Suzanne Rice

Sep 16 2019

Tales from Nick’s FARRP, Part 3: CAV – 1978

The “Tales from Nick’s FARRP” series are a fictionalized version of real events and are dedicated to the memory of friends and classmates from the Class of 1969.

“They cashed in their horses for choppers and went tear-assin’

around the Nam looking for the shit.”

~ (Apocalypse Now)

“What is that about, Rod?” I asked, pointing to the large sign hanging over the bar.

__| IF YOU AIN’T CAV, YOU AIN’T — |

Chief Warrant Officer Rod Jordan, an Army helicopter pilot, had been my Uncle Nick’s best friend ever since they went through Army flight school back when I was little. After several tours in Vietnam, Uncle Nick got cancer and was medically retired from the Army. So he opened a bar called Nick’s FAARP in Fayetteville, NC, just outside Fort Bragg. Last month Uncle Nick died, and, surprise, surprise, (to me anyway) he left me the FAARP. It was just a couple of weeks ago that I arrived here, and I know nothing about the Army. I would think all the Army guys here at the bar are getting tired of my questions by now.

“Well, New Guy,” Chief Rod replied, nodding at the sign I had asked about. “There’s some things you should understand about the guys who come in here.” (My name is Gil Edwards, but I had figured out by now that “New Guy” was his affectionate term for me.) “There’s three kinds of troops that think they are God’s gift to the Army.

“First there are paratroopers. These guys believe that by virtue of their undeniable insanity of jumping, voluntarily and repeatedly, from an aircraft while in flight, they are elevated far above the pathetic remainder of humanity. In fact, they derisively refer to non-airborne personnel as ‘legs,’ frequently preceded by a spitting gesture.”

“Airborne!!” exclaimed Captain Kenny Wayne, who was sitting beside Chief Rod. When I looked puzzled, he explained, “That is the all-purpose exclamation paratroopers use for approval, agreement, enthusiasm, emphasis or just because they feel like it. Airborne!! Look at that,” he said, pointing to a small black embroidered patch on the chest of Rod’s uniform.

Looking closer, I saw a tiny parachute between curled wings. “That is officially called a novice parachutist’s badge, better known as jump wings. It takes five jumps in jump school to earn them. Since Fort Bragg is the home of most of the Army’s airborne units in the world, a lot of the guys in this bar have jump wings, as you can see. But look there,” he said, indicating the man on the other side of Chief Rod. “Major Williams there wears senior jump wings.”

I saw that the man I knew as Major Tony had a star over his jump wings. “That means that Tony has had the honor of serving on jump status for at least 24 months, has at least 30 jumps to his credit, and is a certified Jumpmaster.”

“What Kenny is leading up to,” interrupted Major Tony, “is that he wears the exalted Master Parachutist wings. You see that his jump wings are topped by a star surrounded by a wreath. That means Kenny has at least 36 months on jump status and 65 jumps, mostly night combat equipment jumps. Our Kenny is what is known as a Master Blaster.”

“Getting back to my dissertation,” resumed Chief Rod, “the second category of guys who think they are God’s gift to the Army are aviators. Despite the proven fact that a chimpanzee can be taught to fly an aircraft, every guy who has ever been entrusted with the operation of Army flying machines is absolutely convinced that he is among an extremely selective and sophisticated elite. And during the Vietnam era the Army trained over 40,000 of them.

“Looking around this barroom, you see the guys in these green fuzzy uniforms like mine?” Chief Rod went on. “These are flight suits made of nomex, a supposedly fire-resistant material, which serves as the distinct costume for people on flight status. The aviator badge is those narrow wings that stick straight out. Most of the Army’s aviators are warrant officers like me. But here and there you find commissioned officers, like Major Williams there, who have managed to acquire the ‘additional skill’ of flying.”

Major Tony interrupted Chief Rod again. “Warrant officers have a special term for us commissioned types who have aviator wings. They call us ‘RLO’s.”

“What’s that mean?” I inquired, realizing I was asking that question a lot these days, trying to learn about all this Army stuff.

“RLO: Real Live Officer,” Rod grinned as he jabbed Tony on the arm.

“Gil,” Tony added, “just like jump wings, there are levels of achievement for aviator wings. You see my aviator wings are plain, because I only had one flying tour in Vietnam and barely got a thousand flight hours. A star and wreath over the wings means a master aviator like Rod here has thousands of hours, usually multiple tours in combat. How many flight hours do you have, Rod?”

“Barely six thousand, so far,” Rod replied. “Hey, Peggy, bring me another beer, would you?” he called. Miss Peggy was my bar manager and guardian angel. She had been with Uncle Nick ever since he opened the FAARP.

“So, how long have you been flying, Rod?” I asked.

“Well, your Uncle Nick and I, along with Peggy’s late husband Mike, all graduated flight school together back in 1962. Guess I’m the only one left now. Which brings me back to what I was telling you about the guys who think they are God’s gift to the Army.

“Since before the days of the Civil War, cavalry troopers have thought they are the finest beings to walk, or rather ride, on this earth. Genghis Khan, Custer, J.E.B. Stuart and Patton are typical of cavalry troops, always flamboyantly dashing wherever they go. The job of the cavalry has historically been reconnaissance, to be the Army’s eyes and ears, and to move quickly. Cavalry means men who fight from their mounts. Cavalrymen have always thought they are the swiftest, smartest, best-looking warriors in creation.

“Up until this century their mounts were always horses. Sixty years ago they traded in their horses for tanks, and thirty years ago they converted to tracked reconnaissance vehicles. Cavalry units have to be very mobile, but since they usually operate beyond conventional Army forces, they need to have their own firepower and the ability to mess up the bad guys. So armored cav units, even at the platoon level, contain their scout elements, but also infantry, tanks and indirect fire support. The Army calls that kind of integrated forces a ‘combined arms team.’ Usually combined arms teams are found at battalion or higher levels, commanded by colonels. But in armored cav units, brand new lieutenant platoon leaders command them.

“Beginning in Vietnam, air cavalry units were born. These guys have the same cav mission, but the mounts they fight from are helicopters.

An air cavalry unit, called a ‘troop,’ contains a platoon of helicopter scouts, but they also have their own section of helicopter gunships for fire support, plus their own helicopter-transported infantry platoon, called the ‘blues.’ But the mentality is still the same – all cav troopers look down their noses on everyone else in the Army.

“If that wasn’t enough, in 1964 the Army created an experimental ‘airmobile’ division, which meant some 15,000 infantry troops owned hundreds and hundreds of their own helicopters. In 1965 the Army deployed this airmobile division to Vietnam, under the colors of the historic First Cavalry Division. That meant that all nine of its infantry battalions were designated ‘cavalry’ units, plus its organic Air Cavalry squadron. You see all these guys in here wearing big yellow patches with a horse head on their right shoulder? That means those troops served in combat in Vietnam with the famous and prestigious First Cav.

Chief Rod paused. “Now, Gil, exam time. What did I just tell you? What are the three kinds of troops I told you are insufferably arrogant?”

“Well,” I replied, realizing this was a check of how much attention I was paying. “There are paratroopers, and aviators, and cav. Right?”

Chief Rod nodded, and went on. “Captain Kenny there is a Master Blaster. Kenny, what are your cav credentials?”

Kenny Wayne nodded his head. “I may be an engineer officer now, but before I branch-transferred I was an Armor officer. I jumped with the world’s only Airborne Armored Cavalry Squadron, the 1^st of the 17^th Cav in the 82d Airborne Division here at Fort Bragg. As a platoon leader I had my own scout section using jeeps mounted with machine guns, plus an infantry squad, also in gun jeeps, and an 81mm mortar section, plus Sheridan light tanks, all air-droppable. Over in Vietnam I served in E Troop of the 17^th Cav, in the 173d Airborne Brigade. And after I branch-transferred to engineers I commanded combat engineers in the First Cavalry Division, as well. So, yeah, I’m Cav.”

“Major Tony,” Chief Rod went on, addressing Tony Williams, “what are your Cav creds?”

“I was airborne as Special Forces my first tour in Vietnam,” Tony replied. “After I came back, I went to Army flight school, and then flew for my second Vietnam combat tour in 7^th Squadron, 17^th Cavalry, a composite Air Cav unit. Plus, on an exchange tour in the Mexican Army, I actually rode horse cavalry. So I’m Cav, too.”

“Dang, Tony,” I interrupted. “you’ll have to tell me about the Mexican Army some time.”

“Gil,” resumed Chief Rod. “You asked me about that big sign over the bar? It just about sums up the attitude of most everyone in here: If you ain’t Cav, you ain’t shit!” He motioned with his head. “So, Gil, look around this bar. Every single person in here, except for you and Miss Peggy, is at least one of those three categories: airborne, aviator or cavalry. The FAARP here is one of the few establishments in the world where most of the clientele are a combination of two of those, and quite a few, like Major Tony, me and your late uncle Nick, are all three. So you probably should be wearing a flak vest when you are here.”

“Why on earth do you say that? Is there some danger?” I asked in astonishment.

“Yeah, there really is,” replied Chief Rod. “The egos in the FAARP here are so over-inflated that this whole place could explode at any minute.”

IN MEMORY OF BILL AND TERRY AND EDDIE AND JERRY

Aug 13 2019

Class Rank Matters – 1975

Jim Bachta was our perennial Brigade Boxing Champ at 132 lbs¹. He graduated 189^th in our class. I was 35 files behind him at 224.²

Cadets Competing at West Point — **Cadets Competing in the Brigade Championship**

We both branched Armor. Luck of the draw moved us nearly simultaneously from the Armor Officer Basic course to Airborne School (where we shared an apartment with classmates Lew Riggsby and Don Smith) and Ranger School to a tour in Germany to a tour in Vietnam to a second tour in Germany. During the second tour in Germany, we’d occasionally weekend together, touring parts of Europe we could reach on our BMW motorcycles. One summer we traversed North Africa, which is another story.

When the Army had finished with us in 1975, we moved into an apartment near Heidelberg and enrolled in an international relation master’s degree program, intending to find civilian work that would allow us to stay in Germany. It turned out that employers were hiring only MBAs for the interesting jobs. We should have checked first! We dutifully got ourselves into the MBA program at Stanford, and again rented a place together off-campus. Among the things the sparsely furnished house lacked was a coffee maker.

To economize, we went looking for a used Mr. Coffee at the local Goodwill store.

Good Will West Point Jim — **Goodwill Store**

We found three. One looked much better than the other two. I picked up the nice one and headed toward the cash register. “Just a minute,” says Jim. “Maybe, we should plug it in first, to at least see whether the little pilot light comes on.” I thought that was overdoing it for so simple a device, but out of respect for my classmate and friend, I sought out a power outlet.

When I plugged in the nice-looking Mr. Coffee and switched it on, we heard a large circuit breaker nearby open, and all the overhead lights went dark. And no pilot light on our Mr. Coffee.

West Point Coffee — **Spokesman Joe DiMaggio recommends Mr. Coffee**

We told the staff about that defective Mr. Coffee, and selected one of the scruffy ones to replace it. When the store lights came back on, we plugged that one in. The little pilot light came on nicely, and the hotplate under the pot began to warm up. The store lights stayed on. We bought that one – $6, I think – and took it home. It was still working fine when we graduated from business school 18 months later. We donated it to the rental house.

The lesson: Class rank matters.

Cadets Boxing Class — **Cadets in Boxing Class**

Notes:

Boxing was and remains a mandatory plebe (Freshman) physical education course, and also a winter intramural sport. The best boxers are encouraged to enter the annual Brigade Open Boxing Tournament, where single-elimination matches determine a brigade champion in each weight class. Unlike most other sports at West Point, boxing was new to practically everyone, so it was a good measure of native athletic ability. Usually cows (Juniors) or firsties (Seniors) won these individual brigade championships, because it took experience to develop the skills. Jim Bachta was an exception to the rule. He won the championship during his plebe, yearling (Sophomore), and firstie years. During cow year, he had broken his nose sparring with Jim McDonough, a heavier classmate and, I think, our only Golden Gloves alumnus. The boxing program in 2019 is similar, with two additions: 1. When women joined the Corps in 1976, they initially took a female-oriented self-defense course in lieu of boxing. Over time they demonstrated their toughness and lobbied for taking the same boxing course as the men. From 2016, they have taken the same boxing program as the men, boxing other women. 2. In 1976, boxing returned to the intercollegiate sports world with the birth of the National Collegiate Boxing Association. Army has fielded a team from the beginning of this era, and is consistently dominant, having won seven national championships. At this writing, Army is the defending national champ.

Class rank: Most things cadets do – academics, leadership, sports – are graded in one way or another. These grades are continuously tracked and combined into a single evaluation, “General Order of Merit”. Individuals’ GOM scores are rank-ordered to determine class rank. For firsties, class rank determined order of selection for branch and first duty station. At graduation, we received our diplomas in order of class rank. Everyone’s class rank was published, and we all knew well where we stood. Although class rank has other components, academics are most important. We commonly gauged our classmates’ intellectual capacity by their class rank.

Cadet photos courtesy of the Jack Engeman Collection, the Photography Collections, University of Maryland, Baltimore County

Jun 11 2019

Until the Storm Is Over – 2018

In the spring of 2018, Sallie and I accompanied our granddaughter’s school outing on a field trip to France and Belgium to honor the end of the First World War. The trip schedule took us to Normandy, also, to see the Normandy beaches and other sites of the invasion.

As you would expect, we visited the Normandy US cemetery. But my story begins back before we left. We did research on local Oconee County veterans who were buried at Normandy and, in particular, that were killed on or about D-Day, 1944. There were only a few, but one was to stand out and humble me forever, Pvt. James B. McDaniel.

At Normandy, luckily, as the rain had fallen steadily for several days and walking on the grass was discouraged, we found his grave site and took a photo.

When I returned home, a local paper wanted to interview me about the trip and the photos, and I agreed. As I prepped for the reporter interview, I begin to wonder: are there any relatives of Pvt McDaniel still here in the area? So, I begin to search using an online genealogy tool. After being discouraged somewhat, the ancestry tool came through. Literally, on Memorial Day 2018, I discovered that, indeed, his widow, Helen McDaniel, was still alive and living about 30 minutes away. I decided to pay her a visit. My wife said, “be sure to take flowers!”

So, away I went to Winder, GA. I found her house- no one home. Then I remembered the genealogy tool had given me a phone number, so I called her number and listened for it ringing inside the house. Not a sound. Just when I was about to give up, she answered.

“‘Hello’. Ms. McDaniel?
Yes.
Ms McDaniel. My name is Dick Wallace and I am at your house. Are you home?
You are at my house? Well, I don’t need anything. Thank you. I don’t want to buy anything.
Ms. McDaniel. No, you misunderstand. I don’t want to sell you anything. I was just in France and I have a photo of your husband’s gravesite at Normandy. And I have you some flowers! I would like to give them to you.
You have flowers for me?!
Yes, ma’am. Can I come see you?
Well, I am in a retirement home now. I had stroke about five years ago and had to move out of my house.
That’s ok- where are you located, and I will come by.
Well, it’s Magnolia Estates. Not too far. But lunch is at noon. (It was about 1115 now)
Yes, ma’am and I will be there right away. I won’t interfere with your lunch.
Ok, then.”

So off I went to Magnolia Estates and found it easily. As I walked up to the front doors, they begin to open from the inside and as I pulled them all the way open there stood Ms. McDaniel, pushing the door open with her walker.

After the greetings with staff, she escorted me back to her room and there is where this story took a turn.

She sat in her big easy chair and across from her on the wall was a collage of memories and photo of her husband, James. She told me their love story and how they had been married only 10 days before he deployed to France.

“A bride at 18 and a widow at 18” she lamented. She never remarried.

But what tore at my heart most was the last letter she received from James just before he left for Normandy. In fact, it was a poem and she had framed the original and also a calligraphy copy a friend had made for her. The words are below:

Towering Faith

How I have missed you
So sweet your lovely smile
Like glittering stars of heaven
Presenting the comfort of your eyes.

In the moonlight sphere above me
I picture your loving face.
So innocent, kind, virgin, pure
And filled with maidenly grace.

Like towering trees you stand
In pose you face the breeze
Your lovely curls are flowing
Like the drifting of the sea.

Your sad heart with its plea
Cries out in soundless screams
With mind and soul both lonely
You sigh with sleepless dreams.

But forever you’ll be waiting
With all the love we knew
Until the storm is over
And I come home to you!

‘ Jim ’

She shared that she was able to communicate in writing to Jim’s good wartime buddy. His biggest revelation was that Mac had died on the 10th of June, not the 17th in the Army record. He knew that for a fact because the German mortars that wounded him had killed James. But she took the Army’s dates for record and every 17th of June honored him with altar flowers in their local church.

She invited me to stay for lunch with her. I did, of course. And she liked my flowers!

The local paper printed her story and more.

Leaving, I was humbled and awed at the immensity of their sacrifice- all of their tomorrows and dreams gone that momentous day back in 1944. No national treasure can repay. And they are only one of those who shared the same sacrifice.

For my own catharsis I wrote a letter to her husband. Civilization owes a great debt to the James and Helen McDaniel’s of that generation.

I still visit with her from time to time.

Letter to Pvt. James B. McDaniel; KIA Normandy France June 1944
Dear Pvt. McDaniel,
I met your widow today, Mac. I report that she still holds your memory dear. The poem you wrote to her from England, Towering Faith, hangs on her wall, along with a calligraphy copy lovingly done by a friend or relative. A reader comes to tears upon reading. And, of course, your photo is center set among the poems and rests above the memorial flag sent to her in commemoration of your sacrifice. I note you were married only ten days before you left for France.
You know, Helen never remarried. I can only surmise you were her first and deepest love and she couldn’t really replace it with another. She honors your death every June 10. Yes, June 10th. Your buddy, Bill Koch, told her he was with you when you were killed, the same moment he was wounded. You both were hiding in the hedgerows we have heard so much about since, and German artillery took your life. The Army reports your death as June 17th but Helen relies on Bill’s recollection.
Helen has been surrounded by loving family, however, all her life: her mom and dad, nieces and nephews and sisters and brother. From her picture collage in her room, there are photos of church lady friends also. I can also tell you they are all Georgia fans as many graduated from Georgia, Helen proudly recounts.
A former mayor of Winder and his wife took Helen to visit you in Normandy many years ago, maybe she said 1995. The cemetery caretaker there put sand into the marble inscription on your resting place marker so that she could get a clear photo. Otherwise, your name was indecipherable from the blazing white marble. I think there is some symbolism there.
Pvt. McDaniel, I am so grateful, as is your nation, for the sacrifice you and Helen have made for our country. You two sacrificed all of your tomorrows together and all the memories those future days would hold and create- children, grandchildren, ball games, recitals, careers, and your Memorial Days at the beach, perhaps. There is no national treasure that can repay.
I report to you, though, that your sacrifices were not in vain as heart rending as it was to you both. The world has been and is a safer and more prosperous place; civilized and mostly at peace. Citizens of Europe and the Americas live in peace and hundreds of millions now can chart their futures guided only by their dreams; as great an epitaph as a man from Georgia could want.

Deepest, Deepest regards,
Dick Wallace
A Fellow Soldier and Georgian for all Georgians

Jun 01 2019

Train Travel – 1994

I like to travel by train rather than plane. Many times, my wife and I have gone to Florida on a train with a Deluxe Bedroom.

At first, that accommodation had a VCR that offered several choices of movies, and we looked forward to watching them. But apparently, they required a lot of maintenance, so Amtrak finally decided to stop using them. They also used to have a bed-time sweet, but that stopped, too. We’ve gone as far as Denver, going west, and from Glacier National Park back to New York going east. We still like the trains. It’s comfortable, we meet new people when we go to the dining car (included in our fare) which offers very good meals, and it is forced relaxation.

Once, after a business trip to Boston, I was going to spend a few days with my sister Nancy and her husband “Big Bob” in nearby Winchester. So, I showed up at the commuter rail terminal and purchased a ticket. Normally, I carry all my paper money in a billfold, but this day I had a one-dollar bill in my pocket along with a substantial amount of change—more that I usually carry. The ticket cost $4.85. So, I pulled out the rumpled dollar bill and counted out another $3.85 in change and gave it all to the ticket agent. The agent said to me “Gee, did you save up for this trip.”

Another time, I was traveling alone from Rochester, NY to Poughkeepsie, NY. I boarded the 2PM train, which was two hours late, so it was about 4PM when I got on. For some reason, I prayed that the trip would be OK. It was about a six-hour trip, and after my supper I fell asleep. I woke up when people started to exit the train, and because it looked kind of like my stop, I got off with them. I got to the terminal after climbing many stairs. Then I found out that I was at Rhinecliff,
one stop before I was supposed to get off. It was supposed to be the last train of the day, according to my schedule. I asked to ticket agent for help.

He told me that the train coming south from Montreal was two and a half hours late and was going to come into the station in ten minutes. I was to get on that train, explain to the conductor that I got off at the wrong stop, and go on to Poughkeepsie, and that’s what happened. I’m so glad I prayed.

One time my wife and I traveled from Poughkeepsie to Port Kent, NY. Poughkeepsie had both Amtrak and a commuter train to New York City. The terminal was old, but grand in its day. Several hundred cars parked there every day. Port Kent, only a summer stop on the line, had a small concrete platform with a roof over a small bulletin board containing the northbound and southbound schedules. From there we were going to catch a Lake Champlain Ferry boat to Burlington, VT.

We had two hours and forty minutes before the last ferry of the day, according to the train schedule, and we hoped we might catch the one that left two hours before that. The train left New York City, where it started, an hour late because of engine trouble on the original locomotive. Another one had to be obtained from Sunnyside Yard, where extra train locomotives and cars were kept. We kept that hour late until we got to Schenectady, where we split off from the line to western New York and advanced along the Lake George—Lake Champlain corridor. Some consider this the most scenic route in America. But today, we weren’t thinking about that. We were thinking that we were crawling along very slowly because of track work that was going on. Instead of seventy-nine miles an hour, we were going much slower. We thought that we still had plenty of time to catch the last ferry. But as time went on, and we kept crawling, we weren’t so sure of making the connection. We asked the conductor, who assured us that we would make it. A little while later, he came to us and said that there was another couple getting off there and wanting to take the ferry, too, and that we would make it. The next time he came through, he said that when we got within five miles of Port Kent, the engineer would blow his whistle repeatedly to alert the ferry that the train was getting close. Finally, he said on a final time through that we should pray.

As we neared the station, the conductor said he would let us off on the wrong side of the train, giving me precious extra time to run down to the ferry dock and ask them to hold off. We were between five and ten minutes later than the last ferry departure time when we got to Port Kent. I could see the ferry engines running, but it was still there.

Huffing and puffing, hauling a suitcase, I got to a deckhand and told him my wife and another couple were coming, too, and please wait. He tried to calm me down, and he and another man, possibly the first mate, explained that they knew the train hadn’t gotten there, and almost certainly there were some passengers on it that wanted to take the ferry. No matter how late the train was, they were going to wait for it, so it was no problem.

It was a nice ferry ride, across the widest part of Lake Champlain. But on the way back, eight days later, we got caught in a rainstorm and my wife and I got soaked. But we had our suitcases with us and were able to change clothes.

Wouldn’t you know, the same train conductor greeted us as we got on, asking us “Did you make the ferry?” That was so nice that he remembered us, and we told him so, and we wrote to Amtrak extolling his virtues. Years later we went to Montreal by train, and we met him again, and recalled that trip.

May 22 2019

Thoughts On The Long Gray Line – 2019

Editor’s note: Every five years, the Class of 1969 meets for a reunion. At each reunion, a memorial service is held to commemorate the lives of those classmates who have died. It is a solemn yet beautiful occasion that reminds all that these men who once shared the classrooms and fields of West Point have been taken home, but they are not forgotten and cherished still by their classmates, family and friends. Jim Russell presented this reading to the assembled classmates and families as they marked the 50th year since their graduation from West Point and remembered 124 of their classmates.

Memorial Service Program West Point 2019 — Memorial Service Program

I’m going to read an excerpt from a book by a 20th century German Jesuit theologian, Karl Rahner (1904-1984). The book is structured as a series of letters to God, each posing a complaint about some aspect of the human condition.

One chapter, about losing long-term intimate friends, seemed particularly salient now, as we’re losing about a classmate per month. And unlike the combat losses we fully anticipated 50 years ago, these losses to the ravages of age are in some ways harder to accept.

Here’s Karl Rahner on losing his friends:

O Lord, I should like to remember my dead to you, all those who once belonged to me and have now left me. There are many of them, far too many to be taken in with one glance. To pay my sad greeting to them all, I must travel back in memory over the entire route of my life’s long journey.

When I look back in this way, I see my life as a long highway filled by a column of marching men. Every moment now, someone breaks out of the column and goes off silently, without a word or wave of farewell, and is swiftly enwrapped by the darkness of night stretching out on both sides of the road.

The number of our marchers becomes smaller, at first slowly, and now more quickly. The new men coming up to fill the ranks don’t really replace those who have gone. The only ones really making this pilgrimage with me are the ones whom I set out with, the ones who were with me at the start of my journey, the dear ones who are close to my heart.

The others are mere ”companions of the road”, who happen to be going the same way as I. There are many of them, and we all exchange greetings and help one another along. But the true procession of my life involves only those bound together by real love, and this group grows ever smaller. One day I myself will break off from the line of march and leave without a word or wave, never to return.

My heart will always be with them, with my loved ones who have taken their leave. There is no substitute for them; there are no others who can fill the vacancy when one of those, whom I have really loved, departs, and is with us no more.

In true love, no one can replace another, for true love loves the other in that depth where he is uniquely and irreplaceably himself. And thus, as death has trodden roughly through my life, every one of the departed has taken a piece of my heart with him.

So, that’s Karl Rahner on the subject.

He wrote these words in 1938. I doubt he ever heard of West Point. But he captures the experience we’re having, losing our brothers, brothers who in our case have been with us nearly since our birth as men, and certainly since our birth as a class.

We West Pointers are privileged to love one another better than most men can do in their lifetimes. What a gift, but also what pain, as we watch our brothers “breaking out of the line and going off to the darkness of the night.”

God bless our classmates.

God bless our class.

Karl Rahner, Encounters With Silence, written in 1938 and published in the US in 1999 by St. Augustine’s Press, South Bend, IN

Memorial Service in West Point — Memorial Service in the Cadet Chapel

(Over 800 classmates and family members assembled from all over the world for the 50th reunion.)