The good news is that I received his nomination. The bad news came in the form of a letter I received from the Admissions office: After much consideration, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission to the United States Naval Academy. This year’s application pool was especially … Those few words came terrifyingly close to destroying any real hope I had of becoming a pilot … except for one remaining long shot. Despite not really knowing where Colorado was, much less Colorado Springs, I had also asked Congressman Cahill, very late in the game, for a nomination to the Air Force Academy.
One might assume that the story ends with him agreeing to that nomination, and my subsequently getting accepted to Air Force, but that’s not how it played out. The problem was that Cahill had already selected an athlete from an adjoining town to receive his nomination to the Air Force Academy. The best that he could offer me was “first alternate,” which did me about as much good as if I’d come in a close second in a presidential election. I shored myself up to accept that fact that I just wasn’t meant to fly—or for that matter even attend college at that time. I would work for a few years and see how the family finances were when Joel graduated from Columbia.
Then the phone rang. “Sir, this is Congressman Cahill’s office calling. The congressman would like me to let you know that his primary candidate for the Air Force Academy was unable to pass the entrance physical, so he would like to extend the nomination to you.” It turned out his original choice had a bad knee, which was bad enough to keep him from the Academy, but not bad enough to keep him from ultimately becoming a Division 2 All American. For me, it was a stroke of good fortune, and that was the beginning of a long career of service in the Air Force.
I have no idea whether I would have enjoyed the same success had I gone Navy, but I consider it an immense stroke of luck that I was rejected by Annapolis. It’s the one event that set my entire Air Force journey in motion.
Throughout my career, the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place, putting me at the right place at the right time. Call it luck, call it good fortune. Whatever it is, I learned never to disregard its significance.
* * *
On June 23, 1969, Joe Frazier TKOed Jerry Quarry in the eighth round to win the world heavyweight boxing title; Warren E. Burger was sworn in as U.S. Supreme Court chief justice by retiring Chief Justice Earl Warren; and I raised my right hand and took the Oath of Allegiance to support and defend the Constitution of the United States and to faithfully discharge my duties as a cadet in the United States Air Force Academy.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had tossed my solitary suitcase into the trunk of Dad’s well-traveled Dodge sedan, slid onto the passenger side of the long vinyl bench seat, and never looked back as Dad pulled away from the only house I had ever known. He and I didn’t really speak much during the hour and a half drive through the lush, green pines and oaks lining the two-lane highway that cut through the peaceful New Jersey countryside, but my mind flashed back to the many heated discussions we’d had around the dinner table. Vietnam was a constant topic of conversation, and lively debates surrounding foreign affairs and national security were frequent.
U.S. combat deaths in Vietnam had topped the 33,629 men killed in the Korean War, and Walter Cronkite grimly shared the details of an encounter known as the Battle of Hamburger Hill. After U.S. forces took the hill, the U.S. commander had ordered them to abandon their positions, allowing the North Vietnamese army to move back in and recapture the hill, completely unopposed. Forty-six members of the 101st Airborne were killed and another four hundred wounded. Senator Edward Kennedy called it “senseless and irresponsible,” and that was one point on which Dad, Joel, and I certainly agreed. We questioned whether we could ever really win the war with our military alone, and just what impact all the heavy bombing was having on our international perception.
Our family had misgivings about the conduct of the war, but never about those who fought. The same could not be said about so many others at the time. A hundred thousand anti-war demonstrators had marched on New York City. In October, the “Vietnam Moratorium” would find a million Americans participating in sit-ins and protest rallies across the United States. This was a far cry from the way Americans had banded together to support our soldiers during prior wars. That’s how it was in August of 1942, when Dad walked into a Philadelphia recruiting station and enlisted in the U.S. Army. His military career was short-lived, but he did earn a battlefield commission as a second lieutenant. He respected those who put their lives on the line to safeguard our liberties, and he made sure that we knew the difference between having issues with the politicians who decided which causes warranted our nation’s intervention and the brave warriors who’d be carrying out those orders.
With all of our discussions about the war, not once did we address the elephant in the room. The reality was that if all went well for me at the Academy, I’d emerge a second lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force and potentially be inserted directly into the eye of the storm. True, I had misgivings about the war itself, but there was never any question that my future would rest in success at the Academy and being afforded the opportunity to serve my country by earning one of the limited combat pilot slots. It would be a “show-me” scenario and I tried to steel myself for the challenge. Frankly, I was glad to be leaving Toms River and incredibly grateful for the opportunity. I would give it my best shot and never take it for granted.
Before I knew it we were on the Walt Whitman Bridge, crossing the Delaware River with the Philadelphia skyline coming into view beyond the tall green towers supporting the suspension cables. Dad followed the signs to the Philadelphia Airport and I could feel my adrenaline kick in—more excitement than nerves—as he pulled to a stop beneath the red and white TWA sign. He waved off the skycap and removed my bag from the trunk. “Just take it one day at a time and you’ll do fine,” he said, handing me the airline ticket.
“Thanks, Dad. Take care,” I responded. Then we shook hands and went our separate ways. A few hours later I was enjoying the in-flight meal onboard a 727 en route to Denver, then I changed planes for the short skip to Colorado Springs, where I spent my very last night as a civilian watching TV in my tiny room at the Ponderosa Motor Inn with many other cadet candidates.
* * *
“From now on, you will not speak unless spoken to, and when you do speak, the only sound coming out of your mouth will be one of the seven basic responses: ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. No excuse, sir. Sir, I do not know. Sir, I do not understand. Sir, may I ask a question? Sir, may I make a statement?’” The tall, immaculately groomed upper-class cadet barked the instructions at the top of his lungs. His crisp blue officer’s uniform commanded respect.
The Air Force bus chugging down Interior Drive toward the Academy was packed with a hodgepodge of cadets-to-be, some shell-shocked at the instantaneous transition from the genial host who had welcomed us on board from outside the bus. One wise-ass actually snickered—big mistake. The cadet officer got into his face, even though the words were meant for us all. “If you choose mediocrity, do not insult the Long Blue Line by exiting this bus once we arrive. If you are not a person of absolute integrity, do not get off this bus. If you are not willing to sacrifice your life for your country, stay on this bus and we will gladly transport you off these grounds. If you accept ‘just getting by’ as your personal standard, do not, under any circumstances, get off this bus.” By this point he was at a fever pitch, veins bulging from his neck, his words literally spraying the wise-ass in the face. “But if you are ready to dedicate your life to something greater than us all, to selflessly develop yourself as a warrior and to fight for our great nation, then pick up your bags and GET OFF THIS BUS! But stick together, because you absolutely … will not … successfully complete cadet training … on … your … own!”
A handful of my fellow “basics” were already hunting for their ejection seat handles, but I was fired up. This was all that I had signed up for and more. It had
never been so clear to me that I had made the right decision. Of the 1,406 cadets entering the Academy that day, only 60 percent of us would make it to graduation.
* * *
I arrived at the Academy upbeat and optimistic—some might even say naive or delusional—that the skepticism and rebelliousness of the sixties would be left behind once the bus passed through the main gate. The truth was that the institution I was about to enter—the Academy in the micro sense, but the entire U.S. Air Force (if not all of our military)—was in the midst of a metamorphosis of its own. Recent scandals had rocked the Academy. In 1965, 109 cadets were expelled in a cheating ring, another thirty-three in 1967, and a very small segment of our graduates believed the diplomas they would be awarded at graduation were in fact one-way tickets to a death sentence in Vietnam. I hadn’t even completed my first week when the cadet wing commander stood up at noon mess and announced the death of Captain Gary Brunner, class of ’66, whose C-130B had taken off from Tan Son Nhut, Vietnam, on a resupply mission to the Special Forces camp at Kontum when its port wing was hit by quad .50 caliber antiaircraft fire. His Herc spun to the ground from three thousand feet, killing the entire crew.
Whenever a graduate died in the line of duty, the name would be read in front of the entire cadet wing at lunch in Mitchell Hall. All three thousand cadets would stand and softly sing the third verse of the Air Force Song in tribute. By the time I graduated, there had been hundreds of such recitals. While each of us had nothing but respect for those who made the ultimate sacrifice, such was certainly not the case with everyone outside the military. Anti-war sentiment was far-reaching, and unlike the heroes’ welcome rightfully showered upon returning World War II vets, it was not uncommon for Vietnam soldiers and airmen to be spat upon and insulted.
The good news was that the tide had begun to turn. A few years before my arrival, Colonel Robin Olds had taken over as commandant of cadets, entrusted with the daunting task of restoring morale. If anyone could do it, he could. The fighter pilot triple-ace was a maverick notorious for bucking the system—but an inspirational motivator and electrifying leader. Well known for his extravagant handlebar mustache that defied Air Force grooming regulations, he was bold, brash, flamboyant, yet always approachable—a leader the wing would instantly rally behind.
Not long after his arrival, the Air Force decided to honor those Academy graduates serving in Southeast Asia by placing a decommissioned F-105 on static display at the northeast corner of the Terrazzo, the pavilion in the cadet area. This was a very big deal, and the dedication ceremony would include a number of dignitaries, Air Force officials, and the entire cadet wing assembled in parade formation. The press was well represented to capture the speeches and festive celebration, which culminated in a low-altitude, high-speed flyover by four F-105s, known as “Thuds,” in diamond formation. The cadets erupted in cheers, a perfect climax to a perfect day … until all hell broke loose.
The four Thuds looped around to make a second pass, this time approaching in single file from the east. The lead hit the burners and pulled away from the others, dropping down to about one hundred feet. As it silently sped by, a visible shock wave radiated from its nose. Then boom! First the deafening sound of the sonic boom. Then breaking glass from all directions. The entire glass façade of Vandenberg Hall shattered from the north. Ditto Mitchell Hall from the south. Shattered glass rained down from all directions. In less than five seconds, over three hundred windows had burst, and chaos ensued. Cadets broke formation and ran in all directions; dignitaries sought protection from the shower of shrapnel.
The cadet wing commander, Ralph “Ed” Eberhart, restored order while the injured were being treated. (Thirty-three years later, General Ed Eberhart would step up to the plate once again, this time as NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) commander during 9/11. Twelve years after that, he would be the first to offer me new office space following my retirement.) The following day the front page of the Chicago Tribune read “SONIC BOOM INJURES 15 AT AIR ACADEMY.” Coincidentally, that’s the same day Commandant Olds was promoted to brigadier general.
General Olds was far from the only legendary role model at the Academy. In August of 1970, Lt. General Albert Patton “A. P.” Clark became the Academy’s sixth superintendent. The first uniformed U.S. pilot captured by the Germans in World War II, General Clark was instrumental in planning and implementing all the escape activity from Stalag Luft III, including the renowned “Great Escape” made famous in the Steve McQueen/James Garner movie of the same name.
Like so many of the great leaders I would encounter at the Academy, General Clark was a firm believer in discipline, rigorous training, and walking the walk according to the tenets of the Air Force core values.
From the moment we stepped onto that bus, those core values were drilled in to us. They would take their final form many years later:
Integrity First
Service Before Self
Excellence in All We Do
As a fourth-class cadet, these were themes for me to memorize. By the time I graduated, they had become central to my very foundation. They defined who I was, what I did, and how I did it. They made difficult choices easier for me and bolstered my sense of confidence and sense of pride. It felt good to look in the mirror and an honor to don the Air Force uniform.
If there’s one skill that we’d become proficient at, it was marching. We’d march to meals, march to classes, and even march to the weekly religious services we were then required to attend. Our first march took place almost immediately after we stepped off the bus, when our ragged bunch of newbies (officially called “doolies”—from the Greek duolos, meaning slave, or servant) marched from the parking lot up “the Ramp” onto the Terrazzo, our first venture into the Academy proper. Prominently displayed on a stone arch above the ramp in two-feet tall, raised, aluminum letters, were the words “Bring Me Men”—a real sign of the times since there were no women cadets until Gerald Ford signed Public Law 94-106 on October 7, 1975, permitting women to enter the military academies. In truth, the words were part of the poem “The Coming American,” written in 1894 by Sam Walter Foss.
Bring me men to match my mountains
Bring me men to match my plains
Men with empires in their purpose
And new eras in their brains
The words remained to mark the symbolic threshold between the old life and the new until Secretary James Roche and Chief of Staff General John P. Jumper called for their removal in response to a sexual assault scandal in 2003. Unceremoniously taken down and tossed into the back of a four-wheel during the March spring break, they were replaced a year and a half later with the Air Force core values—a much more appropriate and inclusive reflection of all the institution stands for.
Symbols matter, but they are not necessarily meaningful in perpetuity.
* * *
The Academy was multidimensional in terms of athletics, academics, and military. On the athletic side, I wasn’t really big or strong or quick enough to be an intercollegiate football player, so I had to consider the other options. Fencing, gymnastics, tennis, soccer, ice hockey … none felt right. It was during a meal at Mitchell Hall that one of the senior cadets noticed my particularly long reach and suggested that I pursue boxing. Tall, slender, and somewhat agile, it sounded like fun to me.
At that time the cadets boxed under Amateur Athletic Union rules, which were not so much about knocking out your opponent as they were about the number of effective punches thrown. This was more about the art of boxing. Strategy played a big part, as did technique to multiply the number of hits rather than the consequence of a hit. A jab was as important as a solid right hook. I very much enjoyed the plotting, developing a plan of attack, then efficiently executing that plan. In my mind, it was more akin to chess than a display of brute force, though I’m not sure my opponents agreed with that when my solid right cross smashed into their face.
If only I had honed these skills back in e
ighth grade, when a gang of bullies pummeled me in the gut, taking issue with the fact that a Jew would have the nerve to attend their intermediate school. It wasn’t the first time I had to defend myself but it was not something I went out looking to do. What skills I had were largely defensive, both physically and diplomatically. I certainly wasn’t afraid to strike back, but I did learn that in most cases violence should be held as a last resort. I developed an effective arsenal of tactics to avoid confrontation in the first place.
Perceptions of strength and purpose are a prerequisite in any successful negotiation.
* * *
Long before I was ever allowed to climb into the ring, I was introduced to an inanimate hundred-pound opponent chained to the ceiling—the “heavy bag.” I strapped on a pair of thick maroon Tuf-wear gloves and laid into the five-foot, sand-filled leather cylinder, the same type later made famous by Stallone in Rocky. With every punch I gave it all I had. The harder I punched, the better I felt. Explosive “cracks” echoed off the bag with growing intensity. But my euphoria was short-lived and it didn’t take long before I was drenched in perspiration and almost gasping for breath. So much for the great shape I thought I was in.
My instructor (the same senior cadet who had convinced me to pursue boxing in the first place) found humor in this, but it was nothing personal. Almost every novice pugilist had the misconception that boxing was all about power, trying to destroy the opponent with all your might. But it didn’t take too long for me to learn that expending all you have without proper technique is a pretty good blueprint for ending up on the receiving end of a knockout.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” offered the instructor, whose interaction with the bag was a thing of beauty. Where I’d been standing flatfooted and focusing my blows on a single spot, he was in constant motion, dancing around the bag and firing blistering combinations of punches. They were sharp, crisp, and accurate. I had a lot to learn. But I was an eager student, and appreciative of his patience with my original ineptitude.
Journey Page 3