Tag: #age

A Bayonet Attack and Life Lessons

A Bayonet Attack and Life Lessons

80 years ago on May 6th, 1943, Dad and the other men of 1st Battalion, 60th Regimental Combat Team were given the order to fix bayonets. They were about to attack Djebel Cheniti in Tunisia by direct assault with a bayonet charge. I’ve thought quite a bit about how that attack may have affected Dad and his outlook on life.

A year ago, I was doing research for another blog about dad and the closing days of the North African Campaign in 1943. I was shocked to learn about a battle that dad never mentioned. At the time, his unit had been in continuous combat for two months.

From the history books: “One last ring of rugged hills now remained between the Ninth Infantry Division and Bizerte. The German troops on Djebel Cheniti, the highest point on the 8 mile wide area of the Bizerte Isthmus, halted the advance. To break this bottleneck, General Manton S. Eddy (Commander of the 9th Infantry Division), devised a plan with two parts. The division would mount a flanking maneuver around the hills, while the 1st Battalion of the 60th Regimental Combat Team (dad’s unit – about 500 men) would attack Djebel Cheniti by direct assault with fixed bayonets. They would follow artillery fire that pounded the slopes at 100-yard intervals.”

The 9th Infantry Division Plan of Attack as it Unfolded.

Let’s take a pause in the story for a second. Fix Bayonets is a command that probably goes back as far as the introduction of muskets. What the command literally means is you are attaching your bayonet to the end of your rifle. What it actually means is one of two things – 1) you are preparing to charge the enemy in close-quarters or 2) getting ready to defend yourself from an imminent enemy assault. Either way, it is close-in fighting. With a rifle and a bayonet, you are perhaps three feet away from your enemy. There is no hiding. There is no ducking away. Army Field Manual 23-25 captures it succinctly: “The will to meet and destroy the enemy in hand-to-hand combat is the spirit of the bayonet. It springs from the fighter’s confidence, courage, and grim determination.” In my own bayonet training nearly 50 years ago at West Point, they were even more to the point: “What is the spirit of the bayonet?” “To Kill!”

At that distance, it is kill or be killed. There is no middle ground.

… … …

May 6th 1943 was a slippery, muddy and rainy day. The order was given to fix bayonets around 1PM and behind rolling artillery, the battalion attacked. They moved forward quickly and only 100 yards behind the falling artillery barrage. On the map, it looks like the total distance they needed to cover was a little over a mile. After three hours they took Hill 168. Moving on to Hill 207 they met stronger resistance. An artillery concentration disorganized the enemy and the battalion attacked again before the German troops could recover. By nightfall, they had taken the summit of Hill 207, although there were still Germans on the southeastern slopes. In a war that lasted years, there were only brief mentions of the battle in the history books, but all of them mentioned the fixed bayonets.

Only a Brief Mention in the History Books

The next morning, May 7th, German machine gun crews began taking off for Bizerte as the division advanced. The 60th moved to cut off the Bizerte road and On May 8th, Bizerte fell. The war in North Africa was over and their immediate mission accomplished.

Men of the 60th Outside Bizerte on May 7th, 1943.

In the words of the 9th Infantry Division Record, “Djebel Cheniti was a brilliant demonstration of Infantry “leaning up against” artillery preparation. One of the strongest positions in the final Axis defense was assaulted by one battalion of Infantry with fixed bayonets, with artillery blasting a shell-strewn pathway for its advance. Another story in the annals of foot soldiers, who do the dirty tasks of warfare”.

Why am I blogging about this now? The story has haunted me since first learning about it. I’ve thought about it quite a bit over the past year. I never heard dad say anything about Djebel Cheniti. I never heard dad say anything about a bayonet charge. Not one damned word. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about how it must have influenced his life.

I have to figure after you’ve been in a bayonet charge, everything else in your life, maybe for the rest of your life, must seem easier. When you are that close to death, and you survive, what else in your life is really going to be a threat to you? Money issues? Work Issues? Mortgage issues? Sickness? Wouldn’t just about everything pale in comparison?

It would explain a lot about dad. His lust for life. His enjoyment of life. His ability to keep everything in perspective, even when things were going badly. His gentleness and tolerance. His quiet firmness in facing down jerks and bullies. Perhaps he already had all of those traits and would have developed into the same man, but I’m not so sure. I think a bayonet charge at the age of 19 might make everything else in life just a wee bit easier to contemplate and to handle. Maybe every day after May 6th, 1943 was a gift not to be squandered. Dad’s gone now. How I wish we had time for one more conversation.

Dad at the WWII Memorial, Two or Three Years Before he Passed Away.

Addendum:

  • The last major American bayonet charge occurred during the Korean War in 1951. You can read a bit about it here: https://www.army.mil/article/30673/hero_who_led_last_major_u_s_bayonet_charge_dies
  • Dad was in almost continual combat from November of ‘42 to August of ‘43 when he was wounded in Sicily. I’m sure all of that combat, and his wounding affected him and changed him, but the bayonet attack is what has stuck in my mind as a singular event, maybe even more than his wounding. He told bits and pieces of different battles over those months, and mostly they involved funny incidents. He even eventually told me the story of how he was wounded, when he was recovering from the stroke he suffered in the ‘90s. The bayonet attack? Not a single word.
  • The blog I was working on when I found out about the bayonet charge was a funny story about dad and “Al Capone” – “My Dad, then Twenty year old Sergeant Willie I. Hall, looked at the German soldier and said “Chicago”. The German answered “Chicago?” Dad stared back. “Chicago … Al Capone”. Now the German’s eyes’ widened. Everyone knew who” […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/05/08/dad-and-al-capone/
  • Historical parts of this blog were derived from these sources: The 9th Division History; Center of Military History: TO BIZERTE WITH THE II CORPS 23 April – 13 May 1943; The US Army in WWII by George Howe; and The Development of Combat Effective Divisions in the United States Army During WWII, a thesis by Peter R. Mansoor.
  • Thanks to my sister, Roberta, and niece, Tami, for their thoughts and inputs. And of course thanks as always to Colleen for her editing support.

Breakfast and Doctors

Breakfast and Doctors

As I sat there eating, I was a bit unsettled. I’d left the doctor’s office and as is my tradition after a physical, was having a breakfast of biscuits and gravy at a local diner. The physical went fine, but the news that my doctor was departing was something else. We’ve been together for nearly 20 years.

When I left the Army in ‘92, one of my goals was to find a doctor’s office that was small, local and where I would consistently see the same doctor. In the military, that was never the case. Between large clinics and moving every couple of years, there was never any consistency in the doctors I saw.

Remember this was all pre-internet, pre-Facebook, pre- any way of really checking out a practice other than talking with friends. I started with a one-man doctor’s office that lasted about a year. He was old and didn’t seem quite interested in me. Someone then recommended a small practice with three or four doctors, and I gave them a try. They were good, and I generally saw the same doctor each time I visited. I liked them so much that even when we moved from Fairfax to Marshall, I stayed with them.

Sometime in the early 2000s, DR H___ joined the practice and I was “assigned” to her. I wasn’t sure what to think at first, as I’d never had a female doctor before. Silly me. Of course, it worked out fine. In fact, it was more than fine and we got along great.

Doctor H____

A few years later, I was at the doctor’s and DR H___ informed me she would soon leave the practice and start her own office. This would be my last checkup with her. What!? She couldn’t do this to me! Although of course, she could. I asked where her new office was, and could I move with her. She was prohibited from taking any clients with her, but she informed me if I kept an eye online, I might see a new doctor’s office opening in the Gainesville area with her name attached.

Soon enough, I saw the posting and became a “new” patient of hers. I’ve been with her for 14 years at this location.

Why do I like her so much? DR H___ takes a more holistic approach to healing. She doesn’t rush during the appointment. Prescribing a pill isn’t her first choice. Education of me, the patient, is a part of her approach. Looking for root causes is a part of her approach. Discussions together instead of her talking at me is a part of her approach. And … she is the only doctor at the practice. I feel like we know each other.

In her own words, “A healthy lifestyle is key to wellness. If you are in need of a doctor who listens and genuinely wants to help you feel better and stay healthy, then I would be humbled to have you call me your doctor.”

It’s been a great partnership. While I’ve always eaten reasonably well, I eat more healthily now due to her influence. When diet along wouldn’t solve my cholesterol issues, she eventually prescribed a statin. She was there for my copperhead bite and for the subsequent AFIB. Our discussions on vitamin D results, prostate results, blood test results were always exactly that. Discussions. Not lectures. We worked our way through COVID together. She knows I drink, smoke a cigar once in a while, drink a cup or two of coffee every day and enjoy an occasional steak. I feel comfortable enough to generally be open with her about my “vices”. Maybe all doctors are this way, but in listening to some of my friends, it doesn’t appear to be the case.

So what has happened? DR H___, while staying local, is moving on from her practice and opening a “Functional Medicine Practice” which “shifts the traditional disease-centered focus of medical practice to a more patient-centered approach. Functional Medicine addresses the whole person, not just an isolated set of symptoms.” There was more, as you can see from this screen shot from her website:

Changes on the Way

While at my physical, DR H___ explained all of this to me. She talked about an increased focus on a better, healthier lifestyle so you would better enjoy your senior years. I asked if better senior years included the occasional manhattan or martini and she just smiled at me.

She also informed me that if I were to come with her to the new practice, I would still need a new GP doctor. She would not be addressing typical “family practice” issues. We shook hands as I departed her office that morning. I’m not sure why, but our handshake had a feeling of finality in it. That handshake, and the look in her eyes, have stayed with me.

I mulled all of this over while eating my biscuits and gravy. It was a lot to digest, and to be honest, I didn’t enjoy my breakfast as much as I usually do. It took a bit of the typical joy I felt while eating “something bad for me” as a celebration after my physical. I may have even left a couple of bites of biscuit on my plate, which is something I never do.

My Biscuits and Gravy Weren’t as Tasty as Usual.

Since then, I’ve continued to think about it. I don’t yet know whether I will go with her and her new practice, but I know in the meantime, I need to identify a new doctor. It’s not something I’m looking forward to. I know there are many good doctors, but it feels like starting over from scratch. Who in your life, outside of family and close friends, is more important than your doctor, and your relationship with her? Your dentist? Eye Doctor? Lawyer? Financial Advisor? A Teacher? Mentor? Life will go on, but it won’t be the same.

Life will Go on, but it Won’t be the Same.

The Wind

The Wind

My weather apps warned me about the coming high wind – The wind that would blow for the next twenty hours. What it didn’t do was warn me about how that wind would affect me, how it would play with my mind, how it would invade my sleep and my dreams.

The first of three warnings came in the morning and called for sustained winds of 25-30 miles/hour with gusts up to 50 miles/hour. We had certainly seen much worse at the farm, and I wasn’t concerned.

The Wind Stayed with us for Over Twenty Hours

When the wind arrived in the late afternoon, it started slow enough and mild enough, but as daylight faded, it picked up speed and didn’t let up. It was constant and the sound, while not loud, seemingly surrounded the house, whirling, gusting and then returning to a constant blow. It stayed with us for the evening while we ate dinner and later when we were watching TV. A low and plaintive howl, it was the backdrop for the entire evening.

Eventually it was bedtime and I took Carmen outside one last time. Usually, she runs around, checks out the barn, does her last potty, and then ambles back to the house, in no hurry. This night? She took off like a bat out of hell running for the barn, barking with her big girl voice the whole way. She stood near the fence by the barn with her hackles up, barking madly into the dark and against the wind. I could hear our neighbors’ dogs barking in return from a quarter mile away. The wind had all of us on edge and a little uneasy I guess. Eventually I grabbed Carmen and we returned to the house.

My sleep, such as it was, was unsettled. We always keep at least one window open in our bedroom and that night as I lay in bed, I felt the wind mockingly caress my face, while infiltrating my mind. In the distance, I heard a tree crash to the ground. There were voices in the night air – groans, moans, creaks, cries and mutterings. Human or animal, real or imagined I cannot say. The hours passed with my mind in a fog between wakefulness and shallow sleep. Throughout, the wind was there with me. It inhabited my dreams, and made them restless. Not quite nightmares, they were nonetheless uneasy and agitated. I remembered them distinctly during the night, but by dawn they were gone, as if the wind itself blew them away.

It was a bad night’s sleep. When dawn was just breaking, I got up. Although I’d slept horribly, there was no reason to stay in bed. The wind was still blowing and I knew no better sleep was coming my way. Carmen and I fed the horses, then I fed Carmen. Finally, I turned on the coffee pot.

I sat at our kitchen island drinking my coffee. Looking out the window, I could see the wind rippling across the pond in the early light. I sighed, and knew It would continue to blow for several more hours. Taking another sip, I tried to clear the cobwebs that occupied my mind.

Five Years in One Page

Five Years in One Page

When discharged from the Army on August 24th, 1945, dad was 21 years old and had been in for nearly five years. His WWII service included time in Algeria, Tunisia, French Morocco and lastly, Sicily, where he was wounded. His discharge papers tell the intriguing story of those five years in one page.

This is the second of a two-part blog. Last week, I told the story of how I received dad’s enlistment and discharge paperwork from the National Archives. I then explored several interesting observations from his enlistment form, including the fact that he lied about his age in order to enlist. He claimed he was almost 19 years old, when in fact he was still two months shy of his 17th birthday. You will find a link to the first blog in the Addendum to this one.

Today’s blog explores his discharge paperwork, and briefly tells the story of his five years in the service. Dad was with B Company 1/60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division from September 1940 until he was wounded and almost died in Sicily in August of 1943. Although his original enlistment in 1940 was for three years, when the war started all enlistments were extended for the duration.

As with his enlistment papers, dad’s discharge paperwork was discolored, creased and yellow, perhaps from the fire at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC). A few parts were unreadable, but most of it was legible.

Dad’s Honorable Discharge Paperwork – it Suffered in the Fire at the Archives.

I’ll magnify and expand a couple sections to talk about some of the details.

At the top of the form, there are a couple of interesting items.

The Top of the Discharge Form – Magnified
  • Block 3 confirms his last duty station as Camp Butner, NC. This is where dad returned to the States in 1944 after recovering from his wounds. Camp Butner was both a troop training center, and a Prisoner of War camp. Dad told us stories later about helping train troops there (and about performing KP).
  • We see in block 4 his actual discharge date is August 24th, 1945. This was two weeks after the atom bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, Japan, and one week before the official surrender of the Japanese on September 2nd. The army was already discharging soldiers as the war was winding down, based on how many “points” they had (more on “points” later).
  • Block 7 still shows the birth date he lied about to enlist – Oct 12, 1921, as opposed to his real birth date of Oct 22, 1923. And amazingly, dad’s height, 5’ 6” and weight, 128 pounds haven’t changed at all from when he enlisted. Me thinks, someone was probably just copying from other forms to put this info in.
  • Block 21 shows his civilian employment as “Usher”, so maybe not everything was copied over. His enlistment paperwork showed him as a “Laborer”.

Now we move on to the Middle section of his discharge paper, dad’s “Military History”. This is the meat of the discharge, and paints the real story of his time in the service. I’ve again magnified the view so you can better read the form. In order to tell dad’s history in a linear fashion, I will sometimes go out of order in discussing what is in the blocks in this section.

Dad’s “Military History” in His Discharge Paperwork.
  • Block 31 shows dad qualified as an expert both on the Machine Gun, and the M1 Garand rifle. It also notes he was awarded the Combat Infantryman Badge. You could only earn the CIB if you were in the Infantry (not in Field Artillery, or Armor, or Signal Corps etc), AND you were in actual active combat with the enemy.
  • I’m going to skip to block 36 – “Service Outside the Continental United State” for just a minute . Note here that he arrived overseas on November 8th, 1942. What it doesn’t say is he arrived with the 60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division at around 5AM under gunfire on the beach near Port-Lyautey, French Morocco. This was as a part of Operation Torch, the invasion of North Africa. Torch was (next to D-Day) the second largest amphibious assault ever attempted.
  • Now back to block 32, where we see in addition to French Morocco, dad also took part in battles in Algeria and Tunisia in North Africa where they defeated Rommel and the Africa Korps. Those battles took place between November 8th of 1942 and May 10th of 1943. Then in July of 1943, dad participated in the invasion of Sicily.
  • Skipping back down to block 34, we learn dad was wounded on August 8th, 1943. What it doesn’t mention is he was shot three times by the Germans in the mountains of Sicily and it took over a day to evacuate him by hand to an aid station. It also doesn’t say he almost died due to the combination of his wounds and the Malaria he contracted. His time with the 9th Infantry Division ended here.
  • Returning to block 36, we see dad arrived back in the States on May 15th, 1944, three weeks before D-Day. This was after he recovered from his wounds (he was evacuated to North Africa to fully recover). Due to the severity of those wounds, he didn’t return to combat – the war was over for him, although he remained in the service for another 15 months.
  • Block 37 “Foreign Service”, shows that of dad’s almost five years in the service, one year, six months and twenty-one days were spent overseas. Approximately eight of those months were in near continuous combat.
  • Finally, we return to block 33, “Decorations and Citations”. In addition to his Good Conduct Medal and Purple Heart (for being wounded), he was awarded: the American Defense Service Ribbon (awarded to troops on active duty prior to Pearl Harbor); the European African Middle Eastern Theatre Ribbon with three bronze stars (this was for participating in the campaign in French Morocco, and the subsequent campaigns in Algeria, Tunisia and Sicily); three Overseas Service Bars (one for each six month period in a theater of war) and finally a Service Stripe (one for each three year period of service). It’s worth noting dad also earned a Bronze Star (for exemplary conduct in ground combat against an armed enemy), which didn’t catch up with him until after he was already discharged, and is not reflected in this paperwork.

Finally we come to the bottom of the discharge paperwork and block 55. There are three items noted here, although not all are readable.

Block 55 – Points and Other Things
  • First, dad, along with all other honorably discharged service members, was issued a lapel button to be worn on civilian clothing. At the end of the war, it was particularly useful for those traveling home so they were quickly identified as service members and received priority for buses and trains.
  • Next we see dad’s ASR score was 95. ASR stood for Adjusted Service Rating and is what was used to determine the priority for discharging soldiers at the end of the war. The rules were simple in principle: “Those who had fought longest and hardest should be returned home and discharged first.” Points were given for length of time in the service, length of time overseas, combat campaigns, combat awards, being wounded and so on. At the time, “the points” required for discharge were 85. Dad, with his nearly five years of service, his 1 1/2 years overseas, his Purple Heart, and his four campaigns was at, or near the top of the heap. His 95 points reflect that, and was why he was discharged so quickly as the war was winding down. If you have ever watched the show “Band of Brothers” there is a great section in the last show focusing on this. Points were on everyone’s mind.
  • Finally, there’s the cryptic last line “xx days lost under AW 107”. What the hell is that? AW 107 stood for Articles of War (the forerunner of today’s Uniform Code of Military Justice). Article 107 refers to docking the soldier credit for days of active duty that they didn’t earn. Typical examples were for going AWOL, being too drunk to report for duty, or getting in trouble for other minor offenses and confined to the barracks. Since the service member was not performing his or her duties during those periods, they didn’t receive time in grade or retirement credit for those periods. It turns out many/most enlisted soldiers during WWII had AW107 scores higher than zero. During my research, I’ve found cases with numbers from 1 to over 200. I’ve tried like hell to read the smudged number here but can’t quite make it out. It might be a 5? It might be a 3? I don’t think we’ll ever know. What I do know is dad was busted from Sergeant to Private in June of 1943 for getting caught in, and subsequently kicked out of, a walled city twice in one night after missing the last truck back to his unit. Perhaps he was confined for some period of time in conjunction with this “incident”.

After his discharge, dad returned to Ottawa, Illinois in September and lived there for the next 65 years. In Ottawa he met mom, and had us three kids, six grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren. He retired from the railroad in 1985, and passed away in 2010.

For those of you who know me, or who have followed this blog for any length of time, I’m pretty sure you are aware of how much I admired my father. An embodiment of “The Greatest Generation”, dad was always one of my heroes. This was true certainly for his actions during WWII, but also for how he lived his life, and how he took care of our family.

A Banner Honoring Dad in Ottawa, Illinois on Veteran’s Day Last Year.

I’ve probably written more blogs about him than any other subject. The blog last week about his enlistment and this one about his discharge file are special to me. It’s somehow reassuring that his enlistment and discharge paperwork confirm the outline of the oral histories we heard from dad growing up. I wish I had discovered this paperwork while he was still alive, just so we could have one more conversation about it over a coffee or a beer. “Dad, tell me again about the time …”, or “Dad, about those lost AW 107 days…”.

I love him and miss him.

Addendum:

  • I apologize for the length of this and last week’s blogs, but I was trying to give some context to the cold and straightforward words in the paperwork.

– Here are a selection of other WWII blogs that I’ve alluded to in this blog. There may be some minor discrepancies in them, based on the availability of the new information in his paperwork:

Lying to Enlist in 1940

Lying to Enlist in 1940

On the 11th day of September, 1940, just over 14 months before Pearl Harbor, my dad, William Iber Hall, enlisted in the United States Army for a 3 year stint. His enlistment paperwork showed him to be 18 years and 11 months of age. In reality, he was 16 years and 11 months old.

Our family history always said dad lied about his age when he joined the Army. Still, it was pretty cool to receive some official corroboration.

A couple of years ago in the middle of COVID, I was doing some research and learned I could access dad’s military records. The only catch? On July 12th of 1973, a fire occurred at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC) and destroyed between 16 and 18 million Official Military Personnel Files, including 80% of those who were discharged between 1912 and 1960. I said a prayer, held my breath, and sent a letter to the National Archives, and more specifically, the NPRC, asking for dad’s service and medical records.

Months passed. A year passed. A second year passed, and then I finally received an email from the NPRC. Dad’s records existed, but were located in the area where the worst part of the fire was. They were damaged and incomplete. They did have his enlistment and separation paperwork, but nothing else. Nothing from his medical records, and nothing else about his time in the service. They did forward copies of the enlistment and separation papers.

The NPRC’s Response to My Request for Information About Dad.

I looked at both documents. They are discolored, scarred and blurry in places. There are brown marks, including outlines of paper clips – perhaps from the heat of the fire. Here’s a photo of the enlistment documents – note there are actually three pages.

Dad’s Enlistment Papers – Apparently Damaged some by the Fire.

There is some fascinating information, particularly in the top half of the first page of the enlistment form. I’ve blown it up here so you can better read the form.

A Magnified View of the Top of Page One of Dad’s Enlistment, With Some Key Items Circled in Red.

Here are a few items of interest:

  • Dad enlisted in Peoria, Illinois – I’d always assumed in Ottawa, but there probably wasn’t a recruiting station there yet. His enlistment was for three years, and was directly to the 60th Infantry Regiment of the 9th Infantry Division. Three years later in September of 1943 when his enlistment was originally to end, dad was in a hospital in Sicily, recovering from being shot three times by the Germans. He was still serving with the 60th. By then, all enlistments were for the duration.
  • We see in his answer to question 1, that yes, dad did lie about his birth date – by over two years. His actual birthday was Oct 22, 1923, which means on the date of his enlistment, Sept 10, 1940, he was actually 16 years and 11 months old. You were required to be 18 years old to join and Dad lied big time, claiming a birth date of Oct 12, 1921, making himself 18 years and 11 months old.
  • His answer to question 3 shows he completed 7th Grade, and nothing more. This was interesting as well – dad always told us he graduated from 8th grade. (In a side note, Dad did graduate from high school in 2002, when he and other veterans who didn’t graduate were made honorary members and graduates of the OHS class of 2002.)
  • For question 4, he lists his work as Laborer for the past year, at $10/week. This was at least a partial lie. Dad joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) for two six month enlistments in 1939 when he was 15 years old (the legal age for the CCCs was 17). He may have worked as a laborer when he returned from the CCCs, but it certainly wasn’t for a year, as he joined the Army not long after his return. My guess is he was probably out of work at the time and didn’t want to admit it.
  • I’m betting dad didn’t know the “s” in Illinois is silent, as he spelled it Illinoise in his answer to question no. 1. ;-).
Dad in ‘39 or Early ‘40 in the CCCs, and Then Later in Early ‘41 with the 60th Infantry

On the second page of his enlistment, there are a couple of additional parts of his life we can confirm from the information provided. First, dad is listed at 5’ 6” and 128 lbs. That corresponds pretty well with the above CCC photo of him. It’s hard to see how the recruiter actually thought he was 18.

Also of interest is that my Grandma, Alberta Hall, is listed as his nearest relative, and the person to be notified in case of emergency. This aligns with other parts of our family history that aren’t always talked about as much. My Grandpa Hall was something of a ne’r-do-well for much of his life, and probably an alcoholic. He sometimes disappeared for days or weeks at a time. Evidently Dad wasn’t taking any chances on him as his emergency point of contact and named Grandma instead. It makes sense to me now that when the telegram came to the family in 1943 informing them of dad’s wounding, it was sent to Grandma, not Grandpa.

A Magnified View of Page 2 of Dad’s Enlistment.

Receiving his enlistment papers was an amazing find to me. I never doubted dad, or any of his stories, but finding actual documents confirming his history is incredible. Knowing how lucky we are they didn’t burn along with the 18 million other military personnel records, only makes the story more fascinating. Luck is sometimes a wonderful thing.

We’d always been told that dad enlisted in 1940, and knew he had to have lied about his age. My Aunt Ellen, his older sister by several years, went to the recruiting station with him to verify his age to the recruiter. Life at that point in time, at the tail end of the depression was tough, or at least tough for the Hall family. Grandma was supporting the family with her work, and Grandpa was only a part time presence at home. There was no money, and probably not many jobs, at least not for a 16 year old. The pay in the Army was $21/month at the time, plus food and housing. I think it looked pretty good to someone who had a fairly rough life to that point.

Today, I’m thinking about 16 year old William Iber Hall going to the recruiting station in Peoria Illinois and signing up to an unknown fate. Unbeknownst to him, Pearl Harbor would happen 14 months later. Thank God for dad, and others like him, who did the right thing and stood by our country in it’s time of need.

— This is the first of two blogs about the documents I received from the NPRC. Next week’s blog will cover dad’s discharge paperwork. It tells the story about his time in the service from 1940 – 1945 in just one page, and is an equally amazing document.

Addendum:

  • You can read more about dad’s and the CCCs here: It was 1939 and dad and Uncle George were on a train, bound for the CCCs in Wyoming. Growing up in Illinois during the Great Depression was tough. Their family was poor before the Depression, and things got worse […] continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/12/13/dad-uncle-george-and-the-cccs-in-1939%EF%BB%BF
  • Here’s more on the fire at the NPRC from the Archives themselves: “Shortly after midnight on July 12, 1973, a fire was reported at the NPRC’s military personnel records building in St. Louis, MO. Firefighters arrived on the scene only 4 minutes and 20 seconds after the first alarm sounded and entered the building. While they were able to reach the burning sixth floor, the heat and the smoke forced the firefighters to withdraw at 3:15am. In order to combat and contain the flames, firefighters were forced to pour great quantities of water onto the exterior of the building and inside through broken windows. The fire burned out of control for 22 hours; it took two days before firefighters were able to re-enter the building. The blaze was so intense that local Overland residents had to remain indoors, due to the heavy acrid smoke. It was not until July 16, nearly four and a half days after the first reports, that the local fire department called the fire officially out. The fire destroyed approximately 16-18 million Official Military Personnel Files (OMPF). No duplicate copies of these records were ever maintained, nor were microfilm copies produced. Neither were any indexes created prior to the fire. In addition, millions of documents had been lent to the Department of Veterans Affairs before the fire occurred. Therefore, a complete listing of the records that were lost is not available. In terms of loss to the cultural heritage of our nation, the 1973 NPRC Fire was an unparalleled disaster.”

A Celebration of Life and Celebrating Life

A Celebration of Life and Celebrating Life

A few weeks ago Cathy and I spent a Saturday seeing the full circle of life. The day started at a brewery, attending a Celebration of Life for a friend who passed away three months ago. It ended at a winery where another friend was celebrating her seventieth birthday. The two events were surprisingly similar.

Our old friend Davie passed away last October at the age of 67. His death was unexpected and hit many of us hard. We were a part of the same running group since the early ‘90s and became good friends over the years. Another friend, Tia, and I talked and decided to host a Celebration of Life for Davie, but after some time went by – time enough for the rawness of his death to pass. We eventually decided on a Saturday in mid-January.

On the appointed day, a wonderful and diverse crowd of seventy five or so came together and after a short run, gathered at a local brewery. Five of us brought in homemade food for a buffet lunch with BBQ, coleslaw, mac n’ cheese and other goodies. Beer and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. The decision Tia and I made to delay for three months was a good one. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories of Davie were told – some poignant, some bawdy. At the end of the “formal” part of the Celebration, we sang the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as a final send off (an off-color version of the song is usually sung at the end of our weekly runs).

Friends at Davie’s Celebration of Life at the Brewery

We left the brewery while the party was still roaring, to make our way to our friend Kathy’s 70th birthday party. We arrived at home, let Carmen out and changed clothes. From there, we drove the twenty minutes to the winery where Kathy’s birthday party was being held.

Upon arriving, we found the party and joined in with the other 20 or 25 guests. A friend of Kathy’s made delicious homemade appetizers. Wine and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories and jokes were told and Kathy’s husband mentioned a couple of times that he was lucky to have married an older woman (I should point out he is only 18 months younger than Kathy). At the end of the “formal” part of the celebration, we sang “Happy Birthday ” to Kathy as a final tribute.

Friends at Kathy’s Birthday Party at the Winery.

Speaking with Kathy later, she mentioned she wanted to celebrate her life while she was “still vertical”. The guests represented different aspects of her life and what held meaning for her — old friendships formed in her youth, friendships from her days in community theater, friendships formed in pursuit of change in our social and political systems and those she partnered with while strengthening her health and fitness levels. It was a diverse and wonderful group of people. After the party, she and Steve stayed up late into the night talking about how lucky they were. Her comment to me – “Why wait to gather together and celebrate life?”

I’ve spent the last month or so thinking about the juxtaposition of those two gatherings. They were sooooo similar to each other. Friends gathered. Good homemade food was served at both. Excellent local adult beverages were available for consumption. There was lots of laughter, with jokes and stories being told. Even a song was sung at both to end the formal part of the festivities. The only real difference between the two events was the guest of honor attended one in person, but not the other.

Kathy being Roasted at her Birthday Celebration. I Like to Think Davie Attended his Celebration of Life in Spirit.

Yes, there’s a fine edge between life and death, between living and dying, between celebrating a life, and a Celebration of Life. That Saturday and those two gatherings brought it home to me.

Celebrating life, and Celebrations of Life are both important. None of us knows how much time we, our family, or our friends have left and we should take advantage of celebrating not just birthdays, but every part of life we can, while we are alive.

I’m glad we were able to celebrate Davie’s life. He wasn’t physically with us, but I know he would have enjoyed the party. I like to think he was looking on us from somewhere on high with a glass of champagne or a mimosa in his hand.

I’m even happier we were able to celebrate Kathy’s 70th with her in the room, and I’m pretty sure she did enjoy the party. As Fitzgerald stated in The Great Gatsby, “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.“

Celebrating life while living, seems an important part of having a good Celebration of Life later. At my Celebration of Life, I hope there will be jokes and stories and snorts of laughter. In a corner of the room, maybe loud guffaws and then someone will say, “What a great story! I didn’t know that about Max. Did I ever tell you about the time he and I…”

When I started thinking about this blog, I thought the song “The Circle of Life” from The Lion KIng might be nice for an ending with it’s lyrics about despair and hope, and faith and love. It’s a fine song, and I suppose makes people feel warm and fuzzy. Personally, I think Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is more relevant for me, and has a better take on all of it:

Well, I'm just a modern guy
Of course, I've had it in the ear before*
And I've a lust for life (lust for life)
'Cause I've a lust for life (lust for life)
Got a lust for life
Yeah, a lust for life…

I’m going to continue to honor and celebrate those around me, both alive and dead. I think about that Saturday and those two events. Like my friends Davie and Kathy, a lust for life is what I have. I’m taking Iggy’s advice, and plan to continue to live life exuberantly. I’m going to celebrate life and all it throws at me. If you happen to make my Celebration of Life down the road, eat some fine food, have a drink, laugh and tell a good story about the times we shared together. Hopefully, it starts out something like this, “There Max and I were. It was crazy, but…”

Addendum:

  • I encourage you to listen to Elton John’s “Circle of Life”, and then Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life”. Both of them are fine songs. One of them will get you up, moving, and ready to engage life to the utmost.
  • Circle of Life with Elton John can be found at: https://youtu.be/IwH9YvhPN7c
  • Lust for Life with Iggy Pop and David Bowie can be found at: https://youtu.be/HuBU3pzy7is ; or try this version to go with the Movie Trainspotting: https://youtu.be/jQvUBf5l7Vw
  • Thanks to our friend Tia Perry for leading the effort on Davie’s Celebration of Life – It was a great event. Special thanks to our friend Kathy Kadilak for allowing me to talk about her milestone birthday and the impact it had on me. Both Tia and Kathy were a part of writing this blog.
  • * The phrase “I’ve had it in the ear before” isn’t sexual and it’s not drug related. It means someone’s given you a hard time or screwed you over.

End of an Era

End of an Era

There’s a change coming to my Sundays. Starting this week and going forward, the paper copy of the Washington Post Sunday newspaper will arrive on … wait for it … Monday. Yep, it’s the end of an era for many of us here in rural Fauquier County.

I’ve always read newspapers. Growing up at home, it was the Ottawa Daily Times, and on Sundays, both the Chicago Tribune and Sun Times. At West Point, it was the New York Times (Plebes delivered hard copies to every cadet room). When we lived in Germany in the ‘80s, in addition to the Stars and Stripes, I would buy the International Herald Tribune, at the local book store or snack bar. At the time, The Tribune was a joint publishing effort between the New York Times and the Washington Post. It was a great paper and provided in depth coverage of events in the States and around the world. When Cathy and I returned to the DC area in ‘89, we began our subscription to the Washington Post and have read it ever since – thirty-four years of delivery.

At the time of course, the subscription was only hard copy and delivered daily. In 1999, when we moved to our farm in Fauquier County, our subscription moved with us. During the week, when I left for work around 5:30AM, the paper was already delivered to our home, and I’d pick it up and take it with me.

Home Delivery of the Post for Thirty Four Years

Ahhh, but Sundays were different. After getting up and starting a pot of coffee, I’d dutifully walk up the drive and retrieve the Post from the receptacle next to the mailbox. Big and fat, the Sunday edition was meant for leisurely exploration. I’d always start with the sports section, then move on to the front page. After that, Outlook (the opinion section), Art&Style, Business, Metro, Bookworld, the Comics and finally the Sunday magazine*. It was a great way to while away a couple of hours.

Times change of course. Digital subscriptions started and were included with our home subscription. I found digital great for looking at headlines, along with the updates and alerts that were posted throughout the day. Having said that, I still loved getting ink on my fingers and reading the hardcopy. Some of my younger friends laughed at me and basically told me I needed to get with the times. I’d always argue back about the corollary reading the hardcopy provided – you started reading a front page article which continued on page A15, and on page A15, you would see one or two other smaller articles that you never would have found if just reading digitally.

Then Covid hit, and as with so many things during that time, other changes happened. Remember early on, when folks still weren’t sure how it spread? Wiping down groceries before you brought them into the house? Everyone buying Clorox wipes, or other antiseptics? At the time, we’d let the hardcopy sit in the garage for a day or two before bringing it into the house. Yea, I know it all sounds foolish now, but everyone was concerned (or at least we were).

I started reading a lot more articles online, not just the headlines. “Corollary reading” was lost, but it didn’t seem so important during Covid. Eventually, we canceled our daily subscription – it wasn’t worth it anymore. We did decide to keep the Sunday hardcopy, along with the digital. I still enjoyed working my way through the Sunday paper – it was a form of leisure in it’s own right.

Two weeks ago, our friend Colleen who also lives in Fauquier, posted on FB that she received an email notice that on January 30th, the Post was going to start using the Postal Service to deliver the newspaper. Soooooo, your daily morning paper would now come sometime later in the day, and the Sunday paper would arrive on Mondays. What the heck?!

The Email Colleen Received

Shortly after, we received the same email and a post card via mail. We were on the hit list as well. And just like that, the world changed.

Our Post Card From the Washington Post

We are retired, so we have the time to read the Sunday edition on Monday, but it won’t be the same. For our working friends who subscribe, it actually becomes somewhat untenable. A few of their (printable) comments are here:

  • I MUCH prefer reading print over any form of electronic distrubtion, and this totaly blows my VERY long-standing Sunday routine out of the water.
  • My Sundays will never be the same… Walk the dog, make my coffee, and start reading. Now it will be walk the dog, get in the car and drive to the Exxon station, then…
  • I will miss my daily morning paper. Cut it back to digital. So sad. 😞
  • I emailed and spoke with them yesterday within minutes of having received my notice …

Of course it’s all about economics, and I understand. Home delivery is no longer feasible in rural counties such as ours. With people moving to digital, hardcopy deliveries have dropped in general and for places like Fauquier, there is too much driving for the carriers, increasing their time and cost. It’s an uncorrectable downward spiral.

I called the Post to cancel my Sunday hardcopy, although I planned on retaining the digital subscription. It turns out the cost for Sunday hard copy and digital is virtually the same as just receiving the digital subscription, and so for now, I’m keeping them both. We’ll see what happens in the near term, but my guess is on Mondays, the physical newspaper will go straight from delivery to recycling, and in a month or so, I’ll cancel the hard copy. In the meantime, the nice man I spoke to on the phone promised to convey my complaint and concern to “management”.

Our Last Copy of the Sunday WaPo that Actually Arrived on a Sunday.

Last week, I received a similar notice from the New York Times. We also receive their Sunday paper hardcopy and have a digital subscription. I’m probably going to cut their Sunday paper soon as well.

That will leave us with digital copies of The Post, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, good papers all. I appreciate the daily headlines, their alerts throughout the day and the links I have to any number of special features. Still, I know my world will grow just a little smaller and a little less broad without newspaper ink rubbing off on my fingers.

Addendum:

  • I didn’t touch on it here, but the demise of print newspapers, and local newspapers in general is a real thing, and an unfortunate one. Between 2004 and 2022, over 2,500 local papers have ceased operation, including over 360 that have disappeared just since the start of the pandemic. We are all a little poorer for their disappearance.
  • * There have been changes to the Sunday WaPo over the years. Book World disappeared and later reappeared. Outlook (The Opinion section) moved from a separate section to just a few pages at the end of the main section. And, just before Christmas last year, the Sunday Magazine disappeared all together.

Orion, My Old Friend

Orion, My Old Friend

It’s nice to have constants in your life, even when they are little ones. Something you can count on. Something that gives you comfort. Something you can look at and say, “Yep, it’s still there.” For me, one of those constants is my old friend Orion in the winter night sky.

I suppose my interest in space and the constellations started with Mrs Finkeldey, my first grade teacher. On February 20th, 1962, a little over halfway through our school year, astronaut John Glenn became the first American to orbit the Earth. Mrs Finkeldey talked about Glenn, and taught us about the solar system and the (then nine) planets. Combining current events and science for first graders – who knew?

Later, in Boy Scouts, I began learning about the constellations. It started with the Big Dipper pointing to the North Star in the Little Dipper. Suddenly, and amazingly, you always knew what direction north was (unless it was a cloudy night). That was just the beginning. With my Boy Scout Handbook, I began to learn how to identify and locate the constellations – Cepheus and Cassiopeia; Canis Major, along with Sirius, the brightest star in the sky; Gemini the Twins; Taurus the Bull; the Pleiades (the Seven Sisters) and many others.

Knowledge of the Constellations in My Old Boy Scout Handbook

I’m not sure why, but my favorite was always Orion, The Hunter. Orion is one of the more identifiable constellations and has been mentioned by Homer and Virgil, and is even in the Bible*. According to Mythology, Orion was a great hunter and the son of Poseidon. He was killed by the sting of a large scorpion after possible misdeeds. Later, Zeus put both Orion and the Scorpion (Scorpius) in the sky as constellations.

Orion, The Hunter.

Orion is easy to see and easy to recognize, but here in the Northern Hemisphere, only viewable in winter. Starting in November, I watch him traverse the sky. Every night when I take Carmen out for her last walk, there he is overhead. If I take binoculars with me, or bring out my telescope, I can see the the Orion Nebula in his sword with greater detail. It’s no matter though. Knowing he, and it, are there are comfort enough.

Photo of Orion Taken With My iPhone 12 at Home in Virginia

I’ll observe him until March or so, and then he disappears from the night sky. The good news is he will reappear in late Fall, as he always does. He’s a bit more reliable than many of the unstable things in our lives.

Photo of the Orion Nebula,Below Orion’s Belt. Taken With My iPhone 12.

It’s not just here at home where I see him. Because of his location in the sky, he is visible in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. He was with us when we lived in Germany in the ‘80s. Over the years, I’ve seen him on vacations around the world, including this week in Grand Cayman. He has been a reliable travel companion.

iPhone 12 Picture of Orion With his Shield From Grand Cayman This Week.

Take a look one of these nights around 10PM. This time of year, he is high overhead, and slightly south of the center of the sky. You will find him easily enough. Look for his belt, and the rest will come with it. Know that I will probably be gazing on him around that time of night as well. I spend a few quiet moments with him almost every evening.

It is perhaps strange to think of a constellation as a touchstone, but that is what Orion has become for me. He is a constant I can count on and my eyes are drawn to him on starry winter nights. For me, he provides calmness and serenity, if only for a few moments. For most of us, there aren’t many things that do so. When you find one, it’s good to hold onto it.

… Silently, one by one,
in the infinite meadows of heaven,  
blossomed the lovely stars, 
the forget-me-nots of the angels… 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Addendum:

I fondly remember my First Grade teacher, Mrs Thelma Finkeldey, and her purple hair. She was a great teacher. You can read more about her here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/06/04/mrs-thelma-finkeldey/

* Here are the Bible verses which mention Orion:

  • Job 9:9. Who makes the Bear, Orion and the Pleiades, And the chambers of the south;
  • Job 38:31. Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades, Or loose the cords of Orion?
  • Amos 5:8. He who made the Pleiades and Orion And changes deep darkness into morning, Who also darkens day into night, Who calls for the waters of the sea And pours them out on the surface of the earth, The Lord is His name.

Artificial Intelligence, Art, and Writing

Artificial Intelligence, Art, and Writing

There’s been a lot in the news lately about creative Artificial Intelligence (AI) art and writing programs. Some see them as the doom of mankind, others as a bright and shiny future. I don’t have an answer to either point, but what I DO know is people better get ready – this is happening and will continue to grow.

AI, or near AI capabilities have been around for awhile, and continue to expand in our lives. Everyone knows about computers frequently beating all but the very best chess champions on a regular basis. In fact IBM’s “Big Blue” computer defeated the reigning world champion, Gary Kasparov, in 1990. In the intervening decades, AI has expanded in numerous other areas to help mankind – assisting doctors, robots performing intricate operations on humans, financial fraud detection, facial recognition, digital assistants (think Siri or Alexa) and navigation apps (think Waze, Google Maps, etc) to name just a few. In general, we have accepted and embraced these changes and advances. They have improved our lives in one way, or another.

However, we humans seem a bit concerned as of late. It was all fine when AI was assisting us. Now, it is moving into “creative” areas, such as art and writing. People seem a bit more … uneasy – “Wait a minute, if a computer can be creative, what’s my value-add to this thing called life?”

We Seem to have More Concern with AI When it Starts Getting Creative

Over the past several months, my friend Morgan and I have been discussing AI and the potential repercussions of it’s expansion into art and writing. It started last fall when he downloaded the AI art program DALL·E 2. It’s free for the first 50 searches. After that, it’s $15 for 115 searches. Each search gives you four images based on what you input as a request. You can request a theme, a style and color scheme and the computer does the rest. Some questions – if a computer can do a da Vinci quality painting, do we need Leonardo? And what’s the value of either painting – how do you equate them? Are there moral issues? How do you compare something generated by a human versus something generated by a computer?

We spent several miles of walking and more than a couple of beers discussing all of those questions and others. We even ran a series of “tests” comparing the classic painting “Dogs Playing Poker” by American Artist Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, and computer versions, based on Morgan’s inputs. You can judge a couple of the results below, including the refinement over time. I particularly like how one of the dogs in the lower (later) AI painting is looking in the direction of the artist – a nice touch.

Dogs Playing Poker by Coolidge on the Left. A Couple of AI Generated Pictures on the Right

Then last December, the news started talking about a new AI writing tool called ChatGPT. It can write poems, answer questions, generate lists, act as an assistant in writing, and even do writing of it’s own, including “factual information”, essays and short stories. There have been problems with the “factual info” sometimes getting something totally wrong, but it’s also been correct more often than not.

Morgan and I again spoke about the ramifications. In the future, what happens to a prospective Tom Clancy, James Patterson, Tolstoy or Shakespeare? What happens to college essays? What are the implications for plagiarism? If you wrote the questions that generated the subsequent ChapGPT output, are you the author?

More miles of walking and more beers ensued. Generating a list to help you was one thing, but the computer writing an essay submitted as your work was another. How would teachers know what was reality? We again ran a test of sorts.

Last December, I wrote a blog about our neighbor’s dog, Kylie, who stole some of our shoes (Read it here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/12/21/kylie-the-shoe-thief/). A couple of weeks ago, I asked ChaptGPT to “Write a short story about my neighbor’s Dog, Kylie, who steals our shoes, when our dog Carmen isn’t outside.” In the meantime, Morgan asked DALL·E 2 to produce an accompanying picture. Here was the response from ChapGPT, and Morgan’s picture:

“ Sure! Here's a short story about Kylie the shoe-stealing neighbor's dog:

It was a typical sunny afternoon in the neighborhood, and Carmen the dog was lounging in the yard as her owner, Maria, worked in the garden. Suddenly, Maria noticed something odd happening at the edge of the property. It was Kylie, the neighbor's mischievous golden retriever, sneaking into the yard and making a beeline for the porch.

Maria watched in amazement as Kylie snatched one of her shoes and ran off with it, barking happily. Carmen chased after Kylie, but the clever retriever was too fast. Maria couldn't help but laugh at the sight of the two dogs running circles around the yard, with Kylie proudly holding on to her prize. Despite her initial frustration at losing a favorite pair of shoes, Maria couldn't stay mad at the playful Kylie for long. She knew that the retriever was just having a good time, and she couldn't help but admire her neighbor's dog for her boundless energy and enthusiasm.

In the end, Maria decided to keep an eye on her shoes whenever Kylie was around, but she knew that the playful retriever would always find a way to keep them on their toes (or rather, off their feet).”
Picture of Kylie with a Stolen Shoe, produced by Morgan Using the AI Program, DALL·E 2.

My friend Mark wasn’t overly impressed with the story. His words – “It’s fine, but it looks like it was written by an eighth-grader.” And he is right to a degree. Obviously, ChatGPT didn’t have the full context of the reality of the thefts, but as stories go, it had a beginning, an end and maybe made you smile a little. With a bit of imagination, you can see where the future is heading.

There are lots of questions surrounding “creative” AI – ethical, moral, values, access, financial and privacy concerns to name a few areas. Yes, we need to continue discussing all of this. As importantly, we need to understand the inevitability and implications of what is coming in the future. As Morgan said on one of our walks, “People need to understand this is going to happen. It’s not going away, and it will get exponentially better in the coming years. Good writers will avoid this technology. Great writers will embrace it to flesh out their stories. You won’t lose your job to AI. You’ll lose your job to people who know how to use AI”.

Sometime in the future, a real HAL computer (Of 2001: A Space Odyssey fame) will exist. Will computers become sentient in their own fashion? You never know, but I wouldn’t bet against it. Maybe there will always be a “Dave” or two around to protect us. Maybe we won’t need them. Then again…

Dave: Open the pod bay doors, HAL.
HAL: I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.
Dave: What's the problem?
HAL: I think you know what the problem is, just as well as I do.

Addendum:

  • I realize this is a hard topic to really cover in 1,000 words or so (my typical blog length), but thought it was worth getting the topic out there. The future is now, and the more people are aware, the better.
  • You can read my original Kylie, The Shoe Thief blog here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/12/21/kylie-the-shoe-thief/
  • Thanks to Morgan Johnson for editing support and additions to this blog. More importantly, thanks for being a good friend and engaging in these ongoing conversations.
  • Thanks to my friend Colleen and wife Cathy as always for their editing support. Also thanks to my old buddy Mark Dunavan for taking a look or two.

A Plebe Christmas

A Plebe Christmas

I distinctly remember returning to West Point after Christmas my Plebe year. It wasn’t fun. As a matter of fact, the last couple of days at home became bittersweet as I started thinking about returning to West Point as a Beanhead* for another five months.

It wasn’t just returning to the Plebe System (Fourth Class System) that affected me. We had first semester finals two weeks after returning. Also, have you ever visited West Point in winter? In the Fall, West Point is one of the most beautiful places in the country. In the winter? Not so much, unless you have a fondness for the color grey. January to March at West Point is called “Gloom Period”**, with good reason.

If I’m honest with myself, it wasn’t Gloom Period, or finals that brought me down. It was going back as a Plebe for another five months. Before you enter the Academy, you hear all about how tough Plebe year is both mentally and physically. It’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another to experience it for six months, have a break, and then know you are going back for more of the same.

Official Plebe Photo

Coming home to Ottawa that December, Christmas break was great. Being a real person again was even better. Everyone wanted to know how West Point was, and of course I told them the good stuff, while minimizing the actuality of Plebe life. The time at home divided out between family events, dates with Cathy and partying with my friends.

During the day, I spent time at home, or went to see Grandma, various aunts and uncles, and church or family friends. I remember racing around town fitting in as many visits as I could. It was good to catch up with so many people, but also a bit exhausting.

Cath and I went on dates most evenings and tried to make up for lost time. The last we’d seen each other was Labor Day Weekend, when she visited West Point with my folks. In the interim, we’d written so many letters back and forth, I lost count of the actual number. While home, there was even a formal holiday dance at Ottawa High (Cathy was still a senior in high school). I wore my dress uniform, and felt so much older than the high school “kids”, who in reality were only one or two years younger.

At Home Before Going to the OHS Winter Formal

Since she was still in school, Cathy had a curfew most nights. After our dates ended, I often linked up with my buddies Howard, Tim, Mark and others. The drinking age in Illinois was 19 at the time for beer and wine, but nobody really checked. We made the rounds at Berta’s, The Flamingo and Russell’s Tap before finally making it to bed. The next morning I’d wake up and start the cycle all over again. As I recall, sleeping in wasn’t an option.

I’d taken a couple of text books home with me to study over break, but of course I never cracked them. The days and nights raced by.

Finally it was New Year’s Eve and just a couple days before I would return to West Point. I remember going to a party with Cathy at our friend Jack’s home that night. Many of our friends were there. It was a great time, and as the clock struck midnight, there were kisses, handshakes and toasts all around. It was wonderful and things seemed almost perfect.

Maybe an hour later, it hit me. This was all going to end and I would return to the reality of Plebe life. The exhilaration from midnight rapidly disappeared. I crashed and a forlorn feeling took over. I found a quiet spot in an empty room and just sat there thinking. The dread I felt was visceral. Cathy found me a few minutes later and could tell something was wrong. She asked if I was OK and I struggled with words, then just gave up trying to explain. The thing is, she felt it too. We stood there hugging for I don’t know how long.

I more-or-less bounced back the next day and enjoyed my last day or two of freedom. Finally, it was time. As a Plebe, I think I was required to travel in uniform, and when Mom, Dad and Cathy drove me to O’Hare, that’s what I wore. Back then everyone could walk all the way to the gate, and that’s where we said our final goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mom gave me a care package and with a last wave and a smile, I boarded the plane for New York.

A Smile for Mom, Dad and Cathy as I Boarded the Plane to New York.

At the airport in New York (LaGuardia I think), cadets were everywhere. Most of us made our way to buses for the final fifty miles to our Rock Bound Highland Home on the Hudson. The bus I was on was pretty quiet, with Plebes and upperclassmen alike lost in their own thoughts. By now, I’d steeled my mind for the return to school and Plebe life. I was as ready as I was going to be.

And of course it wasn’t as bad as things looked on New Year’s Eve. I made the Dean’s list that first semester, and by late March or early April, Gloom Period was lifting. As for dealing with upperclassmen and the 4th Class System, that too passed. As the Semester wore on, things became easier and and finally, in June, Recognition Day happened. We were no longer Plebes, but full fledged members of the Corps of Cadets.

To this day, I remember that New Year’s Eve and the roller coaster of emotions I felt. Speaking with Cathy, she too distinctly remembers that night. I recently told her I thought I’d write a blog about New Year’s Eve Plebe year. She immediately knew what I was talking about. I laughed a bit and said something like “I didn’t know you remembered”. She quickly answered “How could I forget?”

Addendum:

  • *Beanhead – one of the many less flattering terms upperclassman used for Plebes at the time.
  • ** Gloom Period – If you want to read more about Gloom Period, you can do so here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/21/gloom-period/
  • I’ve often thought of that New Year’s Eve over the years and the feelings I experienced that night. I’d contemplated writing a blog about it before, but couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Then, during Christmas season this year, one of my classmates posted an email on his own feelings about the return to West Point after Christmas. Several others chimed in. Some were worried about academics and getting separated due to grades. Others, like me, thought about the return to the 4th Class System for several more months. Still others talked of the general malaise around our return, with Gloom Period settling in. A few told (now) funny stories about missing flights, late arriving girl friends, and even running into the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders during a stopover on the return to the Academy. It’s interesting what binds people together. My classmates and I laugh and now tell stories of those times that seemed so serious back then. Time and distance have brought perspective and a camaraderie that has lasted a lifetime. I feel lucky to be a member of the Proud and Great Class of ‘78. Thanks for the memories, and the continued friendship my brothers.