Toting my small suitcase, I walked through the Sally Port at West Point into broad Central Area with its clock July 1^st, 1946 with 922 other new cadets, some of whom came up by train from New York.

I had never been ‘back East’ and marveled at the luxuriant vegetation in the middle of the summer, especially as contrasted with Colorado’s.

Immediately the upper classmen on what is called the “Beast Detail” pounced on me and all the others as they streamed in yelling at me to lock my heels together, drop the suitcase, look straight ahead (not at them), start barking out “Yes Sir, No Sir, No Excuse Sir” in response to any order or question. And do so in a very strong voice or else I was ordered to speak louder and louder. To push my chin way back until my head appeared as a ram rod extension of my neck. While the upperclassman before me, wearing white cotton gloves, perfectly fitting uniforms, spit shined black shoes, with military caps whose brim came down just above their eyes, steadily with a look of great determination into my eyes, also walked around me looking me up and down head to toe while he gave me orders.

The Central Area reverberated by all the yelling by the cadre and answering “Plebes.”

I got a sense of the ‘perfection’ demanded at West Point when one upperclassman looked closely at my eyes. In my case the pupils are half covered by my upper eyelids – which some girls said gave me an unintentional ‘bedroom eyes’ look. But the Upperclassmen were not interested in that interpretation, they wanted me to move my eyeballs, or widen my upper eye lid until the pupil was perfectly centered in the middle of the eye. Not possible for more than a momentary effort, for I was built that way.

Soon after a consultation between two of them in front of me they decided that was the way I was constructed, and that I couldn’t be expected to walk around artificially wide-eyed. And so they would let nature take its course.

But as soon as they started instructing all the plebes how to salute – the palm with all five fingers perfectly flat extended from the arm, thumb next to the fingers and not sticking out, another cadet noticed that the fingers of my right hand were not perfectly aligned when I held the salute. After much ineffective instruction telling me to get my fingers to perfectly align, which I couldn’t, they eventually gave up after I came as close as I could to the ‘perfect salute.’ I have a slight genetic defect in that hand, that pulls my middle finger over to the right away from my index finger. Try as I might I can’t make all of them nest together like I can my left hand.

That may be why I always, from the earliest I can remember, more naturally held a gun to fire with my left, not right, hand. I favor my left, even though I am ‘right’ handed in every other way.

So while West Point aims at physical perfection and symmetry of its cadets, it tolerates slight deviations. I was not the Adonis of their dreams.

But they try. Together with hammering away at how cadets stand – posture – the fit of their uniforms, the angle of their caps they get close. And the one major thing they can’t control – height – they solved that for the first 150 years by ‘sizing’ all the cadets and assigning them to 24 100 man companies by height. So all four years I was to serve with 25 of my classmates in Company ‘F-2’ along with 25 plebes, 25 sophomores, 25 juniors, 25 seniors – all of whom were within a quarter inch in height of all others and me. And then the Companies ran from A-1 – the ‘flankers’, all well over 6 feet – to M-1, the ‘runts’ – the shortest cadets in the 1^st Regiment. And A-2, the shortest to M-2, the tallest, in the Second Regiment, where I was, in F-2 company, for all four years.

That is why when Cadets are on Parade, whether on the Plains of West Point, or the streets of Washington DC, together with their marching synchronization their symmetry was for so long so impressive.

Such uniformity has its long understood military value – for it reinforces the sense in all men subordination of the individual to the military teamwork with others much alike – forging very close bonds between men at war.

However by 1959, that perfect symmetry was broken. Cadet Companies are mixed height. ‘Perfect’ parades of male West Pointers will never be seen again. Especially with the admission of women cadets into the Corps. Nor, in my opinion, will such a perfect military band of brother’s unity on the battlefield ever be achieved again either.

Now ‘Plebe Year’ is intended deliberately to be hard – physically and mentally. The purpose is for upper classmen – all of who went through it themselves – to ‘break down’ the new cadet until he is reduced to the common denominator of all plebes, in which exaggerated egos – whether from prior academic or athletic ability, parents status or wealth (or military rank) or from the knowledge that just to get be admitted to West Point is a real honor in itself – are wiped away by the immediate challenges. The 4 years I was there mid century, plebe life was not as harsh and tyrannical as what cadets endured around the turn of the century in which real injuries were incurred, nor as ‘soft’ (in my opinion) as cadets have it now – wherein being yelled at is greatly discouraged.

And it started out hard for all 922 of us – a number of whom already had given up by the end of the first exhausting day. We learned the basic movements in ranks – left face, right face, about face – in exacting detail. Carried our bedding, and starting uniforms to our assigned plebe rooms, 3 to a room, arrayed around the perimeter of Central Square in buildings that date far back into the 1800s.

Then in the blink of an eye all new cadets got their first hair cuts. Shorn locks lay all over the floor around the scores of barbers organized for the mass shearing.

Then started the first of the memorable “Clothing Formations.”

It is a given that soldiers have to be able to get up, get dressed, get their rifle and be ready to fight as fast as possible. But West Point’s ‘Clothing Formations’ brought the training for that Plebe training to a high art.

All plebes standing motionless in groups of ranks in Central Square are suddenly ordered to change their civilian dress to Blah, Blah, Blah - with this article of uniform, and that – all delivered in a rat-a-tat voice the Plebe has to remember verbatim, and then ordered ‘Dismissed!’

Every cadet then has literally to run into the barracks, up the stairs, to their new rooms, as fast as possible find and change clothes to the uniform ordered, from the new cadet high-collar gray to more informal, with white shirts - then dash back down the stairs out to the ‘ranks’ and be standing in ranks perfectly still - and perfectly dressed. And do it as fast as possible – in competition with all other plebes. Make one mistake and the plebe is ordered to run back to his room, correct the error, while all the other plebes remain standing at attention - until everyone is there, perfectly outfitted.

That drill repeated with different combinations of uniform each ‘session’  until everyone can perform in the least number of minutes - usually under 4, even with the crowded stairs. At least one such session every morning and afternoon for the first several days. Of course the tardiest plebe into ranks or one who has the wrong combination, is hazed unmercifully. And may have to repeat it all in a humiliating rank of 1.

The technique really works, and by the end of such ‘training’ every plebe is able to undress or dress, individually, in 2 minutes flat. I have never outlived the effects of those exercises – all my life I dress very, very, rapidly. Even when there is no enemy about to decend on me. Just the tyranny of the clock.

Late in the afternoon that first day all 922 of us less those already who have quit and simply walked away, never to come back, in identical uniforms, were marched in solid ranks – all the while being yelled at for the slightest mistake, along Thayer Road to Battle Monument which, with its Civil War canon and monuments, looks for the first time at the stunning view up the Hudson River to the north .

All the plebes are formed into a large rectangle of smaller rectangles in credible beginnings of military order, to be sworn into by the Oath of Office. Making the plebe legally thereafter a military person and subject to all its orders, and military law, including Court's Martial.

Standing there was my first fleeting glimpse under the trees on Trophy Point of the beauty of West “Point” with its solid mass of granite under us thrusting out into the Hudson River - the 'point' in West Point - that I later learned – and had to master as part of plebe ‘poop’ – that it was that granite mass thrust out into the Hudson River that forced the river to do two 90 degrees changes of direction greatly narrowed that made it the most formidable Fort during the American Revolution.

For the British knew they could never sail around that point without being blasted to bits by cannon firing down on them from the hills on both sides of the river as they were forced to tack back and forth in the narrow channel.

There was even a huge chain fabricated, several links of which are displayed at Trophy Point still, that floated on heavy logs stretched across the river at its narrowest point. The Great Chain and West Point was never tested. Thus the British, with the most powerful Navy in the world and which could control waterways virtually everywhere never could reach Albany up the Hudson and thereby split the Union.

That is why George Washington deemed West Point to be the most important military fort in the Colonies. And he repeatedly visited it, including right after Benedict Arnold tried - in an act of treason - to surrender it when he commanded West Point.

After those few minutes on hallowed grounds, solemnly swearing our allegiance to the nation, and that we would dutifully obey the orders of those appointed above us. we then all marched back to the barracks to continue getting organized in a whirl of orders and requirements, and incessant ‘corrections’ by the upperclassmen who hovered around like bees.

By evening we were all in auditoriums while an upperclassman precisely explained the Honor Code – “I will not lie, cheat or steal, or tolerate one who does.” It’s that last clause that shakes up many people – ‘ratting’ on another cadet. But over the next four years, more than one cadet was discharged ‘For Honor’ because he did not report a fellow cadet – usually a roommate – whom he knew was cheating.

Plebe indoctrination into West Point – our ‘Basic Training’ so to speak would take two months before academics started. It was extreme physical exertion, mastery of a lot of lore from what was called ‘Bugle Notes’, intense training and incessant ‘corrections’ from the cadet cadre. Part of the training was right there at West Point – inside the cadet areas, close by athletic fields, much out on the grassy ‘Plain’ where parades were held, and some military training – such as Bayonet Training.

Now THAT was getting down to brass military tacks. How to put a bayonet on one’s M-1 Rifle, and kill another man with it. Using stuffed dummies mounted on wooden frames on a part of the Plain, to attack singly and as a group.

It was then I knew West Point was training for real war, whatever else it did. . Even if every one of my classmates were headed toward being Army officers, at rock bottom, especially in the Infantry - ‘Queen of Battle’ graduates had to be able to kill enemy soldiers up close and personally.

I liked that training. For it dealt with the essence of what Infantry men for whom all the support – artillery, armor, signal, engineers, aircraft – had to do finally do to win wars, such as WWII just concluded.

Bayonet training was more than physical training. It was to instill the ‘Spirit of the Bayonet’ – will to win - man to man. I wondered if I would ever be faced with that situation.

But I began to like the raw ‘Infantry’ branch of Army service.

One upperclass Cadet made a big impression on me. He was only a 'First Classman' senior, serving on the 'Beast Detail' - that group of cadets whose job it was to train the new plebes and condition them for what it will mean the next four years to be a cadet.

That upperclassman happened to be Cadet Arnold Tucker - the very same Quarterback - and effectively leader, of the National Championship  Army Football Team on whose team were the legendary, All American  'Doc' Blanchard and 'Glen' Davis - Mr Inside and Mr Outside. The most celebrated players in all of West Point's football history.  (I got to see them all play in the fall of 1946.)

But what really impressed me was the sheer aura and quiet force of 'leadership' Tucker exhibited with we brand new cadets. Until almost all other upperclassmen, he never raised his voice, looked steadily into your eyes, gave his orders and advice in a calm authoritative way. I knew his football reputation before I was ever a cadet. But I sensed a real leader in the flesh  - whose leadership on the football field was unquestioned, but whose leadership in the Army would be, in my very humble opinion, outstanding. Except that, from his football injuries, he was medically discharged the year after he graduated after leading the Army team to everlasting  glory as National Champions.

Sound Off, Mister!

'Beast Barracks' continued at an unrelenting pace. We learned, and were required, to duplicate the precise making of our beds, arrangement of our clothing lockers, the shining of our shoes, the hanging of our clothes - all while being barked at by upperclassmen whose faces were within inches of our noses.

And in turn we were required to speak in clipped, precise words, give answers to questions, or bark out repeatedly either "Yes Sir",  "No Sir" or "No Excuse Sir" to almost every query or command - loud and authoritatively enough to command the attention of all within the rang of our voice.

Why were all cadets required to speak out so loudly, instead of speaking more softly? I soon learned that it had its roots in the practical needs for war. That the actual numerical size of an Infantry Squad - 9 to 12 men - was limited to the range of a squad leader's voice would carry and his commands heard when his men are spread out, under fire, in the din and cacaphony of battle.

From the very beginning of cadet training - development of one's 'Command Voice' was demanded of every cadet. And that carried right out onto the Parade Field, where, even when all 2,500 cadets were standing in ranks spread across the wide, deep, Plain, the voices - and parade commands - by all the Adjutants, and Commanders could be carried on the air and heard by every cadet in ranks. Cadets, being trained to be 'leaders' all had to be able to speak, and command, forcefully.

One upperclassman's voice in my cadet company was legendary in its power and range - George Crall - one class ahead of me. His deep, booming, authorative voice could be heard throughout the barracks and outside enough that, among almost all other 'upperclassmen' I got to know, I think I still remember 'George Crall' more than all the others.

As for me, development of my 'Command Voice' was of inestimable value when I commanded, first a 40 man rifle platoon, then 200 man rifle company in combat.

Of course long after I retired my children wince at my outspoken voice developed on the Plains of West Point 65 years earlier.

Next West Point 2

By the spring of 1949, 1st Class cadets were permitted to own cars and park them at West Point in lots set aside for that purpose.

I was pondering whether I could afford a car by the time my own graduation came around a year later. A simple two door new Chevrolet would cost the princely sum of $1,200, and I would have to get car insurance too. There were no shortage of Car Dealers and Insurance Companies, and Banks, eager to offer special cadet deals.

Quite a few 1st Classmen of the Class of 49, due to graduate in just two months already had cars. Many of their parents were well heeled enough to pay for pretty fancy 'sports' cars for eager single cadets. Many of them with cars were happy to drive around West Point and New England whenever they, 1st Classmen, had more weekend and evening 'out' privileges than even we Cows had. But all of us could take off for Spring Break.

So I wangled a ride with a 1st Classman who was going to drive his new car to Springfield, Mass, Friday evening, and drive back Sunday. He would drop me off at the Officers Club, Westover AFB close by, and pick me up noon Sunday. That was a deal.

The only problem was I would be trying to do business with Base Operations on a Saturday, normally a day off for those not required to be on duty. And I had no contacts with anyone at Westover.

I would have to depend on what I could do using my Cadet Gray uniform - probably well recognized by many on an Air Force base with lots of commissioned pilots - as my calling card.

So I took off, got there by 11AM, got a small room in the Westover 'BOQ' - wooden bachelor officers quarters building - slapped up during WWII. I didn't rate any better accommodations. But as a Cadet - military person - I had no trouble renting the room. 

As I feared there were no more senior officers around the offices that might be curious what I was up to - instead I had to deal with the busy over the counter staff. I learned that if I wanted to go right now, they could probably get me on a plane to London. Lots of 'support' aircraft for the Berlin Airlift, and reconditioned Lift planes were always coming and going. But trying to arrange for a flight two months later was a crap shoot. I could put my name on a list but that was about it.  I got on a list.

After trying a few other things I got a dinner snack at a cafeteria next to base operations, and headed for my room at the BOQ.

The room was stuffy and hot, and I walked over and opened the window to get some night air. I could see down the grassy slope from the BOQ a lighted building that lively music was coming from. I figured that was the Officer's Club and it sure seemed busy. But then it was Saturday night.

So I put my cadet dress coat back on, and my cap, and headed down there.

When I walked in, the whole scene was a gasser. It was, believe it or not, a Costume Ball! The place was jumping. Somebody saw me and loudly exclaimed "What a Costume" and guffawed. So loud that those at the  head table where the Commanding General and his wife and staff saw me.  A junior aide came over and invited me to join their party. Of course the general knew immediately what I was, a West Point cadet.  Hand shakes all around.

Already several of the officers were in their cups, and repeatedly claimed I had the 'best costume' of anybody in the packed club.

They wondered what I was up to. I told them. Whereupon the Base Operations Officer across the table, started betting with a Wing commander at the table  WHO could get me to Europe faster! It was a blast.

Before the evening ended they wanted to fly me Sunday afternoon in a PBY (probably a rescue float plane, close to the ocean) back to West Point where they would land on the Hudson River , taxi up to West Points dock and deliver me!

Only trouble was the weather turned bad in the morning, so I got back to West Point the same way I came.

 I just hoped the Operations Officer, who had been drinking well at the Costume Party would remember me when I came back two months hence, trying to get an immediate ride.

It was clear from the announced schedule for various sections of each class, that the summer of 1949 would be very busy for me.

I was entitled to 30 days leave, but I was going to try and 'tour Europe' part of which time would be with classmate Gorman. I would also be on the 'Beast Detail.' As new 1st Classmen, we would be responsible for training the new Plebes. i.e. 'run' Beast Barracks from July 1st on. 

But first I had to pass all my 3d 'Cow' year academics.

So I slogged along, enduring the engineering classes and passing them, without facing any more 'turn out' exams. German was behind me.

I, and a handful of other Chess Club cadets had a break in the winter. We were invited to compete against Navy's Chess Club, on the New York's famed Chess Club. I wasn't on any winter sports athletic team, so this was a chance to  get away from the Rock, if only for an overnight weekend.

We got to new York carried on a West Point bus, competed on Saturday afternoon, checked into our reserved hotel rooms and then Sunday morning. The New York Chess Club's playing rooms were what one expected. Not bright and airy like a modern auditorium, but reflecting the 18th century men's clubs drawing rooms, it was dark, low light, overstuffed chairs with floor lamps, inlaid wooden chessboard on carved leg tables. Just enough room for the two teams - I think there were six a side, and a handful of Club members, and pipe smoking onlookers. We wore our uncomfortable gray Dress Coats. The Swabbies were more comfortably dressed.

Brandon, our strongest player played the first Board, I was second Board, and Fidel Ramos was 3d.

It was all over by 2PM Sunday. We WON. We beat NAVY! I won my games and Fidel won his. Their strongest player beat Brandon.

When we got back, and from the big Dining Hall 'poop deck' where all 2,500 cadets eat at once, the results of our competition was announced, along with other weekend events, when it was announced West Point beat Navy in Chess, there was a big roar of applause. That tickled lots of cadet funny bones.

That was the only sports event I competed in against Navy that we won.

Hooha!

June week was hectic as usual, as the Class of '49 was feted, paraded, and graduated. It was then, when the travel schedule that Gorman would be on was known. His cadet  group with Colonel Beukema, the 'other' permanent professor of Social Sciences accompanying, would go to Frankfurt, fly into divided Berlin on an Airlift plane, then end up in Rome. At which point Gorman and any other cadet with their entourage could 'drop off' in Rome and start their 30 days leave on their own.  Those who didn't want to do that would fly back to the US with the tour group and take leave from West Point.

I saw that if I first headed for London, through Frankfurt, on my own, then  rattle around London, taking pictures, and then head for Rome I could maximize my chances for linking up with Gorman. No guarantee.

So I headed for Westover Field starting my leave, with my orders in my hand in lieu of a Passport, as a US Military person going into occupied Germany and Italy.

When it was clear that they had lost my paper 'request', I contacted that Operations Colonel, who remembered me.  Within one day I was on a military plane for Frankfurt, traveling light, with my fold up 35mm camera I had been using all along at West Point.

But I knew my cameras by then, and I knew that Germany was famous for its Leica's and Rolliflexes. I made a beeli\ne for the largest US Army Post Exchange and quickly bought a wonderful Rolliflex, with its larger negative size, and plenty of film. It was really cheap. I don't remember its exact cost, but it was at a post-war low, and cheaper still being sold from the Army PX. Now I had a real professional class camera.

Then I turned around and hitched a ride into London on a Berlin Airlift tired C-54 plane heading to be over-hauled before it came back to make the run again. The pilot let me take over the controls at one point so I 'flew' a ways getting the feel of the heavy controls needed to fly such a large four engine plane.

London

For several days, timing my effort to get to Rome in coordination with Paul Gorman's itinerary, I did the London Sights. And started taking great pictures with my new camera.

After enjoying the sights, Picadilly Square, browsing shops, and taking pictures - keenly aware that I was just a few hours drive away from Wales, where my ancestors had lived for centuries - I went back to the US Air Force operations office to hitch-hike to Rome. I had no time to sample Wales where I never had visited. Later.

As luck would have it, there was an Army Pay Plane I could take.  It was carrying the dollar payroll for US Military in Italy, from Banks in London which had been a depository for US government funds for Europe.

Rome

So, I was off to Rome. When I got there I took a room with a telephone in a downtown large hotel. I had the name of the Hotel that the Class Tour was supposed to stay in after their group flew back from Tunis. I called there and left a message for Cadet Paul Gorman, and where I was.And crossed my fingers.

As luck would have it, he got the message, found he was only a few blocks from where I was staying. And within the blink of an eye, he took his leave from the Cadet Tour, starting HIS vacation leave along with mine, and he took a taxi to my hotel.

So we did Rome. And I got to photograph many of the great Roman ruins. There was little war damage done to downtown Rome.

In one shot, I got the Iconic Image of our tour, which was destined to become the front page of the Pointer Magazine when we got back. That is Cadet Paul Gorman walking through the Coliseum in the picture below.

Then there were more, many  more. Here are just a few.

After a few more sights I photographed, and Gorman studied with our guide books, decided to go back to Germany, which would reveal much more the effects of war.

Post War Germany

We flew back to Frankfurt, Germany. There I started taking photographs of Germans who were living in bombed out buildings, and some of the destruction itself. Here are two typical scene.

Suffice it to say, we saw the debris, both human and structural, of war.

(Those photographs will be contained in my Hughes Collection data base, and some will appear again as I relate the publishing we did with the Pointer Magazine when we got back.)

Gorman related to me an incident that happened when his group had a few hours off and they decided to sight see. They took a street car when it started to rain. The car had quite a few Germans in it. Gorman and his fellow cadet companion were wearing the black, rubberized, raincoats. They noticed that Germans began to talk and look at them. It dawned on the two cadets that their raincoats might have looked what SS troopers would have worn.

Nervous as to what might happen, they got off the streetcar and walked the rest of the way.

But what would be a Tour of Europe without a trip to Paris? So we hitched a military ride there too,

Paris

Is it any surprise, that we then encountered a whole gaggle of Cadets like us, who got to Paris on their own, and intended to sample its delights?

The word had spread at West Point, supported by a 'How To' article in the Pointer, how cadets could get a cheap trip to Europe on their vacation.

In fact 5 of us ran into each other - Gorman, I, three other cadets, and a Midshipman from Annapolis doing the same thing. All six of us took a large set of rooms off the Champs-Elysees, where for two days and nights we partied, slept, ate, and even entertained a few Parisian ladies. The 5 of we cadets looked, in our uniforms so similar, the French proprietress of the establishment was not sure she got paid for all of us. She did.

Yes, I even visited the bohemian Montmartre district where all the famed artists and writers hung out in the 1920s. I knew quite about the literary lights of Paris, some of whose writing styles I toyed with. And most of whose works I had read.

Then I found even a bistro  named after the Famous 'Cadets de Gascogne' - the swashbuckling and romantic sons of gentry who fought as a Regiment for King Louis XIII and were favored by artists and playrights who featured them in Cyrano de Bergerac and the Three Musketeers.

No 'West Pointers' they, lots of romantic poetic nonsense has been written about them.  So I put on my French Beret and had my picture taken as such a French cadet.

Ah yes, the Cadets of Gascogne!

Behold them, our Gascon defenders

Who win every woman they woo!

There’s never a dame but surrenders—

Behold them, our Gascon defenders!

Young wives who are clever pretenders—

Old husbands who house the cuckoo—

Behold them—our Gascon defenders

Who win every woman they woo!

The Montmarte Church of the Sacre'-Coeuer 

Then back to the US via Frankfurt - Rhein Main Airport - again. This time we traveled in a little more comfort than the bucket seats of a C-47 or the cavernous hold of a C-54. A USO troupe of actors were enroute back to the US also, so we got a ride in their passenger plane, courtesy of the US Airforce fleet.

Next West Point (12)

As the Powers that Be announced before we all went on Leave, the schedule called for our Class - 1st Class - seniors or 'Firsties' would train all the incoming plebes, who would be arriving on July 1st, 1949.

That has always been the way it was. The most senior upperclassmen, as the ‘Beast Detail’  would train the new plebes from the day they dropped their civilian suitcases until Beast Barracks training was over.

Since I enlightened you all on what life – for me – was like during Beast Barracks, I won’t bore you by repeating it. The incoming class of 1953 would be treated exactly like we were three long years before.

Our Class had to be organized into a complete ‘chain of cadet command’ to both ‘command’ the plebe class, and to be the command hierarchy over all four classes of cadets – for this year from July 1949 to graduation June 1950. The Tactical Department (whose active duty officers supervised and evaluated the ‘leadership potential’ all 2500 cadets all four years. And did some formal and  informal classroom training as well as ‘counseling’ cadets. It was up to their judgment which cadets should fill any of the one-year Corps of Cadet leadership positions. Another exercise in developing leaders. Now Cadet officers had no real, standard Army, Court Martial level, power. Only the Tactical Department officers and Commandant had such powers.

But Cadet officers, within the limits of West Point Cadet Regulations could control the activities of cadets, and award demerits. So there had to be a ‘First Captain’, two Regimental and several Battalion commanders, with small cadet staffs, 24 Company Commanders, lots of ‘Platoon’ leaders, and squad leaders. Cadet Sergeants, Lieutenants, Captains. (all the Corporals were 3d Classmen, and all Plebes are, of course, ‘Cadet Privates.’ Classmate John Murphy, who had a 'command presense' about him, deep voice, was made 'First Captain' - the most senior cadet position

I got orders appointing me a Cadet Sergeant. As I explained in my first Entering West Point article,  over half our classmates had prior military service  So there was a tendency, on account of their relative age maturity and experience to select those older and more experienced kind of cadets for the top cadet leadership positions for the coming year.

So once we were ‘reorganized’ into those cadet ranks Beast Barracks started just as it had for the last 150. I was just a part of it like every other classmate, haranguing and instructing the plebes from their first day.

The Big Photograph

Now I did something special that summer. Because I was always looking for an opportunity to express, especially in the Pointer, Cadet and West Point life with my camera (a new Rolliflex, thanks to Germany) and words, I had an original idea that the Class of 1953 would thank me for  years, but also led to a real problem for me in the fall.

I told my cadre classmates that I could take a picture of the entire Plebe Class at once in a way all 621of their faces would be visible in the picture.

Now sure there have always been ‘Class’ photographs, and ones with large numbers in it, such as parades. But none like the way I would do it.

I said that if the Beast Detail cadre marched all the plebes into a very large rectangular formation up against the wall of the old Academic Building, and ordered them each to look up, I could, from the roof of the Building capture them all.

There was, understandably, quite a debate between my classmates and the ‘chain of command. ’ But the originality of the idea, and their knowledge that such a picture of each of them would be a lifelong keepsake, did the trick.

So it was done. The cadre explained to each Plebe Platoon what would be done, and how they would have to march to get into the temporary formation. Below I show one view of the cadre marching their plebes into that rank. And then the resultant picture.

621 Members of the entering West Point Class of 1953

(512 graduated four years later)

That picture became famous. First it was reproduced in the Pointer. Then it attracted National Media attention. Then the Class of '53 adopted it for their own, and it appeared on their final Year Book.

And it got me into lots of trouble later, which I  will explain.

Next West Point (13)

At last we 670 surviving Class of 1950 cadets (out of the 922 who started in 1946) were entering our last academic year before graduation. Having gotten through and passed all the courses shoveled at us Plebe Year, Yearling Year, and Cow Year we only had the 1st Class offerings to contend with. 

It was not likely that many cadets would be dropped this last year, unless it were for medical reasons - losing just too much academic time to continue on in the same class. Perhaps turned back to the Class of 1951 at the point they had to stop. Or a few who simply could not be 'commissioned' as Army officers in their physical condition.

It was very unlikely that any more of our class would be forced out of West Point this last 10 months, unless they did something very bad - such as violate the Honor code.

So the subjects yet to be taken by all, and passed, were:

Military Engineering, Military History, Ordnance, Law, Social Sciences, English, Military Hygiene, Physical Education, Tactics, and something called "Military Psychology and Leadership."

Everything except MP&L was obvious. Engineering - with Military Application was clear. History of Wars was obvious. Ordnance, Law, Social Sciences and English were straightforward subjects. Military Hygiene was pretty understandable, as we would, as Army officers and commanders of up to large numbers of soldiers, have to master the principles that would keep our Army - or Platoons - healthy. PE, Tactics were obvious.

But what, exactly was 'Military Psychology and Leadership about - as an academic subject? We had been DOING that as lower or upperclassmen tutored by the active duty Tac Officers the last 3 years. Using sound psychological inducements and good applied military 'leadership' which had been honed and perfected internally by West Point over the last 150 years of its existence And which we progressively were permitted to exercise, ourselves, over lower class cadets as a way of learning how to be officers later. What could West Point cadets possibly learn from classroom and laboratory scholars about military leadership?

Well, MP&L's creation was largely from the influence of the Superintendent our last three years - Maj General Maxwell Taylor, the Normandy Invasion Airborne Commander.  For he was an intellectual and not just a soldier. He somehow  learned about the growing 'scientific' field of Psychology. He reasoned that West Point needed to apply - or at least add the study of scientific psychology to that which was learned and applied by just doing it,  from the history and traditions of West Point itself  - in order to better educate future officer-leaders of men. West Point's Tactical Department officers - most all of them wartime experienced leaders, knew military leadership extremely well.  They had been carefully selected for their own record of leading military men in war and peace, and for their sound character, integrity, and absence of  personal weaknesses - alcoholism, or womanizing. - as well as being graduates themselves where the intense 'system' when they were cadets passed on the most concentrated lore of military leader behavior in the nation. i.e. USMA was presumed to  'know' good (and bad) military leadership better than any other 'faculty' in the world.  So what more is there to teach?

We doubted any 'Psychology Professor' in any civilian university could properly 'lead' soldiers as well as we could already.

But the design of the course was a little smarter than we at first assumed.

Some of the subjects to be taught would be taught by experienced Tactical Officers without advanced academic degrees, while others, teaching topics like Maslow's Hierarchy of "needs" theory of human motivation could be better taught by officers, including graduates, who also had master's degrees in academic Psychology. All to 'modernize' the curriculum and take advantage of research psychology for military leaders, seemed to be Taylor's aim.

When I started taking MP&L classes as a Firstie, one VERY practical module struck me - in which every cadet had to master how to make a 5 minute speech  'to inform', or a speech to 'convince' or to 'persuade', or to 'motivate.' 

For it was well known that every officer of troops repeatedly has to stand up in front of his unit - in barracks, in ranks, in classrooms, on the battlefield, and talk to them. Either effectively or not, based on his skill in communicating, and their willingness - or obligation - to listen. Better that every West Point graduate learns before he graduates - as a matter of formal training  - or academic 'education' how best to deliver such 'oral communications'. And be evaluated, graded, and counseled on his performances like being graded in any other subject.

But this is a grade for the quality of 'performance' not just a grade for 'knowledge.' And unlike just a college 'speech' class, those gradings and critiquing are by experienced Army troop leaders who knew what would work on soldiers, and what would not. It was akin to Performance Acting - knowing the lines but also delivering them in the most effective way possible. Helped by instructors as 'coaches.' Like theater directors.

I frankly found that module of MP&L one of the BEST courses in all four years at West Point. For it went to the visible and audible heart of military 'leadership.' Effectively communicating with soldiers. And because I already, with my Welsh-derived  'bards tongue' was a pretty good speaker anyway, this course honed my skills until - over the years - I have been praised for being such a great 'informational,' and 'motivational' speaker - whether in front of soldiers before combat - or before civilians on other matters.

I'm not only still a damn good writer in my old age, but I am still a damn good speaker, with only a little quavering in my 83 year old voice. I credit that MP&L course in polishing my verbal skills.

From the time I took that course, the skill that I had learned, was justified when I was put in front of the entire Corps of Cadets when I came back to instruct at the Academy four years later, after Korea.

Privileges and Cars

As 1st Classmen, we were granted evermore greater privileges. Firsties could go off post when they had no cadet duties to perform, and they were not scheduled for anything. That included driving their own car - if they had it registered on the post and it was in the cadet parking areas.

It was time for me to seriously consider getting a car.

Automobile dealers from the big companies were authorized to come on post and 'brief' Firstclassmen in groups, what they could offer, and under what terms. This was tied to being briefed by representatives of Auto Insurance companies. We would have to buy car insurance. The one company that had the inside edge, because it had been insuring officers for decades, was United Service Automobile Association, largely directed by retired or ex- military officers, who pretty much knew what the newly-commissioned 2d lieutenants needed and could afford.

Since most all of us would need a bank loan to finance our car, choosing a bank was part of what we needed information on. Many classmates, whose families were in cities large and small across the country already had good advice what bank, local to them would be best. Those of us - like me - whose family did not have 'good banks' that would give cadets favorable loans, readily chose the Bank in Highland Falls, New York, right next to West Point. So a handful of banks also came on post to 'advice' our class.

All this would be a bonanza for those car and insurance companies and some banks. Over 600 new cars at one swoop, just before or after graduation!

After endless debates with other Firsties at the dinner table on what make or model to get, I settled on a new plain 2 door 1950 Model Chevrolet. Beige colored. Nothing fancy - just functional for me to be able to drive away from West Point, drive home to Colorado on the 60 day leave I would be entitled to after Graduation, and to my first Duty Station.

While many cadets - and other military officers I have known - are very picky in their cars I always saw a car as just a way to get from  Point A to Point B. I never - all my life - went for the stylish, or sporty, thus more costly or elegant, automobiles. All I wanted, new or used - was a good, reliable, decent looking, functional, with a radio, and safe car. Thats all.

I can't remember now what I had to pay down for my bank loan for my Chevy. But I remember that new car cost me $1,200. I probably had to put up perhaps $400 of my own money for a three year loan at perhaps 5% interest. Cars were pretty cheap then! And Highland Falls bank terms reasonable. With Insurance maybe costing me $50 a month out of my future Army pay.

So I got my Chevy sometime in March, and enjoyed tooling around Highland Falls, down to and across the Bear Mountain Bridge and back during the few periods and weekends I had free. I had no place to drive to and back in New England. And I drove to the small town of Cornwall, over the narrow, high, twisty, Storm King Mountain road just north of West Point - largely to see old George Moore, the publisher of our Cadet Pointer Magazine, and his wife. For many a cadet Pointer staff member, their cosy house was a sort of 'home' which we could drop in on weekends as the end of our cadet days neared.

Cornwall was also one of the close by towns where Cadet girl friends or family members stayed, especially during times - Christmas, spring break, and Graduation - 'June Week' when accommodations were overflowing. There simply were not many nice 'motels' in the closest town - Highland Falls - just out of the South Gate of West Point. 

So driving over Storm King Mountain - to get to Cornwall, or Newburgh as the next larger town - was required. As I neared Graduation, that Mountain became a big part of my life.

Next West Point (14)

The last 8 month academic year for me was the wild and wooley one. All we graduating cadets were faced with our final - career determining - decisions. Which Service to enter - The Army, or Army Air Corps - which would soon become the separate US Air Force. And then which BRANCH of Army service to enter - Infantry, Artillery, Armor, Combat Engineers, or Combat Signal Corps?

I negotiated with LIFE MAGAZINE for one of my great photographs, cut a class, got 'slugged' with a stiff punishment for that, got a lecture from my 'Tac Officer' about piano lessons, the Canadian cruise ship Noronic exploded and burned, pushing my great photos off the pages of Life, I crashed my car, graduated clean-sleeve, got pushed into an arranged marriage that would never last, the Korean War broke out, my graduation leave became a mess, my would-be-wife got drunk and crashed my car in the mountains of Colorado my orders got changed to send me to combat without benefit of Infantry officer training. All in the space of 8 months. Whew!

My Choices

When the time came - April 1950 - when all we Class of 1950 West Point Cadets had an opportunity to choose our branch of service, and initial assignments before our coming June 6th graduation, I was somewhat tired of what I sensed was the herd instinct of many of my classmates. Many wanted to go immediately into Airborne and Ranger training, before they joined their ultimate infantry, artillery, or armor units. I felt that was a kind of fad. I always have marched to my own drum, and never have been a lemming-like follower of military fads.

So I not only selected Infantry branch, but also chose the only separate, straightleg, Rifle Company in the US Army - the 77th Separate Rifle Company at Fort Riley, Kansas. Where there would be few classmates. There was another reason I selected that set of choices. I wanted to first command a regular Army combat Infantry unit made up of the 'salt of the earth' American draft soldiers, not airborne, ranger, or special forces elites. I had concluded from watching, while I was a teenager too young to serve in it, our 8 million men winning WWII, that our success was more decided on the average performance of the average American soldier in a draft Army than from the performance of military elites. The rise to the challenge of the 'citizen soldiers.'

I also could have opted for the Army Air Corps and flown combat planes. 25% of the class went Air Corps, for this was before the Air Force Academy was founded. But if I was in combat I wanted to see the whites of my enemy's eyes, which I doubted I would ever see if I became a fighter pilot.

But I did not notice that either Airborne assaults, or just strategic bombing had won the war in Europe. Just the selfless actions of millions of ordinary American men with a rifle taking on the German and Japanese Armies.

I had no problem with the special elites - they admirably perform specialized tasks - but they did not, by themselves, decide the war. Bill Maudlin's (WWII premier cartoonist) Willy and Joe did. I wanted to command American Willy and Joes from heartland America.

All this went through my mind as I made my selection before I graduated with 670 other classmates on June 6th, 1950. And they made theirs. Three weeks later the North Koreans invaded South Korea and the US Government became desperate for enough troops and officers to lead them, in an Army which had been let - by Congress and the Truman Administration - to wither on the WWII post-war vine - in numbers, trained quality - including of their leadership - and weapons. The first troops thrown into the war were occupation units from Japan, often poorIy led.

I remember clearly all of we First Classmen inside a large room, being called out, in order of Class Standing, and making their final decision, whether to select Army Air Corps (which 25% of each class had to choose, 10 years before there WAS a separete Air Force which then drew graduates from a new Air Force Academy) or Army. I had made my choice.

Life Magazine

During early September, 1949, while I was supposed to be enjoying my way through easier First Class Academics toward graduation, I was contacted by Life Magazine - THE Life Magazine - reputedly the most prestigious photographic-news magazine in America.

Someone had sent them a copy of the Pointer Magazine in which my classic picture of the entire plebe class of 1953 spread across two pages.

They wanted to print it! My photography of West Point in Life Magazine! Big stuff. I would be paid up to $1,000. But they had to negotiate how to get the original film to them, and lots of details about the photo, the background of it, who is in it and why, etc, etc. They were in a hurry for it was a unique 'freshmen' class photo just as Colleges and Schools were starting up for the 1949 school year.They would like it for their September 19th issue.

The trouble was they insisted on talking to me at 9:30 AM the next day, by phone, in a conference call with me at one end, several Life staffers at the other. But that was right in the middle of my Military History class! I couldn't just simply 'be excused' for that kind of excuse!

So I took a really calculated risk. I might not be missed by a less than attentive Instructor. So I cut the class, got into the Pointer's offices, waited for and took the call. The arrangements were going smoothly.

But the Military History instructor DID miss me. And so wrote up an 'unexcused absence' quill. Which would then crank through the system to my Company F-2 Tactical Officer, who would demand to know why I was absent. Possible some medical excuse? I had no excuse except what I did and why.

MEANWHILE, that very night - September 18th - the big Canadian luxury Liner the 'Noronic' caught fire when docked with over 500 on board, and totally burned up, killing up to 140 passengers. A big calamity. Big news. Big PHOTOGENIC News.

Life rushed to cover it. THAT story pushed my West Point story right out of the magazine.

So I didn't get my 15 Minutes of Fame, OR the $1,000.

Slugged

But I did get 'slugged' - cadet name for heavier than 'normal' punishment. I had deliberately cut a class I was required by USMA Regulations to attend. I had no legitimate - in the eyes of the Academy - excuse. No matter what a great piece of publicity for West Point in the great Life Magazine, if it had run. But it didn't run.

It took over 2 weeks before that 'quill' got to the F-2 tac, a check up made to the Academic department that the class absense was in fact inexcusable. (I was given Zero tenths out of a potential 3.0 on the spot quiz done the day I was absent. Which sure didn't help my class standing in that subject for that semester) Then the quill worked its way through the Tactical Department to my Tactical Officer's desk while he was on a short TDY assignment - thus absent.

So Lt Col Keller, on return, reviewed the facts with me, lectured me on the fact that he had a hobby playing the piano. That he had no time, consistent with his Army duties and responsibilities to pursue practicing his hobby. My photography was a hobby. I had put my hobby before my duty.

And it was, to him, more serious because I was a Firstclassman! A Senior. An example to all the other classes!

It would not be seemly for a First Classman to Walk the Area with a rifle and be seen as a bad example. So he sentenced me to (1) be busted from my cadet Sergeant's rank to private (2) be confined to my quarters during the Spring semester. Meaning I could not take advantage of 1st Class privileges, like driving my car. I could only go to class, to formations, to meals, scheduled physical training and intramural competitions I was in, and attend other specific duties - otherwise stay in my room, study, and contemplate my Sin. I was only let out of confinement for June Week - my graduation week. And he was not the one who released me for it. He was rotated to another assignment and a Lt Col Tuck became my Tac. He let up on me for those very last days.

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Storm King Mountain

So academics came to an end. I had managed to pass everything, so would graduate and be commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the US Army on the 6th of June, 1950.

But there was another matter I had to deal with.

From time to time in this West Point Years story I have mentioned that I had a girlfriend back in Colorado. All four years while I was at West Point. I had met her while I was still a Cadet at Colorado Military School. Her brother was also a Cadet. Her name was Pat Tompkins. I was mildly attracted to her - as a teen boy of 17 might well be, while he is playing the field.

The big problem was that her mother, a shrewd woman with some Denver socialite contacts and ambitions pushed her on me. Because she thought I would be heir to Arleen Hughes estate - which would set up both of us for life. And the cost to her own estate by supporting Pat, would be lifted from her. And she never considered the possibility I might make the Army a career or that I would not be a beneficiary of the E.W. Hughes fortune. Or that I might not love Pat Tompkins, who seemed increasingly to be looking more for a father-figure than a husband.

I did not make plans to have a typical West Point June wedding. But she managed to arrange it with my Aunt Arleen who was going to come to my graduation - she was not - with Pat and make it easy for us to get married right after I graduated - in New York, in a hotel suite Service. And she put her up at a Cornwall set of rooms like many an independent cadet date might have.

The day I was released from confinement, two days before graduation, I drove over Storm King Mountain in my new Chevy to see her. She was distraught, we argued, but she wanted to 'consummate' the marriage right there on the spot even before any ceremony was held. She was trying to entangle me no matter what. And she desperately wanted to do what 'other' of her girl friends at Stephens College did - copulate routinely with their boy friends. She wanted to be so 'normal' that she was not normal. So she insisted and I obliged to engage in sex in the car in the dark

It got late - so late I was going to be late for bed check back at West Point and I might be sanctioned again by the Tac. There were ways I could be 'held over' or not be permitted to attend my own graduation - but get my diploma and commission later. ??? I wanted to cross that graduation stage like all my classmates. I worked too hard for too long to miss out on it.

So I jumped in my Chevy and raced through Cornwall and up over the Storm King Mountain shelf road. It was raining lightly. I got part way up when I saw I was being followed. The Cornwall Cop was chasing me for speeding through sleepy Cornwall! I tried to outrun him, but when I got to the very top of the mountain road, which was only guarded from the cliff overlooking the Hudson River, by a low stone fence I spun out on the slick road, banged against the low outside wall, distorting the bumper and grill.

The engine, the fan belt jammed and died. I started rolling freely down the other side with a dead engine. The Cornwall Cop followed me down, not trying anything on that dangerous road - he knew what was at the bottom better than I did. I had just missed going over the side to a sure death.

I was able to roll to a stop in an off road parking area. He then came up - and having dealt over the years with many a West Point cadet trying not to be late, suggested I just lock the car, get in his. And so he, at breakneck speed - knowing how important it was for me not to be late - had me write out my own ticket in the other seat! And he delivered me with 5 minutes to spare!

So that was my encounter with Storm King Mountain and scheming women.

Suffice it to say I called the Chevy Dealer in Highland Falls to retrieve my car, and I got ready to graduate a day later, and pack my lean belongings, for I would have to depart the Post and my place in the barracks within one day.

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Some how Pat got to the Graduation Ceremony, over Storm King Mountain by taxi. It was held inside.

And here is proof I graduated in the picture below. The then Superintendent General Moore handed me my diploma,

Notice I have three gold stripes meaning I am a FIRSTCLASSMAN, but I show NO rank (lik'e Sergeant's Stripes)

So I graduated with one of the rarest distinctions. I was one of the only FIVE CADET PRIVATES OF THE CLASS OF '50!

If I couldn't be the top military cadet, maybe I could be the bottom!They all became the same after graduation.

Only four other of my classmates were also busted to Private at some time the last semester.

But I made it. I graduated from West Point, fair an square along with my other 670 Classmates, while 292 others did not make it. ALL of us graduating would be, just like me, in rank a 2d Lieutenant, after graduation. Starting all over again in the Army at large. Where ones actions in combat and war, and record in peacetime, would determine who rose in rank over the years.

We were then Sworn In, as Commissioned Officers right after the Graduation ceremony.

I was free to leave for 60 days Graduation Leave then report to my 1st Duty station - which as of the date you see me above, 6 June, 1950 - would be Fort Riley, Kansas.

That concluded my 4 year Adventure through West Point.

Go to West Point (15) for the end of the saga.

Not to bore you with too much detail - my family members would like to know 'what happened' that I got into a brief, very bad marriage, before I realized how I had been 'used' by a scheming mother of a bride she didn't want, here is the brief story of the end of that sad marriage saga. We were only 'married' for 3 months actually and less than one year legally.

It was not until the year after I returned from the Korean War, that I learned the 'rest' of the story about her. My mother dug out much of the information. Pat Tompkins was psychologically disturbed - for good reason - but that was no help to me then.

Mrs Tompkins husband one day in the 1930s brought home a baby and handed it to Mrs T - his illegitimate child by some other woman. That was Pat. She never knew her own mother. And Mr T died when she was only about 10 years old. Mrs T dealt with her as just a problem to be disposed of. I was her target of opportunity. She did whatever she could, when I was home on leave to press Pat on me so I would become involved, thus committed to her.

After the graduation and swearing in ceremony, I had two things to attend to. Getting my car back in operation so I could drive to Colorado and then Fort Riley. And to accomodate Pat.

Although we were not married - yet - we had to live together. So I had to move us into what I can only report was a flea-bag motel in Highland Falls where the Chevrolet dealer and shop was.

We stayed there one night until the car was ready. So we drove down to New York where my Aunt Arleen had booked us a room - and where a small marriage service, she arranged, could be held in one of those 'Religious Retreat' rooms many large hotels have.

We were there two nights. The marriage service took place at 10:00am

To show how discombobulated I was by this time - having pretty much shrugged off what the three woman had worked up, when the ceremony was over my Aunt had to whisper "Kiss the bride!" Of course my mother was not there. She, still stuggling to make a living and a home for sister Bette, couldn't afford to come back east, either to my graduation, or the marriage.

So we set off for, first, Colorado. On the long trip I got to know more about Pat than I ever really did during those short visits during my 4 years at West Point when I was home on leave.

It was not until after I was back from Korea that I learned more what had happened in her life that so affected her psychologically.

Starting with her being unwanted when she, a bastard child, was handed to her mother by her philandering father, she was very insecure. From that, I concluded she wanted to see me as a father figure and not just a husband and lover.

We got to Denver where my mother was thrilled to see me - beginning to fulfill her dreams for her only 'boy' with no father. She accepted, but never really embraced, the marriage.

Then we set off for Grand Lake, Colorado, where my sister Jeanne and her husband Earnie lived with their two boys as he tried to get a Fishing Store going. They invited us to hang out there in a tourist cabin in the town, near the lake for part of my graduation leave.

A lot of the tension drained out of me as I drove again into my beloved Rocky Mountains. It had been a long 4 years at West Point.

I fished with Earnie and the boys while Pat hung out with Jeanne and my younger sister Bette - who was up there for the summer. Staying in the Apartment Shirley Savoy Hotel in downtown Denver where Mother lived was not very pleasant for a girl of 15 during her summer school vacation.

They got along with Pat, but things were not right from the beginning. When she and I ate alone at one of the three or four Restaurants in Grand Lake she drank too much. She was obviously unhappy. I wasn't her father.

One night after we had only been there about 5 days, while I was asleep in our cottage, she got my car keys after she had been drinking, and started driving recklessly around Grand Lake - on mountain roads and not just paved highways. She drove too fast and went off the road, in an accident. She was alright but the car sure wasn't.

In the end I had to have it towed all the way into Denver to get it repaired. And so the 'vacation' was terminated. She and I sat in the front seat while Bette, whose summer was pretty much over was in the back seat, while the towing vehicle pulled us all the 125 miles into Denver.

After the car got repaired - again - it was already time for me to get the 500 miles to Kansas and Fort Riley. Some graduation leave.

By that time the Korean War had started, and was all the news. I wondered what that meant for me, even though I had orders to a specific Rifle company at Fort Riley. I soon found out.

By the time we got to Fort Riley, my orders had been changed. Sent me to Korea as a replacement officer. Cannon fodder sort of.

So we barely got checked into Barrack like quarters then we were gone again, driving back to Denver to leave Pat there, with our car, while I flew out to Fort Lewis, Washington which would get me to Korea.

Pat moved back into her mother's home, with our car.

Final Chapter of this Saga

I was retreating from the Chinese Army in Korea when I got in the mail that caught up with us, a letter from a Denver, attorney. Pat had filed for divorce - from a distance. In the Army that is called a 'Dear John' letter when a soldiers' wife or girlfriend, while he in combat and can't do anything about it, mails him a letter like this. I am sure her mother, seeing that this marriage was not going to work and I was not going to inherit a fortune from Aunt Arleen, arranged that too.

I did not contest it, but just signed off on the legal form - and went back to trying to stay alive and command my platoon.

Within 6 months the divorce was final. I let her have the car.

Postscript

Just to finish, totally, the story, she continued, in her psychological feeling of inadequacy and abandonment, to drink too much, and seek someone else. But got married again in Denver, and had two children. But then divorced again, and married a third husband. Since she was from a somewhat socialite family - her mother had made sure of that - those made the papers.

Then, in 1967, 17 years after her episode with me, she was killed in a plane crash in the mountains, where the pilot was a Denver doctor with whom she was living, without benefit of having divorced her third husband.

As I said, she had psychological problems that I was hardly equipped to deal with. All I could do, later, was feel sorry for her sad life. I never communicated with her or her mother after I departed for Korea September, 1950. I only knew the above from two newspaper clippings I still have in my files.

P.S. All women in my life were not that way. When I got back from Korea and visited Denver, there were a number of women whose husbands had been at Colorado Military school in high school, and who knew Pat Tompkins, her mother, and followed things in the 'society' column in the newspapers, including the divorce in 1951.

One of them, Ursula Ronnebeck, whose father was an artist, and brother had been at the military school, called me up when I got back from Korea in March 1952. She had read in both the Denver Post and the Rocky Mountain News, reports of my being repeatedly given medals for my military bravery in Korea. (Even a later high ranking Colorado Judge who had been a Military School student when I attended it told me in 2000 that I was his high-school 'hero'.)

Ursula took me out to dinner, and then drove me after dark to Cheeseman Park, close to where I lived as a young teen, and delivered newspapers at 4AM on my bike for the Rocky Mountain News - the park where there is a great Greek style columned veranda. We danced in the moonlight alone on the marble flooring there.

She admitted she thought that I had been trying to kill myself in Korea because of the breakup of the marriage. Which she thought accounted for my bravery medals and combat fame.

I reassured her I was never so inclined. I was touched by Ursula's concern for me while I was away at war. She was going out of the way to try and heal, what she thought (and would be called today PTDS - Post Traumatic Distress Syndrom). I not only didn't have that, I pretty much thrived on the challenge of combat that I had prepared for four years.

But I always have fondly remembered those who were 'hurt' by what had happened in that brief marriage to me at an important, and dangerous, time of my life.

By the time I met Patsy Simpson, I was more cautious and wiser about women in my life. And Patsy, never in our 57 years of marriage let me down. Nor, I like to think, did I ever let her down.

Ours was love and marriage the way it is supposed to be. And I like to think that our three children saw that, and benefitted from the model we passed on to them .

To continue with my Military Years click...  NEXT, for Korea (1)

The Pointer Magazine was, and probably still is, West Point's undergraduate, student written and edited, monthly magazine.

It was published by the Moore Publishing Company of Cornwall, New York. Cornwall is just the other side of Storm King Mountain just north of West Point.

George Moore the owner of the publishing house was more than just a businessman. He also sold the ads that helped subsidize the magazine which was delivered, free, to all 2,500 cadets in their rooms. He was a mentor to the cadets - for he knew, even more than the Tactical 'Officer in Charge' of the Pointer who was the defacto censor - what the cadets could get away with in their stories. Whether too risque, or in really bad taste. After all, it might be only the 'undergraduate' magazine for West Point as a 'college' but it represented the decorum of the Academy.

By the beginning academic year in the fall of 1949, our Class of '50 provided the editors and principle writers and illustrators. By that time my photographic reputation and growing body of free verse pieces that related to Cadet Life made me the Assistant Editor of the Pointer. Paul Gorman, classmate and fellow F2 company member became Editor - and set out to report on 'Post WWII Europe' from his  official trip there, followed by he and I bumming around Rome, Frankfurt, London while I produced the photographs to support it.

Below is Paul Gorman, Editor at right, me, Associate and Photography Editor with Beret, and Mac McColough - the greatest cartoonist the Pointer ever had. He was killed on Mount Baldy while I was fighting on Mount Bloody Baldy October, 1951.

The Pointer Magazine Triumverate

But I had a wider imagination on how to 'cover' Cadet Life by unusual photos, high quality photos and then even coupled with verse.

Below are samples of what I got into the Pointer over the fall to spring,

Marty Maher

The legendary Irishman, Marty Maher. Once a Sergeant, the rest of his life an informal councillor to cadets. So well known a book was written about him "Bringing Up the Brass" for the number of Generals who credit Marty for his wise advice to stressed cadets.

Pete Monfore - Classmate

Cadet Pete Monfore - Eastern Collegiate Heavyweight Champion Boxer. Was killed in action on Hearbreak Ridge, Korea, 1951. Received Posthumous Distinguished Service Cross.

And experimental Stuff

Crazy Cadet Stuff

Modern Poetry Stuff

.