By Jim Russell

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.

 

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

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

One of the things I turned out to be pretty good at during high school was music. I could always find the right pitches in church songs, and jazz and orchestral music really spoke to me. As a small child I had wanted to learn piano, but we couldn’t afford the piano or the lessons. In high school, the marching band had some instruments to lend. The question was, “Which instruments were available for free?”

The answer turned out to be narrower than I had hoped: drums and tubas, or more accurately, sousaphones, as this was a marching band. My reluctant pick was the tuba. I had pictured myself playing Harry James licks on the trumpet but the band already had plenty of trumpets players, including several good ones who had started in grade school. Same thing on trombone, and the other fun instruments. And none of those were available to lend in any case. So, in freshman year I took up the tuba. It came easily, and I liked it a lot. By sophomore year I was the strongest player in the section. I spent my summer wages on a real, upright orchestral tuba which was a much better instrument. I often won seats in competitive bands and orchestras filled with serious musicians, many of whom became professionals. It was fun.

Had I not gotten into West Point, I’d have attended an engineering school with a strong music program, in part to see how far I could go in music. I was accepted to Lehigh, Penn State, and Carnegie Tech (now Carnegie Mellon), which all had strong engineering and music programs. Of course, West Point neither offered music, nor allowed much time for it. I joined the Cadet Band, but the repertoire was limited to simple fight songs for mess hall rallies, a pale shadow of what I had played before. In the Army, life in the cavalry filled up the days pretty well, not leaving much time for frivolous pursuits.

I did not touch the horn again until post-Army grad school at Stanford, 1979, where the music department ran a no-tuition, no-audition band for non-music majors, like me. I had forgotten how much fun it was. I had also largely forgotten HOW to play the horn. It came back slowly, like riding a bicycle or speaking another language. Shreds of it had stuck in my memory.

When I escaped the Bay Area to Seattle in 1982, I stumbled into a thriving amateur music scene. I was invited into a community orchestra that needed a tuba. The principal trumpet there asked me to join his brass quartet to make it a quintet. The quintet, which I had never played in previously, was amazing. Improbably, our principal trumpet was a professional who had played in one of the Army field bands. We were his “fun quintet”, where he could just play music and drink some beer, without needing to argue with the other pros in his real quintet about interpretations. Our trombone player was then in music grad school and later became a composer. Our second trumpet and horn were not at that level, but were much stronger musicians than was I. I was the runt of the litter, and was fortunate that they needed a tuba.

Our weekly rehearsals were the musical equivalent of sitting down to a military strategy session with Omar Bradley and John Pershing. I learned a whole lot about playing my horn and playing quintet music, and very fast. When our two stars ultimately moved away for music jobs in other cities, I was a much stronger musician from their weekly poop sessions, also known as rehearsals. Since then, I’ve upgraded to a much better orchestra (www.thaliasymphony.org) and to a much better tuba (a German B&S Compact CC).

When our principal trumpet left, I inherited the quintet music folder (~ 150 tunes), which makes me the default organizer of the successor quintet. Amateur quintets are

a little challenging to keep afloat. The music everyone wants to play, because it’s interesting for all five parts, is generally difficult to play well. Professional level, really. Any group of five who can play it well generally includes active professionals. Some of them, not unreasonably, want to get paid to play this stuff, and often have other paying opportunities. Being artists by training and profession, many of them do need the money. Unless the organizer has the time to sell the group into paying gigs, the stronger musicians often balk at gathering just to rehearse. Working a day job, I lack that bandwidth, so keeping four strong brass musicians in the group has been a challenge. Way more turnover than ideal. Seems like we’re constantly getting acquainted. Reminds me of Cavalry squadrons in Germany during Vietnam.

During the halcyon days of the original quintet, our star first trumpet suggested inviting our musical friends to an outdoor backyard gathering one Saturday evening in July, when the northern latitude summer nights go on forever, and play quintet music for them, with a keg of local microbrew to lubricate things, and potluck for snacks. Someone coined “Brass in the Grass”, and it was born.

And it was a hit. About forty friends showed up, no beer went to waste, and everyone asked, “When’s the next one?”

Someone suggested we do it again in the winter, indoors, in a nice venue, wearing tuxes, and invite other quintets to join us. We were able to rent an elegant venue on the top (36th) floor of the old Smith Tower building with a great 360 degree view.

This event became “Brass in the Tower”. It went even better than Brass in the Grass. We had four quintets in total, playing from 7 to 11 PM, and this time went through two kegs.

Our dates seized the rare-in-Seattle chance to dress up, and people brought amazing food to share. It went so well that the next year we invited the Navy’s professional quintet from Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, and to our surprise, they came. A good time was had by all, including the Navy pros, and we repeated this event for five or six years. Its death knell was the Smith Tower being purchased by a savvier owner who quadrupled the rent for the penthouse, putting it well out of our price range. But by then, our star first trumpet had joined the Spokane Symphony and our trombone had enrolled in a composition program in LA. Their replacements were not as strong, nor as good friends, so the motivation to continue the event somewhere else waned a bit. Friends

often say we should revive the concept, even if in a lesser venue. It may become a retirement project for me.

Memorable for me in all this was my close friend and roommate Bill Rice, his wife Suzanne, and their daughters attending a couple iterations of each event. They were at nearby Fort Lewis where Bill commanded an artillery battalion. It was great to have them there.

Unlike the sports I love but never could play well, I seem to have talent for this. Sometimes I wonder what might have come, had I chosen music instead of West Point. But the wondering never gets to regretting West Point and my classmates. I’m grateful for them, and for the gift of music.

By Jim Russell, Beast Barracks Ticket to Moscow

One of the few opportunities we new cadets had to choose among options during Beast Barracks, the first grueling weeks at West Point, was the foreign language preference form we all filled out. West Point then taught five foreign languages, and we were required to master one of them during our plebe (freshman) and yearling (sophomore) years. Each of us received a simple form listing the five languages – French, German, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish – and were told to number our top choices, 1 thru 4. I picked German #1, since I expected to be stationed in Germany, and then puzzled over how to select the rest. I could see no value at all in Portuguese – Putting down a revolution in Brazil? Seemed unlikely – and French and Spanish seemed equally useless (I had not yet discovered French food, and Spanish was not yet widely spoken in the US). So I put my #2 beside Russian, by default. Heck, I thought, it might prove useful in a POW camp, if things in United States Army Europe (USAREUR) were to go really badly. I think I made Spanish my #3 and French #4. I assumed I’d get German, and didn’t think much more about it.

When we got our course assignments for the Fall semester, Surprise! – Russian! I had studied Latin in high school, and had no idea what Russian would be like. Suffice to say I found it challenging, the hardest course I took in four years, other than Advanced Calculus and Golf. I learned later, much later, that the word had gone out prior to the language signup to NOT select Russian as one of the top four choices, because it was the most difficult by far, and the Language Department had problems filling the course slots. I hadn’t gotten the word.

Fast forward to November, 1991. Fortunately, there had been no POW experience to draw on my Russian, and I had not spoken a word of it since the last exam of yearling year. I’m working for a cellular phone company whose sister company is putting up a cellular network in Moscow, USSR, and they need some temporary help. Since I speak Russian, would I be interested in going to Moscow for 90 days to help train up the new Russian staff? Well, I say, it’s not accurate to say that I SPEAK Russian, only that I once studied (struggled with!) it, about 25 years ago. No matter, you’re the closest thing we have to a Russian speaker, and you’ve got the right functional skills, so off you go.

A couple days later I stepped off the plane into the Moscow winter. In the subsequent couple months, I did a lot of teaching, but more learning. My Russian language came back gradually, though the young adults I worked with spoke excellent English. Virtually everything about the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) was different from its analog in the US.

At this time, there was only one hotel in Moscow up to “western standards,” and that was where any foreigners of any importance stayed. It was also where the phone company put me up. Every morning the large lobby would fill up with all these guests, awaiting their rides. You’d meet some interesting and unlikely people. One morning a well-dressed American exec introduced himself to me and we chatted while we waited. He was a recently retired U.S. Air Force three-star General, who had taken a job with an American technology company and was calling on some Soviet ministry. He showed interest in our work, putting up the first cellular network anywhere in the USSR, and wished me luck. I asked him what he had done on active duty. He had most recently headed the Defense Intelligence Agency. Well, I said, maybe you can share some insight on something I’ve been wondering about. In the couple weeks I’ve been here, I’ve walked around town a lot, and I’m amazed at the run-down condition of just about everything other than the Kremlin and this hotel, and at the emptiness of the few retail stores that seem to be open. And this is the CAPITAL CITY! I can’t help wonder how things are out in the provinces. “Right,” he says, “This whole place is in sad shape. Always has been.” So, sir, my question is this: We Americans have heard forever that the USSR is a huge threat, militarily and economically. Maybe, they’re pouring everything they’ve got into their military, but their economy is obviously on its knees, to my great surprise. I can think of only two ways that we could have gotten such incorrect information. One is that our intelligence agencies somehow just missed this obviously crumbling economy. The other is that they knew about it, and lied to us. I can’t help wonder which it was. He looked at me silently for a moment, and then excused himself.

We closed the Moscow office for Christmas on 22 December, 1991, and we foreigners all went home. I returned to Moscow on 10 January, 1992, after Russian Christmas on 6 January. When I had left, a huge Soviet flag, the hammer and sickle on a red field, had flown over the Kremlin, and smaller ones of course flew all over town. This was the flag we of ’69 had prepared to defend Western Europe and our own country against, and many of us had expected to meet them in combat on the plains of Central Europe. When I returned to Moscow, the Soviet flag had disappeared everywhere, replaced by the tricolor flag of the Russian Republic. Our nemesis had disappeared, evaporated, gone, without a shot fired, and had been replaced by an entirely new-to-us country. It was eerie. And serene. And a wonderful outcome to a Cold War that could have gone much worse for us and for the world.

Transition: U.S.S.R. to Russia     This 90-day cellular project ultimately morphed into an 18-month project with cellular systems not only in Moscow, but also in 11 other Russian cities. I got to visit most of them. Three – Vladivostok, Nizhny Novgorod (Gorky during the USSR), and Samara (Kubyshev during USSR) – had been “closed cities,” meaning that Soviets had needed special clearance to visit them, and visits by foreigners had been strictly forbidden. When they became part of Russia in January 1992, they were no longer closed. The timing of all this was such that in Samara and Vladivostok, my American delegation was among the very early foreign visitors, and possibly the first Americans to visit these cities. It was very cool, and felt important to be involved in opening these doors. Somewhat to my surprise, we were warmly welcomed wherever we went, with no trace of Cold War antipathy. I asked my closest Russian friend how this could be, after decades of mutually assured destruction, and he responded that the Russian people and the American people had shared a common enemy for many years, and now were at last together. I didn’t get his point, and asked whom he meant as our common enemy. His answer: The Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Oh, of course.

All this from having picked Russian as my #2 choice during Beast Barracks!