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West Point Class of 1969

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By Sallie Wallace

Jul 09 2020

The Hanging Man – 1992

Remember Nancy Drew? The Hardy Boys?  These were series of books about amateur teen-aged detectives and their remarkable ability to help the locals solve crimes.  Those stories filled many rainy winter nights for me with myself (in my imagination) in the title role.  Later, I graduated to Sherlock Holmes. (He never said, “Elementary, my dear Watson”, by the way). Then, I progressed to Agatha Christie, famous for too many red herrings and not enough pertinent information. The appeal for me was to figure out “who did it” before the book revealed it.

Life seldom afforded me opportunities to “amateur sleuth”, but I did get some practice sessions over the years.  The scene: the suspect/witness is seated on a chair facing me.  I pace a few times back and forth. “Now, let’s return to the events of last night in the order that they happened.  When was the last time you remember seeing the missing—shoe?”  The suspect stares at me, swinging a naked foot in a strange rhythm.  You get the picture!

We were living in Erlangen, Germany at Ferris Barracks.

Memorial to Ferris Barracks Returned to German Use in 1993

Our quarters were one side of a small duplex in the post housing area.  It was not one of the stand-alone grander houses that most brigade commanders have but we didn’t mind.  Though the kaserne had been in U.S. hands for 50 years, the commander had always lived in a rental house somewhere else. The time frame for our being there was after Desert Storm and the U.S. Army Europe was in a flux, a period of realignment and revision. When we arrived, we were happy to live more humbly in exchange for being closer to the excellent battalion commanders and brigade staff with whom we were privileged to serve. Having the battalion commanders’ wives so close by afforded us a chance to spend more time together and we were in the habit of taking an early walk together as a traveling staff meeting.  That day, the morning dawned with promise of sun and warmth.  We set off. This particular day was not a day when I was looking for a crime to solve. No matter: the crime was looking for me.

Behind our duplex was a small fenced yard.  Beyond our yard was a large open field, about the size of 2 football fields. It belonged to the American post but was seldom used for anything, because the training area just north of it was 8800 acres. Since it was an armor post, most of the action took place in the larger area where the tanks could maneuver and fire, away from the city and housing area. Strangely, this smaller field behind our yard seemed to be our version of Area 51.

To the left of our German Area 51 field, there was a wide gravel path that constituted our route.

Ferris Barracks near “Area 51”

After a 10-minute walk on it, the path took a 90 degree turn to the left.  This wider path was frequented by the local Germans.  It was a short cut for them from one of the main thoroughfares to the university and businesses on that side of the city. Many rode bikes but there were also walkers who had disembarked from the closest bus stop.   This practice was technically trespassing but was generally tolerated as a “steam control” factor.  The relationship between the American Army and the local liberal politicians and university was rather frosty, as the mayor had been lobbying for some time to get rid of us.  In fact, sometimes soldiers training close to the path had been subjected to spitting and verbal abuse as the bicyclists went whizzing by. There was always plenty of people traffic there and this morning was no exception.

As our walking group turned that corner, we began to hear a plaintive, repetitive cry. We paused and listened as the sound became louder.  Clearly, it was a human call. “Helfen Mir! Helfen Mir!”   You probably figured out that the English translation is, “Help Me!”  We rushed to find the source. There was a break in the foliage around the field and we turned into the break in the greenery.  Now, in that area, the army had built a modified obstacle course with chin up bars, wooden balance beams and the adult equivalent of a jungle gym.

Modified Obstacle Course                          

There before us was a young man, stripped to his underwear, hanging by his outstretched arms from the climbing apparatus. Clearly weak and possibly in shock, his head and body were limp. Two of us took off running (pre cell phones, remember) to summon the medics and MPs. The two remaining (I was one) decided to try to get him down.  He was very slight, and we thought we could manage to get him to the ground if we could get him loose.

Since I was too short to be able to reach his core to lift him down safely, I was the one who climbed up the back of the jungle gym to see if I could free his hands.  The other wife with me was much taller and stronger and thought she could manage to hold him, if I got him free, until I could climb back down and help her carry him to the grass.  When I made it to the top, I thought if I could get a little slack in the rope binding his arms, I could slip his hands through and free him.  My larger walking friend was able to lift him enough for me to get one hand out.  Then, we repeated the “lift” for the other hand.  We were then able to gently place him on the grass next to the jungle gym.  We covered him with our jackets.  By then, we could hear the medics and MPs coming.  He was conscious and responsive.  The medics and MPs took over, questioned us about the sequence of events, and asked us to stay.

While we were waiting, I surveyed all the area.  What was this about? Were there others? As often happens in times of adrenaline rush, the mind photographs everything in hyper detail.  I still remember the scene clearly.  As the young man was being loaded on the stretcher, one of the MPs said, “He does not want to go to the hospital”, but they took him, anyway.  Since we had no hospital on the post, he was taken to the closest German hospital and a report was filed with the local police because he was clearly not an American.

We were allowed to leave and walked back to our homes.  A couple of hours later, my doorbell rang.  When I opened the door, there stood a German police detective.  He flashed his badge, just like in the movies and asked me to accompany him along with the other wives to the scene of the Hanging Man.  Of course, I did.  He spoke excellent English, so communication was easy.  We were there quite some time.  He asked me many questions about what I had seen.  He then told me the young man had said he was attacked and robbed by a group of American soldiers.  I said, “That’s curious! If he was robbed, it was by the neatest, most considerate ‘thief’ I can imagine.”  He lifted his brows.  In my “photographing” of the scene, which was still pretty much intact minus the ‘victim‘, I remembered seeing by the bushes that formed the edge of the perimeter a very neat stack comprised of carefully folded clothing, paired shoes, a backpack and glasses folded on top. It was still there.  I pointed to it, and said, “What thief, especially one who would assault him like that, would have done that?”

The detective gave me a wry smile and then asked me to recall in detail the configuration of the rope that bound the young man to the apparatus.  I reenacted my climb and answered him as I remembered what I had to do to loosen the rope.  The other wives were likewise interviewed.

That afternoon, I had to be in Wurzburg at Division Headquarters for a ceremony and dinner.

Third ID Headquarters, Wurzburg, Germany

Dick had flown up early that morning and I was to join him later in the day.  In Germany, the brigades are scattered across the region and being at the Division Headquarters always involved travel.  I got in the car after lunch and headed to Wurzburg, replaying the morning’s events over and over in my mind.

After all the formalities, the brigade wives would usually gather and chat.  It was the only time we really saw each other.  As I was “catching up” with their news, the Division Provost Marshal came up to me.  I knew him from other social times.  I smiled and said, “What’s up?”  He replied, “I was reviewing the police reports from this morning and you were on it.  Sounds like you had an exciting morning!  And, by the way, the German detective there was very impressed with your observation skills.”  I laughed and asked him if he knew anything about the condition of the young man and the circumstances that had placed him on the brigade’s obstacle course.  He said that it was in the hands of the German police now and he did not have the report yet.   That night, on my drive back home, I was concerned about the Hanging Man’s accusation.  Would this constitute another anti-American headline in the local paper, a very public investigation and lots of time-consuming trouble for my husband?

Two days passed before I received yet another visit from the German detective. As he stood in my doorway, I looked at him curiously.  He smiled and said, “I wanted you to know the result of our investigation.  You were right that the scene of the crime revealed some contradictions in the young man’s statement.  He is a Russian exchange student at the local university.  As we continued to press him about the evidence at the scene, he confessed to what really happened: he had become involved with another student – a German girl – who had decided to end their relationship.  He then plotted a way to try to regain her “love”.   If he became a victim, especially of the Americans, he thought she would be so sympathetic, she would rush to his side.

He scouted a location close by the path, figuring he would not hang there long since it was so well-frequented by the German locals.  Shortly before dawn, he crept into the area.  He stripped down to his underwear (it resembled a lavender speedo, I might add. I told you I remember details), folded his clothes, paired his shoes, stacked them neatly with his backpack and glasses, climbed to the top of the “jungle gym” and looped the tied rope around his wrists.  Once he heard people passing, he would begin his cries and let his legs fall to “lock” the rope in place.  When he was discovered, he would blame American soldiers and be whisked off by the locals to a sympathetic political climate, quick to blame.

But no Germans stopped, though his cries were clear and easily heard.  Considering his condition, his cries had been going on for some time. Many locals had passed within a few yards of him. The irony of the whole plan was that the Americans were to be blamed and villainized when the truth was the Americans had proved to be the rescuers and saviors.  Remember, this was Europe in 1992.

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Sallie Wallace

Feb 13 2020

What West Point Means to Me – Sallie Wallace

After several intense years of “muddy boot” soldiering, our family needed a break.  West Point needed a Director of Institutional Research.  Perfect match, though we did not know for how long.   We were waiting for the next “list” that would determine Dick’s career course. Our daughter would later reflect that “lists” often weighed heavily on our family culture. Nonetheless, off we went from Colorado to New York.

When I think back on that time, I can only say it was a gift, a revelation  and a reassurance.

The gift:  West Point brought me rest in mind and mission.  As focused and productive as the workings of the academy were, they allowed me time to savor life, sit on my front steps in Lee Area on a spring afternoon and feed nuts to the neighborhood squirrel Stubby (so named because of a tale missing some of its fullness—the story behind that is probably part of squirrel lore somewhere). There were many idyllic moments like that:  walking my son and his friends to soccer practice, their  laughter trailing behind me; seeing a baby deer bedded down while the mother foraged close by; reading the entire history of America on the tombstones in the cemetery.  I would often slip out my kitchen door just before sunset on those lingering summer evenings and walk among the heroes who slept there—such peace. Such a privilege. West Point was a journey to a higher place.

The revelation:  Committing all to the defense of this great country had a day to day “on the ground” result.  The American family.   It was all around me there.  Waving to my neighbors, walking the dog, standing in respect for retreat.

West Point was an incubator building the right leaders.  West Point was also an American small town at its best—we were all safe, thriving and moving into the future.

The reassurance: The “list” came out and we were headed back to “muddy boots” duty, where soldiers are made.  It was one of Dick’s dreams to be on that “list”. I was thrilled for him; I also knew my upcoming role as a commander’s wife would be taxing.  My time at the academy became a pat on the back for me.  West Point was affirmation that all the work would be worth it, my contribution to Duty, Honor, Country.

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Sallie Wallace, What West Point Means to Me

Sep 24 2019

Stranger Things – 1990

We have all had those moments: a bump in the night and a search of the house reveals nothing; you look out a window as you travel and you have a revelation——I have seen this place before, only you hadn’t—the deja-vu  thing.   A crossover, a message—or not.  make of this story what you will.

It was early April 1990. Carlisle, PA—in the last months of the Army War College.  Our routine started with early rising: Dick off to class, Sallie off to work, Nate to school.  We have always been info junkies. 1990 was before the ubiquitous IPad, IPhone, PC so we got our daily infusion of news the old-fashioned way: TV for quick headlines but the newspaper for in depth details.   As soon as we were up and moving, we headed to the front door for the daily paper.

We lived in a brownstone in downtown Carlisle, a property owned by a retired general who leased it to students at the War College.  Time of occupancy was less than a year, changing every August.  There was no paper box, common to the suburbs.

Mailbox with a newspaper box below

The delivery of the paper came in the form of a folded up, rubber banded, sometimes plastic bagged paper “missile” pitched at the front door.  We could find the paper anywhere left or right of the front stoop or tumbled on the sidewalk—however it landed in the vicinity after being pitched out a car window.

That morning, we opened the front door to find the paper on the stoop, placed flat and perfectly on the mat at the front door.  It was in the most immaculate condition of a paper we had ever seen as if the English butler had gently pressed it with a warm iron to present it flawless to the lord of the manor. We were taken aback: we paused and stared and then gently lifted it (with some reverence I might add; it was that impressive).

Now, I know newspapers (this is Sallie speaking).  My family had paper routes for years.  Not your “Leave It to Beaver” bicycle through the neighborhood type either. We had routes of over 400 deliveries in various areas. Papers never got to the carrier in any condition even remotely resembling this one.  Once off the presses, the papers were bound in certain quantities, thrown from a delivery truck on certain designated street corners (this was called “spotting “) and left for the carrier to complete the final leg.  The carrier then “clips” the metal bands around the papers, the papers spill out and the inserting of ads, etc. begins and the papers are restacked in the car for delivery. Before the papers even make it to this point, they universally have small tears, wrinkles, fluting, and maybe a few smudges from so much handling.   I have NEVER seen a paper in this condition, even straight off the presses.

Ok, so the paper’s condition was astonishing.  In fact, in the annals of “paper deliveries” (if there were such a thing), it would have been a legend.

Newspaper at the front door, folded – not quite as flawlessly

But its condition is not what took our breath away.  After marveling over its presentation, we finally looked at the headlines.  Our first reaction was, “What!  How could this have happened again—in the same place, same result——- “.  You see, the headline and picture and most of the front page read, “Devastating Plane Crash at Sioux City Airport”.  Terrible news—-only this crash had occurred the previous year 1989.  We looked closer.  The date on this pristine newspaper was July 20, 1989—-the day after the actual crash on the 19th.  But this was April 1990.  The newspaper was almost 9 months old.

Remember school paper sales?  Every few months, we would bring our old papers to the school to be weighed and recycled.  The schools would get a few bucks. The papers all looked “their age”.  No newspaper lasted more than a week without yellowing and wrinkling, especially in a humid climate.    Where had this paper come from?  Who had kept this paper in this condition and how?  Why had they kept it?  Why bring it to this house?  Why now?  It wasn’t even the anniversary or in recognition of some special memorial of the event.   The occupants of the house during the crash had been the Argentine exchange student and family-no one remotely connected to a summer flight to Iowa.

We checked the front door again, looked up and down the street, saw no perfect papers on any other stoop.  Just as we started back in, we found the “real” paper in the gutter to the left of the door, rolled, banded and in a plastic bag.   By then, we were running late for our daily obligations.  We put the mystery paper on the piano and life moved on.  Soon we would be off to our next assignment.  We kept the paper for some time and, yes, it did start to yellow and curl.  Finally, we could find no good reason to keep it and it was discarded.  But the “happening” never left us and we have often talked about it.  When we play question games, it is always the event that comes to mind for, “What is the strangest thing that has ever happened to you?”

We never knew the significance of this “traveled through time” paper——-until now.  Maybe.   What do you think?

After we retired finally, we came back to the state where we were born and grew up. There was a reason for this.  In the time just prior to our retirement, we had noticed a recurring theme in our experiences and associations:  the importance of validating the people and their sacrifices and choices that had contributed so many positives to us directly and indirectly.  We wanted to “Leave Nothing Unsaid” before it was too late to say it.  We made a list of those we needed to acknowledge.  This exercise in itself was a life review and made us humbled by our many blessings in the form of people who lived above the common level of life.  We especially wanted to go beyond the “Thank you for your service” to our fellow “patriots”. Our country is one of the most incredible blessings anyone can imagine.  Those who sacrifice to defend it are the greatest heroes.  They deserve the deepest admiration.

So, maybe you call it “karma”, “what goes around comes around”, but in recent days, we have had similar feedback—-assurances that some of our choices and sacrifices mattered, even if we were unsure at the time we were living these out.   Now, what does all of that musing have to do with a supernatural newspaper 29 years ago?  Funny, you should ask! Recently, (July 19th in fact) we opened our newspaper.  Yes, we still get one— and lo and behold, the headline article in the business section was about the Sioux City crash that had occurred 30 years earlier.  What has that got to do with business?  Well, the characteristic of a leader they were highlighting first was incredible reasoning and “cool headedness” under impossible odds.  The example was the pilot of the Sioux City plane.  Over a 100 people died in that crash but far more survived.  Despite the loss of some, the saving of so many was considered a miracle under the circumstances.  The pilot’s goal:  save lives.  Where did he get his “cool”?   His time in the marines.  Like Sully, his service became not only his salvation, but that of many under his care.

The “maybe” of the newspaper—both of them – MAY BE – you all need to know that the hard and difficult choice you made to serve your country mattered in ways you may not know and may be yet to realize.  Could that have been it?   Who knows?  A Stranger Thing.

Written by Suzanne Rice · Categorized: By Sallie Wallace

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