I Shot JFK Read online

  College — Freshman Year

  Before our first years of college, Gunnar and I planned out a two-week road trip through the Southeast. It was meant to be a celebration of our coming of age and pending independence. Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece applauded it. It was a whirlwind drive across the desert expanses of west Texas, the steamy greenery of the deep South, and the drivable beaches of Florida. Cece’s yellow and cream 1957 Bel-Air performed like a champ, especially on the wet sand at Daytona. Gunnar and I rotated drivers. As he said, “I’ll drive seventy-five percent of the time, and you drive the remaining half.”

  One particular day stands out in my memory. I always trusted Gunnar so didn't go out of my way to monitor his driving. However, east of New Orleans, as I rode shotgun reading a book, I sensed a left drift of the Chevy. I looked up. We were closing for a lethal head-on collision with a semi-truck. With my left hand, I eased the wheel back into our lane so as to not startle Gunnar, who still had his hands at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel. Gunnar slowly awoke as the danger passed. “Thanks,” he said. “Let’s switch drivers!”

  After the changeout, I turned the radio up. “Tequila” boomed from the speakers — perfect for keeping us both awake and harmonizing with adolescent hormones. “Catch A Falling Star” perhaps better captured the experience. We were very lucky. That moment we shared became a constant touchstone. As twins, we had more consciousness in common than most siblings, but that event was most unforgettable. We both realized that every subsequent precious moment would be gravy, that every second of life was a gift.. We decided no following experience could be too hard or intolerable. Life would challenge those beliefs.

  When we got back to Alamogordo, Gunnar planned to get back to his demanding physical conditioning regimen, after the two-week layoff. Going out to run five miles the next morning, he was a sight to see in his tee shirt, running shorts, and combat boots. He bought the boots at a local Army-Navy surplus store. He had heard this was common attire for running at West Point. After the first run, he said it felt really good to shake the kinks out of his muscles and get in a good workout. He was reinvigorated. The following morning he came limping into breakfast on legs that would not totally extend. You guessed it — shin splints. I prescribed ice packs, rest, and aspirin.

  “Look at it this way: You won’t have hormonal girls trying to whistle at you from their passing cars,” I kidded him. “Maybe we should keep our commitment to swimming a mile a day instead of running.”

  He nodded and massaged his lower legs.

  I began my job as an ambulance driver for a local hospital the next week. Mom’s physician set that up. He said I’d be exposed to emergency medicine and get used to dealing with blood and trauma. He knew I wanted to be a physician. Privately, I still wondered whether I could handle treating patients who knowingly did stupid things. I knew I was sometimes a little short on compassion. Born hard-nosed, I guess. My parents were certainly very nice people, as was Gunnar. I wondered what was wrong with them.

  *****

  June 29, 1958, the three of us rose early to drive Gunnar to the airport for his flight to New York City. I wanted to fly with him, but there wasn’t much of a point. That we would not see him for two months saddened us. Until then, we vowed that one of us would write him every day. Beyond busy, he would write to us every weekend to tell us his ongoing saga.

  He arrived at La Guardia Airport in the late afternoon and caught a taxi into the City. He had heard numerous warnings about how dangerous New York was, how he needed to watch his wallet, and how cabbies would take advantage of him. Instead, he had a great experience. His cabbie welcomed him, “Son, I admire you for attending the Academy. You’re my last fare of the day, and it’s on me! Let’s get you the Commodore Hotel.” Only Gunnar could find this gem of a patriot.

  June 30, carrying his suitcase, he walked to Port Authority to catch a bus for the hour-plus ride to Highland Falls, adjacent to West Point. He spent the night on the perimeter of the post at the historic Thayer Hotel, sharing a room with several future classmates. The hotel’s name honored Colonel Sylvanus Thayer, who was an early superintendent at the Academy and a advocate of testing cadets every day in every subject — a real disciplinarian.

  The first day of New Cadet Barracks was known informally as Beast Barracks. Beast is how the each new cadet felt he was treated. Upperclassmen, on the other hand, looked down on a new cadet as a beast in need of training. After riding over a mile to the gymnasium area, Gunnar got off the bus with his suitcase. As expected, he was greeted by an intimidating second classman, a junior, in a gray wool dress coat, bright white starched trousers, and round gray dress hat. The ramrod-straight figure bellowed, “Drop that bag, mister. You stand at attention when I talk to you. Do you understand me, smack-head? I can’t hear you, dumb-squat. Sound off! Brace: get that neck in, stand at attention, suck that gut in. Roll that sway out of your back. Get those heels together, doo-jazz. Stand up straight. Do you hear me talking to you? You won’t last a day around here with that attitude. Now get over there and report in. Halt, you forgot your purse. Get back here, dumb-john. Did I say to pick up that bag. Now, pick it up! Post, smack. Get out of my life!”

  The second classman’s staccato barrage of words pelted Gunnar’s eardrums, he wrote. He might have had a few replies in that “conversation,” but they were drowned out amidst all the yelling and shouting around him as other new cadets had a similar greeting. Gunnar said he had read extensively about the first day, but nothing could have prepared him for the actuality. Continual yelling of instructions and constant corrections to behavior were the order of the day. The same day another upperclassman told him he was to double-time everywhere in the oppressively humid, ninety-degree heat. Within seconds, still another upperclassman halted him: “Not so fast, smack. You need to get permission to double-time!” Bells seemed to be ringing all day long. There were interminable formations for this and that. Hell on the Hudson!

  Early on, he was ordered to report to the “man-in-the-red sash.” Gunnar wandered around the “area” — the courtyard between gigantic gray-stone Gothic barracks. In a brace, he tried to find the red-sashed upperclassmen by shifting his eyes and eventually turning his erect and rigid head a centimeter to the left and right.

  Out of his view came a thunderous voice, “Halt, there! You man, wandering around like a lost puppy. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Sir, I was …”

  The second classman cut him off, “What are your three answers, doo-jazz?”

  Gunnar had learned by now. “Sir, ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ and ‘no excuse, sir.’” (Sometimes, ‘Sir, I do not understand,’ was added as a fourth.)

  “That’s right, smack-head. Now, I want a real answer. What are you doing?”

  He had also learned this was usually a trick question, so he went to a deferential, “Sir, may I ask a question?”

  “What is it, moron?”

  “Sir, where is the man-in-the-red-sash?”

  “Dumb-john, what do you think I am?” the upperclassman yelled. “Do I look like an information booth?”

  “No, sir!” Gunnar belted out.

  “I can’t hear you, doo-jazz. Grow a pair and bang them together! Do you hear me?”

  Gunnar’s whole body vibrated when he “popped off,” shouting back loudly to his superior, “YES, SIR!”

  “Get out my life, scum. Stop gazing around. Don’t ever bother me again! Do you hear me, smack?”

  Gunnar continued his search, marching alone at a brace without turning his head. He joined a line now ten-deep in new cadets behind the burgundy-sashed first classman — a senior serving as the first sergeant. This man’s abusive remarks were abbreviated in reaction to the long line of new cadets forming in front of him. When Gunnar was finally in front of the first sergeant, the red-sashed first classman sternly directed Gunnar to a darkened fifth-floor barracks room. There Gunnar was pushed into a chair. Four hot, blinding floodlights shined in h
is face. Three upperclassmen emerged from the shadows. Two yelled in his ears. The third screamed directly into his face. It seemed like a far cry from the impressive dress parade he had seen on the Plain years ago. Gunnar said his mind was totally in the moment, trying to survive. There were no dreams of glory , no glamour, no illusions.

  Among other multiple formations, one was his first haircut. Barbers, mostly Italian, sheared away the locks of every new cadet in favor of a military buzz haircut. Gunnar was shocked to see his haggard self in the barbershop mirror. Not only did he look strange; he looked scared. He had no desire to smile at himself as he was wont to do. The Academy would demand a haircut every week for the next four years. Regular Army officers and upperclassmen noticed one’s hair. Obsessive tactical officers were known to check the sign-in lists at the barbershop for compliance.

  Another formation was for trying out for the Glee Club. Glee Club meant occasional weekend trips away from post, even as a plebe — a way to escape. Gunnar had the humiliating experience of being disqualified when he completed only his second sung note. Then there was a formation to practice close-order drill, basically how to march. Drummers from West Point’s Hellcats, West Point’s field music group band, provided the beat. Gunnar’s squad spent an inordinate amount of time training in a sally port, a large arched passageway. His clever squad leader maneuvered his group there, out of the oppressive sun. He definitely did not do this to accommodate the new cadets. The endgame for the marching drills came an hour later when the new cadets marched onto the Plain. Wearing brand new white undershirts and thick gray wool trousers held up with black-web belts, the new cadets took their oath en masse. No graduate ever forgot that seminal moment.

  The worst place for harassment was at “tables.” In the mess hall that first day, hazing felt even more personal. The table commandant, a first classman sat at the head of the table. Flanking him on each side were squad leaders, two second classmen. The three took turns at correcting the seven new cadets sitting on the first six inches of their chairs at attention, eating “square meals.” This mechanical feeding involved raising food on a fork or spoon vertically from the plate, squaring an invisible corner, and bringing the food to the mouth horizontally. Even though he carefully cut his food, Gunnar inevitably heard, “Too big, Olson. Sit up!” Gunnar knew the bite was deemed too large — whether it was or not — and he could not resume eating until an upperclassman told him to do so. Extra harassment came in the form of reciting “plebe knowledge” like Major General Schofield’s “Definition of Discipline” verbatim. Tough Gunnar wrote that the unrelenting infernal noise around him made his stomach queasy; he did not mind not eating.

  While he had studied many articles and books on West Point, he was in for several other rude awakenings. At supper, his table commandant demanded “pan-THUR-pus,” which turned out to be the purple beverage in the iced stainless steel pitcher next to Gunnar. After being belittled as an ignoramus and worse, Gunnar figured out that the grape juice was nicknamed “panther piss.” Later, having made the mistake of putting his dessert on his used plate, he painfully learned that cake was always served in a clean bowl. Serving it in a bowl allowed the use of a spoon to eat it, as well as pouring milk over the cake — a common cadet preference.

  The first formation after supper was to march all new cadets to a large auditorium. From the podium, the commandant of cadets, a brigadier general, welcomed them. He went on, “Gentlemen, look to your left. Now look to your right. On average, one of the three of you will not be here with us at the end of New Cadet Barracks eight weeks from tonight.” Sobering. He went on to lecture about why men were willing to die in wars. “I’m going to shock you,” he said. “Not duty, honor, or country. Research shows that a man will die to protect those men around him to whom he feels loyalty or to protect his reputation among them.” Before the speech was over, Gunnar said, the commandant imparted a very important life lesson: “The first day is the longest day, the first week is the longest week, the first month is the longest month, and the first year is the longest year.” Words to live by.

  Outside the nice, air-conditioned auditorium, upperclassmen formed up the new cadets and marched them back to the barracks. There they filled out a form for Selective Service if they already had not already done so, and wrote a postcard to their parents. Gunnar addressed his card to our aunt and uncle with a closing that reenergized him. Following that, each new cadet swore in writing he had never been married.

  After that, Gunnar’s squad of ten formed up in the hallway on the fifth floor of the barracks, backs against the wall. The roommate of Gunnar’s squad leader appeared with a three-foot-long oak window-closing stick. The second classman wielded the weapon like a police nightstick.

  He barked, “Stand at attention, smack-heads!” He put his left hand behind the first new cadet in line. “Pressure,” he began. “I wanted pressure against my hand. Crank those chins in! Vibrate, new cadets!” The five-foot-seven man strutted in front of the ten. “Suck that gut in,” he swung the heavy stick into the abdomen of the first cadet in line — whap. He did the same walking down the line with the second new cadet — whap, then Gunnar — whap.

  When Oak Stick approached new cadet Simon Turner, next to Gunnar, he got in Simon’s face, “You may have been big man on campus at Podunk High, but you’re nothing here. Suck that fat civilian gut in!” He wound up to hit the six-foot-four, two-hundred-forty-pound football player in the stomach with the oak baton.

  Simon pushed both arms out to protest He looked Oak Stick in the eye and firmly stated, “You’re not hitting me, little man!”

  Oak Stick let the window-closing baton fall to the floor — thud, thud, thud. He stood one inch from Simon’s face. “Turner, you insubordinate wimp. You’ll do what you’re told around here. You don’t threaten an upperclassman. Do you hear me, you piece of …?” Next he called loudly to his fellow upperclassmen in the echo chamber that was the stairwell. Then, all hell broke loose. Every squad leader from all five floors descended on Simon after the one shout from Oak Stick. After that, Simon could go nowhere besides the latrine without continuous harassment. Every time he left his room, someone tore his bed apart and threw all his locker’s clothes on the floor. He got no food at meals. Within twenty-four hours, he had resigned.

  As a future medical professional, I wrote Gunnar I would have taken the window-closing rod from Oak Stick and used it as a q-tip in his ear. Gunnar suggested I work on my bedside manner after I got through the MCAT (Medical Candidate Aptitude Test). I wrote back that I definitely would have sterilized the club and applied Betadine antiseptic to the ear. And, for sure, I’d schedule Oak Stick for a follow-up!

  Life for new cadets was no picnic, Gunnar explained. For the many new cadets late to formation, there was a “clothing formation” later in the day. In that case, following a quick inspection of the current uniform, the disciplining second classman called out the name of a different uniform for the subject cadets to change into. The cadets had to run to their rooms and return perfectly dressed in the new uniform. The only possible way to get out of the drill was to appear on-time, totally to standard in dress. Most new cadets in the formation had to reappear for the next inspection. Eventually, participants showed up in every real uniform choice. Then the upperclassman started making up notional uniforms like “class uniforms under ponchos.” The drill typically continued until the next scheduled training formation. The maximum performance effort over an hour was physically and emotionally exhausting.

  New cadets not in the clothing formations were not idle. They were in their rooms studying fourth-class knowledge, shining shoes, polishing belt buckles, and otherwise getting ready for the next formation. If that were not enough, their squad leader might pop in to send them on some seemingly nonsensical errand.

  That night, after more hazing and indoctrination, there was a mandatory “shower formation.” New cadets assembled in the “sinks” of the basement — a chamber of horrors. Against long walls,
each new cadet wore only a gray cotton bathrobe and shower clogs, and held soap in a plastic dish in his left hand, with a horizontal forearm. A neatly folded white towel draped evenly of that forearm. When a new cadet had developed enough perspiration from the effort of bracing in the steamy room, an upperclassmen could send him to shower. Gunnar was among some select new cadets needing extra discipline. He had to face the wall with toes “tangent” to that wall, lean forward, and sweat a quarter to the wall until it stuck. After he did, he was ordered to shower.

  Just before taps, Gunnar’s squad leader had him braced against his locker. “So, dumb-john, you thought you’d send a cute message to your aunt and uncle, huh? You closed your damn postcard ‘No Sweat Olson.’ What, are you on vacation here? Do you think this place is joke? Are you making fun of me, new cadet? Drop and give me 20 push-ups! … Recover! Smack-head, get out in the hall and hit the wall. The other squad leaders in the company didn’t like your smart remark either!”

  Gunnar got an earful from screaming second classmen. The volume was at full. The tone was full spectrum. The insults were to his manhood, legitimacy, and heritage. He had only three answers: “Yes, sir,” “No, sir,” and “No excuse, sir.” “Sir, I do not understand” would have been a lie. Finally, he was saved by the bell, the one five minutes before taps.

  The first day was so traumatic, Gunnar wrote us, that he struggled to sleep after lights out. He said he lay in his bunk too stiff to sleep. He could not quiet his mind, which played out in muscles that would not relax. And he knew the next day had more of the same in store for him. He drew some solace from the commandant’s words: “The first day is the longest day.”