you take in enough nutrients to heal that ankle.” I had just finished courses in anatomy, physiology, and cell biology. I continued, “Brother, if you don’t eat enough food, too few electrons are transported across the inner mitochondrial membrane of your cells, and you will have deficient gradients. The result will be insufficient ATP production …”
Gunnar interrupted, “Thanks, Aunt Cece and Alex, I’m really disciplining myself on not eating as much as I want. My appetite has been insatiable, but my metabolism has dropped so low that I’ll blimp up if I don’t watch it. So I won’t be chowing down on a pint of ice cream in a
sitting, like after four weeks in Beast Barracks. And Uncle Walt, thanks for not piling on, Ranger buddy.”
“Anytime, Gunnar,” Uncle Walt started. “I don’t understand what the Army thinks Ranger School accomplishes. It seems like beating you down physically is somewhat counterproductive. In your words, ‘practice bleeding.’”
“You have a good point,” Gunnar answered. “It takes from several weeks to a year for various Ranger grads to completely recover. One of my classmates who went into the Air Force used to criticize the school as the ‘practice bleeding’ you cite, meaning totally unnecessary. The Marines don’t like the school either. They prefer not to send men to Ranger School because of the muscle depletion and recovery time — leaving its men unready to function in their units afterward. And then there are the insect and spider bites …” he chuckled.
“Yes, that’s my point,” Uncle Walt added. “You were at the top of the heap at West Point. It must have been hard to be a lowly student at Airborne and Ranger School after graduation.”
“Spot-on, as usual, Uncle Walt. I think it would have been harder in that respect if a civil engineering instructor at West Point hadn’t challenged me. Right in the middle of instruction one day, he broke his train of thought and singled me out. ‘Mister Olson, you’re the first captain — highest ranking cadet at the Academy. At Benning, you’re going to have young sergeants yelling at you and correcting you. How are you going to handle that?’”