THAT JACK THE HOUSE BUILT

The Alibiography Of An Ordinary Man

By

Jack Wright

Copyright © 1985, Jack Wright

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission of his surviving siblings.

1st Edition: March, 1985
2nd Edition: March, 2014
3rd Edition: May 2021

HTML, EPUB, MOBI, and PDF formats are available at https://www.wrightstuff.site

DEDICATION

True love’s the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven:
It is not fantasy’s hot fire,
   Whose wishes, soon as granted fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
   With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart and mind to mind
In body and in soul, can bind. – Sir Walter Scott

To all the women in my life, from mother to granddaughters; and those beyond the family, particularly the good teachers Mrs. Drake, Sisters Mary Grace, Theresa and Regina; and most especially to the assorted Catherines, each of whom has mightily contributed to my life in a variety of unique ways: my wife Kathleen; daughter KT and Sister Kathleen; the biographer par excellence Catherine Drinker Bowen; and St. Catherine of Siena.

The goal of life is the knowledge and love,
the vision and enjoyment, of divinity; what
happiness we get in this life will be through
an imperfect knowledge or love of God, either
in Himself, or in the mirrorings of divinity
which we call creatures. – Walter Farrell

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DIGITAL EDITION NOTES

FOREWORD

I. ORIGINS

II. AWARENESS

III. FRUSTRATION

IV. SCHOOL

V. EDUCATION

VI. LOVE

VII. NAVY

VIII. NEIGHBOR

IX. WAR

X. MARRIAGE

XI. FAMILY

XII. PEACE

XIII. DESIGN

XIV. OPERATIONS

XV. MANAGEMENT

XVI. BRASS

XVII. CRASH

XVIII. PROFESSIONAL

XIX. GROWTH

XX. FREEDOM

XXI. HEART

XXII. ANNIVERSARY

XXIII. FULFILLMENT

XXIV. EPILOGUE

AFTERWORD

LIST OF PICTURES

The author’s Ports of Call 1937–1984 (1 of 2)

The author’s Ports of Call 1937–1984 (2 of 2)

With sister, Margaret

Wright tribe on sister Margaret’s graduation

Early Pop

Chocolate, Pop-like goatee

Sailor and Horseman

Already braced-up for USNA

Class Picture

With Bwana

May procession

Franklin

1961 Corvair – The other air-cooled car.

First Communion

An angel (?) with neighbors

With sister, Margaret, and neighbor Albert Noyes

Halloween Chinaman

My first love – 1932

“I told you! I don’t like milk!”

Two yo-yo’s

“Who says I’m chubby?”

“I hate this outfit!”

Before High School – 1931

Charlie looks like who?

Washington Post newspaper carrier contract

Sweet sixteen – 1934

Kirk tribe – Winter of 1934

Joe Waring and Florence

1935 St Anthony’s High School Graduating Class

Now so mature!

First Ocean City sojourn together

My mother (!) on the beach?

Awaiting USNA acceptance

Plebe year

Johnny Refo – Dave Davenport – Abbot Street, my roommate

Shoulder that butt, buddy, if you don’t want a black eye!

The disk is up! The disk is down! Ready on the firing line!

Halfraters

Cutters

From the book Annapolis Today – Look who’s walking extra duty

Dave Davenport, Abbot Street, and Frank Hertel

Illegal rest

Seaward Terrace – over the Mess Hall

Embarking/Youngster cruise – June 1937

Enroute to Kiel canal in USS Wyoming

Field Day – holy-stoning the deck of USS Wyoming on Youngster cruise

Funchal, Madeira. It sure beat Bermuda!

Funchal sled

Palace of Frederick the Great at Potsdam

The Lido – Madeira

Sailing – with my and roommate’s wives-to-be

Sunday after Mass

With DAD – the one and only!

Ring Dance – June 1939

Christmas leave – 39/40

Letter from Decca Records

Letter from Columbia Recording Corporation

Letter from RCA

“J.” H. Wright – “40”; Don’t believe everything you read in Variety

Letter from Life Magazine

Hell Cats

A snare, a delusion, and a dream

LAST P-rade – June 1940

LAST formation – June 1940, 3rd Battalion Terrace

Washington Post graduation announcement, 1940

Times Herald article about USNA graduation, Class of 1940

With paternal grandparents

At Mt Vernon, post-USNA

Jack’s Children at Mt Vernon in 2015

With Pop, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With parents, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With Mom, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With Kathleen – ENSIGN Wright, USN

With Kathleen and Mom – ENSIGN Wright, USN

ENSIGN Wright, USN

Newspaper article about FDR voyage aboard USS Tuscaloosa, Dec 1940

Magazine article about FDR voyage aboard USS Tuscaloosa, Dec 1940

Route of USS Tuscaloosa during 3-14 Dec 1940 with FDR

Admiral-Ambassador Leahy on Tuscaloosa, 22 Dec 1940

Departing Hampton Rds, VA

Last picture as a single man

It’s all over now! 14 Sep 1942

Flanked by Kirk Krutsch and Tom Walsh

Leaving Wardman Park reception for NYC honeymoon

Newspaper article about the naval battle off Casablanca, November 8, 1942

Tuscaloosa hangar show 5/43

Crew reaction – Made DC Sunday paper

Picture from Washington Star, August 29, 1943

PG school home – 44, George’s birthplace

Jack with Geo, Lexington Park California

Lexington Park California (Long Beach)

The Commander with proud parents

USS Amsterdam decommissioning crew

Newspaper item about USS Amsterdam decommissioning

USS Amsterdam entering drydock for decommissioning

Kathleen with Geo – Coral Sea Village – Vallejo, California

Jack with Geo – Coral Sea Village on Mare Island

USS Amsterdam arrives in Astoria, Washington

Newspaper clipping about USS Amsterdam’s arrival

Photo of USS Amsterdam in Astoria

Passing under Golden Gate

Hood Canal – Sunset Beach – Union, Washington

Anne’s birthplace – Hood Canal

USS Bremerton, CA-130 – My last ship, 1948

Yeoman Brutus – 3 December 1948

Last officer crew – Lt. Rich my r.

Last picture in Blue and Gold

Inspiration for my post-service future

Family 26 December 1952 – George 8, JJ 4 months

Mary will be heard from – March 1954

With George at Mayo Beach – June 1954

With Anne at Haines Point – June 1954

KT at 5 days – 5 September 1955

Navy Management Review – September 1959

Navy Management Review – March 1964

SOLIDARITY DAY – June 19, 1966

Meridian MI, Macho-man – December 6, 1966

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (1 of 3)

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (2 of 3)

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (3 of 3)

Author over Bay Bridge – April 13, 1968

Jack’s hand-drawn schematic of George’s crash

Kathleen approaching Dulles runway 1R for touch-and-go, April 13, 1968

Kathleen and the Author as seen by George and JJ enroute to Harper’s Ferry – December 02, 1967

A night with the Bradys – Howard Johnson’s Wheaton motel – October 1969

Skyline drive – September 1970

Blue and Gold, Baron and Spouse – Pre-flight at Ocean City, MD

Pre-flight at Ocean City, MD

Kathleen over Susquehanna enroute to Harrisburg

Illegal IFR flight

Charlie’s commissioning – October 01, 1971

ERA rally @ Capitol – July 09, 1978

Hilton roof – Hong Kong – November 1974

Enroute Kowloon – Red China border – November 1974

Clark Air Base, Philippines in front of HFDF antenna

Tarague Beach, Guam

Two gems at Waikiki, Hawaii

Volunteer, Sullivan, and Gates – May 1983

The Chief aboard USS Alabama

Myrtle Beach – July 09, 1978

Author at Daytona – January 1980

Mary’s commissioning – February 1981

San Antonio surprise – February 1981

Fighting for my life – August 1972

I finally gave in – January 1980

Prototype “Dear All” letter

I told you I had a heart – June 03, 1981

My best medicine pulling me through

Post-op Ocean City therapy – July 1981

40th anniversary bash – August 1982

Castles along the Rhine

A bridge too far – Nijmegen

Kathleen meets Big Ben

Alas, Hampton Court really puts Kathleen in the shade

Rijksmuseum exhibit in Amsterdam

Author gets Eiffel in Paris

The author’s Ports of Call 1937–1984 (1 of 2)

The author’s Ports of Call 1937–1984 (2 of 2)

DIGITAL EDITION NOTES

This Chapter was added by Charlie and Martha as we produced the digital second and third editions of this work.

The first edition of this work, begun in 1978 before the advent of PCs had a very interesting origin. Jack provides some details of its production in Chapter XXIV. EPILOGUE and also here in Chapter XXII. ANNIVERSARY, where it becomes clear that all of us owe a debt of gratitude to Mo for assisting with the initial typing. Jack describes that he wrote the original first edition during a seven year period from the late 1970s to the early 1980s using Paper Clip – an early word processor that ran on a Commodore computer. He reviewed and edited it by printing to a dot-matrix printer. When it was complete, he sent the digital files to a company that specialized in printing self-published books. The original (and, as of this writing, only!) printing run consisted of fewer than 20 copies.

All of that took place before the venerable PC became ubiquitous, and well before Microsoft Windows was commonly available, with applications such as Microsoft Word or other more sophisticated word-processing programs. Fancy stylistic attributes such as multiple fonts, colors, and graphics were simply unavailable at that time. Even such seemingly simple things as changing from one type size to another were almost impossible given the technology of the time. The original manuscript files were stored in the proprietary Paper Clip format on a collection of single-sided, 8-inch floppy disks. Each floppy disk had sufficient capacity to hold only about 128,000 characters – typically one or two chapters of the book.

As Charlie and Martha began production of the digital second edition in the early Fall of 2014, we though it would be interesting to provide some insight into it preparation. In the late 1990s, shortly after Jack died, some who did not receive a copy of the first edition from the original print run expressed an interest in the book. However, printing additional copies of the book was not feasible. It was prepared for distribution at a reunion of Jack’s children at National Harbor, in Oxen Hill, MD as the 20th anniversary of Kathleen Wright’s passing approached – 19 years since Jack himself left us.

Martha took on the task of trying to reconstruct a digital copy of the manuscript. Paper Clip was no longer available to read the original files. Moreover, due to technological advances, even finding a PC capable of reading the original 8-inch floppy disks was becoming more and more difficult. Luckily, Gary Toth, ever the tech guy, had inherited Jack’s original Commodore-64 and, when upgrading to a pre-Windows PC years later, had thought to transfer the files. In the absence of an 8-inch floppy disk, there was no simple, physical way to move them between incompatible machines. To accomplish that, a truly Rube Goldberg-esque lash-up was employed: the Commodore-64’s 300-baud modem was used to transmit the files one-by-one – each requiring an entire overnight period send the files from the Commodore-64 to the PC at that painfully slow rate.

Then came the task of transforming the recovered Paper Clip files into something understandable by one of the available word processing programs. Most of the text was salvaged, but none of the formatting of the original manuscript survived the transition. Everything had to be re-edited. In addition, some files were unreadable and several hundred pages of the original text were lost and had to be manually transcribed from the printed copies. Charlie and Martha collaborated in entering that text and editing those original recovered electronic files, eventually producing the digital second edition.

Having gone through all that trouble to recreate the book in digital form, we wanted to make sure that future generations would not have to repeat the ordeal of transcribing from one format to another. We had to decide on a file/format for the newly-recovered digital version. Using Microsoft Word (2010/2013 for both PC and Mac) we produced several different versions, each in a format common in 2014.

Anyone who compares the second edition to the original 1985 printed first edition will see that this is not a “warts-and-all” faithful reproduction. We tried to capture all the italics, quotes, and other stylistic attributes of the original; though certainly more than a few were probably missed. And, although we did correct a few spelling errors, add an occasional missing word, or remove a stray extra word here or there when the mistakes were obvious; we have resisted the urge to make any intentional editorial changes to content. For example, we have made no attempt to remove or reword odd or potentially offensive attempts at humor. This is, after all, Jack’s book. Also, although we did significant proof-reading, we did not go any extraordinary lengths to compare the text of the second edition to the original word-for-word. We note that, while transcribing the missing portions, we did find that the digital files were not always identical to the printed version. In those cases, we ‘corrected’ the text you read here to match that of the printed first edition. We noted other occasional minor differences between the recovered files and the printed text and updated the text here to match the printed version. Clearly, Jack had done some last-minute editing before going to press and the recovered files did not reflect the ‘final’ version that he sent to press. Likely, we have missed other such small changes.

Certainly providing a second edition in “book” format, with fixed page size, margins, page numbers, and so forth would allow the digital product to be printed and bound in a hard-copy format similar to the original. Such a format would allow readers to get a more faithful “feel” for Jack and the technology he used to produce the original. Moreover, anyone who knew Jack personally would know that he would have striven mightily to retain as much of the look and feel of the original as possible. With that in mind, we tried generally to make the digital second edition reproduction look as much like the original as we could.

One of the resources we used, as we worked our way through this effort, was Jack’s personal copy of the book. As you might guess, that copy had numerous passages highlighted or underlined. Occasionally, we found notes written in the margins and newspaper clippings slipped in between the pages. To capture those additional thoughts for the second edition, we added a handful of “Digital Edition Notes” here and there.

Do not confuse Digital Edition Notes with Editor’s Notes. While reading, you will occasionally encounter “asides” and parenthetical comments within the text, sometimes preceded by the notation “Editor’s Note.” Such comments reflect additions that Jack made during his final editing process and are part of the original text – not something that we added. As stated above, any additions or comments that we added while producing the second and third editions are included as Digital Edition Notes or, if very brief, are enclosed in brackets and are identified as coming from Charlie or Martha.

Our biggest challenge, and the main impetus to undertaking this effort in the first place, was to assure a digital second edition in a format that would remain viable for some time into the future. We realized that it would be valuable to make sure that the digital product would be compatible with as many of the various contemporary reading options as possible – options that were not even envisioned, much less available, when the first edition was written – such as might be read directly on PCs, tablets, e-readers, smart-phones, and the like. In the end, we decided to produce multiple formats that would support browsers and eReaders available at the time.

For the digital second edition we immediately dismissed the original dot-matrix Courier font in favor of a more readable one. We tried to match the original layout as best we could. For eReader versions we chose to integrate the Digital Edition Notes and the photos with the text, for a better reader experience. The original photos and artwork were mostly lost. We spent considerable time attempting to reproduce or touch up the poor-quality reproductions in the original book as best we could. Where they look much better, that is because Anne had a “memory book” containing a few of the original photos.

Time constraints prevented the intended second edition from being fully completed as intended before the 2014 reunion at National Harbor and it does not include any of the pictures Jack included in the printed first edition.

The third edition represents an effort to optimize the visual quality of the pictures. Since we were unable to locate original copies of most of the original photos, pictures from the original printed version were and were embedded into the text at an appropriate spot. Placement of the photos within the text of the third edition is almost entirely the result of Charlie or Martha’s reading of the text and you should feel free to blame them for any perceived misplacement.

Many of the images in the original were of marginal quality to begin with because of the limitations of technology available in 1985. Image quality in the digital editions suffered even further as few originals were available and scanning them from the printed edition resulted in tremendous loss of detail and contrast. Most digital edition images are far too small for a reader to discern much detail – especially in images which were Xeroxed copies of newspaper and magazine articles and other printed documents. The text of such images is provided in Digital Edition Notes so that readers can actually have the benefit of reading the text of such pictures. When original photos (some in color!) or source material were available, they were used in the digital edition(s.)

Charlie then produced the various eReader-compatible formats, one of which you must now be reading. We hope you enjoy perusing the result. Enjoy!

Martha and Charlie

Spring 2021

FOREWORD

I was at once amused and touched when my daughter KT first suggested, and Sr. Kathleen endorsed the idea, that I write my autobiography. I couldn’t imagine anyone profiting from the recitation of such a dull and ordinary tale. It is still probable that my work will be little read and even less enjoyed, but there is no longer any doubt in my mind as to why the construction of my life’s story has been a very good thing. Perhaps English historian William Stubbs sums up my main discovery best: “If a man wishes to learn something of a subject, his best policy is to write a book upon it.” While it has long been my practice to write analyses of troubling issues, the steady evolution of self-knowledge that came with the development of this autobiography was a continuing series of shocks and surprises. My experience only verifies Dr. Johnson’s observation to the effect that every man’s life is best written by himself (although he then went on to concede that his opportunities to know it were more than compensated for by his temptations to disguise it.) Perhaps the best reason why one should write his own life story is that advanced by historian Joseph Renana: One should only write about what one loves. This, then, has at worst been a labor of love and enlightenment for the author. One can only hope that it can be as much to at least a few readers.

But the project has, indeed, been labor. Apart from the shock of really confronting myself for the first time, my second biggest discovery has been that the writing of autobiography has to be the most difficult type of writing in the world. Whereas Carlyle has remarked that a well-written one is much rarer, and proceeds to convict Carlyle of being “as much an optimist in his criticism as he was a pessimist in his ethics.” Indeed, the seeker of truth in autobiography will eventually become a devout convert to pessimism. There are many reasons for this. First of all, one is overcome by the astonishing number and length of blank periods in one’s life. This frustration is particularly acute as regards one’s first decade on earth. This unhappy situation has prompted at least one wag to suggest that all biographies should start with Chapter Two. Kipling has underscored the vital importance of this blank period with his challenge to “Give me the first six years of a child’s life; and you can have the rest.” Yet, as Andre Maurois has noted, he could recall only a few outstanding memories up to the age of seven or eight. He has remarked that they appeared as tiny, isolated pictures surrounded on both sides by dark strands of forgetfulness, and he went on to state that, “This is not enough to explain the complex individuality which we all acquire by the age of six or seven.” If Kipling is right, and my reflection strongly suggests that he is, then the most careful dredging of the subconscious for even the seeming trivia of these highly formative years appears to be fully warranted.

There are other very real constraints operating against truth in autobiography. In the first place, hardly anyone has any real enthusiasm for confessing personal stupidity, much less personal shame. On the other hand, few would have the temerity to assume any vested right to violate the reputation or peace of mind of any figure peripheral to the story. English writer Philip Guedalla says that autobiography is an unrivaled vehicle for telling the truth about other people. Death Valley Scotty’s credo seems most apt: “Don’t say nothing that will hurt anybody.” Yet, we are surely shaped in some considerable measure by both the positive and the negative influences of those who share our environment. How can our hero realistically project the full story of his development without at some point incidentally incriminating some of the supporting players? An extremely fine sense of discretion is needed in such instances, for no one has the right to tell the whole truth (as they admittedly see it imperfectly) about others. Nevertheless, one must recognize that such discretion in fact operates as a distorting filter even under the best circumstances.

Nor is this the end of the problems with autobiography – other more subtle constraints yet remain. Maurois has contended on the one hand that autobiography is obliged to omit the many commonplaces of daily life to concentrate on the salient events, actions, and traits, but he has also conceded that in so doing one creates the impression that our hero’s life was one smooth tapestry of main events, whereas the great bulk of the unrecorded hours were much as dull as our own. On the other hand, Sir Walter Raleigh in effect goes even further, suggesting that accidents which may seem little more than trifles often develop qualities every bit as much as participation in great worldly events. As for these so-called great events, their recounting likewise entails peril. English philosopher Henry Spencer has observed that to omit incidents that mark the progress of our hero’s development and success diminishes the value of the narrative, but to the extent that such reflect any honor on him, their mere mention often translates into charges of vanity. Maurois extends the figure by noting that memory rationalizes; ascribing lofty motives for actions performed unwittingly or unconsciously. Clearly, pursuit of truth in autobiography is as vain and illusive as pursuit of a will-o’-the-wisp.

We must conclude with Maurois that the severest autobiography remains a piece of special pleading, and that when we attempt our own portrait for other people, we should not be surprised if the portrait is not accepted as a likeness. As Spencer has said, “An autobiography is a medium which produces some irremediable distortion.” Will Rogers has reinforced this with his wry observation to the effect that when you put down the good stuff that you should have done, and you leave out the bad stuff that you did do, well, that’s memoirs. As several wags have noted, “Autobiography is now as common as adultery, and hardly less reprehensible.” All the foregoing, of course, is merely to forge the proper perspective with regard to all that follows, and incidentally to explain the newly compounded word in our subtitle. As for the perspective, we yield to Isadora Duncan: “How can we write the truth about ourselves? Do we even know it? There is the vision our friends have of us; and the vision we have of ourselves; the vision our lover has of us, the vision our enemies have of us – all of these visions are different.”

As for titles, we found that all the good ones have already been used. We liked the casualness of Graham Greene’s A Sort of Life, and we cherished Oscar Levant’s A Smattering of Ignorance as even more apt. Something of Myself For My Friends Known and Unknown seemed just perfect. Too bad Kipling disposed of that one. And, had we wished to be more profound, we might have opted for By Any Name; the same being excerpted from American humorist Donald Robert Perry Marquis’s awesome declaration, “All religions, all life, all art, all expressions come down to this: to the effort of the human soul to break through its barrier of loneliness, of intolerable loneliness, and make contact with another seeking soul, or with what all souls seek, which is (by any name) God!” We finally settled upon the one we selected because it seemed at once both so historically right, and (please be kind) so characteristically Wright. You’ll find no apology here, either, for the quagmire of quotes. They are not, as one might reasonably suspect, an accidental betrayal of pseudo-intellectualism. Rather, they are willfully incorporated as insurance against the customary cliché, “Well, it was all very interesting, but I didn’t learn anything new.” With this single disavowal on record, then, and with due acknowledgment to Samuel Eliot Morison (for Volume Three of his Oxford History of the American People) and even more so to William Manchester (for his The Glory and the Dream), whose superb historical narratives contributed mightily to my ability to recreate and chronologically structure personal reflections and experiences in relation to the appropriately contemporary atmospherics and events, we are now ready to proceed. No one can plead that they haven’t been forewarned.

Jack Wright
Silver Spring, Maryland
16 Mar 1985

I. ORIGINS

The best brought-up children are those who have seen their parents as they are. Hypocrisy is not the parent’s first duty.  – G. B. Shaw

The central basis for all the major decisions of my life has been flight from my mother. Despite the carefully cultivated and quite public image to the contrary, she simply was not an easy person to love. She always seemed to keep you at arm’s length, and certainly she was the world’s champion faultfinder. Like a teacher, she assumed as a divine mission a constant right and responsibility to correct anyone, anywhere, anytime. Nothing, but nothing, ever suited her. It’s already almost a family joke – “Mother will surely make it to heaven, but she’s not going to like it there!”

She didn’t just keep house. And she certainly didn’t provide a home in which you could relax. What she did was maintain a showcase, always ready to receive visitors who rarely came. I firmly believe that it had to be her who coined the phrase, Everything has a place: everything in its place. No one in the family ever enjoyed our so-called living room. Except for the occasional welcoming of a relative, our living room was out-of-bounds. Smoking wasn’t then the rage it was later to become, but, if mother had allowed smoking at all, she would have been constantly on the move dumping and washing each ash tray after each flick of a cigarette. She could spy a piece of lint on a rug at 30 paces, maybe 50. Too bad they never gave prizes for museum-like living rooms as they sometimes do for outside gardens.

And there were never any halfway measures. Mother never got merely sick. She always got deathly sick. She never had a simple ache or pain. It was always an excruciating pain. She never felt just slightly warm or chilly. She was either dying of the heat or freezing to death. Amazing as it may seem, I never recognized what was wrong until very recently, in the course of enjoying one of John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee adventure novels. I can’t do better in describing mother than by quoting MacDonald directly:

Some of the classic symptoms of anxiety neurosis: the numbness, vivid and ugly dreams of something wrong with your body, diarrhea, depression, self-contempt. There are others: double vision, incontinence, and being always too hot or too cold, night sweats … an only child. A lot of pressure on you to be the best child ever. Impossible goal, of course. Sense of failure at not making it. So your mother died at peak vulnerability, and then your father died, and you never had a chance to prove to them you could hack it in the world.… So, out of a sense of being terribly alone, you marry a very large and sort of limited guy. And it was the pursuit of perfection. You had all the images and symbols working for you.

That’s mother to a tee! She made a career of illness, real and imaginary, but always exaggerated. And while she wasn’t an only child, her mother died when she was sixteen, and her father when she was twenty. So, indeed, she never did have a chance to prove herself, and the scarred sense of self-worth (or, better said, “unworth”) endured almost to the day of her death. Not only did she lose both parents before making it in the world, the entire balance of her immediate family was wiped out by tuberculosis in the space of a mere dozen years; the four brothers before she was twenty-two, her only sister before she was twenty-seven. None of her siblings saw their thirtieth birthday.

All of this certainly had to be traumatic, and it apparently devastated mother. She must have felt incredibly alone – utterly abandoned and at peak vulnerability, since in those days young women were even more discriminated against than they are today. True, she in no sense married a very limited guy, but subsequently clear incompatibilities suggest that her marriage to a young college professor was a precipitate flight from insecurity into a cozy cultural realm which, like that of naval officers, confers certain inherent trappings of prestige and more-than-average respectability. You have all the images and symbols working for you. And the latter is what mother seemingly lived by. With her the important thing was always, “What will people think?” and “But people will see you.” Appearance was everything. Too bad she could never undergo the third degree of the Knights of Columbus.

I have no recollection of mother ever having volunteered a single positive remark about anything or anybody. When she beheld a rose, she saw only the thorns. If there be such awards, she fully merits exclusive rights to the title of Miss Pessimist of the years 1888 through 1981. Little wonder that I’ve always felt ambivalent about Mother’s Day. I just never could understand what all the shouting was about. My main impulse about mother was to run – to run away, far and fast. This was an impulse not shared by either my lone sister, Margaret, or by my lone brother, Tom, at least until many, many years later. Margaret was three years older than I, and Tom was four and one-half years younger than I. From the very outset my mother made it very clear that I enjoyed a much less favorable position than either my sister or my brother.

With sister, Margaret

First of all, my sister Margaret, being the eldest, naturally inherited the alter-parent role and authority whenever both my mother and father were away from home. My earliest and dominant recollection of sister Margaret was as an enemy; one who would never hesitate to do me in, and who in fact seemed to relish the accolades she inevitably received for reporting some minor (but admittedly willful) infraction on my part while the folks were out. More often than not she baited me into the indiscretion with the admonition, “You’d better not do so-and-so, or I’ll tell mother when she gets home.” And I would, and she would, then I’d bask in reflected glory as my mother would despairingly intone, “He must be possessed by the devil.” But what red-blooded American boy could ever resist a challenge like that? I’m certain that one of my early delights was driving my officious little proxy-parent sister up the wall.

My brother, on the other hand, had the wisdom and foresight to suffer an attack of rheumatic fever at about the age of five or six. I remember that it delayed his completion of the first grade (which he ended up skipping) for a year. More than that, it established him for life – though he soon completely recovered – as Poor Tom! (It amuses me that, to this day, even his wife refers to him as Poor Tom.) I must have been in the late teens before it dawned on me that, like damn Yankees, his appellation of Poor Tom wasn’t in fact a single word and his real name. This isn’t to suggest that he either ever precipitated or demanded the deference with which mother insisted that we treat him, but he sure as hell enjoyed it. He couldn’t have had a more protected and favored childhood had he been the only offspring of the Godfather and had twenty-four-hour Mafia guards. As for me, woe unto me if I so much as harmed a single hair of his head. So it was that I grew into first feeling like I was somewhere between a rock and a hard place – an unread book between two eye-catching book-ends.

Wright tribe on sister Margaret’s graduation

My father, as nearly as I can recall, always tried (and generally succeeded) in being extremely fair. Like St. Joseph, he was a just man. The trouble was, his intelligence apparatus, as far as I could see, was no better than our fumble-bumble CIA’s. Too often he was forced to act on what I, at least, thought was bad, biased, or incomplete information. I can’t fault him, though, for not just trying to get the facts, sir, like detective Joe Friday. Neither do I accuse the siblings of willful distortion or worse. It was sort of like how no two eye-witnesses ever seem to see things exactly the same, and I confess that early on I began to view things through a mental prism that filtered everything coming my way as just another manifestation of the let’s-sock-it-to-Jack syndrome. It just seemed to be a generally shared axiom, possibly a corollary of Murphy’s Law, that if anything went wrong, well, everybody just knew that I had caused it. Thus spurred on, I no doubt tried mightily to fulfill expectations, lest anyone feel cheated.

Like my mother, my father was also a native Washingtonian, as am I. And, in contrast to my mother’s parents, both of my father’s parents lived into their middle eighties. His father, like my mother’s father, was what would probably be termed a middle-level civil servant in the federal government. Grandpa Blakeney was a clerk in the Auditor’s Office of the Treasury Department. Grandpa Wright was the same in the Finance Branch of the War Department. So, the immediate roots, at least in terms of worldly professionalism, were not especially distinguished. We would probably call both families lower-middle-class today. My father was one of two boys, and he had six sisters. I am surprised as I try to write this how little I know about my father’s siblings. Two of the sisters had died before I was a year old. Two of the others, Edna and Alma, were married, and between them they had five sons. Of the other two, Edith ultimately retired from the government, where she worked for something like the Department of Education. The other, Sue, I only remember as a life-long cripple from arthritis. All lived to advanced years. My father’s only and younger brother Eliot, also married, and is probably best recognized by some of my children in conjunction with his wife, Aunt Agnes, now widowed in Ormond Beach, Florida. We will meet them again in the course of this story.

Early Pop

Naturally I can disclose many more particulars about my father than about any other member of his family. In addition to personal recollections, I have the benefit of a brief formal biography of him. It is part of a dissertation prepared in 1955 by Ann Martha Sandberg of the Catholic University. She subtitles this biography “Advocate of Peace,” and in it she describes him as having “a dynamic personality, vivid imagination, keen intellect, tireless energy, and a cultured mind.” [Biography available at https://www.wrightstuff.site] He was all of this, plus, from my point of view at least, he was a good father and an exceedingly patient and thoughtful husband. He graduated from Georgetown University in 1911 and added his master’s and doctorate degrees at Catholic University in 1912 and 1916. He could boast a reading knowledge of German, French, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese – most probably as a by-product of his great facility in Latin, in which he was an instructor at Catholic University from 1911 to 1918. It was in pursuing his study of Latin that he virtually fell into his ultimate field of International Law and Political Science. This all came about through his doing his master’s thesis on St. Augustine’s idea of peace, and his subsequent critical analysis of Franciscus de Victoria’s treatise on the so-called just war, for his advanced degree, a Doctorate in Philosophy. (I deeply regret that I never got to ask my father the precise origin of the topics for these two dissertations, since they were so evidently critical and seemingly providential in directing the eventual course of his highly successful professional life.)

The latter critique literally launched his career as an expert in International Law, eliciting an invitation to join a branch of the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace to assist in the translation of Classics of International Law. He progressed from this position in 1923 to assume the chair of Political Science in the School of Foreign Service at Georgetown University where he served until 1930. While in the latter billet, Pop (which is what we always called him) made his first European visitation in 1926 as part of the Carnegie Endowment contingent of fifty professors who were reviewing the operations of various international organizations first-hand. Concurrently, he was the managing editor of the Constitutional Review of the State Department for several years. In 1919 he became a special advisor in historical research for the State Department in Latin American Affairs. Subsequently, the State Department assigned him to edit some international conferences in 1929–1930, this stint entailing four months’ service in the American Delegation to the London Naval Conference in 1930.

Also, in 1930, Pop received an honorary degree of Doctor of Law from Providence College in Rhode Island, and received the Papal Cross Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice from Pius XII for his Vice-Chairmanship of the Catholic University’s Golden Jubilee celebration. He had, on his return from London in 1930, joined the Catholic University as Professor of International Law and Head of the Department of Political Science, which post he still held at the time of his sudden death (of a heart attack) in 1945. Concurrently with this assignment he lectured for several semesters on International Law, American diplomacy, and Latin and Far Eastern affairs at the Postgraduate School of the U.S. Naval Academy and at the Turner Diplomatic School. Concurrently with all the foregoing, he authored more than two hundred publications pertaining to International Law and Political Science over the period extending from 1912 to his death in 1945, the same culminating with his comparative study of The Dumbarton Oak Proposals and the Covenant of the League of Nations which was published as a government document by Congressional Order, for use of the United Nations Conference at San Francisco beginning on 25 April 1945, and which resulted in the United Nations organization.

Such is Pop’s curriculum vitae – impressive, but not really revelatory of the man, or better the gentleman, for that is what he was, in the fullest sense of the word. He was courteous, forthright, compassionate, exceedingly patient, and quietly courageous. Also, he was ever a cheerful companion, a fascinating conversationalist never at a loss for just the right anecdote with which to underscore a point. He was also a devout optimist and a perpetual student. I don’t ever recall him relaxing without pen or book in hand. It’s not at all surprising that two of his best friends comment upon his reading habits. “We read a great deal,” volunteered his life-long boyhood chum, Fr. Quitman Beckley, O.P. “He was always reading learned books,” is how another old friend, historian Charles Tansil, underscored the matter. And he didn’t just read them. He absorbed them.

I suppose the dichotomy of affection in my mind for my mother and father is already abundantly evident, and I can only add, well, this is the way it was as I emerged into awareness and then grew into young manhood. Pop was friend; Mom was foe. And my brother and sister registered pretty much as self-seeking neutrals with Pop, and as allies of Mom. Rightly or wrongly, I saw things from the very beginning as being me against the world, with Pop as my only hope and refuge, but as a strict dispenser of justice. Mercy was still just an unknown x in the equation of my young life. One can do no more, especially this belatedly, than record one’s best impressions.

Having said all this, some attempt must yet be made, I suppose, to elaborate those specific qualities in my father’s overall character to which I may have fallen heir to varying degrees. Even as it was in the case of my mother, it remains for another to best delineate the unique character of my father. Let us defer to Catherine Drinker Bowen:

The professor is deliberate, he dislikes snap judgments, clever retorts at the expense of sincerity. There is a primal delightful innocence in him; he tells a funny story with all the gusto of Adam telling it for the first time to Eve. And he is tough fibered in his profession: a scorching review of his latest book is published in the historical quarterly [she happened to be writing of a history professor], and next Christmas holiday the author sits with the reviewer at the historians’ convention, companionably drinking beer in the hotel bar. The professors laugh at themselves, they laugh at life; they long ago abjured the bitch-goddess SUCCESS, and the best of them will fight for his scholastic ideals with a courage and persistence that would shame a soldier. The professor is not afraid of words like truth; in fact he is not afraid of words at all. Like the lawyer he loves to talk and teach, likes to exercise his mind and know he does it well. But unlike the lawyer, the professor has a wonderful confidence, somehow, that there is time to talk.

Well, I certainly can’t add a thing to that. That’s my Pop! But one final word anent both parents by yet another author strikes me as most relevant. He is speaking of his own derivative character in terms of his father as a teacher. Now, whereas my mother’s claim to being a teacher arises solely from the fact of her motherhood, she was by all accounts an indefatigable teacher, every bit as much as my father was a professional one. I therefore feel the following words of Andre Maurois are most apt with respect to my legacy from both of my parents:

My father passed all of his life in teaching.… No one will deny that I am much given to criticism. Along with the exposition of my own views there has always gone a pointing out of the defects in the views of others.… The tendency of fault-finding is dominant – disagreeably dominant. The indication of errors in thought and in speech made by those around, has all through life been an incurable habit – a habit for which I have often reproached myself, but to no purpose. Whence this habit?.… (Again), while one half of a teacher’s time is spent in exposition, the other half is spent in criticism in detecting mistakes made by those saying their lessons, or in correcting exercises, or in checking calculations; and the implied powers, moral and intellectual, are used with a sense of a duty performed. And here let me add that in me, too, a sense of duty prompts criticism; for when, occasionally, I succeed in restraining myself from making a comment on something wrongfully said or executed, I have a feeling of discomfort, as though I’d left undone something which should have been done: the inherited tendency is on the way to become an instinct acting automatically.

There you have it – like father and mother: like son! I wonder … would any of my children dispute this? So, my origins lie with my parents to a considerably more than merely physical degree. But it would be wrong, I think, to leave it at that. They, too, had their origins, and before proceeding further, it might be well to digress briefly and place in the record (and this may be the last opportunity to pass the torch in this respect) what little I have been able to reconstruct about my parents’ forebears. As it was in the case of Mom and Pop, more biographical data are readily available about my father’s family than about my mother’s. One reason for this is, as already noted, my father enjoyed a relatively distinguished semi-public professional life. Another is that my mother was the sole living member of her immediate family for the last sixty-six years of her life, ending in December of 1981. Unfortunately, too, I didn’t personally try to pick Mom’s brains for family memories until she was already going on ninety and her recollection was already beginning to cloud over. This sad state of affairs makes it all the more imperative that I now set down the full extent of what I know.

My mother’s maiden name was Blakeney, that being an English family that had its origin in a town of that name on the northeast coast of the North Sea, barely 100 miles north of London in Norfolk County. It wasn’t until the summer of 1981, three years after I began this project, that I discovered that the Blakeney name is more or less irrelevant to our ancestry. It seems that Grandpa Blakeney’s original father died, and his widowed mother remarried a Blakeney who then formally adopted him. Actually, Grandpa Blakeney, though born in Sheffield, County York, England, was born of Irish parents with the name of KELLY! So it is that our progeny are effectively one-quarter Irish, and only barely (by an additional 1-1/4 sixteenths) more English. Another quarter of our children’s ancestry is Bohemian, with the balance being Scottish and German with a trace of Spanish. (Bohemian, of course, is the classification of individualists noted for their disaffection with conventional societal manners and mores, and it would seem that certain of our daughters exhibit this traditional ancestral disposition.)

In all events, Grandpa KELLY arrived alone in New York circa 1865 at the age of eighteen, and there became a schoolteacher. (Notice has already been given of my contention that a teacher’s correction complex has seemingly been inherited by me from my mother as well as my father. Perhaps my mother’s father was the source of mother’s teaching proclivity!) Anyhow, he soon gravitated, at the instigation of a friend who had preceded him from England, to the Soddy-Cleveland-Ducktown area of Tennessee (just east of Chattanooga and just north of the state line from Atlanta, Georgia), where he served as tutor to the family of a former English Lord. Soon thereafter, on 1 September 1867, he unaccountably enlisted as a Private in the U.S. Army at Memphis, Tennessee, under the alias of Thomas M. Nugent! (One can only conjecture that his flight from England and disguised entry into the Army were attempts to escape his mother and new stepfather, as he was still under 21 years of age.)

Although his Army commitment was for three years, Grandpa Kelly-Blakeney-Nugent was medically discharged after only 21 months. First of all, he had spent most of his enlistment in base hospitals due to intermittent fever and chronic diarrhea contracted early on in a swamp area camp near Wolf Creek on the outskirts of Memphis. This unproductive situation was further complicated by an improperly healed radius of his right forearm, which was broken in an accidental fall down barracks steps in a troop rumble to roll call. This resulted in his being declared 3/4’s unfit for manual labor, and so he was discharged on 1 May 1869 at Atlanta, Georgia. In due course Grandpa filed for and got a $4/month pension, and it was this latter record which enabled this tracing of his abortive military record. Following this military stint he returned to the Tennessee area where, at age 28 in 1875, he married 15-year-old Martha Elizabeth Austin of Alabama.

My mother’s mother was said to have been born on a plantation in Alabama, and her maternal grandmother’s name is said to have been Forester. It seems that Mr. Forester was killed in a Civil War battle near Nashville in the first six months of the war, and the family soon lost track of his estate, which is said to have been considerable. Also, mother’s grandmother soon after ended up, with one remaining loyal female slave, operating a boardinghouse in Ducktown. Presumably, this is where my maternal grandparents met. Following their marriage on 20 January 1875, Martha bore four sons before the family removed to Washington in 1885 to enable Grandpa to take up a federal government job. My mother and her only sister, Marie, were then born in Washington. Mother was baptized Anna Frances Susan and opted for the single middle name of Cecilia at confirmation.

The Blakeney family, with the exception of my mother, was decimated between 1902 and 1915, largely by tuberculosis, the last to go being my mother’s younger sister, Marie, who died at the age of 24. With my mother, she was a clerk in the U.S. Patent Office. My mother’s four brothers died within the eight-year span of 1902 and 1910. All died in their twenties. The oldest, Will, was an aide to Admiral George Dewey, who had been with Farragut at Mobile Bay and who subdued the Spanish at Manila Bay in 1898, but who was then serving (1902-1906) as President of the Navy’s General Board. Will was being groomed as naval attaché to Russia when he died. The second brother was John, also a Navy man. He is said to have made every major port in the world before he died at age 23. It is also said that he achieved at least a try-out with the old Washington baseball Senators.

Digital Edition Note: In reference to Jack’s uncle John’s having been said to have made every port in the world before having died, the following quote was cut from some other document and taped into Jack’s personal copy of the book with a reference to the above statement about world travel: “It certainly did. The Navy League bolstered public and congressional support for Roosevelt’s “Great White Fleet,” which triumphantly steamed the American flag to distant corners of the globe in 1907-09.”

I’ve been unable to unearth anything about the third brother, Charles, except that he worked for the Weather Bureau. As for the youngest brother, Al, he too was a Navy man at least briefly. He joined up by lying about his age at 16. His mother quickly intercepted him at Norfolk where she engineered his release by proving him underage. He ended up working for the Navy Department in Philadelphia, where it is also said that Grandpa Blakeney’s only known relative, a sister, lived. All we know about her is that she was married to a plumber who had a fetish for gold-plated water fittings throughout their house. But the only really curious disclosure in all of this, it seems to me, is that my maternal grandfather was another teacher, and that three of his sons were Navy-oriented. I had thought I was the first, and that I had established the family naval tradition in which my three living sons are already established. Not so. Fame is so fleeting!

With my father’s family the records are a little more complete, going back an additional generation on his father’s side and several more on his mother’s to an Edward Green who was born in 1740. The amazing aspect of this side of the family was that it was D.C.-Maryland centered for generations. In fact, my paternal grandfather was an officer in the Association of Oldest Inhabitants of D.C. My great-great-great-grandfather Green had a daughter Elizabeth who was married to a Mr. W. W. Dorney of Harford County, Maryland, by no less than Archbishop John Carroll, America’s first bishop and the founder of Georgetown University. Interestingly enough, Mr. Dorney’s parents were named John and Martha. The Dorneys had a daughter, Maria Agnes, who married Mr. Benjamin Thomas Watson of Prince Georges County, Maryland. They in turn had a daughter, Susannah Cecilia, who became my father’s mother. She was the youngest of nine in a family of seven girls and two boys. She married paternal grandfather, Johnson Eliot Wright, son of Benjamin C. Wright, who was born in Alexandria while it was still part of the District of Columbia.

At this point, a word is in order about one of my father’s mother’s sisters – my Great-Aunt Kate. She is particularly relevant to our story on two accounts. First of all, she bears the name of one of our daughters and one of our granddaughters. More than that, and to my total surprise, she has to be our family’s pioneer women’s libber. I remembered her only as an elderly recluse who always sat quietly rocking in her second-story room (which she never left) on Columbia Road, in northwest Washington. It was somewhat of a shock to discover, upon reading the age-84 memoirs (written in 1961) of the husband of one of my father’s sisters (a medical doctor in the Indian Service), that this reserved old lady had in her youth been the head teacher (yes, another one!) at a school for the Navajo Indians in New Mexico around the year 1900.

Not only that, she was the magnet who drew two of my father’s sisters for visits to that then-still-primitive area, one of whom – Edna, the wife-to-be of the doctor – would remain to raise a family. (My father’s sister Alma – another teacher – visited them sometime later.) Here was this young city girl, (my Aunt Edna) who had never mounted a horse before, suddenly full astride and slipping and sliding down tortuous mountain passes in darkness and in rain and after only the most elementary instruction: Sit straight up and let her have her head! Soon she was of necessity camping out, sleeping on the ground, and so fully integrated into the western outdoors life that she remained – you guessed it – to become the kindergarten teacher in her Aunt’s Indian school.

Her husband, the doctor and author of the aforesaid memoirs, rates a yet-to-be-written book in his own right – Frontier Doctor. We can digress here only sufficiently to indicate that through him, his heroic wife, and my father’s Aunt Kate, your family had at least some part in the saga of how the West was won. He operated (and that is the proper word) from the general area of the Mesa Verde (SW corner of Colorado, NW corner of New Mexico) out of Fort Lewis (near Durango and north of the La Plata Mountains) to Fort Defiance (near Gallup). His father was the supervising engineer in the building of the railroad spur connecting Durango and Silverton. The good doctor’s practice, in the jargon of the Navy, covered everything from asshole to appetite. He removed cataracts, did amputations, pulled teeth, and performed chest, abdominal and every other kind of surgery. Having passed the state pharmacist exam while still in college, he also compounded his own prescriptions from raw chemicals.

Still not impressed? He delivered all four of his own children, and personally performed the autopsy on his only daughter, who died at age one month due to extensive stomach perforation caused by ingestion of a foreign body (a sliver of glass or razor blade). His second son, Frank, is named after my father (Herbert Francis Wright), as was our own Herbie. The good doctor spoke Navajo, and additionally administered to the Ute, and for two years to the Chiricahua Apache – of whom he states, While some were intelligent, many were ignorant, dirty drunkards. (The Navajo and Apache are linguistically connected, both being Athapascan.) The doctor died at age 92 in Carroll Manor in June of 1964.

Returning now to the thread of our story, my father’s father had a great uncle, Robert Wright, who was the Provost Marshal of Bladensburg during the Civil War. This, interestingly enough, is where my first grandson, another Robert Wright, was born. The first Robert inherited a gold watch as the eldest male survivor of another Wright, which was inscribed: “Prescribed to _____ Wright by General Lafayette, for taking care of him while he was wounded.” My father’s father had another great uncle, Judge James Wright, who was Chief Librarian of the Department of Justice. A few further tidbits include the fact that the equestrian statue of General Jackson in Lafayette Park was designed by a gentleman named Taylor, who happened to be the husband of grandfather Wright’s Aunt Martha. Another item, and one I personally remember, was that my grandfather used to be one of the surviving old-time volunteer firemen who used to pull the old pumping engine every Labor Day parade. He continued to do this until age 75, when the chore almost killed him even though they had youngsters helping on the lines.

I remember my paternal grandfather better than any other relative, I suppose, precisely because of the personal (if infrequent) interactions we shared. I recall his happily singing a popular song one day, Go Away, Old Man, Go Away, and I asked him how he could enjoy that song when he himself was an old man. Well, that earned me one big withering frown. I also remember the time he, my father and myself were checking out genealogy in old Alexandria graveyards one summer day. I was amazed when he harshly repelled an old beggar and said, “Get away from me, go get a job!” It was the first and probably only time I ever saw him exhibit the slightest discourtesy, and I was quite impressed. Finally, there was the time when I was a little older, and so was he. I tried to help him down the front porch stairs to the car when he was departing after a visit to our house. “Let go of my arm,” he said furiously, tearing himself out of my supporting grasp, “I’m not an old man yet.”

No doubt he was a very proud old gentleman, but if so, he was entitled. As one testimonial to him upon his retirement attests, he was “a Christian and a polished gentleman of the old school, very loyal, and an assiduous worker.” I can believe it! But he also had a delightful playful side. Being a Presbyterian, he’d surprise my grandmother by preparing Sunday breakfast while she was at mass. He’d bake new coins in the wheat muffins. Sometimes he even baked dollar bills into the muffins, having carefully inserted them into emptied walnut shells. And frequently, to the delight of his grandchildren, he’d exclaim, Grandma, I asked you to please fix that hole in my pocket, as he sent us scurrying to gather assorted coins that seemingly showered from the allegedly defective pocket. So much, then, for happy personal memories.

As for the other insights, they were largely garnered from my paternal Grandpa’s Reminiscences of an Octogenarian, which he compiled in the mid-1930s. Of these recollections (only lightly skimmed here) he wrote, “I write … in connection with my life to show what can be done in rearing a family of a wife and eight children, if one has the grit and determination. Never give up!” The latter, I’d say, is the predominant legacy I have derived from both of my parents and, apparently, their immediate ancestors. I only wish I might have personally known some of my mother’s family. Surely I would have understood her better. But, perhaps if her family had so endured, then she would never have so needed understanding!

II. AWARENESS

One is never entirely without the instinct for looking around.  – W. Whitman

I doubt if anyone who reads this will know that Nicholas Copernicus, the Polish founder of modern astronomy, died on March 24, 1543. I do, because I was born in Washington, D.C., exactly 375 years later. Financier Andrew Mellon, the late movie actor Steve McQueen, and former Governor of New York and two-time presidential candidate Thomas E. Dewey are among others who were likewise born on 24 March. To the rising chorus of “Who cares?” I can only say that I apparently do. I include this minutiae here precisely because it is so typical of the way my strange mind works. I’ve always had a weird interest in my birthday, especially as regards happenings on that date. Thus, on 24 March 1818 Henry Clay said, “All religions united with the government are more or less inimical to liberty. All separated from government, are compatible with liberty.” And on 24 March 1900, ground was broken for the first successful New York City subway. Perhaps more germane to my family history is that on 24 March 1882 Robert Koch announced discovery of the tubercle bacillus. This has a particular relevance to my life story, since it was this little bug that wiped out every last one of my mother’s relatives. So much, in general, for all you ever wanted to know about 24 March but were afraid to ask.

Now, how about that specific 24 March of 1918, a Palm Sunday? That was the day I was born. It was, according to the Washington Star of that date, a partly cloudy day, with a high of 55 and low of 44. Interestingly enough, the front page cartoon depicts Uncle Sam saying to a small boy standing in a junk-filled backyard, “Son, just see what you could do with that old backyard!” Uncle Sam was holding up a picture of a victory garden (and I got around to taking his advice exactly 60 years later!) Everything else on the first page of the newspaper concerned the war: World War I. One headline proclaimed: “Gunfire Is Veritable Hell; Explosions Are Continuous.” Other headlines were: “Battle Of Great Intensity Continues, Hague Flashes”; “Children Play Marseillaise As Hun Airmen Bomb Paris”; “Two District Men Interred,” (with instructions on “How To Address Mail For Prisoners In Germany”); and so on.

This was the famous (and last) big German spring offensive that smashed through Picardy (which is to the north of Paris and gave rise to the song Roses of Picardy). Another headline cautioned “Fate of Allies Now Depends Upon Number Of Positions – Must Break Weight Of First German Thrust.” This, then, was the world into which I was born a world in deadly turmoil. And the very fact of my birth at that particular time is what kept my father at home (being deferred as a multiple father, a service my spouse Kathleen likewise rendered for her father) thereby saving him from the rain of destruction and possible death in the fields of Picardy.

The main headline, however, which was splashed across the full width of the top of the front page of the Star in inch-high type on that fateful day, was: “GERMANS SLAUGHTERED IN ATTACK; SHELLS HURLED 74-1/2 MILES ON PARIS.” As the twin feature stories elaborated, the Kaiser’s forces had been pushed back on a 21-mile front to a depth of four to nine miles in a tremendous battle near St. Quentin as massed Teuton formations were cut to pieces. As for this advent of Big Bertha, the paper reported “American Army Officers Are Dumbfounded By Ordnance Feat.” (So, what’s new? At the height of WWII, FDR’s Chief of Staff Admiral William Leahy said of the Manhattan Project, “The bomb will never go off, and I speak as an expert in explosives.”) They theorized that perhaps the shells were being dropped by enemy planes, and that the rifling found on shell fragments (which would testify to their source being a gun) was merely a ruse to conceal the true source. Another theory was that some natives had turned traitor and had trained their own guns around to strike at Paris from much closer in than the forwardmost German position. In short, as is so often the case with the regimented mind, the military officials among the allies couldn’t accept the evidence before their eyes because they hadn’t invented it first. As for me, I think it only fitting that my birth into the world should be saluted by the largest gun ever known to civilization. And, with the advent of missiles, it is likely to remain the largest ever built.

So, let me tell you a little about this unique weapon, with the aid of S. L. A. Marshall’s excellent history, World War I. The gun (or guns, as it turned out to be a battery of three) first opened up on Paris from 75 miles out at 0720 on 23 March 1918, the news reaching America in time for the morning newspapers of the next day. They were the German Navy’s newest 15-inch, 45-caliber gun (that is, more than 56 feet long), with the tube rifled down to 8.26 inches, to impart a high spin rate around its longitudinal axis, thereby preventing tumbling and providing greater accuracy as well as range through the resulting gyroscopic action. The shells stood about waist high, but the powder bags which impelled them were twice as tall as a man. For firing, the piece was invariably pointed at an elevation of 50 degrees, with necessary range adjustments accomplished through increasing/decreasing the number of powder charges. The projectiles left the muzzle with a velocity of one mile per second, traveling 12 miles up into air so rare that it would perform according to the law first described by Galileo for maximum range in a vacuum – thereby serving as a sort of forerunner of the civilian-scaring V-2 rockets used against London in World War II.

The bombardment continued for a week, culminating in the tragedy of Good Friday, 29 March. The Church of St. Gervais, opposite the Hotel de Ville, was crowded with kneeling worshipers when at 1630 a projectile struck the roof. A stone pillar crumbled, and the stone vault that it supported cracked wide apart, dropping tons of rock on the congregation … (leaving) eighty-eight dead on the floor and sixty-eight desperately injured. But things weren’t going all that well with the huge guns; one having blown up killing five crewmen. Also, French railway artillery only seven miles from the front had homed-in on the Big Bertha site with 15-inch shells. Finally, the two remaining guns were soon worn out and had to be replaced, so that only intermittent firing continued to 1 May, when the guns were phased out altogether. Over this period the battery had fired some 200 rounds. It was not a significant factor in the war, and was more a technical advancement than a military success. The fear it engendered did impact civilian morale, however, and this continued to be a matter of some moment.

But all the foregoing was transpiring overseas, far, far away from me, and I was totally oblivious to it all and to virtually everything else. I suppose everyone at some point in their life tries mightily to recall and fix in time their very first recollection of awareness. As near as I can tell, my first memories derive from when I was about four years old. We lived on Oak St. N.W., just off 16th Street, in a row house. I remember that a family named Briggs lived next door on the right, and they had a boy perhaps a little bit older than I. His name was Leon, and I was not allowed to play with him, but I have no idea why. I vividly recall sneaking with him into his basement one day to see his toys. I was frightened to death that I would be caught and punished, but I wasn’t. I certainly knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, and so I was not only excited but fearful. On our left lived a family named Allen, and they had a much older daughter, Nina, possibly in her teens, who was stage-struck and who went on to become a singer/dancer in a traveling show group that featured Victor Herbert operettas such as Naughty Marietta, and Kiss Me Again. I remember her as being very pretty, with long curly hair, dark eyes with long lashes, and beautiful flashing white teeth.

I recall I used to sit on a high stool on the back porch and operate a lever on the kitchen window shutter like it was the electrical controller I had apparently seen on the nearby 14th Street streetcars. I could play all day as a streetcar motorman and conductor, simulating the sound with a humming “nun-nun, nun-nun, nun-nun” (when the operating lever was in the “run” position, of course). I also emulated the “p-shish” of the air brake when the lever was in the stop position, and had a foot-operated “ding-ding” alarm to signal stop and go and to clear the track ahead. I was your complete motorman, and I never had an accident, but I finally had to give it up. This was when I saw Mrs. Allen and my mother laughing at me from the other side of the kitchen window one day. That, for me, ruined the whole deal. I never felt comfortable again as a streetcar operator. It is probably just as well, because years later street-cars were phased out and I would have been out of a job. (This sort of reminds me of how, in 1945, when all sailors were being released from the Navy, dozens of them would insist on working the last month in the barbershop aboard ship “We can always get a job cutting hair,” they’d explain. “There’ll always be a demand for barbers, just like undertakers.” I’ve often wondered since whatever happened to the poor slobs who had the misfortune of being discharged during the long-hair craze of the 1960s.)

Chocolate, Pop-like goatee

Another example of my earliest awareness is that I recall sitting on the cedar chest at the front upstairs window one afternoon while my mother was feeding Poor Tom as she rocked in a chair behind me. Suddenly I spied my sister returning from school, walking with our cousin Eliot, who lived just two blocks further east on Oak St., across 14th St.. The trouble was, she was using a prohibited route that took her past a small delicatessen-type store on Center St., which angled into Oak St. from the south just a little bit east of our house. I remember the store as “Dwarn’s,” which may be nothing like its real name. For some reason unknown to me, she was not allowed to go near Dwarn’s. So, I did it, I squealed on her, and with much delight as I recall. “There goes Margaret with El,” I exclaimed, “And she’s going right by Dwarn’s!” This is the only time I can recall that I was the victor in such a situation. It was always, it seemed to me, the other way around. Who says revenge isn’t sweet? I didn’t go unpunished, however, although the two events are probably totally unrelated. I downed some canned peaches one night for dessert, and with unremitting vigor they came right back up. I didn’t eat canned peaches again until after I was married many years later. Divine revenge? “How inscrutable His judgments, how unsearchable His ways.” – Ro 11:33.

Sailor and Horseman

I have only one recollection of my father in this early period when I was less than five years old. One morning he tied a cardboard box atop of a sled, put me and sister Margaret in it, and started pulling us through a big snow up 16th St. toward Park Rd., which was four blocks to the south. I remember he stopped there, in front of Sacred Heart Church, to talk to friends there. And he talked and he talked. What had started as a delightful surprise ride through the snow turned into a freezing disaster. We just sat there, getting more and more impatient to get going again. I don’t even remember starting up again. I don’t know if I blacked out with rage because someone had usurped this rare favor from Pop, or if we fainted from the cold.

This could have been in late January 1922, as the great Knickerbocker disaster occurred 28 January 1922, when I was almost four. This was the collapse of a theater roof on a full audience due to excessively heavy snow. Ninety-eight people died (and about 100 more were injured). and almost all were neighbors, since the Knickerbocker (the forerunner of the Ambassador) stood nearby at the corner of 17th St. and Columbia Road. As of the 1949 issuance of the Weather Bureau’s Climatic Handbook for Washington D.C., this was “the greatest snowstorm in the 75-year meteorological history of Washington,” and occurred over the period of 27–29 January 1922, just two months short of my fourth birthday. There were nine inches of snow on the ground at the end of the first day, and 28 inches at the end of the second day, with all streetcar service throughout the District having been abandoned by 7:00 PM that night. Final measurements in nearby areas ran as high as 36 inches. I’ve always hated snow, especially since having to pay for auto accidents, but maybe this all started then, that “Sad Day at Sacred Heart.”

Already braced-up for USNA

The foregoing comprises the sum total of my recollections of first awareness. But there is a lot more I know about myself in those days, thanks largely to stories told to me by my mother (when I was already sixty and she was going on ninety, and her mind was naturally not quite as sharp as it once had been). The biggest thing to occur in my very young life was my very near death. This all happened on my second birthday, and naturally I have no personal recollection of it. Mother has told the story many times, and though precise numbers sometimes vary, the substance always comes out about the same. It all began around three o’clock in the afternoon of 24 March 1920. Suddenly, I went into convulsions without any warning. My Merck Manual defines convulsions as violent involuntary contractions or repeated contractions (a series of spasms) of the voluntary muscles. In any event, my mother was alone with me, except for my sister Margaret (who at age five was not much help). Though she could no longer lift me, as I was huge for my age, she somehow got me to the bathroom and submerged all but my face in very warm water. This stemmed the convulsion, but left me unconscious. She then called our family doctor, Dr. Cogswell, who said he’d be right over, but that it sounded very bad. She then called Pop, who immediately headed for home. During the next 24 hours I had four more convulsions, but now Pop was able to trundle me into the tub to arrest them. The doctor told Mom that she had done precisely the right thing, and that her correct and fast action had probably saved my life. “But,” he went on, “I don’t want to deceive you. This [I still remained unconscious] is very, very bad. In all likelihood he is going to die.”

The spasms came so suddenly and unexpectedly that they finally stopped even trying to clothe me, and merely re-wrapped me in a blanket after each attack. No one could come up with any explanation for it at all, no hint of a possible cause. I couldn’t be left alone for a minute. Mom and Pop took turns in being constantly at my side, night and day. They both spent their time on watch massaging my arms and legs to maintain circulation and soothe the violently reacting muscles. They not only got very little sleep, Mom recalls that some days they themselves even forgot to eat. Grandma Wright had at once taken Margaret to her home (at 14th St.. and Columbia Rd.) to help out, and Grandpa Wright was apt to drop in any time of the day or night. Mom recalls that he’d come in, go up to my bedroom, look me over for a minute and say, “Well, he doesn’t seem any worse, that’s good.” Then he’d leave. The doctor, too, would drop in anytime he was in the neighborhood, which was several times in the course of each 24 hours. Yes, Virginia, they made house calls in those days. (And if you understand that last line, then you’re over 40 years old at least.)

The convulsions ceased after the fifth one, but I still didn’t regain consciousness. The doctors had given up on me, saying there was nothing they could do, and that death was only a question of time. At that point a huge swelling developed in the left side of my throat. An eye-ear-nose-throat specialist was called in – the best in the city – a Dr. Warner. He took one look at me and announced that he’d have to operate then and there. Sheets were spread on a small desk-sized table (which I later used on Dallas Ave. as a workbench), and with Mom in attendance, he proceeded to lance my throat. Mom says that several cups of poisonous pus poured out. My sister embellishes this with her recollection that three doctors were in attendance for the operation: Dr. Warner, Dr. Cogswell, and a Dr. Holden, who turns out to be the father of the Dr. Raymond Holden who delivered every one of our children from Charlie through Herbie. Also my sister says there were three such operations over three succeeding days, and that every time she saw the three doctors come into the house, she immediately took off for the farthest corner of the backyard, because she couldn’t stand the screaming (while unconscious?) that always attended their presence.

Several weeks later (and Mom recalls that I was unconscious for between three and four weeks, and nearer to the latter), I suddenly woke up for the first time since it all began. Mom was rocking close by, and her first hint that I’d finally snapped out of it was when she heard me say, “I want an egg!” (How is that, Mary, for a testimonial for the United Egg Producers?) Anyhow, these operations left a rough two-inch scar on my left neck, just under the jaw hinge (Yes! I ultimately survived!), but it blends right into the creases of my neck so that it is rarely visible. Sometimes, whether due to my metabolism or the weather, I do not know, it becomes quite visible through assuming a different skin color than the surrounding area. But usually, no one even notices it. (As a matter of fact, I’d been undergoing so-called thorough physical examinations annually in the Navy for a half-dozen years before it was discovered and added to my health record charts as a “distinguishing mark.” It was discovered by an “old pro” doctor from Massachusetts General in Boston, who had been converted into a Lieutenant (junior grade) by the war. He asked me about it, and I started to tell all. He yelled, “That’s enough! The less anyone knows about that the better. You don’t want all that in your service record.” And then he wrote under “cause” the two words “childhood accident,” for reasons that will soon become clear.

Mom couldn’t believe her ears when she suddenly heard my voice for the first time in almost a month. But she gave me the egg since, she says, they had been unable to get anything into me over the past several weeks except for a little carefully administered liquids. This was before intravenous feeding, folks, and Mom says that at this point I looked like one of those starving kids they show on TV who are victims of the drought in Africa. In fact, all agreed that I had survived so long with so little sustenance precisely because I had been such a big and healthy specimen at the start. (The same claim was made regarding my son George after his near fatal flying accident in 1968. He had been working out daily, doing calisthenics and lots of running. The doctors said he would never had made it if he hadn’t started off in such superior condition. The also gave an assist to his parachute training at Fort Benning, suggesting that his reflexes had been pre-conditioned on how best to hit the ground and roll.) Anyhow, by the time I finished my egg, the doctor had happened to drop in, as he so frequently did (and Mom says his small bill was almost embarrassing), and he couldn’t believe his eyes. I asked for another egg, and Mom turned to the doctor to ask it if was okay. The doctor happily exclaimed, “Anything! Give him anything he wants.”

So I started to get well, although my sister remembers that I kept throwing up a lot, and both she and Mom confirm that I had to learn how to walk all over again. It was several months later, when things had finally calmed down and were almost back to normal, that Mom suddenly remembered something. One day, several weeks before my first convulsion, she had found me with a purple substance all over my face and inside my mouth. A search soon disclosed that I had apparently been sucking one of my father’s rubber stamp indelible ink pads. Poison! I’d found it in one of several as yet unpacked boxes of his gear, that remained from our February move to Oak St. She immediately swabbed and flushed both the outside and inside of my mouth with boric acid solution, thoroughly, and all seemed well. But evidently I had ingested quite a bit of the ink. All the doctors agreed that this is what undoubtedly caused my convulsions and the associated neck gland condition.

Now only one question remained – how did Mom know what to do for convulsions? It turns out that one of her investments upon getting married was a family home medical book. She figured it was part of her responsibility, as a wife and soon-to-be mother, to be prepared to deal with all types of sicknesses and health emergencies. So, she had read the whole book cover-to-cover several times. She absorbed it. In a word, she was “prepared.” So it was, on another occasion about this time, I fell over backward from my rocking chair and split my head open on our iron radiator (now you all know I do have a hole in my head). Mom coolly shaved off the surrounding hair, flushed it with boric acid, effectively sutured it with tape over a sterile pad, and left the doctor with nothing to do but add, “Perfectly done.” Now I ask you, children, does that sound familiar? And you thought I had invented planning. Not so. I apparently (and unconsciously) inherited this propensity from my mother early on, and we’ll hear more of this later.

The foregoing discovery, that I had an inherited tendency to look ahead and plan for every conceivable possibility, was one of many surprises that evolved in the course of developing this narrative. I’d reflect on a particular trait, and then I’d conclude that I’d gotten it from my engineering discipline as it matured in post-graduate school. Then I’d recall earlier indications of that trait which had occurred prior to post-graduate school. So, I’d walk it back and attribute it to the regimentation and scientific training at USNA. Later, another earlier indication would result in my ascribing it to the concentrated discipline inculcated at prep school. And so on, and so on. Invariably, exploring various traits, I’d trace them further and further back until there was only one possible source – early home life.

My experience with live-in granddaughter Laurie (from ages one to eight) confirms and reinforces this ultimate source of well-ingrained traits: early home life. Every now and then I’d become frightened and awed with the sudden and inescapable realization that I was really deeply involved in molding her plastic little mind. Usually this occurred in the course of correcting her or encouraging her in some course of action. Then it dawned on me I was forming her, bending her – literally forcing “values” on her. It’s a tremendous responsibility. And it’s frightening. But, as John D. MacDonald remarks in A Deadly Shade of Gold, “The only thing in the world worth a damn is the strange, touching, pathetic, awesome nobility of the individual human spirit.” You realize what an awesome thing parenthood is. As I say, as I progress through this story I’m repeatedly amazed at the extent of the ingrained value system that was apparently formed in me even before I was “aware.”

I have no awareness of the house we lived in when I was born. It was in an apartment over Parker’s Drug Store at the northwest corner of Rhode Island Ave. and North Capitol St.. This was in St. Martin’s parish, which is where I was baptized on 21 April 1918. My godmother was Loretta Meehan Walker, who died in 1979. My late godfather, Arthur Clark, who went with us to the hospital the night I was born because he happened to be visiting at the time, settled in San Francisco after service in World War I. He had been an Army ambulance driver in France and the experience left him quite horrified. I finally got to meet him during World War II, when Kathleen and I and George shared wartime government housing in Richmond, CA, which is just above Oakland at the northernmost end of the BART subway system. He came to dinner one night, and amazed us by how expertly he shut George up after “Clumso” had fallen off a chair on his head (luckily, and as you all must have long suspected). He ignored George, and instead he excitedly got down on his hands and knees and pointed to an imaginary dent that George’s head supposedly had made in the floor. “Look! Look! Would you look at the dent his head made in the floor!” Well, in no time at all George was on his hands and knees beside him, and had forgotten all about screaming. It was “the old distraction game,” and you better believe we used it many times after that. It almost always works, and certainly it pinpoints the real injuries.

But back to St. Martin’s. My folks were married there, and, as I said, I was baptized there. However, as my folks used to say, “We only lived there long enough to build the new church. Then we moved to Sacred Heart and built their new church. Then we moved to St. Anthony’s and built their new church.” They always seemed to get in on the ground floor of each new building fund campaign, even as I did many years later at St. Bernadette’s. It’s now a family tradition. But one interesting sidelight is, though both our families lived in St. Anthony’s when Kathleen and I were wed, we were actually married in St. Martin’s due to St. Anthony’s being semi-closed for remodeling at the time. This affiliation with St. Martin’s is one of two bases for George’s middle name Martin. The second reason for the name will come later in this story. In any event, this is about all I know of the slightly more than first 1-1/2 years of my life on North Capital St., except for a few recollections of my sister, Margaret.

She recalls that she was really upset when they brought me home from the hospital, because she had the measles, so they wouldn’t let her near me. But that’s her story. I suspect that she was naturally mortally jealous of such a handsome male child from the start, and my folks were just trying desperately to protect me. Margaret also says that I learned to walk at nine months, and just wouldn’t stop (I probably was trying to run away from her). She also recalls the day when I was slightly over a year old and I fell against the hot stove, and the name of the stove ended up being scorched into my arm like a cattle brand. (What a testimonial I could have done for the stove!) She remembers how neat it was to merely call downstairs to have the pharmacist send up the proper balm to soothe the pain and shut me up. (So, you see, Mary, pharmacists impacted our family life from the very outset.)

Our next house was the already mentioned one on Oak St. We had only been there about two months when I got so desperately sick as recounted earlier. That’s how it was the ink pads hadn’t yet been safely stowed away. And, I suppose it’s just about time to stow away this saga of my first five years on this strange planet, except to pose a few tentative conclusions. (I say “tentative” since, for me, at least, this is a sort of mystery story, and I can’t wait to see how it turns out. I’m making new discoveries about myself on almost every page.) So, here we go. It now seems that before I was five I had a well ingrained idea of right and wrong (fearful with Leon, uncomfortably jealous of my sister); I could appreciate beauty (Nina Allen); I had a sense of dignity or a thin skin or both (I didn’t like being laughed at); I respected authority (Leon again, and the prohibition about Dwarn’s which didn’t yet even apply to me); and I either hated snow or being ignored or both (I think both); and had benefited several times from a thorough pre-planning habit that must have been being concurrently deeply implanted in my subconscious. At the same time, I seemed to be either reckless or overly adventuresome, and was somewhat antiauthoritarian. I obviously didn’t relish being ignored, much less suppressed.

Charles Lindbergh, in some life recollections, confesses to what he contends are the three prime concerns at first awareness: food, toys, and need for attention. I remember very little indeed about food or toys at this period of my life, but I certainly can confirm his belief about seeking attention – as any mother of any crying child might have suspected. This need for attention was no doubt heightened by what I must confess even now appears to have been my predominant perception upon arriving at first awareness (and is something from which you younger parents may profit by remembering) – an intense feeling of inferiority with respect to the seeming parental favor enjoyed by my brother and sister. On the other hand, I rather imagine that few would-be authors could boast of having writer’s ink in their very blood before the age of two!

III. FRUSTRATION

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell! They’d banish us, you know.  – Emily Dickinson

There’s a story about a guy who was born in Pittsburgh but who (due to the overhanging mushroom cloud of steel mill smoke) “first saw the light of day” when the family moved to Peoria six years later. So it was with me. I was born in an apartment on North Capitol Street, and lived through age five on Oak Street (just off Sixteenth), but I first really grasped the realities of the world and the passage of time when we moved to 1105 Shepherd Street, in northeast Washington in May of 1923. This is when my life actually began as a fully sentient being, and when I first ventured beyond the home alone and confronted the totality of my earthly environment.

Class Picture

The next six-year segment of my life, which extended from age five until about June 1929 when I was 11, represents perhaps the biggest period of growth in my entire life. I don’t mean physical growth, or even mental or intellectual growth, but more like psychological-philosophical growth. This was when I was really impacted by my relationships with people, in and out of the home, and when I figuratively tasted the world. I virtually held a moistened finger aloft in the wind, testing its direction, and then set about laying my course for life. What follows are facts. Before age eleven, I (1) determined upon leaving home at the earliest practicable opportunity, (2) chose marriage as my vocational state, and (3) decided that I wanted the biggest family with which the Lord might choose to bless me, and should therefore seek as a wife one of like mind! These were calculated and conclusive decisions. I never thereafter flinched from this course, never had any doubts, never had any worries. This was it – the way it was going to be. And, you’d better believe I was subjected to some tremendous pressure along the way to opt for a religious vocation, but I’d only shake my head negatively, smiling inwardly at my serene secret – that I was already firmly set upon the proper course.

The move from the Oak to the Shepherd Street of those days was a real move, equivalent in these times to a move from the inner city to the outlying suburbs. It was also a move from northwest to northeast Washington, which any District-liner will recognize as a move “across the tracks” (the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, actually), from the area of the “automatic elite” to the area of the “struggling masses.” In those days, real city folks lived in the city, and only the less fortunate had to settle for the suburbs. It made no difference that my father had a very legitimate reason for the move – to be closer to work. Anybody who wanted to be somebody opted for the northwest or, better said, “west of Rock Creek Park.” That was the real dividing line.

Now, all this meant nothing to me, and probably even less to my father, but it was a matter of critical importance to my mother – not that it always revealed itself in these terms, but she was for a fact extremely status conscious. And the suburbs of those days were really “country,” not “city.” We lived a few blocks beyond the end of the street-car line, and there were very few houses beyond us, and all very well spaced. Our street was the last one lined with houses side-by-side on both sides of the street. And beyond our backyard was a genuine and active dairy farm, complete with cows and their casual by-product. (“Look out, son, that ain’t second base!”) And there were streams galore. After all, this was “Brookland.” So I literally grew up to the night-time tunes of railroad whistles, mooing cows, neighing horses, croaking frogs, and sighing crickets.

With Bwana

The neighborhood was interesting, too. Or perhaps I should say, neighborhoods, for there were two of them. They were bounded approximately by 10th street on the west, 14th street on the east, Kearney street on the south, and Varum street (then Bates road) on the north – barely a third of a mile square. Yet it was a divided neighborhood, split into two unequal sections by Michigan Avenue. Our church and school, St. Anthony’s, were in the larger southern portion that was truly Brookland, and we were in the smaller northern section called Michigan Park. These weren’t just contiguous neighborhoods of like character and only nebulously divided. These were aggressively competitive neighborhoods, bitter rivals sometimes, but rivals all the time. There was an us-against-them situation always. Both areas had fierce pride, even if, thanks to the common church, it was generally good-natured.

Brookland was what I’d now term an ethnic neighborhood, comprising Italians, Poles, Germans, and an abundance of Irish. Michigan Park was what I’d now classify as your archetypical WASP village with a light sprinkling of English Catholics. In Brookland one would meet the Fachini brothers (who later won GI fame in Italy, “they could speak the language, you know”); the Costellos and Flanagans (real ballplayers); the McGuinesses (really tough, our very own Dead End Kids gang); and the Restofos (who always had the latest model huge black limousine, and were reputed to be the neighborhood bootleggers). In Michigan Park one would meet the relatively colorless Breens, Olds, Wrights, Mannings, Conways, Hudnutts, Noyes, Graysons, Thompsons, Popes and Paines. Both neighborhoods had a distinctive flavor, and a Michigan-Parker kid knew he was in alien territory whenever he headed south across Michigan Avenue.

But it was a great place to grow up. It had a sort of college campus atmosphere, with the streets being flooded each fall by an influx of new Catholic University (CU) freshmen in their little green beanies. Who will ever forget such football greats as Whitey Ambrose, Bus Sherry, Joe Champa, Jack Malovich, Tom Oliver, and Tommy Whealan (who later starred with the Pittsburgh Steelers)? You say you don’t remember them? Then you never shared the excitement of the Brookland of my youth. And it must have been like a little Vatican City. We were situated almost at the center of a quadrangle comprising CU, St. Anthony’s, the Franciscan Monastery, and the Sisters’ College. Almost two out of every three people encountered on the streets were likely to be wearing either a Roman collar or a nun’s habit. (One day after school, a few years later, I got into a fist fight with one of my classmates, but in my own neighborhood, nowhere near the school. The next day our teacher had punished us both. It seems she had seen us while walking from St. Anthony’s to Sisters’ College for her late afternoon class. Man, like I mean those priests and nuns were everywhere!) It was a uniquely religious – Catholic – community. And every fall you could hear the cheering throng that filled the football stadium at CU.

The Fourth of July was really special. There was an all-day festival held in Hutchinson’s Field, complete with a dozen makeshift stands for hot dogs, cakes, cold drinks, and assorted games of chance and skill. The morning featured all sorts of track and field events for all ages and sexes (in those days there were only two of the latter). I especially remember the family excitement the day my father won a potato race for married men. I was the annual gold medal winner for the 100-yard-dash for boys in my age group (and remember how everybody but the then youngest girl won their foot-race at a K of C picnic one Fourth of July in the 1960s!) The afternoon featured an always hotly contested baseball game between the Kid Kellys from Brookland, and the Rex A.C. from Michigan Park. One summer the ragtag-outfitted Rex A.C. suddenly became the fully uniformed Crandalls, thanks to the sponsorship of the Crandall movie house chain, which included the then brand-new Tivoli at 14th and Park Road. One of the guys had merely written Mr. Crandall a letter, and this was the result! I have never forgotten this example of the power of a well-written letter, and the philosophy of “nothing ventured: nothing gained.” Incidentally, the team didn’t play any better baseball.

As a matter of my best recollection, our team never won, under either name, but I remember my one brief moment of glory. Normally, I couldn’t qualify for the baseball team for the simple reason that I wasn’t allowed to go into Hutchinson’s Field where each team had its own diamond. But my second in the sun occurred on a Fourth of July; the one day in the year that every resident kid got to play. It began when I executed a smart double-play as second baseman. I dashed to my left and speared a hot grounder, tagged a passing base-runner headed for second base, and threw out the batter at first. I then followed this up at my next time at bat by lashing a long drive over the left fielder’s head for a triple, driving in the then go-ahead run. I fondly remember overhearing Charlie Smith’s Brooklander father telling my Pop that I should be playing for the Kid Kellys. Anyhow the day finally ended with the community fireworks display and the annual attack by the mosquitoes from the nearby streams.

Yet, the thing I remember most about the area to this day is the smell the smell of the trees and shrubs, of the fresh broken ground in the garden in the spring, of the first-cut grass, and of the changing of the seasons. Our home in Silver Spring over the past 30 years is scarcely six miles north of what I consider my real birthplace in Brookland-Michigan Park, but the smells aren’t the same, and I’ve never really felt at home, but more like a visitor. This came back to me with a bang at age 55 when I returned to Brookland to work for Father Burke. I remember fondly sniffing the air each morning as I strolled from my car into the Dominican House, and I’d say, “Hey! This is it! It hasn’t changed.” And, honestly, sometimes I could almost hear the cheers of the crowd swelling up from the vicinity of the now empty and rapidly deteriorating football stadium. There is something unique about one’s birthplace, at least to me. It’s like no place else on earth, and I’ve been more places than most.

I got off to a really bad start in Brookland, though. The day after we moved in, my sister came down with Scarlet Fever. In one of those perversities we so often witness in life (as when Maureen smashed her teeth while on a volunteer mission of mercy to the old folks at University Nursing Home), tragedy struck the most benign of scenes – a First Communion class, wherein my sister was one of five girls to come down with the fever. Scarlet Fever was a real zinger in those days – the whole house and family were quarantined for 30 days. I wasn’t allowed out of the backyard. Our new neighbor, Mrs. Noyes (later Mrs. MacKavanaugh) bought me several kites, all of which I immediately destroyed by catching them in the one small tree in the yard. This came to mind as recently as the 1979 Memorial Day family party at Kinross. George, Charlie and I took all the on-the-scene grandchildren down to Sligo Park. After everyone else had successfully flown the kite, my turn came, and I promptly caught it in the one small pine in the immediate vicinity. So it goes.… Anyhow, here I was set down in a safe country scene with a brand new bunch of playmates, and I wasn’t allowed out of the yard. Margaret was completely sealed off in her room. Mom was further burdened at the time with my eight-month-old brother, Tom, and Pop, who was allowed leave for work, was restricted to eating and sleeping in the living room.

A Bon Secours nun was brought in to nurse Margaret. They are an order of nuns who assist the sick in their own houses. She didn’t help me. I remember vividly how one day, after I had talked back to my mother, this sweet little Hessian chased me into the bathroom where I tried to wedge myself, not completely successfully, under the bathtub. As I cringed there she flailed away at me with what Columbo would call “an unidentified blunt instrument.” I would still classify this as the most humiliating experience of my entire life. (The only close competitor is the day my Aunt Alma took me and her son Eliot to Glen Echo on the streetcar for the day. They evidently had camel-like bladders, as they never went to the toilet the entire day. I did, however, in my pants on the way home in the streetcar. Fortunately, the ride was so long and the day was so hot that I completely dried out before we disembarked.) Anyhow, I remember seeing my mother hovering over the sister’s shoulder, and since she didn’t seem to be trying to restrain the nun, I assumed my mother was cheering her on. This had a devastating effect on my relationship with my mother at the time, although I’d long since forgotten it. It was only when I began reminiscing in preparation for this narrative that my sister told me, “You know, that made mother furious. She thought the nun had overstepped her bounds.” No, I didn’t know.

This bout with severe illness bought my sister an even more favored position in the family pecking order. This was over and above that accruing to her being the eldest child, the only girl in the family, and the only granddaughter in the entire tribe. Then there was brother Tom, with his inalienable permanent claim of being the perpetual baby in the family, who further enhanced this position of familial advantage by his aforementioned year-long bout with rheumatic fever. (I still can’t figure out why my accident didn’t endear me more. Perhaps it was precisely because it was an accident, and one of my own making.) Now, however eyebrow-raising these casual declarations may be to casual readers (and certainly no one would read this on purpose), these were very real forces for me to reckon with – I didn’t make them up, I merely recognized them. I emerged into my awareness of unique personhood and independence as an oppressed human being. This feeling was considerably heightened by my mother’s protective inclinations, which my reaction – a struggle to gain at least parity with my siblings – undoubtedly brought into focus on me in particular.

May procession

Every day the Broooklanders played football and baseball in season on the other side of my backyard fence – Hutchinson’s Field (now Turkey Thicket Playground). But, as I’ve indicated, I wasn’t allowed to go into Hutchinson’s Field except for the community Fourth of July celebrations. Instead, we were the only family in the area to play croquet on the front lawn – to the constant jibes of the Brooklander bringing the evening newspaper, who derided it as “a ladies’ game.” Whenever it rained during the summertime, all the neighborhood kids were out in their drawers playing in the rain. Not me – I “might catch cold.” (I was once driven, without permission, to take over a Saturday Evening Post route – I was perhaps nine – just to have a chance to walk in the rain! I was too young for this, and I really butchered the collection records.) Every summer, as soon as school was out, every boy in Washington got a crew haircut. Not me. “How would it look for a Professor’s son to have a crew cut?” How could any youngster cope with such deadly logic as that? Every summer the Brooklanders dammed up two converging streams in Hutchinson’s Field and built the most magnificent old swimming hole that anyone could imagine – complete with high diving board and recirculating drains and overflows. It was off-limits to me. Man! I tell you, rightly or wrongly, I grew up feeling totally oppressed and fully frustrated.

Meanwhile, Pop was a free spirit. Unlike Mom and her concern for how I’d look doing this or wearing that, Pop didn’t give a damn what anybody thought about anything that he did. He often, to me, seemed to go out of his way to appear unconventional, and I took a lot of heat for that, too, from the very present and always jeering Brooklanders. For one thing, he was the only man I ever knew or ever saw, aside from newspapers or movies, who actually wore spats. The Brooklanders used to yell, “Hey, Doc, your socks are falling down over your shoes!” It never bothered him, but it sure bothered me. They were always boxing me into a position where I felt compelled to defend him to them. Then he went to Europe in 1926. You guessed it. He came back complete with walking cane, and alternately bedecked in either derby or beret. This gave rise to a Brooklander chorus of assorted hoots like, “Hey, Doc! There’s something on your head,” or “Hey, Doc! Where’s the snake?” To make matters worse, he brought me a fancy leather book bag from Holland, complete with dainty lace-like tassels. Rather than hurt his feelings, I’d carry the damn thing to school and really undergo a barrage of hoots and jeers.

And later on in life, when other men were satisfied with full beards or smartly trimmed moustaches, he had to have the only goatee in town. He always had to be different – even when it came, at last, to buying the first family car. This great event occurred somewhere in this period I’d guess about 1926. But there was to be no conventional car for us. No sir! He proudly arrived home one evening in – a Franklin, the only air-cooled car on the market, the Corvair of its day. That would have been fine except that the conventional car had a fancy nickel-plated radiator complete with hood ornament. In lieu of this, the Franklin had a funny looking scoop-like snout more reminiscent of the first horseless-carriages. This evoked a Brookland chorus of “Hey, Doc! You forgot your horse.” I ought to mention that this continuing fusillade of verbal barbs never ruffled Pop, in fact, I have a residual feeling that both sides looked on it all as a delightful game, and that I was the only non-playing bystander.

Franklin

Digital Edition Note: While Jack indicates the year was 1926, the picture he provides above appears to be of a 1918 Series Franklin Touring model (See https://franklincar.org/tech/YOMImages/#1918.)

1961 Corvair – The other air-cooled car.

Digital Editor Note: The above picture of the Corvair like our family’s model is included by Charlie.

The advent of the auto in our family launched the first instance that I can recall of my demonstrated assimilation of my mother’s facility for planning. On summer evenings we used to venture a mile or two “into the country” to cool off before bedtime. I began to secrete my small flashlight in my pocket as protection against the disaster of a flat tire in the unlighted countryside. When and if catastrophe struck, and as Pop fumbled in the dark, I fantasized how I’d suddenly produce my little light and exclaim, “Here, I brought this along in the event of just such an emergency.” I was prepared. Everybody would be properly amazed and suitably grateful. I would bask in the glory of it all. “Oh, it was nothing. I just believe in being prepared.” Unfortunately, this proud moment never came.

But this isn’t the only way that the auto figured in my early life. It was also the device that served to alert me to the passage of time and more especially to its cyclical nature. It was in 1924 that I first observed our neighbor, Mr. Gillis, changing the license plate on his car on New Year’s Day. Thus I vividly remember 1924 as being the first yearly designation ever impressed upon my young mind. Thus, it was three months before my sixth birthday that my personal “march of time” began. I have no recollection of 1923 as such. Subsequently, I was keenly aware of the arrival of 1925 and 1926 as signaled by the new license plates. By 1927, apparently this had become old hat, and I no longer needed this crutch to inform me of the passage of time. This was the period in my life, too, which first accented the collapse of time that uniquely marks the experience of my generation. Perhaps Toffler sums it up best in his Future Shock thus:

It has been observed that if the last 50,000 years of man’s existence were divided into lifetimes of approximately 62 years each, there have been about 800 such lifetimes. Of these 800, fully 650 were spent in caves. Only during the last 70 lifetimes did masses of men see a printed word. Only during the last four has it been possible to measure time with precision. Only in the last two has anyone anywhere used an electric motor. And the overwhelming majority of material goods we use in daily life today have been developed within the present, the 800th lifetime.

To this Hans King adds a post-script: “The progress of modern science, technology, industry, communication, culture is unparalleled: it surpasses the boldest fantasies of Jules Verne and other former futurologists.” Gone are the streetcars of my youth, and we saw the advent of buses first electric, then gasoline, and now diesel.

Our childhood was still the era of the extra-paper. I can recall September 1923 when a late evening extra-paper heralded that Jack Dempsey had demolished Luis Firpo in a prize fight for the heavy-weight championship of the world. And I can remember the dismay of September 1926, when another extra-paper brought the unwelcome news that Gene Tunney had dethroned Dempsey. The latter had been my very first hero, and woe the poor unfortunate who succeeds a legend – witness the recent distress of poor Leon Spinks after dethroning Ali. No one likes to witness the passing of a symbol of their own dreams. No one wins lasting acclaim by surpassing a superhero.

My first “in-person” hero was my neighbor, Eliot Noyes. He was the oldest of three mother-dominated boys, and he refused to be dominated. The second boy became a late-vocation priest, and the youngest, Albert, didn’t break away to get married until he was in his very late forties. It was Eliot who first pointed the way for me that freedom from mother could only be achieved by leaving home. First he joined the Navy, and worked on airplanes at the old Anacostia Naval Air Station. Then he did a brief hitch in the Marine Corps, from which (as was then allowed) he purchased his way out. Finally, he upped and married and moved to the west coast – never to return, not even for his mother’s funeral in May of 1978. In fact, he never so much as spoke to his mother after leaving home. I can now see that, like me and my mother, they couldn’t get along precisely because they were so much alike. So, it was a constant dog fight, with neither party giving an inch. I do think that I, with time, have made a more mature (and Christian) accommodation.

But, to continue, soon the extra-papers were also gone with the winds of change. The NBC radio network was born in July of 1926. I remember our first little crystal set, with earphones, and the then current joke, “You can stick your aerial out the window and get Pittsburgh. You can stick your ass out the window and get Chile.” So it goes.… Lindbergh traversed the formidable Atlantic, alone, in a single-engine plane in May of 1927, which was probably the month of my unremembered First Communion. I well recall the excitement when the Keith Theater (where my mother had taken us for a Buster Keaton comedy) interrupted the film and lit up the stage for an announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Lindbergh has landed safely in Paris.” The whole world went wild. Yes, extra-papers (perhaps the last such) were on the streets when we left the theater moments later, but this event unmistakably marked the emergence of a new era of history – the light-fast-communication, transportation-shrunken little world of today. And this was the point at which I was to begin my formal education. But as you know, Eliot Noyes had already elicited the first major decision of my life, having convinced me (unbeknownst to him, I’m sure) of the inevitable necessity of my getting away from home, if ever I was to feel free, and as soon as possible.

First Communion

The dismal family atmosphere of the immediately ensuing years was only to confirm the urgency of this course of action, as I became increasingly aware of the constant nagging of my mother. For, indeed, my father was nothing if not passive. It seemed to me to almost become a game for him. Mother seemed determined to make Pop mad. It seemed to infuriate her that she never succeeded. For Pop’s objective seemed to be to hold his temper. His was the most dramatic demonstration of forbearance and patience that I’ve ever witnessed. (I know, girls, too bad none of this quality of his rubbed off on me.) Anyway, the more intemperate my mother would become (and she could be truly creative in this respect), the more accommodating my father would become. It was incredible.

I got so I hated seeing them together, and I strove mightily to avoid being confined with them, as in the car, where they were remindful of the old-time gladiators whose left hands were bound together while they thrashed each other at close range with their free right hands. Now, you might have expected that this would sour me on any idea of marriage and drive me into a monastery. Quite the contrary (and incidentally, I’ve been inside a few monasteries in recent years, and you wouldn’t believe the pettiness and total lack of charity I encountered there. People remain flawed by Original Sin wherever they choose to operate). In any event, I was soon to find the idea of marriage, and the largest possible family, a “Sterling” idea. Stay tuned.

IV. SCHOOL

I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.  – Mark Twain

This next period of my life began with my starting to school in February of 1924, one month short of my sixth birthday. The first thing I must say about this opening segment of my formal schooling is that I learned more out of school than I did in it. As a matter of fact, I haven’t one single recollected example of something I learned in school during this period, except, of course, that I must have learned the mechanics of reading and writing. As a would-be theologian (which is something akin to a self-taught brain surgeon), it may or may not be of some significance that my very first teacher was a Dominican nun named Sister Thomas Aquinas. But, in any event, it is clear to me that the more important facet of my development during this period occurred in the realm of the broadened socialization associated with going to school. Of course, the home still remained the center of my training, with the neighborhood influences running a close second. Two examples may suffice.

“Pop,” I whined one night, “I can’t find my pajamas.”

“Did you put them away when you got up this morning?”

“No,” I said, “I think I just left them on the floor.”

“I know you did,” Pop replied, “and since you treated them so carelessly, I figured you didn’t want them anymore, so I just threw them out into the backyard. I guess you’d better go out and get them.”

I did, and the backyard (which bordered on dense woods surrounding a dairy farm) seemed blacker than the bottom of a coal mine shaft at midnight, plus the night sounds were more ominous than those in an old Tarzan movie. Believe me, I found my pajamas in a hurry and scurried back into the safety of the house. Oh, yes – never again did I fail to hang up my pajamas in the morning.

The other example involved a neighbor, Mr. Mallon, and his son, Jack. One evening we were playing on the Mallons’ front porch when I got the brilliant idea that Jack should hit his old man for ice cream cone money. He did, and it worked. Naturally I was back an evening or two later with an amazingly similar idea. Jack went in and spoke with his Dad again, and soon we were headed for the store once more. Jack allowed as now he’d seen the very first ad of the summer for strawberry ice cream that day, but I told him I was leaning toward fresh pineapple. (Can’t you just taste it too?) We entered the store and Jack marched right up to the counter to order. “Wait a minute,” I said, grabbing his arm, “I think I’d rather have chocolate.” Jack’s face assumed a grin so wide it went out of sight behind his ears. “My Dad said tricking you like this would be more fun than an ice cream cone and he’s right! He didn’t give me any money,” he finished, by then almost doubled up with laughter. I can’t begin to imagine the expression on my face. Shock? Anger? Disbelief? Humiliation? Probably a mélange of them all with a generous added portion of outrage. I’d have given anything I owned to have been able to dig a nickel out of my own pocket. Jack, I think, was by now rolling on the floor. He may even have been frothing at the mouth. He couldn’t have been happier if he’d owned an ice cream store. “Dad said this would teach you a lesson,” he chortled at last. It sure did! I never again attempted to enforce my personal greed upon anyone else. I always made certain that I could carry my own share of any seemingly joint venture.

My formal schooling began at the Thomas Edward Shields Memorial School. This was a model pilot school named for an innovative and progressive teaching genius of that period, Father Shields, who was also founder of the Sisters’ College at 10th Street and Bates Road. I frankly remember very little indeed about my first years there, beyond the fact that the teachers were Dominican nuns whose penchant for theology resulted in an emphasis on that which Etienne Gilson, the French philosopher, calls “the capsule theology the catechism, which it is not an exaggeration to say … is the most important teaching a Christian will ever receive throughout his life.” I do vividly remember my first day at school, however, because I took a beating both at school and at home afterward. I had scarcely been deposited by my older sister on the playground before school began when I was suddenly overwhelmed by some unknown bully. He had me down on the ground and was thrashing the daylights out of me. I don’t remember why, if I ever knew. Just as suddenly he was being hauled off of me by what appeared to me as a giant of a young man, and I can still recall being dazzled by his neat fur-lined leather gloves. It turned out that he was an eighth-grader by the name of John Mattimore. I don’t think I ever spent a minute on that playground after that when I didn’t make sure that I always stayed within the shadow of John Mattimore.

I merely thought he was the greatest, as he was to prove yet again that very first day. On this, my maiden venture without parental guidance beyond Michigan Park, I was admonished to wait after school so my sister could convoy me home. Wait for my sister? Somebody had to be kidding. (Macho was alive and well in Michigan Park in those days.) Once released from school, I headed for what I thought was home, no matter that I didn’t really know where I was – I merely had to follow the streetcar tracks into more familiar surroundings. (For years I’ve put down my children with how I walked a mile to and from school from the first day until graduation from High School. Imagine my chagrin when in the course of my research for this exciting saga I discovered that it was only and barely a half-mile. But then, inflation has devalued everything today.) Naturally I was shocked when my mother didn’t share my elation at the dimensions of my personal achievement in finding my way home without my sister Margaret. “Your sister will be frantic,” she said, and of course she was, although more frightened for herself than for me, I suspect.

She soon showed up in tears, wailing that she had lost me and couldn’t find me anywhere, and so on. And who do you suppose was her comforting escort and fellow-searcher? None other than good old John Mattimore again. He had seen her distress and walked her all the way home, all the time doing his best to find me. Already my oldest grandchild, Bobby, somehow reminds me of John Mattimore. He has, it seems to me, a poise and concern for others that belies the fewness of his years. He has a certain detachment that allows him to step back and survey the scene, make a careful judgment, and then proceed with a sound course of action. For example, once at a family picnic (2 July 1978), Terri had hurt herself somehow. Monica tried to soothe her. “Just let her go, Monica,” Bobby advised. “Let her go off by herself. She’ll come back in a minute when she feels better.” Clearly, she had to preserve her pride more than she needed ministration.

The only other extensive recollection of these beginning school years was an event that occurred when I was in the third grade. My teacher was Sister Mary Vincent. She had the roly-poly figure of one of these bounce-back inflatable boxing dummies, and was particularly authoritarian. The latter rankled me somewhat from the start. I soon got enough of the plea-to-authority routine from her and my mother to provoke me into a confrontation. In those days one did virtually anything in response to an authoritarian figure’s simple, “Because I say so!” Now, I don’t altogether disapprove of this in the very earliest years when children are hardly “reasoning” human beings. In fact, I don’t disagree with this approach at any age level when it is made clear that what is really meant is that the issue is to be resolved simply on the basis of what is “right.”

In short, I frown only on that school of training that resorts too long to the because-I-say-so syndrome as a matter of personal convenience and expediency. And, of course, I deplore that school which insists that the recipient of any censure or correction must always be made to feel that you do this or that because it’s fun, or it’ll make you feel better in the long run, or because of any number of legitimate and practical reasons. Believe me! There are many hard and disagreeable things that must be accepted or undertaken for no other reason than that such is the “right” thing, and “right” is to be understood as conveying a notion of justice and charity. Anyhow, one day Sister Mary Vincent admonished me to do something because she said so. I calmly replied that I would not. In utter consternation she asked me why, and I told her because my father took the opposite view with respect to whatever it was she was insisting upon. And, I followed this up, sensing her total confusion, by observing that my father disagreed with most of her silly ideas. Well, this really tore it!

Most of you have had nuns for teachers, and you can surmise the ensuing dismay and disarray. First Pop was called to meet with Sister alone. Then I was summoned to meet with them together. I wonder, can anyone imagine who won? I had all the control over the situation of a shuttlecock in a badminton game. Now, understand, I have not the slightest recollection of the substance of the issues involved or the merits in the case. I was, no doubt, in error – I’ll even concede it. But the point is that is all irrelevant, I was in a “no-win” position. This, I sincerely believe, is what really rankled me then, but what today makes me, I also think, especially open to and tolerant of my children’s side in their confrontations with authority outside the home. I have a vague recollection of being amazed at the density of the sugar coating with which Sister presented her side of the issue (a sort of “expletives-deleted” approach), and also that my “monstrous effrontery” was considerably exaggerated (I was not bold. I was as cool as Humphrey Bogart).

Beyond that, I gained the impression that there was a pervading assumption that nuns could do no wrong. There was a collateral hint of an assumption that possibly little boys could never be relied upon for the truth. No one is quicker to recognize injustice than a child who has not yet learned the art of adult deviousness, and we are in our earliest days, as Graham Greene says, soon “accustomed to the moral confusion of adults.” One thing that I am certain of is that this incident certainly guided my receptiveness to Anne’s side of the story in her assorted and incredible adventures at the Academy of the Holy Names. I felt I really knew where she was coming from. So you see, Anne, you owe a prayer of thanks to my third-grade teacher that I have not already cut you out of my will. She, no matter how inadvertently, lifted the scales from my eyes.

Now, I do by no means wish to conjure the impression, even fleetingly, that I was a perfect little angel and the perennial subject of child abuse. No way. I freely confess that I was often what President Nixon (who is so gifted with a talent for elegant expression) might term “a [expletive deleted].” I used to drive our neighbor, Mrs. Gillis, nuts. She had a fetish about her lawn which took the form of paroxysms in which she ran around with a broom screaming, “Stay off my grass!” Sometimes she’d get even more violent and demand that one and all “Stay out of my yard!” So naturally, every time I passed her house I just had to dash a few paces in and out of her yard. (Why do boys react this way? Do girls, too?) And then there were Mrs. Gillis’ two precious daughters, Annette and Evelyn. Invariably on the way home from school, I’d dash up behind them, grab their hats, and then toss them into their yard, just far enough to make them have to walk on the grass. And I did even worse things. For instance, I stole loose change around the house, and even some that hadn’t quite gotten loose yet. And once I was even obliquely involved in a shoplifting foray. (George and Maureen should enjoy these two vignettes.)

An angel (?) with neighbors

The money-“finding” started while my mother was in the hospital for what must have been a miscarriage, and my Aunt Edna had taken over the household in her absence. (This was the same Aunt Edna who had ventured west in 1900 to become kindergarten teacher to the Navajo Indians under the leadership of my Great-Aunt Kate. I’m sure I was the wildest Indian she ever faced.) Anyway, Aunt Edna had the unfortunate habit of leaving her change loose in an open purse in Mom’s dresser. One day I became hypnotized by all those shiny quarters, nickels and dimes, so I sampled some. This soon became a habit which carried over even after my mother had returned home. I’d walk up to the nearby deli, buy a couple of fistfuls of penny candy, and secrete it in a tree-box (the framing provided to support a tree newly planted by the city) in front of the Mallons’ house around the corner, out of sight of my house – a veritable treasure cache. One day I made the mistake of simply hiding the loot under the knee pillow of Fran McGuiness’s wagon. (In those days every kid had a wagon complete with knee pillow, so you squatted on one knee on the pillow and propelled the wagon with the other leg.) We aggravated a bad situation by splitting up the goodies in sight of Mom (who even then had the habit of peeking out the window from behind the shades). Of course, it didn’t help my secretiveness any to be seen with a Brooklander (candy always brought strange playmates), and so the jig was up, my pocket-picking career was ended.

As for the shoplifting, I really was innocent, and it was the McGuinesses again – this time Goff (for Godfrey) and Vinnie (for Vincent). I think “Two-bow” Flanagan was along also. I was with them one day shortly after school (which was most unusual, for reasons that will soon become obvious), and they suddenly decided to make a pass through the Piggly-Wiggly (the granddaddy of all self-service stores) which was on 12th street between Monroe and Newton streets. And so we did, sweeping in one door, up and down the aisles and out the other door, bypassing the checker. They then withdrew to a heretofore-unknown-to-me hut behind Haske’s Bakery, which was next door to the Piggly Wiggly. Inside the hut everyone emptied their shirt fronts and pockets onto the floor. One had a coke, another a box of cookies, another a pack of cigarettes. They secreted all of this under a removable wooden floor panel, where there was lots more. This, apparently, was a standard procedure. I left as quickly as I dared, frightened to death by it all, and never went back. I’ve always wondered, since, who would have believed me if I’d been caught. You count ’em.

I have already said that this was the period of perhaps my greatest or most concentrated development. Part of this development was the experiencing of fear, disillusionment and death. To begin in the middle (it’s my story, isn’t it?), there was the shattering of the Santa Claus myth – an event which left me so outraged that none of my children were ever subjected to it. It came about one Christmas when I detected a trickle path of artificial snow leading from the top of the basement stairs, through the hall, to the Christmas tree in the living room. What in hell, I wanted to know, was Santa Claus doing coming in the basement door rather than down the chimney? (Sherlock Holmes would have been so proud!) This was easily parried somehow, but about a week after the New Year had begun, I’d already located the carefully boxed and stored Christmas ornaments under a tarpaulin in the corner of the basement. I never mentioned this little bit of detective work, possibly because I was so disconcerted by the apparent willful deception it evidenced. Santa was a bad scene, and I’ve never heard any compensating advantage for perpetuating the myth.

Let’s hope Santa Claus is dead. He was never very good to me anyway. One year I wanted a jig-saw outfit that enabled to making of all sorts of wooden figures and toys. Albert Noyes had one and it was really neat. I was told, upon presentation of an infinitely inadequate substitute on Christmas morning, that a saw was much too dangerous. Another year all the guys on the block opted for two-wheel bikes. Everybody got one but me, again I had asked for something too dangerous. (I was delighted when my grandsons got their bikes. If any of them has an accident, I’ll die!) I remember how in the weeks following that Christmas all the new bike owners would assemble, the little SOBs, right in front of my house each morning, take off down Shepherd Street, turn left on Michigan Avenue, and disappear out of sight – “going to Baltimore.” Lord! How I ached to go to Baltimore with them. It wasn’t until a few years later that we moved a little further out Michigan Avenue to 13th and Varnum streets, and then I discovered that their sidewalk “to Baltimore” ended half-way down the first block after they had turned the corner out of my sight. (Nixon, please help me! SOB is too mild a term!) But, happily, even before this I had begun to notice how, after only a few weeks, the bikes remained more unused than used. It was an early lesson which George MacDonald sums up in his remark, “Happily, the blessed joy of possession pales.” I never remember wanting anything ever again like I wanted that bike. To paraphrase the old airline ad, I’d learned that “planning to get there is half the fun!”

With sister, Margaret, and neighbor Albert Noyes

The emergence of fear in my life had several dimensions, but one singular result – it was fear that led me to prayer. (I have since reflected that perhaps this is the only route by which macho man can be led – eventually – to a love of God.) My very first recollection of fear was the immediate byproduct of my first confrontation with death – the death of our neighbor, Mr. Noyes, in 1924 when I was six. I can still recall the huddled conferences of whispering people. “Why, I saw him at Mass in the monastery only this morning,” one would venture. “Yes,” another would reply, “and I understand he complained that he never remembered the hill being so steep or making him so tired.” But the picture that was on hold in my mind was that he had been okay at breakfast but gone before dinner. Gone! Quickly, completely, and forever! This gave birth to my first recollected prayer – that God protect my parents, and never take them from me and leave me as an orphan. (I have since reflected that perhaps I oversold this; my mother ended up living with us until well into her nineties.)

My second big fear was not unrelated in that it pertained to sudden, irreversible loss. This was when the token black family in the neighborhood (and parish – there was always the need for a janitor, you know) lost virtually all their possessions when their house burned to the ground. Their name was Thompson, and it was a big family (Catholic, of course) that lived in a one-room shanty in a field near the railroad tracks. The one and only thing they salvaged was a baby grand piano – possibly the forerunner of blacks’ status-building super-hi-fi’s and CDs of today. The strange thing is, their rebuilt place burned to the ground again about a half-dozen years later, and again, only the piano was salvaged. I thought that was sort of funny, but I harbored no such illusions about fire, and forthwith protection from fire was added to my litany of pleas for the mercy of God. As Thomas Hobbes put it, “Fear and I were born twins,” but out of it all, I at least evolved a lifetime prayer habit.

In my young life, however, fear had to give equal time to disillusionment. I have this dismal recollection of a youthful journey to the Washington Navy Yard on Navy Day. This used to be a big annual thing in the schools when I was growing up. Several classes were loaded into a chartered bus. Each teacher kept her own class in tow for the Navy Yard tour, right? Wrong! You know who got lost – I did. But I wasn’t too worried when I found myself detached from my class and wandering around all alone. (Interestingly enough, I also got lost in the Ford Island Navy Yard at Pearl Harbor in 1945, and almost missed my plane connection to catch a ship in Guam, about which more later.) After all, I often became separated from my folks at the museum, as I hung back to look at ships, fire engines, and locomotives, while they rushed on to waste time reviewing the inaugural gowns of the Presidents’ wives, for chrissakes. My folks would find me – such is the blind faith of youngsters.

As for getting lost at the Navy Yard, I was a good planner (remember?). I’d carefully noted the area where our bus had parked to disembark us, and the number of our bus. Not only that, every Catholic kid knows full well that you can trust a nun 100 percent, right? In fact, they either moved the bus or it had already departed by the time I found my way back to the original parking area. Now, I hadn’t rushed to locate the bus. After all, I had gotten detached shortly after our arrival, so I just continued my private tour. This was a mistake induced wholly and entirely by an overabundance of trust. To make a long story short (and too late, you say), I had to walk home, and I wasn’t even sure where home was. So, this was no easy feat (actually it was very hard on the feet) for a kid my age living in a much more sheltered era. First off, I walked a good bit in the wrong direction, until it dawned on me that I was in southeast Washington rather than the northeast segment, so I had been following the streets for which the alphabetically ordered names progressed away from rather than toward home. I first got some real sense of my bearings when I at long last stumbled onto North Capitol Street at H Street, Northeast, opposite the Government Printing Office. I knew that from there all I had to do was follow the streetcar tracks to the end of the line and more familiar surroundings. At this point I was still three miles from home (the Navy Yard was six), but I didn’t have carfare, so walk I did. Naturally I was too frightened to ever tell my folks about this (they’d never have let me out of the house alone again), and I don’t believe the trusted dear nun ever even missed me (my having always been so shy and retiring, as is well known). But, again a life-long lesson emerged: never leave home without emergency fare for a safe return! Also, one couldn’t place blind faith in a nun.

Two other incidents of disillusionment should be mentioned. One occurred shortly before age nine, the other shortly after. The first related to the day a policeman came to our front door to charge me as the culprit who had broken 47 windows in the Bunker Hill Elementary School at 14th and Michigan Avenue. We had by now, as you recall, moved to 13th and Varnum Street, and it is a fact that I often joined neighborhood kids in playing in what then was the woods surrounding the Bunker Hill School. But there was no way I could figure to prove my innocence. I couldn’t even begin to account for where I might have been at the alleged time of the damage. Mother could. She even produced a time-dated receipt of Rich’s Shoe Store, where she had taken me that particular morning to buy … you guess. Such an ironclad alibi demolished the policeman’s until-then dead-certain arrogance – the old “We’ve got the goods on you, Lefty, you’d better come out with your hands up” approach. Now he assumed his avuncular “everybody knows the policeman is a boy’s best friend” approach. Did I know who did it? No. Had I heard anyone talking or even bragging about it? No. Could I give him the names of some of the boys I played with? Sure, and I did. This was a mistake.

It turns out that policemen are not (always) boys’ friends at all. A few days later the mother of one of the kids I had so innocently named cursed me out (literally!) in a way that would have made a sailor take notes. “How [expletives deleted, again and again] did I dare to implicate her little darling in this dastardly crime!” I had to ask my sister what “implicate” meant. That old lady really scared me. I mean, she was as mad as a frothing dog in high summer. So much for my admiration of policemen. Live and learn. And it was the same with doctors shortly thereafter when I had my tonsils removed. The old man just put a little pad of strange smelling cloth over my mouth and nose and challenged me to “Blow it away!” I was under the ether before I’d taken three good breaths. You just couldn’t trust grown-ups.

I’ve already mentioned the death of Mr. Noyes, but his was only the first of four deaths that marked me in this period. The second was the death of the younger brother of my classmate, Marie Blanluet. He was killed in the cave-in of a home-made cave hut. Several vivid pictures persist. The first is the uniform delight of our class on learning that we would be excused from school to attend the funeral – my first. The second was the surprise at the small white casket (I was not to see another till our son, Herbie, was buried), and the overall theme of joy that featured funerals for those who died before the age of reason, and therefore could be presumed sinless and therefore saints. This was a most welcome theological amendment, after the atmosphere of doom and gloom that attended the death of Mr. Noyes in my memory.

It was even more impressive in the light of my third recollection – the uncommon pedagogical skill and obvious holiness of the preacher, Dr. George Johnson, a priest well ahead of his time, and perhaps even of this one. Father Johnson, I believe, was the guiding genius behind the establishment of the Thomas Edward Shields Memorial School, and later (when this became St. Anthony’s) the model Campus School as an adjunct to the Sisters’ College. He never preached from the altar, but from the aisles, walking up and down between the rows of children, involving us in dialectical give-and-take. He had a gift for making things simple even as he made you think, and he made everyone a participant. He is the first preacher who ever made an impression on me, and it was a very long time before I met another.

But the liturgical joy of the Blanluet funeral was soon displaced by another childhood death. One of my own classmates this time, Tommy Dorsey, was struck by a car as he ran down the southeast hill of the little triangle formed by 12th Street, Shepherd Street and Michigan Avenue. (This little park was also the scene of another tragedy – a fire! Several times each summer the park service provided a band concert by one of the military bands. These were real community affairs, like the Fourth of July celebrations. Everybody turned out. A wizened little old man regularly showed up, with monkey and push-cart, to provide fresh-roasted peanuts and popcorn. His open flame for this purpose was one evening wafted by the breeze into the cart’s tassel-fringed umbrella – and in moments the cart was a small pile of smoldering black ashes. The departure of the little old man clutching his monkey to his chest was a pitiful sight that still lingers after 50 years. Fire is such an ultimate solution. I’m sure he lost everything he had in the world. We never saw him again.)

Anyhow, the houses on that side of Michigan sat atop a double-terraced hill perhaps 30 or 40 feet high, and Tommy came racing down the hill from delivering the evening paper and charged right into the path of an oncoming car. Every neighbor was soon at curbside, and I found myself standing next to Mrs. Gillis, and so over heard her memorable summary of the situation: “I’m not surprised. He was bound to come to a bad end – he was always walking on the grass!” What can I add? She had all the compassion of a city bank loan officer. Once again, we were excused from class for the funeral, but even more sobering than Mrs. Gillis’s remark, there was no white casket this time. And for the first time, I was struck by the somber thought that, yes, sudden death could happen even to me.

But even this is not my most memorable early recollection of death. The one that most often returns to mind occurred in March of 1928, when I was ten. One evening my father simply took me with him when he left home shortly after dinner in the car. At last, when we got to where he was going, he left me in the car while he went inside. I didn’t realize it at that point, but it turned out to be a funeral home, and my father remained inside for a very long time, almost as long as he had kept us waiting in the sleigh while he talked to friends as alluded to earlier. At last he emerged, visibly shaken, and he sat quietly for several minutes just slumped behind the steering wheel. He was crying. This was the first (and only) time I saw my father in tears, and it really unhinged me.

Finally, when he had regained his composure, he turned to me and said, “Son, I have just paid my respects for the last time to a man who was perhaps the greatest Christian I shall ever know. He spent his entire life just helping others. He never thought of himself. He did countless large and small favors for me over the years, and one time I said to him, ‘Mr. Barnum, how can I ever repay you for all the many kindnesses you have shown to me?’ And do you know what he said? He said, ‘Herb, just pass it on!' Imagine that – ‘Just pass it on!’ I’ve never forgotten that, and now I hope you won’t either.” (I haven’t, and it has often fascinated me to reflect that much that I have done, like telling this very story now, demonstrates the continuing living force of a good Christian, one I never knew.) Later on, my father mused, “He wasn’t a Catholic, you know, but he was more Christian than most.” Well, that was the first time I came to realize that one could, indeed, be a Catholic without being a Christian, ’though this seems to be the rule more than the exception these days. All too often we find the (non-Christians) even wearing religious garb.

There were some lighter times in those days, too. I didn’t go around with a permanent scowl. (That must have come later, I hear you say.) One occasion of great joy was the nomination of the Happy Warrior, Al Smith, as the first Catholic candidate for President of the United States. This, too, was in 1928 when I was ten. I can’t discuss Al Smith without introducing you to my Aunt Lucy, the sister of my father’s mother) and her husband, Cameron Brodie, or Uncle Cam. She has to be the most flamboyant and feisty old lady I’ve ever known. She was a real pistol, with as much fight in her as an Irishman too long at the pub. She’d take on the whole world in defending Al Smith, and she couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds – and she’d have won more often than she lost on pure fighting spirit. She could extol Al for hours, and did.

Poor Uncle Cam was the exact opposite, the most unassuming and retiring old gentlemen you’d ever care to know. He had a handlebar moustache and eyes that twinkled like a fresh-flowing mountain stream in the noon-day sun. And in the face of constant (though good-natured) abuse from their two daughters, Ethel and Marie (prototypical women-libbers straight out of King Lear, if ever there were), he wore a perpetual Irish-pixie smile and just kept serenely puffing away on his ever-present cigar. Maybe once every two hours he’d open his mouth to venture an opinion, only to evoke an immediate “Shaddup, Papa!” from Ethel and Marie in unison. I don’t recall the old gentleman ever getting so much as a word in. You could publish the collected sayings of Uncle Cam on the back of the same postage stamp that recorded the wisdom of Hugh Hefner. But all this never bothered Uncle Cam. Compared to some of the outrageous contentions of Ethel and Marie, Uncle Cam’s silence exuded brilliance. (I’ve noted in recent years that this stage is one all men must apparently accommodate to as they grow older – the situation wherein their advice is not only never sought or needed, but in which it is rejected without so much as a hearing. I’ve witnessed Grandpa Kirk being relegated to the background in this respect, and have already begun to feel the pressure starting to push me to the rear at family gatherings. Old age seems to make one irrelevant. My recollection of Uncle Cam’s cool has been a comfort to me as I recognize this stage engulfing me.)

But Al Smith is the real hero of this episode in my mind, so much so that I took his middle name for my confirmation name – Emmanuel – 6 December 1929. (I also took his name in part to earn entitlement to the nickname of “Manny,” after a neighbor, Manny Rice, who in the same year introduced me – unbeknownst to himself, I’m sure – to a lifetime love for Duke Ellington and his music.) Aunt Lucy had given me a children’s biography of Al Smith that I actually read. In fact, I clipped an excerpt from it, and still had it (posted on the nameplate of my office desk in the Navy Management Office) 40 years later! It was what Al called his credo, and unfortunately I’m no longer able to locate it, but it went to this general effect: “I know what is right, and I know what is wrong. And if ever I do or seem to do anything that’s wrong, you can mark it as willfully and knowingly done, and hold me to account for it!”

I liked that then, and I still do. What a difference it would have made if, in more recent history, Richard Nixon had shared such a conviction. Anyhow, Al was a man – perhaps one of the last – who always spoke the truth as he saw it, and more than just talking about it, he lived it. He was the precise exemplar who later led me (and my brother Tom can vouch for some of this) forthrightly to challenge the unbecoming speech of my friend Jack Mallon on the way home from confession at the monastery one Saturday afternoon. It was the same principle which compelled me to write to my first godchild, Norman Lane, and my best friend, John McCarthy, when I sensed they were slipping in the practice of their faith. Far from being self-righteous actions motivated through pride, I can testify that these criticisms took guts. It isn’t easy to speak the truth, and it’s all too easy to shrink from correcting someone on the grounds that one should not cast the first stone, or for fear of appearing priggish. It never bothered me that I might hurt their pride or lose a friend. I saw it as a duty – as a matter of principle. I merely spoke up as I imagined Al would have done. He taught me that one had to be responsible – no small lesson.

It’s a bitter pill for me that a man of his caliber – rather than JFK – couldn’t be remembered as the first Catholic President. As one final sidelight on this, I have no idea what my own father thought of Al or any other political figure. I know nothing of his personal politics, and he was a political scientist. In the course of researching to write this memoir I asked an old associate of his during this period, Dr. John Meng, about it, and he said the voteless District-liners of those days never had to take sides and so they didn’t. (Dr. Meng obviously never met Aunt Lucy!) Choice of a political party or a candidate just never came up, he said. One might venture that if any political label fit Pop, then it would most probably have been internationalist.

It was also 1928 that saw the Dominican replaced by the Benedictine nuns at St. Anthony’s. The Dominicans wore white habits and the Benedictines wore black habits. Never was the white/black, good guy/bad guy symbolism more apt than as I found this switch on reporting for the sixth grade in September 1928. My teacher was Sister Mary Divine Heart, but it would have been more correct to call her Sister Mary No-Heart. She was a diminutive but congenital boy-hater. Her loathing for anything male was undisguised from the very first minute of the very first day. He favorite phrase was “Woe unto you!” And I faced more woes that year than you’re apt to hear around a race track in a season.

The Divine One favored girls to an outrageous extent. She lavished praise on them even as she went out of her way to devastate blooming male egos. One of her favorite ploys was to exploit a boy’s inability to answer some particular question, building it up into a gigantic display of utter stupidity, and then cap it by calling on one of the smart-ass girls to administer the coup de grace: “Florence, tell John!” It made you want to splatter Florence like a snowball against a brick building!

The Divine One’s well-developed disgust for the masculine genre extended even to books which she read to the class during the indoor recess. Her all-time favorite was Girl of the Limberlost, which was about some little goofball girl who made a career out of chasing butterflies, for chrissakes. After almost a year of this all the boys rebelled to the extent that she at last most reluctantly undertook to assay Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. This was quickly and violently abandoned after scarcely a page and a half as utterly disgusting!

Unfortunately, this was the only elementary school year in which I recall confronting any instruction in English grammar. I lost. I didn’t know, until I went to prep school seven years later, that the reason why I flunked Latin four years in a row in high school was that I didn’t know English grammar. Flunking Latin, though, had its good and bad aspects. The bad aspect was that my teacher never failed to reproach me with, “But, John, your father was a Latin teacher!” I never could figure how she thought her reiterating this would help me. On the good side, this did help me to confirm my prior resolution on the married state. I simply figured that if God wanted me to be a priest, then he sure would have made Latin a lot easier for me. Clearly, this was for me the nadir of the educational process. I was passed to the seventh grade only on the condition that I attend and pass summer school. I not only dreaded the loss of my summer freedom, I was by now convinced that I was an uneducable dolt, and I detested school. Beyond that, I nursed the conviction that all this was not altogether my fault, and so we want to conclude this section on a happier note.

The fact is, one of the most fortunate events in my entire life also occurred in this period. This was between 1924 and 1929, remember. The stock market crashed, but so far as I know nobody in my family heard it. Talking pictures made their debut, but not as part of my life. I was caught up in games. More than that, I invented games (some of which my roommate and I played at the Naval Academy years later, and which my brother has passed on to his friends). People tried to encourage me to read more. In particular, there was a former neighbor, a school teacher named Miss Farrington, who would regularly bring me books on her visits to the family. There was Martin Johnson’s book about Africa, books about the explorer Stanley who found Dr. Livingston (as you, too, may have presumed), and Admiral Byrd’s Antarctic adventures. I read none of these – just looked at the pictures. I do remember trying to read the travel adventures of Richard Halliburton, but he left me cold. He seemed to be promoting his own image, which seemed somewhat phony to me. (I was delighted only recently, in reading his autobiography, to note that Eric Sevareid shared my distaste. He noted with unabashed pleasure how during his WWII meanderings a passing GI cheered him with the news that he disputed Halliburton’s claim of having taken a swim in the pool at Taj Mahal. No way, the GI had insisted, I measured it when I was there and it was only 18 inches deep! Swim, indeed! My youthful judgment stands confirmed.)

Anyhow, ways had to be devised to keep me out of mischief. So it was, perhaps, that Mrs. MacKavanaugh one day took me with her when she went to visit her roots and relatives in lower St. Mary’s County, Maryland. We visited a family named Sterling which lived in or near Leonardtown. (I notice that the then-current phone directory for that area listed no less than eight Sterling families there as of 1978.) I have never forgotten dinner there that evening. All the way along the last few miles to the house she had been exchanging waves to strapping young men working on road gangs. Family, she’d explain simply. But this didn’t prepare me for the assembly at dinner that night. They had two long tables, not unlike the one in our dining room, placed end-to-end to accommodate this family that numbered seventeen children! I remember that at the start of the meal there was a loaf of bread at each end and in the middle of the table, and all three had to be replaced before the meal was ended. It was like one big party, and brimming with love. I had never before been a party to such evident happiness. Then and there I got what you’d have to admit really was a Sterling idea. I could not have been more than eleven and I decided once and for all that I would have to find a wife who would share my desire to have as many children as the Good Lord would possibly allow: the more the merrier. Surely all my children owe Mrs. MacKavanaugh a remembrance in their prayers, especially Monica, whose middle name is after hers – “Louise.” As for me, it then only remained for me to find a proper wife and determine upon a proper life work sufficient to my family objective.

However, before moving on, please permit one final tribute to my personally chosen namesake, Al Smith. I can’t improve upon a recent testimonial in the Catholic Standard: “Only one American Catholic politician has been so outstanding that decades after his death he is honored annually at a grand memorial dinner held (by) the cardinal-archbishop of New York attended by leaders of both parties. That man is Alfred E. Smith. He is so honored because of the integrity and honesty with which he engaged in politics, the steadfastness with which he professed and practiced his faith, and the fidelity with which he set an example as husband and father of a Christian family.” Moreover, as Joseph Alsop recorded as recently as 1983, he was the most effective Governor New York ever had. How fortunate for a small boy to happen upon such a splendid personal hero!

V. EDUCATION

The direction in which education starts a man will determine his future life.  – Plato

I would have to mark the interval of July 1929 to September 1931 as the pivotal period of my life. This was when I achieved the transition from being a resigned loser to an ever-striving winner. This period embraced the events from the end of the sixth to the end of the eighth grades. And the depth of my awakening might best be gauged by noting that it marked my recognition that I alone, and not anyone else, could and would set my own course in life! This realization was reflected in and modified virtually every aspect of my accommodation with the world. And it is fascinating to observe that this drastic redirection of my life was reflected on an even grander scale in the very flow of the overall history of the period. I seemingly reversed course in total harmony with a corresponding 180-degree shift in the course of world affairs.

Between the glorious years of 1927 and 1929 the polarity of the world may well have flipped over from plus to minus. The year 1927 certainly marked the culmination of the so-called “golden twenties.” This was the year of the greatest Yankees of all time. Babe Ruth had walloped a record 60 homers. Lou Gehrig had an amazing 175 runs batted in! This was the year the Yankees won the pennant by 19 games, and then became the first American League club to sweep a series in four games. It was the year of the famous long-count Dempsey-Tunney heavyweight championship fight, the year Lindbergh reached Paris, the year Henry Ford introduced the Model A Ford. Of course, it was also the year of Ford being brought low by charges of anti-Semitism, of the Snyder-Gray murder trial, of the great Mississippi flood, and of Sacco and Vanzetti. Whatever the nature of the various events, they were all outstandingly memorable and generally extremely upbeat. Then came the crash of 1929, and riches turned to ashes. The whole world went topsy-turvy. This, then, was the backdrop against which I, in my eleventh to thirteenth years, truly first emerged as my own person.

It all began with summer school following the sixth grade. I went to the John Burroughs School at the corner of 18th and Monroe streets in northeast Washington. This may well have been the most pleasant and exciting summer I ever experienced as a youth, and it affected me in every dimension – spiritual, physical, and mental. I have already alluded to my cultural awakening – the discovery of the music of Duke Ellington through an older neighbor, Manny Rice. To place the time more precisely, it too occurred in the early summer of 1929. I’m able to do this because I’ve always remembered the name of the song that first attracted my attention. It was Saturday Night Function (of which I currently possess a reissue copy, and which even today sounds avant garde), and it was pressed on 16 January 1929 in New York City. So began my lifelong love affair with really good music (for which the classical input came only slightly later, as we shall presently see).

Next, as to the spiritual dimension of my awakening, the back garden of the Franciscan Monastery, which fronts on 14th Street at Quincy, extends to 18th Street just a block or two north of John Burroughs School. There used to be a little chapel in this garden which sounded the Angelus on large bells at noon every day. Strangely, I had never heard these bells either from St. Anthony’s or from our home at 13th and Varnum Streets, due perhaps to either prevailing winds or intervening and muffling forest, but they came through loud and clear at John Burroughs. Thus it was that I acquired the habit of saying the Angelus every day at noon, which habit continues even to the present. It’s perhaps worth noting that this happy habit was begun when I was out from under the ever pushing pressure of nuns for the first time in my life. Here was something, at last, I could claim as my very own good idea.

In the physical realm I came into my own as a baseball home-run king. We had daily recess, which meant a spirited softball game for all the boys. I was soon well established as the best hitter, and was challenged only by Johnny Haske, a fellow fugitive from Sister Mary No Heart at St. Anthony’s. For that summer session I recall still that I hit 118 homeruns. Most of them left the playground, zooming over the bordering hedge, and landing on the front porches of the poor folks who lived on the far side of Newton Street. Johnny, who was the envy of everybody in the neighborhood (because his Dad owned the bakery at 12th and Monroe Streets, and he therefore always brought fresh buns for a recess snack) had about ninety-some homers. Nobody else was even in the competition. Naturally Johnny and I were always placed upon opposing teams. It was a great and friendly rivalry, and happily our team usually prevailed.

As for the mental aspect of the summer session, I was passed with flying colors, but that doesn’t begin to tell the whole story. While I truly learned something in all the assigned subject areas, my most profound learning experience, and one which significantly altered my lifelong outlook, was the radical turnaround in my view of women. Up to this point, you may recall, I had clearly been classified by my mother as the black sheep, which self-image was confirmed and reinforced by a perceived constant tattling by my sister, severe beating by a visiting nun, a self-serving and unnecessarily mean humiliation at the hands of an early teaching nun, and the culminating total devastation of my maleness by my most recent teaching nun. Needless to say, I did not have too kind an opinion of the entire female species at this point in time. It was me against all of them, and I was losing.

Enter my sixth-grade summer school teacher, my first secular teacher, Mrs. Drake. She may well be the key to my salvation if, indeed, I ever make it. (God bless you, Mrs. Drake, wherever you are!) To make a long story short, I immediately became teacher’s pet! Good Lord! What a fantastic flip-flop! Virtually overnight I went from nothing to king of the hill! The whole world suddenly became beautiful and I loved everyone. What a grand experience. As they say of the failed joke, however, “You really had to be there!” You can’t imagine the profound and lasting effect of my discovery that a woman could and did like me – me, the black sheep! I was delirious with joy that summer, and the taste of that joy lingers still.

There was that evening, for example, that my parents took me to the new and fancy Tivoli Theater at 14th and Park Road, northwest, to see The Bridge of San Luis Rey. When the house lights went up between shows, who should be sitting directly in front of us but Mrs. Drake and her husband. I excitedly introduced her to my Mom and Pop and she said, “Your son is the best student I’ve ever had.” Wow! Can you even begin to imagine the positive impact this had on my self-image and what a radically sweet turnaround this little event represented in my still-young life? I simply cannot overstate the profound effect of this marvelous woman upon my life. I had never had anyone, especially any outsider, take such a continuously upbeat interest in me. She even drove me home from school each day, because my house happened to be directly on her route to be sure, but she certainly didn’t have to do it.

Halloween Chinaman

Now one might suspect that this experience could have polarized my perspective in certain ways. For example, it wouldn’t have been unreasonable, I think, if I had concluded that secular teachers were to be infinitely preferred to nuns as teachers. However, I must confess that this distinction never entered my mind until this very instant in which I now write. In retrospect, I found this somewhat puzzling at first. Of course, from my present perspective, it is quite easy for me to explain. I realize now that very little adverse reaction on my part was prompted by teaching nuns. In fact, a subsequent episode recorded in this very chapter will recount my experience as the teacher’s pet of a nun. Also, it’s easy for me to see now that even the teachers who were bad for me were good for others. Certainly all the girls must have adored Sister Mary Divine Heart. Still, I never made the religious-versus-secular distinction.

The full explanation for this happy development, I am now sure, lies in what happened next. The simple fact is that I never had time to draw any such distinction. I marched directly from Mrs. Drake’s summer school sixth grade into Sister Mary Grace’s regular seventh grade, and lightning struck twice! Yes, I immediately became Sister Mary Grace’s pet. It is at once remarkable and frightening how my seemingly chance encounters with these two teachers so radically rerouted the course of my young life. Everything was so beyond my control, and the loving control of even my parents. It all just happened that way, or what a different story this might have become. Undoubtedly, however, this explains my failure to get down on nuns for life. Mrs. Drake and Sister Mary Grace were two peas in a pod, and they were both just the tonic I then so sorely needed.

My wonderful relationship with Sister Mary Grace all began because I happened to look like and otherwise remind her of her all-time pet, a youngster who lived in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where she had taught until the beginning of this seventh-grade year. His name was Martin Bishoff, and the admiration she instilled in me for him is the second reason why my first son, George, also bears the name of Martin. At this point in time, Martin had just entered a high school seminary after completing the eighth grade with Sister Mary Grace. So, he had already begun studying to become a priest, and I have no doubts from all the many anecdotes Sister told the class over the next two years (for I had her in the eighth grade, also) that he was truly a saint. This judgment to my mind is further confirmed by the inexplicably sudden but happy death he suffered a few years later while still in the seminary. God did indeed, it seemed, love him so dearly that He called him home early.

Sister would read us excerpts of Martin’s regular letters to her from the seminary almost every week. His letters were always amazingly inspiring, and without a trace of pious hokum or false modesty. To my young mind, his musings were not unlike those I later read by St. Therese, the Little Flower. I can vividly remember at once wanting to be like him, to be able to generate such enthusiasm and to be so inspirational to others, while knowing I never could. Martin’s sudden but natural death occurred while I was still in St. Anthony’s High School and Sister Mary Grace was still teaching eighth grade. Sister was never again quite the same, at least to me. It wasn’t for a moment that she doubted his sanctity, but rather that she was apparently overcome by her having been so close to such sanctity. And there was perhaps an unconsciously keen sense of personal loss that made her shrink from forging further personal associations of such a deep nature. She never wrote letters again, a thing I was personally to regret deeply during World War II and at other extended times away from home.

Sister Mary Grace was such a pivotal character in my life (perhaps the primary one) that she really deserves an entire chapter, but just a few examples should suffice to demonstrate her unique talents and their impact upon me. You have to recognize that a seventh-to-eighth-grade boy is the most precocious and obnoxious example of embryonic male machismo. They have to be the most outrageous and intractable specimens of the whole human species. If ever a group deserves the sobriquet of “smart asses,” this is it. Well, it was this very strain of primitive masculinity that was Sister Mary Grace’s particular cup of tea, and she didn’t have to resort to even the threat of physical chastisement, and she didn’t ever need the reinforcement of the archetypical, super-mean principal. She could manipulate peer pressure like I’ve never seen it done before or since.

Let me illustrate. Let’s say that I got out of hand. Her technique was as unique as it was inevitable. “Girls,” she would purr, “John feels unloved. He craves some special attention. So, please pardon me a minute, girls, while I give John the loving attention he really needs.” This, of course was the signal for all the girls to start giggling, even as Sister with arms outstretched cooingly approached John. By the time Sister had swept John into her arms and was murmuring soothing baby-talk at him the girls would be hysterical. This really demolished any tendency to act macho. Before long, all Sister would need to do is to begin croaking, “Girls,” and you would damn quickly shape up!

One other example comes to mind. (You can see she really left lasting impressions!) This is the age (or was) when boys suddenly realized that they could ignore teaching authority with relative impunity. After all, what could a teacher really do to you? Meanwhile, your macho adventurousness would testify to all the girls what a really big dude on campus you were. So Sister calls on John for the answer to some question. John swaggers to his feet and defiantly declaims, “I don’t know, Sister.” “Very well, John,” she purrs, “So suppose you just stand there until the answer comes to you.” All the girls giggle. They’re with you so far, and Sister goes on with her questioning to others. From time to time she comes back, “Well, John?” And John persists in ignorance. The girls giggle. After a while it suddenly dawns on John that the giggles are no longer with him. They are laughing at him! And just as suddenly John interjects the correct answer and is once again allowed to shrink into his seat. Believe me, such arrogance is ventured only once. Yes, it did happen to this John.

Such was Sister’s marvelous talent for controlling so-called uncontrollable boys. But her teaching tricks were equally unique and doubly effective. Our catechism class was a case in point. It seems I didn’t prepare my homework in this subject and, when called upon, I really didn’t know the answers sufficiently well. As alleged punishment I was therefore given the daily task of hearing everyone else’s catechism. At the conclusion, several in the class would get a chance to cross-examine me at length, the object being to show me up if possible. Well, of course, by that time I knew the lesson better (probably) than anyone in class. Undoubtedly this was the inculcation of the very foundation – and a solid one it is – of my theological facility. I was confirmed 6 Dec 1929, but my true religious indoctrination transpired in 1929–1931.

Let me stop right here and assure any and all young parents of the vital nature and value of a youthful memorization of catechetical basics. All the key questions and answers of life are to be found right there in the basic catechism – Baltimore #2. (Can’t you hear Ed McMahon exclaiming to Johnny Carson as he pounds the desk, “EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING you’d ever want to know about you and your relation to God is RIGHT THERE IN THAT BOOK!”) You may come to appreciate the richness and fullness of these simple-seeming answers only when you have spent the better part of a long life searching for better answers. As Etienne Gilson so rightly says, “It is not an exaggeration to say that instruction in the catechism is the most important teaching a Christian will ever receive throughout his life, however long or learned it may be”! I couldn’t agree more. Think about that! It’s extremely important. You can hardly expect your offspring to treat with any sense of importance something which they never got, or which was shielded from them for the first ten to twenty years of their lives so that they could make their own decision. Religion, like a language, is best ingrained in formative, youthful consciousness. As Gilson again says, “The adolescent knows almost nothing, but he (or she) firmly believes a great many things.”

I believe a little elaboration is needed here, because a dramatic change has taken place in the teaching of religion since my youth and the youth of my grandchildren. The capsule theology we got from Baltimore #2 was solid meat indeed, and could satisfy (as it no doubt has often had to) the needs of a whole life, even as it was (though perhaps too deep at the time) intended to serve one well beyond the early years. But today, “Yielding,” in Gilson’s fine phrase, “to the illusion that it was democratic to treat citizens as morons,” they brought catechism down to the level of the masses instead of raising the masses to its level. Hence the low-calorie diet that children are today fed under the name of catechism. So it is that instead of a child learning today that the first truths we must believe are: that there is a God, there can be only one, and that He Himself has revealed His existence to us; the child must rather learn, to take one example, that we believe in God because nothing can make itself.

While the same doctrine might remain, the order is different. The God of rational knowledge, Whose existence can be attained in various philosophical ways (I paraphrase Gilson throughout) is now taking precedence over the God of revelation. Before, we first believed that God had spoken to us, and then we proceeded to various rational assurances. Now, we first seek to assure that God can be known with certainty by diverse arguments drawn from reason alone, and only then do we appeal to God’s own testimony. There is stark difference in these approaches. If it is because nothing can cause itself to be that we believe in God’s existence, then we do not believe it, we know it. It is not then an article of faith but a philosophical proposition.

This state of affairs can be very bad indeed. Appealing to reason before appealing to faith necessarily entails the risk of resorting to faulty images. Thus: Here is a house. Did the house make itself? No. Did this location make itself? No. And so on, until: Did the stars, the seas, the mountains, the meadows make themselves? Again, no, BUT providing they have been made! What is at stake here is the very creation of the world. Images depicting man-made products can be very deceiving when the creation of the world from nothing is at stake. There is very real danger involved in getting the child used to thinking he is in possession of unshakable rational evidence when, in fact, conclusions rest upon pseudo-philosophical and thus worthless arguments. It is, indeed, well to keep in mind the clear-cut and straightforward positions beginning with the very first articles of the Apostles’ Creed, especially as it was revealed by the Word of God in Sacred Scripture. (Who among you has taught your child the Apostles’ Creed?) The life of faith begins, as of old, precisely with faith: Credo in unum Deum – I believe in one God. Thanks to dear Sister Mary Grace, this is the legacy of belief with which I transitioned to high school.

I went to high school at St. Anthony’s. Inasmuch as this is where I met my wife-to-be and the mother of our ten children, this indeed was a happy eventuality, and it is due entirely to the same Sister Mary Grace. The fact is, my father wanted me to go to Gonzaga. There I would be taught Greek as well as Latin, be under the strict discipline of men teachers whom my Pop was certain (being oblivious of the superlative disciplinary techniques of Sister Mary Grace) could alone handle boys rushing into manhood. Also, this would be the best possible preparation for a smooth transition to tutelage under the Jesuits at Georgetown University, my father’s Alma Mater. So, it was set. I was offered only one out. If I should win a competitive scholarship to St. Anthony’s, then I would be allowed to go there. Considering I had transitioned to the seventh grade only conditionally, this seemed a safe proposition from Pop’s point of view.

As for me, this potentially saving proposition was viewed as a life or death matter. I had heard from more advanced buddies that Greek entailed a wholly new alphabet and a strange way of forming letters. I despaired of ever mastering anything so complicated. These self-same buddies also carried tales of the violent physical punishments meted out in those days by the holy men teachers at Gonzaga. Faces were slapped, hands were smacked with steel rulers, fannies were kicked with hobnailed boots. The place was represented to be about as inviting as a top security prison for repeat offenders. Also I would have to ride many hours of public transportation rather than merely walk to and from school in minutes. It also meant losing old friends and having to make lots of new friends. And there would be no girls to operate as a mollifying influence, as they had not yet (if the ever did) become sex objects to me.

So, I just had to win a scholarship, and in this Sister Mary Grace (probably more through her pride as a teacher than through any awareness of my pact with Pop) became my ally. Now, at this point I must confess she regarded girls somewhat as Sister Mary Divine Heart had regarded boys. That is, she gave them comparatively short shrift, but with no venom and no assault on their dignity. Rather, I truly believe that she simply felt (as I indeed believe) the girls didn’t need any of the special attention which was at that stage an absolute must for some of us guys. Nevertheless, it happened that Sister Mary Grace selected two boys for after-school extra instruction the last five months of the eighth-grade year. One of the boys was the smartest boy in the class who may well have also been the smartest person in the class, Tom Walsh. (He was later an usher at our wedding, is the President of the Thomas Walsh Real Estate Company, which owns most of downtown Washington, and is married to Julia Montgomery Walsh – the first woman accepted on the New York Stock Exchange. So, he’s done rather well, you’d have to admit.)

Every weekday afternoon, then, from January through May, Tom and I (for I was the other selectee, not on the basis of any scholastic merit, I assure you, but merely as the reigning “pet”) were subjected to an hour or more of intensive tutoring in English and mathematics. I had never campaigned for this. It hadn’t even occurred to me. It was simply Sister Mary Grace’s idea, and I never so much as suspected it had anything to do with an eventual high school scholarship examination. In fact, I hated it, and did my best to get out of it. I felt I was being punished. Then came the Saturday morning when I sat down to that exam. Suddenly the light dawned. It was a piece of cake. Unbelievably, I finished number one! It wasn’t that the test had been compromised at all, but that Tom and I had been so thoroughly prepared. I still can’t figure out how I ever topped Tom, EXCEPT that somewhere along the way I had by now already formulated one of my cardinal rules: If you’ve got to be somewhere, don’t waste the time, make it count! Also, I just may have had a slightly better natural aptitude for writing than Tom.

There remain only three other items worthy of mention regarding this transition period in my life, all of them isolated, and yet somehow vitally related to my growing-up process. First, I had my initial experience with a runaway when one of my neighborhood friends suddenly took off for points unknown. He lived less than a half-block from our house and was an only child. He was small for his age and his skin had such an unusual yellow tinge that we called him Chink. This built-in double basis for ridicule no doubt prompted him to be an extravagant braggart. He’d apparently badger his parents for the most preposterous gifts, and then proudly display them to us on a look-but-don’t-touch basis. You can imagine the frustration and envy this engendered.

Naturally, these sessions never failed to produce a barrage of put-downs. I remember once when he got a magnificently color-illustrated book on fishing by author Zane Grey. Inevitably, we thoroughly debunked fishing as a totally unathletic endeavor. Another time he bragged of meeting author Damon Runyon. We pretended to have never heard of him, and in ensuing days we confronted him with news clippings containing such phrases as “demon rum” and “dame rumor” and asked, “Is this the guy?” (Oh my, we were clever!) It was therefore a frightening and somewhat sobering thought to wonder if our derision had caused him to forsake the comforts of home and family. I was deeply worried by guilt and thereafter became the ally of all underdogs.

The second item concerns the death of Grandma Becker on 26 Oct 1929. She was the mother of the wife of one of my mother’s brothers. She was very old, and my only recollection of her was as a shriveled old lady who always sat, with shawl over head and blanket over lap, in a rocker in the center of the living room on downtown 10th Street near St. Patrick’s. She never moved and rarely spoke. After she died I was always awed by her empty rocker, still in the middle of the living room, which no one ever dared to touch. The really striking thing about her departure, for me, was the hushed report at her wake of her dying words. I found them very impressive then, and after researching dying words as background for the penultimate chapter of this book have found none better. For the last hour of her life, it was whispered, she just continuously mumbled, “My Jesus, mercy!”

Finally, there was the relationship with my mother. It, of course, had been undergoing continual change, as I moved from insecurity to humiliation to resentment, to rebellion, to disgust, and so on, until suddenly I arrived at that plateau of peace that comes with indifference. As was the case with my teachers, I realized at last that she, too, couldn’t really harm or fully control me. So, I unconsciously shifted into neutral. I put Mom on hold. I wouldn’t go out of my way seeking confrontations. I wasn’t nasty. I simply tried to minimize unpleasantness. Thus, I simply tried to avoid her as much as possible. The central reality remained that she no longer threatened me.

So ends this discourse on the most monumental period of my transition, at ages eleven to thirteen, from childhood to adolescence. As the world went from good to bad, life for me was going from bad to good. Little wonder, then, that I have absolutely no recollection of the negative aspects of the great stock market crash of 1929. My father, as a college professor, had a secure and relatively good job. In fact, my only recalled complaint on his part during this period concerned his loss of promised raises (Catholic University having just lured him from Georgetown). Most likely similar situations were the rule in what I now realize must have been our slightly upper-middle-class neighborhood (which would also account for the across–Michigan Avenue feuds). It made no difference to me that the whole world might be going down if I were on the other end of the seesaw. That, of course, was precisely my position. This was the legacy of my summer with Mrs. Drake and the two ensuing years with Sister Mary Grace. These are the two women who most changed my life, UNTIL I met the woman who was to become my life.

VI. LOVE

There can be no unity, no good in being, where there is but one. Two at least are needed for oneness.  – George Lcdr. MacDonald

Looking back now (at age 65), I’d have to say that the high school/prep school era embracing Sep 1931 to Aug 1936 was at once the most carefree and most life-focusing period of my life. In one way they were my happiest years – a time for irresponsible drifting and dreaming. Yet, my long-range perspective, the shape of my entire future and both immediate and ultimate goals, were ever coming into clearer and sharper focus. I was, I suppose, growing up.

Strangely, the maturation process had little or no relationship with the formal curriculum to which I was then being exposed and to which I remained largely oblivious. I was the product, I now believe, of two powerful extra-curricular influences. The first was the gratis philosophizing of my high school principal, Sr. Theresa, who spent fully half of each teaching period on non-course matter (such as ethical and moral principles), which served to crystallize my goals and ignite my motivational drives. As to the second influence, it was as it is in virtually any detective story (and such is certainly what any valid autobiography inevitably becomes). One need only defer to the apt French phrase “cherchez la femme”! I was smitten with a sweetheart.

My first day in high school is still vivid in my memory. The class was arranged in five columns of desks, numbered one to five from the left as we faced the teacher. Almost at once my attention was fully absorbed by a dynamic bundle of female energy at desk two in column one on my left. She was called “a new person” – that is, one who hadn’t been among us in previous years. In response to each and every query by the teacher, she spring halfway out of her chair, arm flapping frantically, in an attempt to be the first to be called upon. Very often she was the only one with the answer, and she always had the right answer. Her conspicuousness was all the more overwhelming because such dramatic flailing was simply not our style. More than that, she was uncommonly attractive.

Her healthy complexion contrasted sharply with the pale and pasty appearance of most of our old girls, and her hair was a shining, almost dazzling, black that swished and bounced freely in a stylish bob that was sort of pinned back on one side. And her figure was just right; not too tall, not too short, not too fat, not too skinny, and perfectly formed. But her crowning and most compelling feature was her dark, flashing eyes, which had all the natural highlights that make-up artists aided and abetted only many years later by such as Maybelline could begin artfully to emulate. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. By our junior year, our constant hawking of each other had earned the teacher-enunciated sobriquet of our Mutual Admiration Society. Her name was Kathleen Cecelia Kirk, and she was to eventually become my wife and the mother of our ten children.

My first love – 1932

When I first saw Kathleen, she was not yet quite fourteen years old. Since this story from this point on becomes our story, this seems to be the sensible time to opt for a digression to fill in her origin, background, and first thirteen years. She was born in Columbus, Ohio, on 6 January 1918 – precisely 77 days (a good biblical number perfection) before I was born in Washington, D.C. Her Father, Harry Kirk, was born in Defiance, Ohio, as were his parents: George Kirk and Margaret Cavanaugh. His mother’s roots were pure Irish, whereas his father’s were mostly Scottish, with a trace of English and Spanish on his father’s side. A civil engineer post-graduate of the University of Notre Dame, he rose to be State Highway Director of Ohio before a change in politics in the governor’s mansion (happily for me) sent him to Washington for a career in a general contracting trade association as safety engineer. He was always exceedingly active in church affairs, especially street preaching and concern for the poor, and was made a Knight of St. Gregory (an order established in 1831, and conferred on persons who are “distinguished for personal character and reputation, and for notable accomplishment”) by Pope John XXIII in 1958. (It’s interesting that both my father and Kathleen’s father received papal recognition, since you’ll recall my Pop was granted his award in 1930 in recognition of “service to the church and papacy”).

Kathleen’s mother was born Kathryn Schindler, and both of her parents were born in Bohemia, a province of western Czechoslovakia. (Some Bohemian was even spoken at home until the death of both her grandparents.) Like so many of my relatives, she, too, was a school teacher. Like her husband, and in addition to mothering and nurturing seven children, she was very active in church work, and was a driving force in the retreat movement and in the war against filth in films as the local leader of the National Legion of Decency. (Needless to say, I had to be very careful in selecting movies to which I wanted to invite Kathleen once we began dating in our junior year in high school.)

Our children, who only came to know her in her later life as a shy, retiring, and self-effacing woman, may be surprised that in my initial encounters with her in the early 1930s I found her quite formidable. She was a dynamic, no-nonsense, and strongly opinionated woman of the highest principles. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that she frightened me much more than Grandpa Kirk ever did. I found him totally preoccupied with other things, and hence no threat to me. Conversely, she always seemed quite aware of me, and I always felt I was on inspection in her presence. While she was never nasty or even domineering, there was never any question in my mind that she, as they say, never suffered fools gladly. It wasn’t until some years after my marriage that I really began at last to feel comfortable with her.

I’ll say one thing for Mrs. Kirk – she sure kept good records! For example, Kathleen was born at 9:30 PM on a Sunday night at 394 Whittier Street in Columbus, Ohio. (Her birth certificate specifies Schiller street, but this German name was superseded in the wave of reaction to WWI.) And, yes, Kathleen was born at home purposely. The attending doctor was Charles Turner, and his nurse was Mary McNamara. Kathleen was baptized by Fr. Charles Kessler on 20 January 1918 in St. Leo’s Church. Her godparents were Bernard Schindler (one of her mother’s brothers) and Margaret (Mrs. George) Kirk (her father’s mother).

Interestingly enough, our procurement of a birth certificate incident to acquiring passports in 1974 brought to light the fact that it specified only an infant Kirk-female. Her baptismal certificate registered her as Catherine Cecelia. Grandpa Kirk had to file an amendment with the Ohio Department of Health, Vital Statistics Division, at that (passport application) time to belatedly legalize Kathleen. In any event, Kathleen weighed 7-1/4 lbs. (13-1/2 at 6 months, 22 at one year, and 44-1/2 at 2 years). I said Mrs. Kirk sure kept records! Thus you’ll also be thrilled to learn that Kathleen had her first tooth on 10 October 1918 – precise time unspecified! – and took her first step on Christmas Eve, 1918 – no doubt to grab and open an early present. Her mother further recorded that Kathleen talked very little before age 2, even as her father insists that she has done little else since.

“I told you! I don’t like milk!”

Like my sister, Kathleen also had scarlet fever, but when she was scarcely 2 weeks old, and thereby hangs a tale. It seems older sister, Margy, had had scarlet fever in February, 1917, almost a year before Kathleen was born. At that time everybody had to get out of the house while they sealed it up for 4 hours, during which time they burned something like a candle which gave off a smoke or gas which decontaminated everything. So, Grandma Kirk took Margy outside for this operation, utilizing a baby carriage which eventually found its way to the attic until Kathleen was born. Shortly after birth, Kathleen got her first ride in a baby carriage – an undecontaminated baby carriage, the only thing in the house that wasn’t decontaminated! So, on the 12th day of her life, infant Kirk-female came down with scarlet fever. That’s incredible! Of course, she also eventually suffered the full gamut of normal childhood diseases: measles, chicken pox, and whooping cough. This is all a matter of record, thanks to Grandma Kirk. Moreover (and like me), she had her tonsils surgically removed in July 1922. Finally, you’ll be thrilled to learn that she made her first auto trip (by Ford, to Defiance, Ohio) in 1918, and her first trip without her mother (also to Defiance, this time with her Aunt Rilla) in April of 1920. But wait, there is even more excitement in store. She partook of her first non-breast food at the age of 40 weeks – malted milk!

Two yo-yo’s

Kathleen is 50% Bohemian and 37% Irish, with the balance comprising traces of Scottish, English, Spanish, and perhaps American Indian. She was, of course, 100% Catholic. Her earliest memories are of living in Holy Rosary Parish in the older part of Columbus, until the fourth grade. It’s significant, I think, that she’d identify her earliest memory in terms of her parish. Not the least attractive feature of her for me from the very start was the obvious centrality of the Church in her life. This immediately conveyed the comfortable notion that we shared an immense amount of common ground on the most essential aspect of life – our relationship to God. Beyond that – her church orientation – she can only recall fragments of isolated incidents in that period, such as the burning of a wasp nest and the day Dorothy got lost at the barber shop. She has no recollection of school at all (which suggests she never had problems with studies or students). As to the first trip she remembers, it, too, was to Defiance, at age 6 (in 1924), when her maternal grandmother died. She made her First Communion on 17 May 1925.

“Who says I’m chubby?”

In 1926 the Kirks had moved to East North Broadway. Characteristically, Kathleen remembers the move as being to Immaculate Conception parish! She was pleased that they lived across the street from the convent and only a half-block from the Church. She herself confesses that “a great deal of my life was centered around the church.” She especially remembers that they were very friendly to the sisters, helping them a lot – like picking cherries and apples and raking leaves, and fondly remembers that the nuns reciprocated by throwing a party for their children-helpers once a year.

“I hate this outfit!”

Like me, Kathleen had also been born on a Sunday, so we’re both fair and wise and good and gay. This latter is not to be construed according to the contemporary corruption connoting a predilection for sexual homogeneity. Rather, it is intended here by way of confirming that, as she says (for me as well as for her), “This was a happy and contented period in my life.”

Many of my memories [she says], are of things I did by myself – I was somewhat like Mary, a dreamer. I would find a private place (usually outdoors) and read fairy tales or play jacks. But I also enjoyed playing with others. We had nightly softball games in the summer, picked berries in the nearby vacant lots, where we also dug ‘caves’ and built a miniature golf course. I remember neighbors fondly – the Broughtons, an older childless couple, and the Winkels with a large family of children. I especially remember descending on them on Sunday mornings to read the comic section in the local Hearst paper plus the magazine section, which was so sensational that Daddy wouldn’t allow it in the house. We must have been fairly well off – our house was ‘built-to-order.’ I don’t remember ever having to do without things. Of course our wants were simple, as I was always taught never to follow the crowd, but to make up my own mind and stick to it. I apparently had a normal number of friends both sexes and even one boy in 8th grade who embarrassed me by writing me love letters.

I can’t name specific people who influenced me in this early period, but my parents must have been paramount – probably Mother more than Daddy, because at that time he was quite busy as Director of Highways. Apparently I was rarely rebellious, but rather compliant. The only time I can remember being impressed by punishment was one time when I must have been about 13. I had gone with my older sister and several neighborhood kids down to High Street one summer evening. Normally we just walked 2 or 3 blocks to a store. High Street was a busier place, with a movie theater and several stores and ten to twelve blocks away. We didn’t get home until dark, and the house door was locked. I think this was when Daddy was in Washington, and Mother had decided to scare us. She made us wait a while before she opened the door and let us in. I guess we must have gone without permission.

At this time I was generally content with the companionship of my own family. Margy and I were close (we spent a lot of time sewing doll clothes for little celluloid dolls), although we also played with others. I remember we slept in a bedroom large enough to hold easily two double beds (for Margy and I, and for the twins). It had a fireplace with one of those gas logs, which provided heat for us to dress by on winter mornings. We had a very big backyard and one summer we had a garden contest – each child decided what to grow, and then we were judged. I don’t remember who won. Also at this time, I was independent enough to go across town by streetcar to St. Joseph’s Academy for weekly music lessons. [Perhaps whatever musical talents George now enjoys stem from this early maternal discipline, aided and abetted no little by his own self-imposed and often strenuous practice.]

In all events, the Kirk tribe relocated to Washington in the summer of 1931. (Oh, Happy Day!) The period covered by this chapter, then, extends from our beginning high school on 8 Sep 31, the Monday following Labor Day, until Monday, 10 Aug 36, the day I entered the U.S. Naval Academy as a plebe in the class of 1940. These five years were, at least until the post-family and job-free 1980s, perhaps the most glorious of my entire life. With another huge thanks for the aid of William Manchester, let me set the stage for this period of 1931–36. First of all, our children wouldn’t have recognized the Washington of those days. There was no Federal Triangle of giant government buildings, no Jefferson memorial, no Marine Corps Memorial, no Supreme Court Building, no Kennedy Center, no Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, not even any Constitution Avenue (which was then merely an extension of B Street). Even the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was just under construction. So many of the familiar landmarks of their growing-up years didn’t yet exist.

On the other hand, in the summertime every home switched to straw or mat type rugs, inset fly and mosquito screens, sprouted awnings at every afternoon-sun window, and installed freshly repainted rockers on every front porch. The latter was where the late evenings of torrid summer days were spent, until the upstairs bedrooms cooled sufficiently to enable sleep. That is where the families assembled after dinner to shout daily greetings to neighbors, recount happenings of the day, swap stories, sip iced tea, and play mind games like “I see something green.” There was always plenty of green around, since our residential development turned into Licini’s farm precisely at our front door. In the woods that extended beyond our home at 13th and Varnum Streets, all the way to Chillum Road and beyond, we picked wild blackberries and daisies (which we sold at Glenwood Cemetery on Memorial Day). One of our huts was two stories high, could sleep four (Mom never allowed me to overnight, of course), had copper-screened windows, and was secure behind a mask of blackberry brambles on two sides and crossing streams on the other two sides, which latter were spanned by an honest-to-God drawbridge. And just beneath a light camouflaging layer of sand in one of the streams there was always a cache of cooling home-made root beer.

As often as not, a highlight for the kids on torrid afternoons would be scrounging for ice chips from the truck of the ice man as he made his daily rounds. After all, there were no refrigerators or freezers then, or garbage disposals or clothes dryers. There were no power mowers, home air-conditioners, automatic dishwashers, electric blankets, clock radios, nylons, hi-fi’s, drip dry, frozen foods, filter cigarettes, vinyl floors, ball-point pens, Xerox, Styrofoam, Scotch Tape, tape recorders or cassettes, Polaroid cameras, or home hair dryers even for women. However did we manage to survive?

The Great Depression hit bottom during this period, with a 15% unemployment rate, over a quarter of a million evictions of families from hard-won homes, and a princely wage rate of $16.21 per week for a 40-hour work week. Roosevelt got the centerpiece of his New Deal, the NRA, off the ground with the homey analogy (such as would later become his trademark as he launched Lend Lease, which most people today would concede saved Europe from Hitler). Thus, in setting in motion the plank for a minimum-wage 40-hour week, the president in his fireside chat of 24 Jul 32 began, “In war, in the gloom of attack, soldiers wear a bright patch on their shoulders to be sure that comrades do not fire on comrades. On that principle, those who cooperate in this program must know each other at a glance.” As Manchester remarks, “The implication was plain – do your part or lie low.” Regarding this awesome power of presidential persuasion, Will Rogers observed something to the effect that FDR could take a complicated theme like banking and make it sound so simple that even bankers understood it. Hey! This was, for us, really “way back when” – the so-called good old days.

In 1933 a hotel room on Park Avenue in NYC went for $7 per night. A new Chevy cost $565. You could eat out in a stylish restaurant for $2. Steak was 28-1/2 cents a pound, milk was 10 cents a quart, and bread was 6 cents a loaf. Hey! Lawyers led the professional income list at $3800 a year, while doctors struggled at $2900 and dentists at $2200 a year. Servants earned $1675 and teachers $1300, while construction workers sweated for $870 and coal miners broke their backs below ground for a pittance of $750 per year. Times were really rough and primitive by today’s standards.

Talk about primitive! This was when FDR flew to Chicago for his first acceptance speech in one of Henry Ford’s old tri-motor airplanes, which were not-always-affectionately known as the tin goose. Talk about primitive! Did you realize that FDR was the first president to actually have a telephone on his own desk? Talk about “way back when”! This was when the District of Columbia was only 26% black, rather than the other way around. But, we even then had cherry blossoms, and though the Redskins weren’t to come to town ’til 1937, we had a baseball team that had been World Champions in 1924 and would repeat in 1933. And God was still very much alive, although it has been reported that He was something of a prig. All in all, it was a nice time and a nice place to stretch for adulthood, as we did through high school, where we spent the bulk of this period.

Ah, high school. What an ambiguous term – high school – a sort of built-in contradiction in terms. Did high refer to the level of academic proficiency, the spirit or demeanor of the students, the range of fees and tuition, or what? Actually, I suppose, the ambiguity is warranted, as I guess high school was different things to different people. In many major respects it was a terrible waste for me, as I largely frittered away four precious years of my life. Let me yield to Eric Sevareid: “The high school period, in America anyway, is surely the worst period in a man’s life – the most awkward, uncomfortable, inept and embarrassing of all times. And the most fruitless. It is astounding how little one is taught in these schools, or how little one absorbs of what they might be trying to teach.” My experience certainly verifies this, with the important exception of the aforementioned crucial extracurricular forays by Sr. Teresa into the fields of philosophy and theology, and the awakening and stimulation of an abiding interest in literature by Sr. Regina (about whom more later).

I think John MacDonald has highlighted the nature and source of some of the problems. “Thus, The idea of providing dozens, even hundreds, of electives for high school students is as ludicrous as providing a patient in the emergency room with a list of diagnoses from which to choose.” Of course, they didn’t have any electives in our high school, but I was aware that all my peers attending other schools in the area enjoyed such freedom, and I’m afraid that did incite a certain degree of resistance to what was in fact being taught. But there is more involved here. John D. MacDonald again provides an interesting insight:

Education should be something which should be apart from the necessities of earning a living, not a tool therefore. It needs contemplation, fallow periods, the measured and guided study of the history of man’s reiteration of the most agonizing question of all: WHY? Today the good ones, the ones who want to ask why, find no one around with any interest in answering the question, so they drop out, because theirs is the type of mind which becomes monstrously bored at the trade school concept. A devoted technician is seldom an educated man. He can be a useful man, a contented man, a busy man. But he has no more sense of the mystery and wonder and paradox of existence than does one of those chickens fattening itself for mechanical plucking, freezing and packaging.

I was made strongly aware of this as I walked alongside Northwood High School en route every week to volunteer at University Nursing Home after I retired. Alleged students would be racing away by noon, and with nary a book in sight, aimlessly seeking fun and games. There was no apparent thought of tomorrow. (Kids who opt for browsing through Europe between high school and college must sense the need for a time-out to get their bearings.) Thank God Sr. Teresa provided the answers to the fundamental “Whys?” that salvaged my high school experience. I provided the requisite “fallow periods” – like whenever she switched to Latin or trigonometry.

Of course many may say that what I needed then (what any boy that age needed) was a strong masculine teacher. I might go along with that proposition except for one thing: being in a coed school is as effective as masculine teachers when it comes to keeping macho young males in line. Where a male teacher can only rage at academic ineptitude, the laughter and ridicule of the opposite sex within one’s peer group can be truly devastating. It shapes up a show-off in a hurry. No guy wants to look stupid in front of his girl. Eric Sevareid elaborates the plus aspects of a coed high school education: “By being and working among girls (as in coed high school), [a boy] can acquire that peculiarly American thing – a natural approach to women as friends and even as comrades, not purely as sex objects.…” (Well, he’s entitled to his opinion in the last respect!) In all events, I’m certain in my own case that being under the gun of the flashing dark eyes of my future spouse did more to make me shape up in high school than the most iron-fisted Christian Brother could have. Not only that, with an opportunity to see her at school every weekday, there was no way I could ever be tempted to play hooky. In fact, I enjoyed seeing her regularly in high school so much that I actually grew to hate weekends.

I don’t know that I could precisely state when it was that one might technically say that we were in love, but I’m quite sure that such was indeed the case long before either one of us really knew it. We were 13-1/2 years old when we first met on 8 September 1931. We graduated in early June of 1935. We became engaged – absolutely! – on 29 July 1935. We were only about 17-1/2, but I think we can safely say some 40-plus years later that it certainly was for real by that summer of 1935. Pat Conroy expresses my sentiments well – “I do not know when I fell in love … but that does not matter.… All I know is that there came a point when I did not feel alive when I was not with her or talking to her on the phone or writing her a letter. She became part of every thought, citizen of every dream.” (Thus, I find the apparent indifference of the alleged young lovers of today incomprehensible.) I can remember the serenity when I was with her, the empty longing when we were apart. It’s just like Tom Robbins has said, “Fall in love, visit both heaven and hell for the price of one.” And thank God for running, swimming, and handball – all of which helped to burn off the surging energy. Baseball was almost too passive, which was the only reason in the world why I focused on pitching – to really keep busy!

Before High School – 1931

Meanwhile, high school itself was sort of weird. There was no history, and that was a subject I really liked. The poor history-teaching nun was so old and senile that she was practically inarticulate. She certainly was inaudible. Science courses were virtually non-existent. We had what was laughingly called the chemistry laboratory, which was a conventionally furnished classroom with three tables at the front with Bunsen burners and a small wall cabinet with a few jars of miscellaneous, mostly white powders, and a few test tubes and flasks. That was it. The only chemistry experiment I remember was the day that all the boys got to give a demonstration of a teacher during the summer by making soap (“saponification” – and now you know why I remember it!), while sister helped the girls to make their own cold cream. As for the math courses, they were rudimentary. Grammar was overlooked in favor of literature which was (unfortunately) then OK by me. The foreign language (French) was taught by the science teacher. Enough said. (Besides, she had a boy pet, and I wasn’t it.) As for Latin, I’ve already mentioned what a great philosophy teacher the principal was. (And it really wasn’t her fault that I never learned Latin, because I didn’t learn English grammar until the year after high school.)

Our fabulous principal, who was both loved and feared, was affectionately known as the Mayor of Brookland, and not so affectionately known as Buck – in deference to her teeth, which would have shamed any self-respecting chipmunk. She was an excellent disciplinarian, tough but extremely fair, and she had a good sense of humor (which means she could even laugh at herself). She gratuitously and incidentally taught ethics, logic, etiquette, civics, and above all a love for liturgy. She was a great teacher in the sense conveyed by Pat Conroy, as “one who leaves me tame and grateful for the new language … purloined from other kings whose granaries are full and whose libraries are famous. [She] tells me that teaching is the art of theft: of knowing what to steal and from whom.”

Sister Teresa saturated us in the Mass, including vestments and appurtenances (chalice, paten, etc.), as well as the most arcane aspects of rituals for the different seasons of the liturgical year. We boys sang a full couple hours of tenebrae in Latin each appropriate night of Holy Week solo, by turns. She also fully explicated the nuances of making good confessions, which also got her into what might be termed – as close as we ever got to it – sex education. And she provided for superb annual retreats. I still remember our retreat master of junior year whom she had back for our senior year by popular demand, a Fr. Mendalis.

Our children will recognize his influence when I merely state that it was he who inculcated in me the habit of “don’t leave this or any exercise without acquiring at least one new good habit.” At his first retreat, I opted to learn to always make the sign of the cross precisely and deliberately as though I was indicating to, say, Diocletian or Domitian, that I was a Christian prepared to die. (I had been appalled at the mosquito-slapping that passed for the sign of the Cross by the good priests at the Monastery and Dominican House where we often attended mass with my Father.) At his second retreat, I acquired the habit of always saying, “My Jesus, I adore thee and love thee,” whenever I genuflected. Small things to be sure, but it’s a good discipline that we tried to instill in our children at every Lent and Advent.

I said I’d get back to Sr. Regina, who taught us literature. She introduced me to Lycidas, Paradise Lost, Elegy in a Country Churchyard, and much, much more. Most especially, she introduced me to Francis Thompson’s The Hound of Heaven, which is the inspiration for Graham Greene’s greatest novel, The Power and The Glory. The latter was originally entitled The Labyrinthine Ways after the opening lines: “I fled Him down the nights and days, I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways.…” For some mysterious reason I loved that poem, and it sure was good to me. It became the basis and substance of my stock exam essay for my Naval Academy entrance exam and every year thereafter at the Naval Academy (where instructors changed about every 60 days). And the strange thing is, I never discussed beyond the first dozen or so lines (if indeed I even ever read it further).

This proved sufficient, after the example I read early on in high school in a small book entitled Boners. It seemed a college guy taking a final exam in psychology had to write an extensive treatise on some arcane aspect of the four temperaments. He found the going tough, so in the middle of the second of what had to be 5 pages he wrote, “To be honest, that’s all I know about the assigned subject, but I’ve learned enough psychology from you to know that you can’t possibly wade through five pages of this stuff from forty-some students. Therefore I propose to fill the rest of my 5 pages with a report on yesterday’s ball game.” Well, he got A for the course. The trouble is, he almost went nuts afterward wondering if the prof had ever gotten to the ball game part or not. (I myself successfully did this on my English entrance exam, when I switched halfway through from a critique of Edmund Burke to an analysis of the Hound of Heaven – with the same resulting doubt.)

Well, Sister Regina was good for me. She encouraged me to read, and she encouraged me to write. I owe her a great deal, as writing became one of my professional strengths (as those who persevere to Chapter XVIII. PROFESSIONAL will discover). It was not so for Kathleen, or for most of the girls. I think it’s safe to say that most of them detested Sister Regina. The problem was, she did seem willfully to prod the girls to the breaking point by ridiculing them. If she sensed a breakdown into tears was near, she became like a hungry lion sniffing fresh meat in the jungle. She moved in for the kill. She really seemed somewhat sadistic in this respect, and she became oblivious to all else going on around her as she and her victim locked in mortal exchange. She simply had to reduce the girl to tears. Tears signaled the home run, the touchdown, the conquest.

I can’t recall that she ever reduced Kathleen to this. I think not, or I would have remembered it and probably hated Sister Regina myself for it. Besides, Kathleen was much too cool – she knew who she was. But I do remember her reducing possibly the smartest girl in the class to tears on several occasions. We boys never understood this – certainly I didn’t. At first we liked it, because it not only spared us, it brought down the super-students (always female) who always made us look bad. Eventually our sympathies transferred to the generally innocent girls. I do remember seeing Aunt Gertie once reduced to a wet dishrag by good Sister Regina, and I assure you Aunt Gertie is no dummy. As I said earlier, high school was sort of weird.

I did a lot of reading on the side, most of it second-rate stuff. An exception, as far as I’m concerned, was an addiction for Edgar Rice Burroughs. I’m certain he was the catalyst who initially nudged me into bookworld. I’m equally certain that he was the reading-impetus for son John. I was therefore happy to note in a recent (1983) edition of Sunday’s Parade that the celebrated sci-fi author Arthur Clark had this to say of ERB: “His influence has been enormous and is, even now, underrated.” I couldn’t agree more! Clark then added, “A writer who can create the best-known character in the whole of fiction (Tarzan) is not to be ignored.” So I started with ERB, then went on through all the Frank Merriwell stories, and even got into a little Tom Swift and Horatio Alger. This was all relatively harmless fare, but most importantly, it got me hooked on reading and taught me the worth of a library as a source of about anything you’d ever want to know. No small lessons these.

Charlie looks like who?

With all, I think Kathleen and I remained largely oblivious to the outside world as we grew more and more comfortable within the tiny cocoon of our all-fulfilling mutual interest. FDR was inaugurated for the first of four terms. I delivered the Washington Daily News then. This was a no-Sundays daily that sold for 1 cent a copy! That one cent was my share of the company’s income. They made their way on advertising. This experience provides the earliest example of what I later came to recognize as my own professional trademark, and the trait that I’ve found most difficult to trace. Let me elaborate. I inherited a route. I’d had it only a few days when it occurred to me, “Hey, this is a stupid way to do it.” I started at one inherited random point, and finished at another random point, and in between I retraced many steps. So, I got a map of the area, spotted all my customers thereon, and proceeded to evolve the most step-saving route possible, commencing and ending at points most convenient to me. This really upset my route manager: “Nobody has ever fooled with the regular way before!” “But it cut my delivery time in half!”

Washington Post newspaper carrier contract

Digital Edition Note: The text of the carrier contract reads “AGREEMENT made this …tenth… day of …January…, 19…35… between the Washington Postx-x-x-xx-xx-x party of the first part hereinafter referred to as the “Post,” and …John H Wright… party of the second part hereinafter referred to as the “Carrier,” The remainder of the contract text was clearly clipped off as Jack cropped the contract to fit into the printed book. The redacted/blacked-out part apparently reflects a change in the formal name of the Washington Post.

This same trait carried over later in my senior year when I took on a more remunerative Post route (Jan 1935), which even included the signing of a formal contract. It also entailed the addition of the even-then huge Sunday edition. We used a shoulder bag rather than a cart then, and whereas I had about a 100-customer route, the bag held only 20 Sunday papers. Once again, it was traditional that all papers be dropped by the route manager at the route boy’s home. I said, “No way!” and insisted on multiple drops of 20 papers each at designated points along my actual route line, which didn’t start at my house. This innovation, too, astounded the route manager, but it sure eased and speeded my deliveries. Finally, I even changed the set-up during the month of May so I ended up at 6 AM at the Monastery, where I could attend outdoor mass in the Lourdes Grotto in their garden.

Let me cite just one more example of this early-on analytical bent. At some point in this period, I undertook to write a book on Coaching Football in long hand. I’d read all the relevant books on the subject available through the neighborhood library and simply found them arbitrary and otherwise totally inadequate. My effort started from scratch – almost like Max McGee’s attribution to Vince Lombardi’s back-to-basics presentation after one of his team’s few undistinguished efforts: “This is a football.” I started by outlining the particular attributes appropriate to the various offensive and defensive positions. I then matched up these qualifications. For example, it turned out that offensive guard and defensive linebacker had nearly matching characteristics. Thus I originated the then-startling idea (years before platooning and special teams) that a given guy would be best suited for different positions on offense and defense. Thus my system would re-position every player on the team according to whether on offense or defense – a then-unheard-of proposition.

I next outlined a series of measurements and tests designed for selecting individuals for the various positions (much later formalized in scouting combines’ work-out camps). These included grading positions according to the relative importance of height, weight, vertical jump, speed, agility, AND hand size (as appropriate to all potential ball-handlers). Then I designed a system for labeling plays in terms of the initial ball-handler (this was before the general use of the T-formation, which operated solely through the quarterback), AND the number of the offensive hole or point of attack. Incredibly, systems then in use numbered plays by defensive hole numbers, when in fact the offense had no assurance of how many defensive players would line up where, while the offense was required to have seven men on the line. Finally, I had the idea (this was 1931–36!) that the center would be numbered in the 50’s, guards in the 60’s, tackles in the 70’s, ends in the 80’s, etc. Many years later, the pros claimed credit for many of these innovations.

All of the foregoing, you will note, pre-dates any analytical training that might conceivably be ascribed as having been acquired or honed by the highly scientific slant of the Naval Academy curriculum. At the same time, such analytical questioning of the status quo approach or methodology vs. some ostensible objective and consequent detailed planning was hardly the forte of my absent-minded-professor father. As hinted at much earlier, this highly profitable personal trait was acquired from my mother, and I discovered this ONLY after I began this autobiography!

So this period roughly embraces the four years between FDR’s first inauguration, when the red-white-blue ink of the American flag on the front page of the News left my hands brick red, to FDR’s second inaugural, when I marched in his parade in a pouring rain as a midshipman in the U.S. Navy. (Did you realize that cadets in the U.S. Military Academy were not then in the U.S. Army? This seemingly small distinction turned out to be of vital importance to me. Being in the U.S. Navy while at USNA meant that my 4 years there counted in my years of government service for civil service retirement purposes. It was not so for the then-graduates of the USMA!) My personal highlight re the 2nd inauguration is that, although I was only a plebe, I got to yell the battalion marching orders during the parade, because I was the only one with enough balls to be heard the length of Pennsylvania Avenue. This was fortunate, because I never rose to sufficient rank as a first classman to ever issue order one. But, we’re getting ahead of or away from our so-called story.

Sweet sixteen – 1934

This is, after all, a story of love. Well, it turns out that my princely newspaper route income conferred a certain independence upon me. My friend, John McCarthy, and I would collect enough every Friday evening to go to the Jesse Theater at 18th and Franklin streets to see the latest Ken Maynard western. It also afforded me sufficient funds to sneak downtown occasionally and buy a new Isham Jones or Duke Ellington record (and, one time even a Virgil “trot,” the same being an English translation of the Latin). By 1934 I was even visiting the Little Tavern still on G street near 15th where I’d get two hamburgers and a draft beer! Of course I wasn’t old enough, but (luckily for faint-hearted me) I didn’t realize that, and I was by then a big boy. More than all this, my meager income even provided the means for me to consider and ultimately accomplish dates with my sweetheart, Kathleen. Now my life really blossomed into a thing of beauty!

Kirk tribe – Winter of 1934

The actual dating, which began in junior year, was preceded by a series of weekend gatherings at the home of Florence Oliver (of 6th-grade Florence-tell-John fame). At some point during high school her folks initiated these get-togethers of some 10 to 12 boys and girls of our class and their immediate neighbors. I can remember Florence, and neighbor Hope Haverty, Chick Chilemi, Joe Waring, several others, and, of course, Kathleen. It was Florence who taught me to dance to the extent I can. And, once I felt sufficiently adept, I shifted to Kathleen, never to return. (I hope you might agree that Florence really “owed me one.”) It was on the way home from one of these gatherings that I first kissed Kathleen. It happens that Joe Waring had a Ford with a rumble seat. You really had to be there, but the fact is that Kathleen and I were packed in there with another couple whom I don’t even remember. It was so tight that the girls had to sit on our laps, and thus it was that Kathleen’s and my face came into such close juxtaposition that suddenly it just happened. It was, in a word, “Titanic” – a “Night to Remember.”

Joe Waring and Florence

It was shortly after this that these gatherings became unacceptable due to insufficient privacy for return engagements of the delightful happening. I was so afraid of being turned down via Mrs. Kirk’s presumed disapproval of such early dating that I put off even attempting a private date until almost the entire summer had passed. Finally, I risked a call one sunny afternoon in late August. I proposed we take in The Lives of a Bengal Lancer, a feature co-starring Gary Cooper and Franchot Tone about a couple of British soldiers in India. The movie had the Legion of Decency’s A rating, but I still sweated it out on hold as Kathleen solicited her mother’s permission.

Surprise! It was granted. Then began my second worry. I had no car, and I had to confess that we would have to go by public streetcar – the trolley. No matter. So that’s the way it all began. I’d roller skate the 2-and-1/8 miles that separated our homes, walk to the trolley for the ride downtown, see the show, and then reverse the travel process. It was long and tedious, but delightful, and though we were in public, we were alone. A week or so later we repeated the deal for Oliver Twist. Horror of horrors! Florence, no less, spotted us downtown, and so we became a gossip item in the first issue of our high school paper as we began our senior year. So much for privacy!

I’ve already alluded to Isham Jones and the Duke. Radio had assured my introduction to and currency in popular music. We even had a wind-up Victrola, and so I bought a couple records. They drove my father wild. He didn’t dig jazz any more than I dig rock and roll. I’d sit with my head almost inside the radio when Isham Jones was on. I learned years later that he was the original musician’s musician, legendary for his craftsmanship and insistence on ensemble precision. His men were all readers, and among them was a young clarinetist named Woodrow Herman. (Kathleen and I were to catch him at Blues Alley in 1982 – “Woody Herman and his Herd.”) This proved I knew my modern music. Woody is one of the few white jazzmen with staying power. Andre Previn said of him, “There’s Duke, then there’s the Count, and Woody takes all the rest!” It’s true. His Herds, like the original Isham Jones group, are renowned for sharpness and drive! This, then, was the time (1935) when so-called “swing” was born. But it was also the time when my interest and subsequent love of the classics was born, for it was then that Kathleen gave me my first classical record – Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony backed by Cesar Franck’s D Minor. They’re favorites even today.

Still, it wasn’t all fun and games. The approach of high school graduation, together with my emerging love for Kathleen, compelled looking ahead to the future. I had to start thinking of how I might earn a living, marry a wife, and support a family. This was a frightening but clearly an urgent project. On the home front, 1932 had witnessed the routing of the bonus army from D.C. In 1933, Hitler came to power in Germany. In 1934, New York’s Mayor LaGuardia was reading the funnies on radio as NY papers went on strike. Fr. Coughlin was inveighing against the Jews, and FDR was labeling Huey Long as one of the two most dangerous men in America (the other being Douglas MacArthur!) The year 1935 brought the first of a series of Neutrality Acts. By 1936, even as Margaret Mitchell re-burned Atlanta, Hitler re-entered the Rhineland. War clouds were already showing on the horizon, and one had to consider the possibility of having to enter the service.

Facing up to all this was a pretty heavy load for the high school innocents of my day. Another element in the overall problem was the deteriorating family situation in my own home. This was brought into even sharper focus by the contrast I now witnessed between it and the Kirk home, where I was spending more and more time. When I beheld the warmth on the one hand at the Kirks, and the constant bickering at my home on the other, I at first suffered in silent bitterness, but soon I began feeling so cheated that I evinced open hostility. I would refuse to comply with the tradition of riding to and from church as part of the family unit. I just couldn’t stand the constant nagging of my father by my mother. I’d break away and go dashing up side streets to avoid the situation. Pop would drive the rest home and then begin cruising to intercept and pick me up as I tried to beat him back home. It really got to be ridiculous. I knew I had to get away – the sooner the better.

1935 St Anthony’s High School Graduating Class

As I cast about for opportunities, the first thing that caught my attention was the Civilian Conservation Corps – the CCC. It was set up on 31 March 1933 and had 1300 camps established by mid-June, with over 300,000 enrollees by August. One of the neighborhood boys got into it and came back with glory tales of freedom and independence. It ultimately included 2-and-1/2 million men and, among other things, planted some 17 million acres of forest (long since decimated by Weyerhauser, I’m sure). It was administered by FDR crony Harry Hopkins (whom we’ll meet again in Chapter VIII. NEIGHBOR). This sickly looking administrator-extraordinary was dubbed by no less than Winston Churchill as “Lord Root of the Matter” for his legendary ability to get at the heart of problems. He once drew gallery applause while testifying before Congress by responding to a procrastinating Congressional budget cutter, “People don’t eat ‘in the long run,’ Senator, they eat every day.” Alas, I wouldn’t qualify for this escape route until 1936, and it was also a little short on growth opportunity. It was our 20-volume set of the Book of Knowledge that presented another way out, and one that did offer a future – especially in view of the ever-increasing likelihood of war. Volume 1 provided an intriguing picture story anent the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and Volume 20 offered the same re the worldwide life of adventure available in the U.S. Navy. I was hooked!

Now, beyond the aforementioned two articles (to which I had repeated recourse during my senior year as I built my fantasies anent my future), I knew absolutely nothing about the Naval Academy or the Navy. The only boat I’d ever been on was the Annapolis-Claiborne-Matapeake Ferry en route to Ocean City. I had never known or even seen a naval officer or a sailor, at least not knowingly or up close. I did know that it would not only get me out of the home, but also out from under my mother’s domination. It never entered my mind that I would have to handle guns, learn the manual of arms, learn the mechanics of marching and executing field maneuvers, go on parades, march to football games, do half-time card displays, row and sail boats (and maybe get sea-sick), tie knots, hose down decks, scrape paintwork, polish brass, submit to hazing, and turn weak-kneed the first time I heard the Star Spangled Banner in uniform. I saw only freedom from home, a prestigious career opportunity, and escape from the surely coming draft. Fortunately, Pop (who had already, via his friend, Fr. Beckley, registered me at Princeton) thought it was a great idea. The next thing I knew he had me set up for an academy prep school. I confess I never knew such existed. But I had to graduate first.

Now so mature!

Kathleen and I graduated together from high school in early June of 1935. (Our senior class included a grand total of 10 girls and 8 boys!) Pop was our commencement speaker. He was a disaster. My brother, Tom, recalls it as “the most agonizing commencement I ever attended.” Pop’s parents were there, and his sister, Sue, and of course he was terribly emotional about what he perceived as a major milestone and turning point in my life. Though an accomplished public speaker, he was so nervous that he almost went to pieces before our eyes. He fumbled for words, for which he was otherwise never at a loss. He referred to our Benedictine nun teachers as these wonderful nuns of St. Dominic. And that wasn’t the end of it. The printed program even had his name wrong!

He and I laughingly recalled all this some 5 years later when he descended upon the Naval Academy to lecture our first class one Friday night on International Law as it might soon confront us. We got together, on his insistence, the Sunday before he was to talk, and he asked me if I had any ideas on what he might best say and what he should not say. I had only two suggestions, with one example of each. He used them both, one to open with and one to close with, and they so got the class with him that it really didn’t matter much what he said in between. He opened, after a very flattering and highly formal introduction by waving a finger in the air and announcing “That’s all very well, but it’s Friday night and I know what the good word is!” (At any given Friday night dinner: Upperclassman to plebe: “What’s the good word, mister?” Plebe to upperclassman: “Friday night, Sir, and another week shot in the ass!” Forever after, my friend Whitehead never passed Pop on the grounds during a Sunday visit without their exchanging a raised waving finger and broad grins.

Pop closed by remarking that he hoped, if they didn’t remember anything else, that everyone might recall that he was probably the first speaker they ever had (and correct he was, in my experience) who hadn’t on having the microphone hung around his neck at the start said, “Well, this is the first time I’ve ever been decorated by the Navy,” and he didn’t (in so saying) touch it, which instantly set off a piercing electronic whistle. Immediately thereafter it was really a thrill to hear all my classmates exclaim as they left a Friday night lecture laughing for the first time in their lives “Who was that guy? He really did have the word!” And so on. Very few knew he was my father. Pop, of course, was simply delighted. He had finally had his redemption. Too bad Tom couldn’t share in that.

But graduate we did, and in addition to Pop, we were later favored by a few words from FDR’s wife, Eleanor. In those days it was her custom to invite all graduating Washington high school seniors to tea on a mid-June Saturday afternoon. This remains the only time I’ve ever been in the White House. And lest we get too heady about all this, we have Samuel Eliot Morison to remind us: “She [Eleanor Roosevelt] took a particular interest in the disoriented and confused young people then graduating.…” Well she might!

It was shortly thereafter, on 29 July 1935 to be precise, that Kathleen and I became engaged. We were both something less than 17-1/2 years old, and we knew we would have to wait seven years! (Actually, due to the war it turned out to be 7 years and 2 months!) This came about in this way. Our days in school together, alas, were now over. There would be no more daily togetherness for a long, long time. (Until retirement on 31 March 1973, in fact, a period of some 38 years!) This being the case, some sort of commitment seemed indicated – especially as we both were certain by then as to how we hoped to spend the balance of our lives. It came about that we went to the movies this particular night together with my mother, father, and Pop’s good friend, Fr. Beckley. We went to the old Colony theater then on Georgia Avenue just south of Piney Branch Road. The bill presented Pat O’Brien in Oil for the Lamps of China. Kathleen wore a nice fitting one-piece medium blue dress with white polka dots about the size of peas. She really looked terrific.

After the show we had to say a quick goodnight on her front porch while Mom and Pop and the good Father waited for me in the car at the curb. After a delicious lingering kiss, I remarked that I was getting awfully tired of these repeated goodbyes. She agreed. I said something to the effect that (and this was totally unplanned, or I’d have chosen a much better time and place) “Why don’t we promise each other right now that as soon as we can do so (this being two years after graduation from the Naval Academy hopefully some 7 years hence), we’ll take the necessary steps to keep us together always. Would you say yes to that?” She simply said, “Yes.” “Then,” I said, “we’re officially engaged now.” I can’t remember that we ever told anybody about this until many years after we were married.

First Ocean City sojourn together

The die was now cast for the Naval Academy as an essential element of my commitment. Though it was indeed my commitment, it was Pop who made it come true. This was, as regards Pop’s contribution to my temporal life, his shining hour. If ever there was doubt that Pop was a good planner and organizer (and the insurance estate he did not provide for my mother occasioned considerable), his performance anent my entrance to the Naval Academy should dispel it for all time. I was, in respect to this prodigious undertaking, a total zero, without the slightest comprehension of what was required or how to go about it. And in those days it was a considerably more complex venture than it is today. There was a broad range of requirements involved: academic qualification, physical qualification, and political qualification. And in my case all three aspects entailed unique complications. For example, the political qualification involved the necessity of getting a political appointment. At that time one needed a congressional appointment, and the District of Columbia had no congressman. To make up for that deficiency, the rules theoretically took care of D.C. hopefuls by providing 25 Presidential appointments for them. However, these were by long custom reserved strictly for the sons of military officers on active duty in the District. In a word, I was shut out.

Not to worry, though, as the Rector of Catholic University was then a Bishop Ryan from Indiana. Pop engaged the good bishop’s support in enlisting the interest of the first-term Indiana Congresswoman Virginia Jenckes in considering me for an appointment. Now, Virginia, though a freshman on the Hill, had secured the services of an old-time administrative assistant, a Mr. Cherniko, whose former patron had just failed at re-election. This oily rascal had to be the prototype of every political behind-the-scenes string-puller that you’ve ever seen in the movies in your entire life. He was so shifty that I wouldn’t have trusted him to park my car (and I didn’t even have a car), and he would have been perfectly at home in Nixon’s administration, I’m sure. He dearly wanted Mrs. Jenckes to ingratiate herself to the good bishop – a matter of the Catholic vote, you see. At the same time, there was the little problem that I’d never even been in Indiana (and didn’t get there in fact until 1974, when I attended a Charismatic Convention at Notre Dame on behalf of Fr. Burke). There was also the problem of how to assuage any Indiana applicants should Mrs. Jenckes use one of her appointments for an out-of-stater. Mr. Cherniko got around these seeming difficulties very neatly. He arranged for me to get mail addressed to myself in Ft. Wayne to establish a basis re legal residence.

My mother (!) on the beach?

The foregoing had two unique WWII consequences. Being listed in records as an Indiana appointee, I was singled out by a class of Indiana (Fort Wayne) school children as their WWII pen-pal. I sustained a correspondence with one of them for many years. The other thing was that both D.C. and Indiana provided veteran’s bonuses after WWII. I was ineligible for the D.C. one and afraid to claim the one from Indiana. As to protecting Mrs. Jenckes from irate Indiana applicants, Mr. Cherniko merely arranged to have Mrs. Jenckes appoint me as a conditional third alternate. There were no principal, first, or second alternates! I told you he was smooth! And I had to write these two turkeys regularly to keep them informed of progress, and actually visit them whenever I was in town after finally gaining admission to the USNA. Another example of Mr. Cherniko’s political genius (?) was that he arranged for Mrs. Jenckes to introduce a bill providing for the present practice of flying flags from all the government buildings in Washington. This turned out to be Mrs. Jenckes only claim to fame. She wasn’t re-elected.

Then there was the physical qualification hassle. It was equally unbelievable. It all began with a preliminary physical exam at the Navy Department on Constitution Avenue (where I was later to work as a civilian from 1948 to 1965) on 8 August 1935. I failed the vision test, being 17/20 vs. 20/20 in the right eye due to hyperoptic astigmatism. It might be interesting to note that I was an even 6 ft. and weighed in at 155 lbs. Some two dozen years later, George was to weigh in for a preliminary exam at 150 lbs. I attribute the 5-lb. difference to my somewhat larger brain. My blood pressure was then (age 17) 134/90. Today (30 March 1983, age 65) it is 134/77! Of course, I’m taking Inderal and Lanoxin, and have an almost new (June 1981) four-way bypass. Well, this little eye-opener called for a whole new ball game. I immediately was placed under the eye-care of a venerable old gentleman, a Dr. Muncaster, who was then reputedly the very best eye specialist in all DC. He was a sort of shrunken Sydney Greenstreet. His face would have passed for a twin, and the similarity of his deep, rumbling voice was remarkable. (I can almost hear him grumbling, “Ah yes, Sir! Very troubling indeed, Sir! Ah yes.”)

This old codger really knew his stuff, and his treatments were truly unique. He immediately set me up in a course of thrice-weekly visits. It might be more accurate to term them sessions, because I spent at least half a day in his office each trip. He would test me, dilate my eyes, then test me again. Then I’d have to sit at a table for half an hour, holding an eye-cup to my open right eye-ball. The cup was connected to a reinforced plastic hose, connected in turn to the suction side of small air compressor. The compressor was secured to a rough-cut, unpainted board which also bore an assortment of automatic valving. This rig and process was all the good doctor’s own invention. The compressor and valving were so arranged that for one-half hour the little compressor would gently pull my right eyeball somewhat out of its socket and then quickly release it, over and over again. The objective was (working on Pascal’s law of the equality of distribution of fluid pressures) to restore the spherical perfection of the eyeball lens. Astigmatism, you see, is merely the result of a flat on this spherical surface which distorts the image accordingly. Following this, the doctor would retest my vision, undilate my eyes (requiring some 30 minutes’ wait), and then retest them again. This went on all through August and well into the September start of prep school (about which more below).

There was just one other thing. In between visits during this period, which was the better part of the entire summer, I was not to use my eyes at all. Except when maneuvering to and from somewhere, and I mean actually personally in motion, I sat with my eyes covered by aviator goggles, the glasses of which had not only been painted over in black paint on both sides, but which were then taped over with black tar–tape! I was supposed to keep my eyes open and focused on infinity. I listened to a lot of music that summer. By the end of it, I could read 20/20 in Dr. Muncaster’s office with ease!

But then, as hinted above, there was prep school. I was enrolled in Columbian Preparatory School, then located on Rhode Island Avenue, N.W., just past 14th Street heading into town. It was essentially a boarding school, embracing a row of three or four converted red brick houses of some four stories each. The four-man teaching staff also lived in. This school ran from mid-September to early April, and concentrated on preparing for Naval Academy and Military Academy entrance exams. Tuition was $900, which in 1935 was a really substantial sum. (Remember, a new Chevy cost $565!) They wasted no time on athletics. They didn’t even waste time on students they thought couldn’t make it. If a guy didn’t seem to have it – or even if it only seemed he wasn’t giving his all – he was gone! This was a no-nonsense staff of academic specialists with the disciplinary demeanor of Marine Corps drill sergeants. This was really the big leagues, and for me it was a helluva transition – but a necessary and profitable one. They taught me my English grammar, at last. They instilled all my good study habits. They insisted on and got everyone’s best shot.

The principal was a Mr. Puhl, a huge man with a booming voice and a ferocious temper. He was the first and only person I ever saw who literally did actually get purple with rage, working himself into such a frenzy that he’d go into a gasping coughing fit and had to start popping some pills he always had ready for such emergencies. He was head disciplinarian, and his word was law. He was unusually feared because he’d only have to mumble “You’re out” and you were! I saw it happen more than once. (“Mr. Langlois, you’re wasting your father’s money and my time. Get your gear together and get out!”) He taught algebra and geometry. The history teacher was Professor Goolsby. His younger brother was in my class and he gave him constant hell, perhaps to prove he played no favorites. He, too, was frightening. He taught both ancient and U.S. history. When it came to ancient history, with all the multiple-syllable Greek names with arcane pronunciation, he’d simply stipulate: “We’re not teaching Greek or pronunciation here, we’re teaching history, and the only correct pronunciation is my pronunciation.” And so it was.

Goolsby’s stock in trade was the 3-by-5 index card. I had a whole 12-inch-long file box full on ancient history by the time the course ended seven months later. A typical card might specify: “Ammonhotep IV – also known as Iknaton – built the Karnak at Thebes.” (My recall 49 years later sure proves his system worked!) There was a drug store on the corner at 14th and Rhode Island Avenue then, with my bus stop opposite. (I was one of some three or four day students out of perhaps 100, split in half according to whether headed for USNA or USMA.) Woe unto you if Mr. Goolsby should chance to walk to the drug store and see you at the bus stop and not studying your cards. This was the idea. You were always to carry a pocketful, and study them at each and every idle moment. Another teacher was Mr. Hildreth, with whom, perhaps because he was much younger than the rest, you might risk a casual friendly greeting.

Beginning with the first Saturday morning of the school session (yes, we attended on Saturday, too) we took a regular, formal, full-scale USNA entrance exam for algebra under strict USNA conditions. These were three-hour exams! They weren’t your usual high school–level algebra, either. I remember especially being troubled by problems of one rabbit overtaking another, and of the precise angles of clock hands at two different times. This was excellent training. I remember there were several zeros the first Saturday, and I doubt if anyone got over 30. As the weeks went on, it was heartening to watch your score crawling ever upward. By the end, everyone was hitting 100 pretty regularly. This was a real confidence builder. Anyone who didn’t show progress in every subject regularly would be singled out in class for individual public harassment by Mr. Puhl. This usually entailed his working up to a purple-faced coughing fit, and on occasion concluded with a “You’re out!”

Little wonder that I studied from the moment I got home until dinner, and from dinner ’til often as late as 3 AM. I’d have done anything to avoid being harangued – or worse yet, terminated – by Mr. Puhl. I worked my fanny off. I never stopped studying except for brief tension-breaking runs around the block. My brother Tom recalls: “I remember sitting in the living room with Mom (Pop was usually reading or studying in the back room), and we’d hear this crash upstairs like the sound of a chair being overturned. Your bedroom door would bam open, then you’d bound down the stairs, run through the living room and out the front door. I’d look out the window and you’d be racing up and down the street.” He says he could also remember me imitating Mr. Puhl: “Boys, have you got your cards? Where are your cards? Get out your cards!”

The English teacher was Mr. Pratt. (When he eventually inherited the headship of the school, he changed its name to his name). He was a wiry little man, with a thin, raspy, nasal voice and absolutely NO sense of humor. His manner was as dull as a brand new Gillette razor blade, but you couldn’t let your attention lag for a second, because his output was 100% meat. Like his taut lean body, his pitches contained absolutely no fat. He concentrated his words in short, penetrating, staccato bursts, much as a machine gunner might spray his opposition with scarcely-more-lethal lead in a style later to be popularized by David Brinkley. He had a fetish for precision of expression. Like so many small men, he was veritable martinet and, in oral or written exchanges with him, every little soldier in your array of syntax had to line up like a drill team parading for the queen.

Anne recalls a relevant childhood dinner table tableau which was a riddle to her then, but is beginning to make sense now that she is parsing legal speak. She remembers when I’d have the teapot by my place at dinner, and when Kathleen would ask, “Would you pour me some tea, dear?” I’d reply, “Yes, dear” – only I wouldn’t. Then Kathleen would say, “Will you pour me a little tea now, dear?” Then I would pour her about a tablespoonful of tea. Anne confesses, “It was a game to you guys, but let me tell you, that really taught me to appreciate language.” So, both she and I owe a note of thanks to my surly English teacher at Columbian Prep, with an assist from Pop’s friend, Mr. Barnum. Pop used to tell of the time when he was young and one day Mr. Barnum asked, Would you like to go to the circus, Herb? Pop coyly replied, “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Barnum.” Mr. Barnum shot back, “Then I’ll find somebody who does!” This, Pop allowed, taught him never to equivocate or play linguistic games.

Well, the day finally came in April when the actual USNA entrance exams were held. They were conducted somewhere downtown under government auspices, on three consecutive days, with one three-hour test each AM and PM. It was 14 July 1936 before we got the results. Mine were: Geometry 3.7, Algebra 3.7, English 2.7 (remember my problem with Edmund Burke?), U.S. History 3.2, Ancient History 3.7, and Physics 3.2. (I set these marks down here with some elation, since they were undoubtedly the highest marks I was ever to attain in connection with the Academy.) Meanwhile, on 14 April 1936, I failed a special preliminary eye re-exam at the USNA itself. The test, unfortunately, came about immediately upon the heels of the three days of exams and the eye-straining study leading up thereto. Nevertheless, I was authorized to report on 22 June 1936, at which time a final eye exam would be administered. So, it was back once again to the Dr. Muncaster routine. I have no idea what this specialist’s treatment cost my father, but it must have been a bundle. To make a long story short, I failed again on 22 June, to the great consternation of Dr. Muncaster, who had witnessed me pass the test repeatedly in the week before reporting to the USNA. Well, Pop got busy again. After all, he had made some great naval contacts as editor of the Naval Conference in London in 1931. So, a second final exam was arranged for USNA on 7 July 1936, and the Muncaster routine continued. (I saw nothing at all in the summers of 1935 and 1936. I might as well have been at the center of the Earth, except that, as I’ve said before, I sure did become familiar with a lot of great music. All I would do was lie around and listen.) Would you believe it? I failed the second final test on 7 July 1936. Somehow Pop then wrangled a super-special final-final exam by the Surgeon General himself for 6 August 1936. I passed this test and was finally admitted to the Naval Academy on 10 August 1936. I never failed another eye test in all my 12 years in the Navy.

Awaiting USNA acceptance

You might well ask, “So what happened to Kathleen during the aforementioned testing period?” Well, believe me, it was testing for her, too. She was then working for the government by day and going to Dunbarton College by night to work on her college degree. In between, she’d manage to meet me most weekdays for maybe a half-hour at the balcony lounge of the downtown Woodward and Lothrop. I got out of school around 3 PM, proceeded to Woody’s, where she’d join me for our brief daily visits about 4:45, then she’d be off to college and I’d go home to study ’til 3 AM. The half-hour together was, of course, in crowded public conditions, but at least we still got to see each other fairly regularly, and that helped make it tolerable. It reminded us of what we were sacrificing and working for together. And no time was wasted. I always had cards to study while waiting for her, and, of course, for whenever I was riding on or waiting for public transportation. It was a very busy time for both of us, which probably helped a great deal.

Speaking of busy, how about my Pop! In the period of June 1935 to August 1936 he engineered me an appointment from the state of Indiana, determined upon and negotiated my admittance to a rather exclusive prep school, contrived a whole series of critical eye re-exams culminating with one by the Surgeon General, and secured the services of the most innovative eye specialist in the Washington Metropolitan Area – if not on the entire East Coast. While some of these efforts must have required some considerable outlays of dollars, without exception they all compelled extraordinary outlays of his valuable time. You might have thought he’d have time for nothing else during this period. You’d be wrong! In addition to carrying his full load of college-level and postgraduate courses and seminars, he wrote the foreword to a book on foreign policy in the Far East, had extensive letters-to-the-editor on freedom of the seas and the League of Nations published in the Washington Star and the Post, prepared two reports of proceedings for the Committee on Publications of the Department of State and one report on the proceedings of the Special Committee on Documentation of the Pan-American Conference, published three magazine articles on the World Court, Embargo Plans, and the Pittman Bill (dealing with presidential powers), edited a book celebrating the Sesquicentennial of the Treaty of 1783 re Franco-American cooperation, and published two newspaper articles re limitation on the size of the Army and the resolution of Greek debts. I don’t know when he slept. So, let this be my acknowledgment of his planning and organizational genius as contributing to my successful career, and consequently to our secure family life. This is where and how it all began. And my mother sensed it immediately. At my elation on telling her I’d actually passed the academic exams, she soberly replied, “Now, you’ll be leaving me never to return.” She was right, of course, but the finality and irreversible aspect of it all had never entered my head. All in all, this period marked more than merely a change from the carefree days of high school. Now Kathleen and I both shared a common objective and delighted in working together toward it. I could vibrate in perfect harmony to the words of Meriwether Lewis at the midpoint (18 August 1805) of his northwest passage on the occasion of his 31st birthday:

I reflected that I had as yet done very little, very little, indeed, to further the happiness of the human race, or to advance the information of the succeeding generation. I viewed with regret the many hours I had spent in indolence, and now sorely felt the want of that information which those idle hours would have given me had they been judiciously expended. But since they are past and cannot be recalled, I dash from me the gloomy thought, and resolve in future, to redouble my exertions … or in future, to live for mankind, as I have heretofore lived for myself.

Well, I most certainly did regret my somewhat squandered high school years, and I did renew my resolve to always give full attention to the matter at hand in the future – to make every minute count. But, of course, I even then stopped short of vowing to live for humankind. I was, however, now fully committed to others, and it was just that I was at that time quite content to limit this future commitment to Kathleen and our hoped-for family!

VII. NAVY

It is not book learning young men need, nor instruction in this or that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, to concentrate their energies, do a thing!  – Elbert Hubbard

I left home for good on 10 Aug 1936. I was almost eighteen-and-a-half years old. I hadn’t the slightest idea what lay ahead. I only knew that I had a life objective and that my journey had begun. I had no fear and no regrets. It was all to be a great adventure. So, I set out for the Naval Academy, my father driving me to Annapolis, just as I was to drive our son, George, some 26 years later.

Geographically, the Naval Academy was only about 30 miles from my parents’ home. Psychologically, it was some several light years removed. One small step for the boy; one giant leap into manhood. The umbilical cord was severed; the apron strings were forevermore beyond reach. Ironically, it was in totally surrendering my personal freedom to a nebulous but omniscient authority that, for the first time in my life, I felt really free. It felt great!

We stopped for a quick if late breakfast at a dingy little eating emporium on Maryland Avenue, just a block or two from the Academy’s main gate. I was soon to learn that this was the original Greasy Spoon, a favorite hangout at which Kathleen and I would share many a meal – my favorite being a simultaneous serving of a grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate sundae. Fabulous! But, I couldn’t eat that day. Too excited. I wanted to get on with it, step over the threshold and slam the door. I was eager to stride into my future, shedding the past like an unwanted cloak without so much as a glance over my shoulder. So, through the gate we went.

My separation from my father was quick and immediate. I was swept away with a motley group of fellow candidates by a brisk, well-tanned, blazingly white–uniformed second classman named Muddy Waters, who immediately gave me favorable personal attention on noting that I, like he, had been appointed from the state of Indiana. This was perhaps my last lucky break while at the Academy. The first thing I remember was the Marine haircut which left no sideburns and no hair more than 3/8 of an inch long. We were then hustled off to the midshipmen’s store, where talented clerks sized us up in a twinkling of an eye and tossed all manner of virtually perfectly fitting uniforms, plus equipment and books, into a huge cardboard box with which each plebe had been provided. There was a break in the routine as we were all assembled in Memorial Hall underneath Admiral Lawrence’s famous flag – “Don’t Give Up The Ship” – to be sworn in as midshipmen. (I must state that if the ill-fated skipper of the Pueblo had shared this experience, then I feel certain he could never have acted as he did.)

Plebe year

Anyhow, we were all lined up smartly (well, as much as raw recruits could be), and our parents lined the walls all around us. The oath was administered by Cdr. Walter S. Delaney, USN, (who, during WWII as a Vice Admiral in Pac Flt officially commended me for an outstandingly performing engineering department in the heavy cruiser U.S.S. Bremerton). It was a very solemn moment. I especially remember Cdr. Delaney’s emphasis on the fact that (as I’ve mentioned previously) we would thenceforth, unlike West Pointers who were merely cadets in the Corps, be midshipmen in the U.S. Navy! As I’ve indicated elsewhere, this would be a matter of no small significance when I retired from government service some 38 years later at the age of 55. My four years at the Naval Academy would count in the calculation of retirement benefits. It was many years later before the same benefit accrued to West Point graduates. (Well, so I had at least this second lucky break!)

At any rate, I was now officially a plebe. Webster defines plebe as “a freshman at the Naval Academy or Military Academy.” Seventeenth century England defined plebe as “commonplace, undistinguished, base, ignoble.” The 1898 Lucky Bag (the USNA yearbook) defines plebe as “that insignificant being, the Fourth classman.” The 1982 Reef Points (the annual plebe handbook) defines plebe as “that insignificant thing that gets all the sympathy and chow from home.” As a 1983 Alumni Bulletin states, “Whichever definition one chooses, there is a constant: the plebe is at the bottom rung of the ladder.” It goes on, “Plebe year has been, is, and will continue to be tough. It is designed to teach discipline, duty, and accountability as well as give each plebe an understanding of the history and traditions of the naval service.” But there are potential compensations for the roughness of plebe year. The bulletin continues, “The class of 1987 can expect to claim among its members some 30 flag officers.… One may become the Chief of Naval Operations or Commandant of the Marine Corps. On the other hand, a number will [by that time, circa 2017] have given their lives in the service of their country.” This, then, is the new plebe’s prospectus.

After the swearing-in, there was a brief reunion with parents for congratulations and final goodbyes. I may have already cut the umbilical cord from Mom, but Pop still retained a firm hand on the tiller. It turned out that during our brief separation he had engineered a deal to arrange a roommate for me. This was something that I confess had not even entered my mind, but it had occurred to Pop. During the haircutting and fitting-out, he had met a fine gentleman from Richmond, Virginia, and they instantly took a great liking to each other. They thereupon determined that if we hadn’t already made some commitment, then their sons should be roommates. And so it was to be, and this was lucky break #3, and I’m going to stop counting right here. Well, not quite, because it turned out that this roommate of mine had a brother who was a first classman! This turned out to work to our salvation on the dreaded Hell Night (the night before graduation), about which more later. This, then, will be my last recorded lucky break.

Johnny Refo – Dave Davenport – Abbot Street, my roommate

Almost immediately after this brief respite, my new roommate, Abbot Prince Street (of Trelawney, BonAire, Virginia, with a private island summer home, complete with two Buicks and a sailboat on the York River) and I were assigned to a room on the inboard side of the 4th deck of the second battalion (eastmost) wing of Bancroft Hall. There we set about stenciling and properly folding and storing all our new uniforms and gear, which took several hours. Shortly before evening meal formation, we ventured out of our room alone to check out the view from the seaward terrace, which in fact was the level, red-bricked top of the ground-level dining hall that runs northeast to southwest at the back (southeast side) of the first and third battalion wings, which than constituted the front of Bancroft Hall. We were soon accosted by an officer trailed by an arm-banded, clipboard-carrying midshipman. We snapped-to in our best estimate of attention, but in our panic we failed to salute LCdr. Padgett (affectionately known as Flangehead for his wide-jutting ears), the Officer of the Watch. So it was that my roommate and I ended up on report before our first day in the Navy had come to a close. So much, indeed, for lucky breaks!

In no time at all, we were completely into a full and rigorous daily routine of plebe summer drills and lectures. Unlike most plebes, I had to start from scratch in learning the manual of arms, close order drill (where one paced out squad maneuvers by following painted footprints on the sands of time on the concrete area then abutting Thompson Stadium, but which is now the Field House). We were instructed in the disassembly of pistol and rifle, were introduced to the rifle range (with attendant black eyes from improperly restrained Springfield rifle recoil), tried to fire pistols surreptitiously from the hip, and labored in the butts. (Would you believe that I was so disenchanted with firearms that I always volunteered for the butts – spotting targets and scores – and haven’t ever even fired a pistol to this day?) We all had to qualify at least as marksmen with the rifle.

Shoulder that butt, buddy, if you don’t want a black eye!

The disk is up! The disk is down! Ready on the firing line!

Then there were the small boats. We drilled in raising and lowering cutters, and in rowing them, as we concurrently learned and interpreted blinker and signal flag orders so as to maneuver them in lines and columns, etc. We also were introduced to the art of sailing in sloop-rigged halfraters. Then there were drills in “tails,” which is in nautical knot tying – where I won a plaudit from a crusty old bosun as he screamed, “Mister, who in hell ties your shoes for you when you get up in the morning?” (I told you my luck had turned.) We even had drills in marching into and out of the stadium for football games, and in doing the card tricks for the half-time shows, and we had after-dinner sessions in Smoke Hall to learn all the Navy songs. (This musical indoctrination carried over into gangs around a guitar-strumming barracks song balladeer from whom we learned The Minstrel Sings of an English King of a Thousand Years Ago, etc.) Finally, who can ever forget the recurring litany of “Gentlemen, this is a 5" gun. The trainer sits on the right, the pointer sits on the left.” (Or was it the other way around?)

Halfraters

Cutters

The indoctrination came thick and fast, and it was total. They held preliminary math drills in what was termed mensuration, where you performed every conceivable conversion of mathematical and physical units from one system to another. You got lectures on Navy customs, tradition, and etiquette. You also had to join some formal church party (Catholics were then marched on Sundays to St. Mary’s in Annapolis before regimental reveille), or you had to attend Chapel. My alarm failed once, so I missed Mass and was given extra duty – which consisted of walking a Springfield for several hours when I could have been resting. Thus, my picture was taken for inclusion in the book The Naval Academy Today. I thought that was neat. My mother was not amused. Then there was the bilge one had to commit to memory to avoid more severe hazing. The bible for this was the annual edition of Reef Points – a compendium of naval historical lore (covering monuments as well as heroes and events), and all manner of naval trivia. The correct reply to “What time is it, Mister?” was at least a half-page of convoluted double-talk. The answer to “How long is a Chinaman?” is “Yes, Sir!” (You figure it out!)

From the book Annapolis Today – Look who’s walking extra duty

You also had to commit to memory the day’s menus, the movies playing in town and the show times (the current hit was the debut of Gone With the Wind), and the Washington Post news and sports headlines. You also had to be able to discourse on the daily Mary Haworth column (she was the forerunner of “Dear Abby”). Sometimes you had to write her a letter sufficiently clever as to go undetected as a fraud and therefore to be published. Then, for each Sunday dinner hour, you had to have a specially prepared Happy Hour presentation. If it was good enough, you got to sit down (braced up, of course) for evening meal. Otherwise you ate squatting on your haunches, with your thighs level and no butt resting on your heels.

I don’t think I ever sat down to a plebe year dinner except on Saturday, when most of the upper class ate out in town. I still remember one skit following first classman Gilkeson’s sojourn in the Reina Mercedes (the then equivalent of the brig) which went to the tune of Miss Otis Regrets, thus: “Mr. Gilkeson regrets he’s unable to dine tonight, yes sir. Mr. Gilkeson regrets he’s unable to dine tonight. Because the other night he snook, into the bat house and fixed up a muster book. Yes, sir. Mr. Gilkeson regrets he’s unable to dine tonight.” We got to sit down. Another highlight of this period was our participation as extras in the movie Navy Blue and Gold, featuring Robert Young and Lionel Barrymore.

Every plebe is assigned, as sort of a valet and legman, to some first classman. Some first classmen treated their plebes as serfs or less. Some were quite decent and even protected their plebes like a mother hen. My first classmen were as curious a pair of forced roommates as you’ll ever find. One, Richard Halla, went on to become 1st and 3rd set regimental commander and a Rhodes Scholar. The roommate who was inflicted on him was one John Gerald Sullivan, as mean and devious a shanty Irishman as you’re ever likely to meet. (My fanny should still show scars from his well-snapped toothbrush handle or steel ruler.) Halla was a real egghead and a basically very nice guy, but inclined to almost Victorian stuffiness. I was never comfortable with him, and guess I really just didn’t like him. Sullivan, on the other hand, was so jauntily and fearlessly antiestablishment, so totally wild and unpredictable, that you just couldn’t help shaking your head in a sort of reluctant admiration, even though he would rank high among “SOBs I have known.”

For example, for a time I was seated at the 1/c end of a mess hall table headed by Sully. He too often required that I slip under the table and wriggle my way stealthily through a quagmire of intervening legs and feet to the 2/c end of the table, there to deposit pads of butter on the slickly shined toes of their shoes. To be discovered en route either way was to raise the alarm of “Fire in the paint locker!” whereupon every midshipman at the table would hastily toss a glass of the most available fluid – usually milk, tomato juice, or hot coffee – on the helpless culprit caught beneath the table. But even to execute the maneuver without detection was to no avail, since Sully would have to gloatingly shout, “Hey Eric! Look at your shoes!” This would occasion a come-around from every second classman at the table for a particularly vicious ass whaling, since butter destroyed the shine of the shoes for good.

In all events, Sully was kicked out a month before graduation. He probably should have been – for many things they never discovered, and because he’d probably have been a terrible excuse for a naval officer. However, he was in the case on record, I believe, virtually framed. My father interceded on his behalf (at my instigation) to the maximum practical extent, but to no avail. I still think of him anytime I hear that old song, The One Rose. (Does anyone remember Gordon Hittenmark’s morning show on WRC radio? He catered to awakening midshipmen. Sully required that I write him almost daily requesting The One Rose at reveille each day.)

Dave Davenport, Abbot Street, and Frank Hertel

The foregoing pretty well reflects the nitty-gritty doings of my plebe year. Athletically, I was a wash-out, at a mere 165 pounds, except that I won class numerals as a pitcher in our intramural baseball league. I was a submarine hurler in the manner of then–Washington Senators’ pitcher Dolph Liska. (Rough academic going precluded further baseball until my first class year, when I actually made the varsity under Coach Max Bishop, the former second baseman of Connie Mack’s legendary Philadelphia teams – with the likes of Lefty Grove, Mickey Cochrane, and Jimmy Foxx.) In the academic realm, I didn’t fare much better, as I barely held my nose above the waterline, and didn’t really excel in anything. But none of this really tells you very much of what plebe year really meant to me. The going will get a little heavy here, and I can only promise that I’ll do the best I can. My life was completely changed. Heretofore I’d been the most sheltered of all the well-sheltered. Now I was really lying bare to the wolves, and – to my utter amazement – there were wolves. I had come fresh out of a strictly middle-class Catholic-home, Catholic-school, Catholic-community environment. Now, I wasn’t a complete prude, and I knew all the four-letter words myself and was, so to say, on a speaking relationship with many of them. But I was fairly well shocked by some of the rank obscenity, low-level ethics, and often even disgusting manners and mores of this huge conglomerate of which I had innocently become a part. (I don’t think such wide disparities in values endure anywhere in the world today!) One result of this unexpected encounter with really trashy conduct was that I never tended to mix or to be assimilated into my class. I remained a cautious loner, and made virtually no new friends. On the other hand, there were (to my then-young mind) some very positive aspects of what I can only label the U.S. Navy mystique. First of all, to me, there really was something special about a Navy uniform. Lawrence of Arabia once said something to the point:

It came upon me freshly how the secret of the uniform was to make a crowd solid, dignified, impersonal: to give it the singleness and tautness of an upstanding man. This death’s livery which walled its bearers from ordinary life, was a sign that they had sold their wills and bodies to the State: and contracted themselves into a service not the less abject for that its beginning was voluntary.

Wow! That is largely true. I can still vaguely sense the surge of enthusiasm and pride that engulfed me when I first stood at attention, in dress uniform, facing the flag, as the band blared out our National Anthem. You knew you were part of something big and important. But leave it to Eric Sevareid to put it all in more appropriate perspective:

When marching at the flank of a column on inspection parade, I had a thrilling feeling of being a part of a living, invisible force; but this was a fleeting sensation, despised later as part of the seductive paraphernalia of the plot, along with the flag and music and shining brass, to lure us into feeling that the training for murder was really something else.

Well, Eric goes a little too far for my taste, but he is on the mark to the extent that he impels a more balanced view of military trappings. “Murder,” I believe, is an injudicious choice of words, but we must never forget that indeed the business of the military is destruction, however much we may opt to euphemize it as defense of self or country. Nevertheless, it seems to me, the military trappings are a significant – if not essential – element in the evolution of a cohesive fighting-unit esprit. Here I refer mostly to the bands, the medals, the flags, the parades, etc. The uniform, of course, is part of it all, too, but it is of even more significance. It provides instant recognition of friend or foe and connotes varying ranges of special qualifications and capabilities, plus it communicates an indication of seniority and rank for purpose of discipline and leadership. Beyond that, some further special markings often suggest a unique level of achievement – and consequent pride – with respect to certain specific units possessed of a glorious history.

Illegal rest

It remains now only to consider the relevance of hazing to the military indoctrination process. Of course no one in authority admits hazing exists. It’s interesting to note that as recently as September 1983 a leading news magazine reported, “Most tough physical hazing of first-year classes has been eliminated [at service academies], partly because about 1/10th of the students are women, and partly because concerned faculty members decided the old system was counter-productive.” The Superintendent at West Point remarked that, “I’m glad hazing is gone [emphasis added], and it was a mistake.” It’s perhaps even more interesting that, further along in the same article, there are student references to harassment by upperclassmen, and pushiness of upperclassmen, some of whom go power crazy. You pay your money and take your choice as to who is correct. This is the stickiest wicket of them all, and frankly, I’ve never read a cogent argument for it. There are, on the other hand, lots of ready arguments against hazing. One is that the time spent hereon might surely be better spent on more positive pursuits. Another is that sadists do exist. Still another is that much of it is irrelevant trivia or so-called Mickey-Mouse claptrap. In all my military reading (which has been quite extensive) only General Omar Bradley ever ventured a published opinion, to wit:

The hazing, so often criticized, had several positive by-products. It was a great leveler. There were among us many pampered boys, campus heroes and heartthrobs, prep school snobs, and even a few bullies. Hazing knocked the wind out of their sails in a hurry. It impressed upon us the sense of rank and privilege and taught us to unquestioningly and quickly obey orders, fundamental grounding for any soldier.

Well, now, Omar! Badges of rank, too, are a great leveler, reference to pampered boys suggests sour grapes even as reference to campus heroes and heartthrobs suggests envy. As for the bullies, they always lie low until they become upperclassmen, at which point they become the most abusive hazers. As for unquestioningly obeying orders, I’d hoped that Hitler had forever put that one to rest. I would be inclined to give Omar the benefit of the doubt, and postulate that he instinctively realized through his vast leadership experience that hazing provided an eventual net plus. Still, his analysis was faulty in ascribing his reasons for that gut feeling. Easy for you to say, you might opine (especially since, as a varsity football player, he was undoubtedly spared any serious hazing himself), so I had best try to make my case.

On balance, I, too, feel that hazing added up to a net plus. First, I can attest that there have been frequent instances in my life where I could confidently face a really lousy situation by confiding to myself that “If you could survive plebe year, this should be a piece of cake!” Second, learning to accommodate to around-the-clock harassment isn’t the worst preparation for a combat environment or internment (short of actual physical torture, of course) as a prisoner of war. Third, nothing so quickly and indelibly impressed upon me the fundamental and important truth that military duty is indeed a commitment entailing total surrender of self to the dictates of any and all higher authorities. It is unquestionably a call to the heights of personal sacrifice. That is an extremely important lesson to learn at the very outset of a military career. Herman Wouk best pays tribute to my thought in a remark he once made at West Point to the effect that peace is made possible by many factors, but not the least by the willingness of an able few to give up personal freedom in the necessary discipline of a military arm. On a planet which is mostly not free, a free society can only live by such a sacrifice of this able few. In the light of this, I feel that any risks involved with hazing are of an acceptable level, particularly as peer pressure operates to constrain would-be abusers.

My own reaction to hazing might be worthy of note. In some instances I was virtually of a collaborator mentality, while in others I was a dedicated member of the underground. I was never confronted with anything worse than petty meanness, so faced no overwhelming moral dilemmas. Essentially I’d try to avoid all possible occasions of hazing, but when backed to the wall would opt for the easiest way out. My credo in this regard was that I didn’t think it was all that important, so minimize trouble for yourself. My roommate (from among the first families of Virginia, sir!) took some tremendous abuse for refusing to sing Marching Through Georgia. To him this was a matter of gravest principle and personal honor. I confess I couldn’t understand this. To me it was nonsense. On the other hand, I recall taking some fierce whackings and verbal abuse from a first classman from D.C. who wanted me to tell him where he was from so he could then offer his hand for me to shake. This would signify that he and I, both being from D.C., were equals, and I did not have to shape-up for him and call him “sir,” etc. I kept giving wrong answers despite blatant hints because I didn’t want to shake his hand. I thought he was one mean son of a bitch and had no respect for him.

Seaward Terrace – over the Mess Hall

So it went until Hell Night – the night before graduation. This is the night when plebes get no sleep. Instead, they have their asses whacked all night long by upperclassmen returning from hops and standing atop 3-foot-high cruise boxes and swinging brooms with all the power of Arnold Palmer into your fast purpling and bleeding fanny. My roommate and I, having been cockily resistant to most hazing all year long, were to be singled out on this particular night. To make a long story short, we avoided it completely and never did tell the outraged upperclassmen how. We simply weren’t in our room when they returned from the hop, and we didn’t return in fact until seconds before the formation bell for breakfast parade. We could risk being out of our room because no commissioned officer ventured into Bancroft Hall on Hell Night. (They couldn’t afford to risk witnessing any such rough physical hazing – which, after all, was a one-time-only affair.) As for the 1/c midshipman taps inspector who checked for us being in our room, he was the first-classman roommate of my roommate’s first-classman brother. Not a bad parlay, that.

And where did we spend the night? Now it can be told. We were on our own deck a mere three doors away. We spent the night huddled in the shower of two of our classmates who were “turnbacks,” that is, they were former plebes who were repeating plebe year for slight academic deficiencies not warranting total banishment (especially as one was the star halfback on the football team, Ulmont Whitehead, later a Pearl Harbor casualty in USS Arizona). Being repeaters, they had immunity against all hazing and enjoyed upperclassman rights and privileges. In the course of the night several people burst into Whitehead’s room begging to know if he knew where we were. His denials qualified for an Academy Award (no pun intended!), but I still don't know how these pleaders couldn't have heard our pounding hearts. This successful coup made us class celebrities on youngster cruise which immediately followed graduation. We had the only unmarked third-class asses on the whole Atlantic Ocean that summer of 1937.

The two days immediately following graduation and the completion of plebe year were more traumatic even than entrance into the Academy. The big difference was that I had been fantasizing about my entrance for months before the actual big day. Conversely, it turned out that our focus and concentration on just getting through plebe year had been so intense that we never for one second ever looked beyond graduation day itself. Hence the dawn of youngster year and my first ocean cruise came with shocking suddenness and tremendous impact. First of all, there was the awe occasioned by looking out our bedroom window at Bancroft Hall the morning following graduation and beholding three mighty battleships anchored in Chesapeake Bay. Then there was the hustle-bustle of hasty farewells at dockside, the lugging of seabags into waiting motor launches, and casting off for the longish trip to the ships necessarily anchored fairly far down the bay.

Embarking/Youngster cruise – June 1937

The close hauling of my new home, the USS Wyoming, was breath-taking. I had never seen, let alone so close up, such a huge and fearsome-looking man-of-war. We were rushed aboard and below decks, and we never even saw our departure. The balance of the day was spent in storing our gear, drawing our hammocks, squaring away our living quarters, and learning our “watch, quarter, and station bill” for watch-standing, messing, fire and collision drills, and general quarters (battle stations). Almost before you knew, it we were experiencing our first shipboard reveille, complete with piercing bosun whistles, bugles, the pungent and invigorating smell of fresh hot coffee, and the lusty call of “Reveille! Reveille! Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” Every compartment had its mess-attendant-delivered pitchers of the hottest, blackest coffee you’d ever see, and the coffee came just as you hit the deck. Then bedding was triced up and stored and you rushed topside to scrub down the decks. This was our first return topside since coming aboard, and I shall never forget the first sighting of a 360-degree horizon of wall-to-wall water. It was so immense, so majestic, so unexpected. Magnificent! (This was when Amelia Earhart became “lost at sea,” and I for one had a real appreciation of how this could be.)

Enroute to Kiel canal in USS Wyoming

Field Day – holy-stoning the deck of USS Wyoming on Youngster cruise

We didn't know it then, but ours was to be the last of the traditional summer cruises to fabulous European ports. Hitler was to see to that. Even our cruise was modified at the last moment. We had been scheduled for stops at Athens, the Kiel Canal, and Plymouth, England. With the worsening European threat, however, it was thought wise not to risk containment within the Mediterranean Sea, so Athens was replaced by Funchal, Madeira, the so-called “European Bermuda.” Why the risk of being bottled up in the Kiel Canal was not similarly assayed I have no idea and, as a matter of fact, we almost were bottled up there. We scraped both sides and the USS Arkansas touched bottom several times. It was there that I also first witnessed the anxiety of command. I was midshipman helmsman of the watch during our passage of the canal, so I had a first-row seat. At one point the skipper kept whispering to the exec anent the maneuvering of the German pilot who had the conn, “Wiley, I don’t like it. I don’t like this at all!” Finally, in seeming exasperation, the exec muttered between clenched teeth, “Well, Captain, if you really don’t like it you’d better damn well take the conn!” He did. (The nature of the difficulty as I was to appreciate later as an engineering officer was that the pilot didn’t realize the sluggishness of battleship response to his tugboat-like signals.)

Funchal, Madeira. It sure beat Bermuda!

Funchal sled

This cruise was my first experience with travel beyond Vineland, NJ, or Bristol, VA, and being at large on foreign soil was quite an experience indeed – especially being in military uniform. Eric Sevareid has expressed it best: “One begins to understand his own country by leaving it.” I think most Americans would amend that only to add that one also begins to more fully appreciate his own country by leaving it. This was still a time, too, to be heightened even more so by American triumphs of WWII, when as someone has said, “the British walk the earth as if they own it; the Americans walk the earth as if they don’t give a damn who owns it.” (Since Vietnam and Iran, of course, Americans are properly a little more discreet when abroad.) This was the time when German re-armament was in full swing, and German uniforms were more in evidence even than religious garb was in the Brookland of my youth. It therefore didn’t hurt that I, too, was in uniform, for in the Germany of that period the military were accorded all manner of special recognition and privileges. Little wonder, then, that Germany turned out to be my favorite country on this first venture overseas, whereas the England I next visited with even greater anticipation turned out to be a relative dud. Though we visited these two countries at virtually the same time but in reverse order, I fully shared the reaction of Charles Lindbergh: “I was stirred by the spirit of Germany as I had been deadened by the lack of it in England.” but like Lindbergh, too, I found that overall, travel confirmed that home was the place to be.

Palace of Frederick the Great at Potsdam

It was just incredible to me that a country so beautiful as the Germany I saw in 1937 (Frederick the Great’s gardens at Sans Souci in Potsdam rank with London’s Hampton Court), and so brimming with jolly, healthy, robust people (who sang more than they talked) would once again soon prove to be so war-like and so ruthlessly anti-semitic. Bands played at every little hamlet abutting the Kiel Canal. (I can still hum the German national anthem.) Flags were everywhere. Beer flowed like water. Everything was spic and span, people bustled with energy and apparent good humor. The Germans were as lock-stepping friendly as the British were stand-offish cold. You would have been hard pressed correctly to judge who would soon be faithful friend or mortal enemy. In Berlin, a city of night life rivaling that of New York City, we were welcomed as a group at city hall with splendid cigars and red wine by a “representative of the Fuhrer.” In contrast, London was oblivious to our presence, and the English people were as cold (and dare one add, “as empty”) as the multiplicity of ancient cathedrals (Exeter comes to mind) that I traipsed through in southern England that summer. The only Germany-like beauty encountered was at Shakespeare’s Stratford-on-Avon. As for the food, what can one say about a people who enjoy fish for breakfast (as at Bath and Lemington) and insist on mutton (as tough as a very old boot) for dinner? (I did salvage the menu from Sam Johnson's Cheddar Cheese for my high school English teacher, Sr. Regina.)

The Lido – Madeira

Madeira (which we sandwiched between Berlin and London) was a pleasant surprise – a tapestry of red-shingled roofs dotting steep green hillsides sloping into clear blue waters. As everyone knows, Madeira is the home of “fortified wines” that average 20%-plus alcoholic content compared to the more conventional 11%. And they’re so smooth! As in most overseas locations, wine is used like water to wash down all food. One would get quite a warm feeling sipping Madeira at oceanside at sunset. The food was essentially exceptionally tangy cheeses and the most gorgeous fresh fruit you’re ever likely to see. They were consumed in abundance at a seaside resort called the Lido, which featured a salt-water swimming pool with direct connecting access to the ocean, as well. My afternoon there still ranks as one of the most exhilarating of my life. This followed a morning spent in riding the hand-pushed or horse-drawn sleds (over cobblestone streets) into the hill country, there to procure the most amazing bargains in hand-crafted Madeira linens for tableware. You can have Bermuda, I’ll take Madeira again, anytime.

The one place I visited on this cruise that I could easily afford to miss my next time around was the Bay of Biscay en route from Germany to Madeira. It was here that the stormy Atlantic first reared its ugly head to puncture my nautical dream. The bows of our three mighty battleships plowed several feet under green water as we pounded our way along. These monstrous steel beasts seemed little more than corks rolling, booming, groaning. Here the advantage of the 3/C swinging hammocks over the 1/C being in fixed bunks was manifest. The first-class spent the nights hanging on as the third-class swayed lazily in rhythm with the roll of the ship. (Needless to say, “progress” ultimately spelled the end of the nautical hammocks.)

So my first cruise came to an end. My only conclusion was that I’d never opt for engineering after graduation. After all, in the firerooms in Wyoming you labored in an environment where the ambient temperature was 130 degrees F! You survived by sticking your face in the mouth of a fresh air blower as continuously as possible. Also, down below, you never knew what was going on never really got to see anything. Overall, I thought the cruise was a great adventure, and I loved the idea of taking your hotel with you when you traveled, as you could only do aboard ship. And so it was, at last, that we returned at the end of Aug 1937 to Norfolk for replenishment of the ship prior to our being disembarked at Annapolis. At dockside I rejoined my roommate, Ab, who had been embarked in USS New York. There I made another discovery of what can only be termed good fortune. Whereas the New York had obsolete reciprocating engines, the Wyoming had the more modern turbines. Since I was eventually to become an engineer (again, by chance), it was well that I had been exposed to equipment of the future rather than of the past. Ab had other good news. His younger sister, Melinda, would soon be there to pick us up and speed us off for a weekend of sunning and swimming off of their York River private island.

Sailing – with my and roommate’s wives-to-be

Digital Edition Note: The above image is a composite of the image scanned from the printed book overlaid with an inset taken from a cropped original photograph. Thus the blurry edges with a crisper image in the center.

The less said about this weekend the better, but mention must be made of it. After nine months at the Naval Academy during which only two or three dates were allowed with Kathleen, followed by about three months at sea devoid of all female association, I was really looking forward to meeting Kathleen upon arrival at Annapolis. Unfortunately, the anticipated joy of this return was to be denied. It was short-circuited by Melinda, whose summer on the island had been equally devoid of male association. To make a long story short, ours was one of those almost idyllic movie-like weekends together on what might as well have been a desert island paradise with plumbing. Suffice it to say, I virtually never saw her again, certainly not alone, and I never dated her. Though I found her highly attractive under the circumstances, she was in her innocent but nevertheless imperial richness too intimidating for my taste. I was so uncomfortable with her life-style as to be positively repelled by it. In that sense, we simply had nothing of real importance in common. Still, the damage had been done. The bloom was off the rose. The long anticipated joy of being reunited with Kathleen at Annapolis was sadly dissipated on the York River. I now felt my first (and last) doubts about my commitment to Kathleen. Although nothing serious had happened, I was somewhat astonished at the ease with which my heretofore singular devotion had been diverted. Little wonder that I felt extremely guilty and even a little estranged upon finally meeting Kathleen at Annapolis. We were quite reserved and somewhat uncomfortable, as though the pilot light of our once flaming love had gone out.

This set the stage, then, for my third-class year – probably the roughest year of my entire life to date. To have been so confident of my life objectives and then to have been assailed so rudely by doubt – it was quite unsettling. I was sort of overwhelmed by listlessness and apathy. This very personal crisis carried over into my accommodation to the Academy. I had assumed that once I’d survived the manufactured harassment that attended plebe year, well, then all would be smooth sailing, and I could joyfully get on with developing my professionalism for a service career. I was therefore shocked to discover that much of the detested Mickey-Mouse B.S. of plebe year was not purely a plebe-year phenomenon but an aspect or attribute of the military environment itself. In many ways, I could now see, one was always a plebe vis-à-vis one’s seniors in the military pecking order. Worse yet, seniority did not necessarily equate with or signify greater competence, justice, or even common sense. Orders from the most stupid, sadistic jerk imaginable were as authoritative as those from the most intelligent and honorable military leader who ever lived.

Sunday after Mass

All the foregoing was further compounded by the dull and bleak atmosphere that normally characterized the January to April period of any year, extending as it does from the post-Christmas letdown to the early spring uplift. It was in this period that my perplexity, disillusionment, and discouragement quickly dissipated into outright despair. I felt utterly oppressed and aimless. I wanted out. On one Sunday night phone call I told my father I wanted to resign at once. He was greatly disturbed, told me to hold everything, and paid me an urgent visit the very next afternoon. I can’t remember him ever being so agitated, but his patience never flagged. Slowly, logically, and repeatedly he led me through an array of pros and cons that (without him ever indicating, let alone emphasizing, any particular conclusion) clearly and inevitably reinforced the conviction that I should see the year through and then re-evaluate the situation. Happily, though the going really got rough at times, this storm was safely weathered, and no re-evaluation was ever conducted.

With DAD – the one and only!

In addition to Kathleen and I gradually growing back into our former “togetherness,” it was the prospect of the delights of second-class summer that – as much as anything – snapped me out of my terrible funk. For one thing, In those days they had a so-called volunteer “Executive Platoon” that enabled midshipmen more or less from local areas to spend the bulk of the summer riding herd on the incoming plebe class, thereby meriting summer-long weekend leaves to return home in lieu of the customary September leave. This was an opportunity not to be missed, and I became part of that. Additionally, second-class summer was spiced by such goodies as getting to handle the controls of a PBY flying boat, using the famous Norden bomb sight to drop a bomb from several thousand feet onto Sharp’s Island in the Chesapeake, camera-gunning the feint attacks of fighter planes, and a flying trip to Anacostia Naval Air Station that included an aerial sightseeing tour of DC. As one who at the time had never even been on a train, I found these flying excursions truly great adventures. My experience with it, however, was not without its problems. Whereas most pilots took great pains to show and let you try everything imaginable, I’ll never forget the young Lt.(jg) who spent the whole one-and-one-half-hour training session shooting really rough landings in a small inlet of the Chesapeake. “More bounce to the ounce,” for sure. Then, too, you always had to be extremely alert on disembarking, especially on Saturday mornings when you departed this drill directly for DC weekends. Someone was sure to pull the toggle on your Mae West life jacket, which was worn under your parachute harness, and then you not only couldn’t fit through the exit hatches, you had one hell of a time getting the harness off, and really lost valuable time on your weekend getaways. Then there was the day we had a cabin fire of undetermined origin at 5,000 feet, which was sufficiently exciting to make the DC paper. Another highlight of this summer was a destroyer run up the Hudson River to West Point, (in the so called J. Fred “Christ” Talbot after “Christ, it’s so bad that …”) followed by a weekend in NYC. I really got a sunburn on the river run since I spent most of the journey in the crow’s nest side-by-side with roommate Ab. This was interrupted only by a stint on the bridge as midshipman quartermaster of the watch. This duty entailed a grinding two hours of keeping distance on the immediately preceding destroyer with a stadimeter. I was almost going blind from squinting until the alert O.D. laughingly told me I’d find the operation a lot easier if I also kept my left eye open! As for West Point, I wasn’t overly impressed. On the other hand, the Palisades were beautiful.

As for NYC, this was the time I saw NY night life as never before or since. Ab’s older sister and her advertising-executive husband really showed us the town. I doubt there was one night club that we didn’t hit. Invariably we encountered roped-off crowds waiting for admission. Our host would catch the eye of the maitre d’, wave some bills, and we’d be immediately ushered up front in style. This little tableau was repeated time after time. I especially remember the Black Cat, where a torchy Billie Holiday type fondled a straightback chair as she sang, “If I can’t sell it, I’ll keep sitting on it, before I give it away.” (They just don’t write catchy tunes like that anymore.)

Then it was back to Annapolis and second-class year and our first radio. My research led us to Midwest, a catalog house that then preceded the hi-fi field. We were only allowed small table models, but ours had the most console-like full-base sound you could ever hope to hear. It also amazed our friends that it had (this was 1938) push-button tuning. We may have been second-class but our radio was first-class. (One of the first available programs was Orson Welles’ original War of the Worlds broadcast. Since it aired during study hour, we missed it.) It was this, as much as anything else, that made second-class year go so much more easily than the two previous years. Almost before we knew it, another June Week had rolled around, and this was the big one – the one when we would get our Academy rings. There was just one problem. I ended up “unsat” in navigation. Well, navigation was just about one of the easiest subjects there is, so I’d use that study time to give extra attention to “pulling sat” in electricity. Since I’d gone unsat the first semester while studying DC, I then had to pull sat in the more formidable AC. I did so at the expense of failing navigation, thanks to an assist by an uncompromising, red-headed, hot-tempered SOB Lt.(jg) instructor. “So it goes,” you might opine, but though I’d be offered a re-exam at the end of first-class summer, this meant I wouldn’t get my ring (if at all) until passing the re-exam. I could handle this, but it also meant I couldn’t give Kathleen her miniature at the Ring Dance. This development was an extremely bitter business indeed. Apart from disappointing Kathleen in what should have been our most tender symbolic moment to date – the transfer of the engagement ring – it was a severe setback to my first potential moment of glory. I guess you really “had to be there” to appreciate what receiving the ring meant to one who had not only survived plebe year but could now see the light of graduation-commissioning at the end of the tunnel. Pat Conroy has put it best:

When people see the (Academy) ring on your hand, they will know that it represents power and discipline and the legitimacy of your passage through the system. With this ring you will be accepted by the entire fellowship of the (Academy) alumni. You will be welcome in their ranks no matter where you may meet them in your travels. (Academy) men are not merely emotional about the ring, they are religious about it. It is the sacred symbol of the ideals represented by the (Academy). This circle binds you to the brotherhood, to the invisible ranks. This ring encircles the world. He who wears the ring, the great seal of the (Academy), wears it more proudly than any mere emperor or king.

Ring Dance – June 1939

As a matter of fact, the rings (and any miniatures) of all unsats were delivered in bulk by Bailey, Banks and Biddle directly to the First Lieutenant of Bancroft Hall, then a LCdr. Nielson. Well, nothing ventured: nothing gained. I visited him in his office. I have no recollection of what I said (or how) to Cdr Nielson, but eventually he got up from behind his desk, worked the combination of a nearby safe, and I soon left him happily carrying both rings.

I do remember that this transaction was not accomplished as simply and easily as this mere recital might suggest. In any event, June Week thereupon proceeded normally. (And the ring, or course, finally disclosed our intentions to our folks!) Music for our Ring Dance was provided by the then-popular Larry Clinton Band, which always had several hits on the nickelodeon at any particular time. Kathleen and I still laugh over the recollection of our sharing a bench in smoke park with Bill Howard and his date, Bonnie, during one dance set. Both couples were exchanging tender kisses when Bill pulled out and exclaimed, “Jesus! Listen to that tenor sax!” The mood could never be regained.

June Week – 1940

If Hitler had forced modification of our youngster cruise, and he had, he surely bollixed our first-class cruise. Any sortie to famous European ports was out of the question. We were to get no further than the Bay of Fundy with its amazing 50-foot tides. From there we visited Quebec’s Chateau Frontenac. Also, whereas everyone else opted for a trip to Montreal, Ab and I and one other classmate were the sole selectors of an option for a boat trip up the Saguenay River to Le Manoir Richelieu, where a leading radio band of the day, Luigi Romanelli, held forth. A 1982 ad in the AAA’s magazine states that Le Manoir Richelieu is “perched some 700 feet directly above the Saint Laurent, [a] legendary castle in the tradition of a stately French manor.… The cuisine is a delight and the wine cellar impressive.” Rooms, available on the modified American plan (with breakfast and dinner furnished) and based on double occupancy, are $861.00 per person! Now, that is class!

Romanelli’s band (patterned after the old folk-dancing style of Shep Fields, Russ Morgan, and later Lawrence Welk) was featured at noon on weekdays on NBC. I well remember sitting in the large open veranda-like band and dance area one noontime as the announcer solemnly intoned, “Now, from Manoir Richelieu, bathed in glorious sunshine high above the St. Lawrence in the province of Quebec, Canada, we bring you, etc., etc.” The fact is, it was pouring rain at the time. In all events, we were instant celebrities. Publicity pictures were even taken of us with the band, and with its freshly imported little French chanteuse named Lucille. It was at Le Manoir Richelieu that I discovered whiskey sours, where we’d enjoy two or three each evening as our nightcaps. Then we’d sit up with band members in their rooms to catch the midnight broadcast of Bunny Berrigan playing from NYC. Oh, to be young!

Our next big stop was NYC, which was then featuring its famous World Fair (running from 30 April to 31 October 1939). In between ports, I spent all my time studying. As an “unsat first-classman,” I was excused from all watch-standing and all assignments. My time was fully my own except for shipboard-wide exercises, like fire and collision drills. The first problem was finding a suitable study location. I made friends with a first-class gunner’s mate who was “captain” of #2 turret. A turret captain is one of the headier enlisted billets. Mahoney had complete charge of #2 turret. It was his province. He was king. He was my friend. So it was that I spent first-class cruise at a fine private desk, complete with lamp and padded chair, at about mid-level of barbette #2. (A barbette is the entirely heavily armored underwater trunk of a main battery turret through which the ammunition train passes to the turret’s guns.) It was well ventilated and virtually soundproof with respect to outside noise. I was completely isolated from everyone except during gun drills, for which I was the pointer, and which occasioned my punctured ear drum – discovered in 1983. Mahoney almost used the barbette as a personal locker. While preparing for a shore liberty, he would marvel at my steadfast attachment to his desk in wrapped study – until the day he discovered me studying the Esquire Magazine Guide to the NYC World Fair.

Well, I was ready for that, too. This was the one that featured the famous Trylon and Perisphere, GM’s Cyclorama (or some such?), and The Hot (jazzed up) Mikado of Gilbert and Sullivan fame from which Erskine Hawkins’ great band later made two outstanding cuts. Kathleen joined me for this great holiday, and I think in retrospect that the whole business is superbly illustrative of the “Wonderland” atmosphere that attends the military life. The 24-hour clock is highly symbolic of it all. To put it simply, the military live a life of their own, according to their own calendar and their own clock, in a tight little cocoon totally oblivious to the real world. Show me a military person who is not counting the days to some strictly personal event, and I’ll show you a corpse. This was September 1939 for chrissake! The previous September witnessed the sellout at Munich, and the one after that saw FDR trying to pack the Supreme Court. Germany and the USSR had just sealed a mutual peace pact on 24 August. Hitler (who had already occupied the Rhineland and seized Austria) invaded Poland on 1 September. Great Britain and France declared war on Germany on 3 September. We celebrated the New York City World Fair.

Christmas leave – 39/40

I found it the same from the very start. At the beginning of my plebe year Hitler was unfurling his plans for conquest. Japan flexed its muscles and tested our will by overtly bombing our gunship, the Panay, killing two American sailors. Ab and I spent a good deal of our time inventing games. We even went AWOL. Ab returned to the Academy from Sep leave in the family Pontiac, still garaged just outside the Main Gate. We shed caps, coats, and ties and took off for DC, stopping to pick up Kathleen, there to see the very first (and my last) Redskin game which featured the debut of Slinging Sammy Baugh downing Ace Parker’s Brooklyn Dodgers 16 to 7. Fortunately, unlike one of the heroes of James Webb’s A Sense of Honor, we didn’t get undone by encountering an accident.

Ab and I weren’t alone in our holiday outlook. Sailors live for leaves and liberties. The most profound world events pass virtually unnoticed. Perhaps this was a carryover from the days before Marconi invented that infernal disc-jockey device called “radio,” when sailors at sea were really out of touch with the rest of the world, and officers had to be prepared to function as on-the-spot instant international diplomats. But the fact remains, the military environment begets an unreal keep-the-party-going mood.

Letter from Decca Records

Digital Edition Note: The above letter from Decca Records is addressed to Mid’m John Wright at Bancroft Hall in Annapolis and is dated November 23, 1939. The text of the above reads “Dear Mr. Wright: We are pleased to inform you that we have placed you on our reviewers’ list.” If there was additional text on the original, Jack cropped it off in order to fit the image into the printed book.

Letter from Columbia Recording Corporation

Digital Edition Note: The above letter from Columbia Recording Corporation is addressed to Mr. D. H. Wright at Bancroft Hall in Annapolis and is undated. The text of the above reads “With reference to your letter of November 20th, we are placing you on our mailing list to receive our record” If there was additional text on the original, Jack cropped it off in order to fit the image into the printed book. Note the mistake in his initials (D. H. rather than J. H.) and most likely the original of the mistaken attribution Jack points out in the below article excerpted from Variety Magazine. The mistaken attribution continues with the letter from Life Magazine further below.

Letter from RCA

Digital Edition Note: The above letter from RCA Manufacturing Company, Inc. is addressed to Midshipman John Wright at Bancroft Hall in Annapolis and is undated. The text of the above reads “We were extremely pleased to hear about your record review articles, and particularly pleased with the copy that you enclosed with your recent letter. As you suggest, we are at once placing you on our mailing list to receive…” If there was additional text on the original, Jack cropped it off in order to fit the image into the printed book.

“J.” H. Wright – “40”; Don’t believe everything you read in Variety

Digital Edition Note: In his caption for image of the Variety article above, Jack points out the mistake in his name (initially seen in the earlier letter from Columbia Recording Corporation) by circling the incorrect initial “D” in the by-line as well as the incorrect class year ‘39. The text of the above article reads:

Variety Wednesday, April 3, 1940

COLLEGE RHYTHM

The first of a series of articles on collegiate likes and dislikes as regards dance music and dance bands.

The writers, staff members of publications at their respective schools, have been asked by Variety to give the opinion of the student body as a whole rather than pass personal judgment. Neither has Variety given further instructions as to what was to be said or how. These articles appear as the undergraduates have written them, with the expressed opinions being their own.

Variety publishes the series to give music men and band leaders-a cross-section of current undergraduate opinion on dance music and bands, with the hope that it will be both informative and instructive. For what the college group has to say about dance music is deemed 'important in the trade.

U.S. NAVAL ACADEMY
By D. H. Wright, ‘39

(Annapolis Log)

Annapolis, April 2.

Rumors on Capitol Hill have it that there is at present before the House Naval Affairs Committee a resolution to change the famous words of the navy's battle song to 'Anchors Aweigh Navy, Truck on Down the Field.' At any rate, a recent canvass of the campus indicates that the navy is definitely 'hep'. We are able to vouch for the following, and any similarity of these opinions to any other opinions is purely coincidental.

Last fall the general consensus was that Guy Lombardo, Shep Fields, et al, were the music masters of the present age. However, an extensive educational program was undertaken and gained such impetus that soon the popular cry was, 'Out of the cornfields by Christmas.' For purposes of simplicity, the navy divides popular orchestras into three categories, namely, 'Off-the-cob,' 'Semi-solid-schmaltz' and 'Hep'.

The outstanding off-the-cob titbit was undoubtedly Orrin Tucker's rendition of 'Oh, Johnny'. The chief fault we can find with this one was that Bonnie Baker sang loudly enough to be heard, but the aggravating 'singing strings' in the last chorus 'crawl-out' cinched this selection.

The semi-solid-schmaltz crown goes to Horace Heidt's Musical Blight. For best results, when-playing records by Horace, we suggest you remove the needle from your pick-up.

The 'hep' honors, were garnered by William Count Basie for his version of the WPA workers' theme song, 'Well All Right! Dig! Dig! Dig!'

Now the above observations are based upon the results of a general poll, as we have said. In effect, they prove one thing—swing is here to sway. Of course, for dances, dance music is the keynote; but for plain listening enjoyment—it's swing. The phono-maniacs are digging Ellington, Basie, Shaw, Goodman, Hawkins, Miller and Harlan Leonard.

Guy Lombardo is out. Brother Carmen sings as though he'd just stepped out of a cold shower, and to the best of our knowledge is the only man who sings while inhaling.

Kay Kyser is a dud. When Kay recently played a theatre date nearby, it was suggested that he contact Sec. Ickes and tell him of the enormous premiums gained from plowing under every other row. Russ Morgan is not for us. His trombone leaves the impression that he plays by alternately blowing and sucking, which is great—for harmonicas.

The Faves

So far we've only told you what we don't like—now we'll-give you the real lowdown. For dancing, Glenn Miller is No. 1. His music is full, rich and harmonious—no tricks there. Glen Gray's another favorite. Bob Chester, Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey, and Jan Savitt also rate dancer band raves.

The best bets in music are well scored tunes that offer a wealth of tone color, and a variety of ideas, all ably executed by a full band, and not one of these 'music-box' setups. This applies to sweet as well as swing.

Perhaps the mention of a few first-raters from where we are sitting is now in order. Lester Young is the favorite sax pumper. Les can be counted upon to dig himself into a torrid tenor groove with a tone so solid you could sit on it. Boxman Basie is another well-felt sender, what with his overpowering pianissimo effects. Tommy Dorsey is okay if you're 'feeling that way.' but when 'on the Jersey side' you can't overlook that master slush-pump pusher, old Jackson 'T'. Krupa is king of the drums—as long as he doesn't get caught in one of his traps—and drumming is not a cymbal task. Vocalists are rare these days, ability being sold short for glamor. However, we all agree that Bing Crosby and Ella Fitzgerald have had a corner on the chirpin' chores for several years now.

The music world’s forgotten men, the arrangers, can also take a bow from our end of the hall. Hats off to Glenn Miller, who has, by virtue of his brilliant orchestrations, banged out more hits than the Yanks amassed in last season's World Series. It's Glenn and his boys, by the way (stand by for station identification) who will be dropping anchor hereabouts during June to play for the Ring Dance.

Letter from Life Magazine

Digital Edition Note: The above letter from Life Magazine is continues to mistakenly refer to Mr. D. H. Wright at the Naval Academy and is dated April 10, 1940. The text of the above reads:

“After reading your piece in the April 3rd issue of Variety we are interested in illustrating the story of College Rhythm. We would like to send a photographer to Annapolis to take pictures of the students at the Academy sitting around informally listening to music. Perhaps some small party might be planned, or possibly we could bring to Annapolis one of the Academy’s favorite (smaller) bands, and take photographs with the band in the background.

We would appreciate it very much if you could obtain the necessary permission for us to send a photographer. Or would you tell to whom we should write for such permission. We would be very glad if you would help us in planning some of the pictures.

Sincerely yours,

Alexander King”

No title is provided under the signature. Mr. King is assumed to be an editor, as the letter indicates that it originated in the Editorial Offices.

I recall that first-class year, like my senior year in high school, was an academic lark. I won my highest mark ever that year, a 3.25 in English from Capt. John B. Heffernan, later C.O. of battleship Tennessee at Okinawa. My contribution to any and all lab exams was to be volunteer data-taker for my smarter classmates. On 2 October FDR invoked a neutrality patrol in the Atlantic. In Annapolis Ab and I smuggled a bass viol out of the NA-10 bandroom under the Dahlgren Hall end of the Bancroft Hall basement, with two plebe musicians in the car trunk. The four of us then whipped across the Severn to the Anchor Inn, there to augment a sharp little black jazz combo for a Sunday afternoon of cool jazz. The party continued. I became a feature writer/record reviewer for our weekly Log. I contacted all the major record companies (there were less than half a dozen) and thereafter got regular free consignments of all new releases. I kicked off a “Music on Campus” series in no less than show-biz’s Variety. Meanwhile, as mentioned earlier, I resumed my baseball career. Life was easy. Life was sweet. I didn’t need any help; that is, I may have been the only first-classman ever to negotiate first-class year without having any assigned plebe “serfs.” I simply never sought any. In fact, it never even occurred to me.

Yet my first-class year was not altogether a free ride. As usual, I had my problems. At the end of the first semester I found myself unsat again – this time in “grease,” that is, “aptitude for the service.” this meant that although I might well meet all physical and academic requirements, I still might fail to receive a commission upon graduation for the simple reason that the pooh-bahs found me unsuitable officer material. My translation of this would be that I wasn’t found acceptable because I refused to “kiss ass.” I wasn’t a so-called brown-nose. I wouldn’t, as some nameless sage has neatly expressed it “eat shit.” Any first-classman unsat in grease was thereafter exclusively assigned to stand all his watches (which were 24-hour stints that occurred about every 3 or 4 weeks) in the Main Office of Bancroft Hall. There I would be under the immediate eye and supervision of the commissioned officer of the watch. Thenceforth my “grease” marks would be assigned by a genuine naval officer rather than by one of my midshipman peers who was a “striper.”

Well, I thought this was great. The first-class midshipman Main Office Officer of the Watch billet afforded just about as much responsibility and power as any midshipman in the regiment could garner. Certainly it provided the only opportunity I ever had at Annapolis to really be in charge of anything. (I never so much as led a squad otherwise.) Among other things, I took all incoming calls to Bancroft Hall and decided upon appropriate action. (Not infrequently the operator would have to cut in on my elongated chats with Kathleen, who could then dial me direct!) I also received all incoming telegrams. As often as not such contacts involved serious crises. I soon learned that telegrams bearing serious bad news contained a star in the address, and those advising of a death contained two stars. (I noticed many years later that the telegram advising of George’s accident contained no such indicator. The thing that surprised me more was that, even after all the intervening years, that was the first thing I looked for upon receiving it.)

Hell Cats

A snare, a delusion, and a dream

But, to make a long story longer, let me just say that I ended up gaining a commendation for innovations. The improvements I proposed in Main Office procedures won me the best “grease” marks of my entire Naval Academy career. The officer who commended me was Cdr Jerauld Wright, who accompanied FDR to his meeting with Churchill and DeGaulle in Casablanca, and later was Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet. He and I hit it off great (and I don’t know how much – if any – of this was due to the commonality of our surnames), and he made no effort to disguise the fact that he was quite impressed with the extra dimension of innovation that I had brought to running the Main Office. The question at issue – my suitability for service – was a valid one. I not only was not gregarious, I was exceedingly shy (as evidenced even by the total absence of any inclination to follow up the Melinda incident.) I had no close friend beyond my immediate roommate, and was definitely not a joiner. This predisposition was enhanced to some degree, I’m sure, by the complete fulfillment Kathleen and I experienced in merely just being alone together. But my estrangement from the flow of Academy life went even deeper than that. I never really felt that I was a part of it all. I have never returned for a “homecoming.” Again perhaps Pat Conroy has said it best:

I only knew that I didn’t see things exactly as my classmates did. Something was different about me, and I suffered because of that difference. Not many of my classmates will agree with many of my observations or conclusions about the system. They will say I was embittered, and I was. They will say that I did not belong there, and they will be right.

I would add one further thought. The essence of the military system is the molding of people as “interchangeable parts.” My essence consisted in a craving to realize more fully my own uniqueness. I would sense this when I would experience a breath of freedom during leaves at home. (This had nothing to do with being home, since I spent all possible time with Kathleen, but it had everything to do with being out of Bancroft Hall.) I even experienced it when I passed the mixed crowd of happy collegians on the campuses at Princeton, Yale, and Harvard when we marched to and from football games. They were so evidently tasting life, and we were so obviously artificially suppressed. They were individuals, while we were replaceable cogs. In so many respects, the Academy was a virtual seminary. Some aspects of the operation were absurd, much of it was demeaning, and all of it was restrictive. Still, my difficulties with the system had even more dimensions. For example, there was the obvious “good-old-boy network” that passed down the plums, and you had to be either an outstanding scholar, even a mediocre football player, a supreme ass-kisser, a red-necked southerner or simply a neutral “Midwesterner.”

LAST P-rade – June 1940

LAST formation – June 1940, 3rd Battalion Terrace

One of the most depressing things about General of the Army Omar Bradley’s A General’s Life is that his memoirs testify to this cliquishness again and again. Worse yet, he is totally oblivious to this, and obviously believes he is doing credit to himself, even as he engenders rising disgust – at least in this reader. This elite cadre not only thinks that everybody outside the cadre is a jerk, they each individually think that they are the only one in the cadre that is not a jerk! This becomes horrendously evident as one reads of the GI tragedies these egomaniacs perpetrated in pursuit of personal headlines during WWII. And they almost uniformly lacked genuine guts, as in forever remanding subordinates under the cop-out of “without prejudice.” A dead giveaway of this megalomania of our military leaders is, for instance, that Bradley never introduces a character into his memoirs without immediately appending his class number and standing, and more often than not, his athletic affiliation. General Matthew Ridgeway and Admiral Raymond Spruance seem to be outstanding exceptions. Of Ridgeway, no less than Bradley himself has said, “His brilliant, driving, uncompromising leadership would turn the tide of battle like no other general in our military history.” Of Spruance, naval historian Samuel Eliot Morison remarks, “When it comes to the Admirals who commanded at sea, and who decided a great battle, there was no one to equal Spruance.”

Well, all the foregoing, to my mind, would seem to preclude the possibility of developing real leaders. JC said it best, to the effect that a true leader becomes in reality a servant of those led. Such a thought would be entirely alien to our military chieftains. They weren’t prone to take the point, stick their necks out, or make waves. Rather, the moistened finger was ever raised aloft, testing the winds, and any and all failures were perfunctorily dismissed via the first available scapegoats. This, I strongly feel, was an inevitable by-product of the system. Initiative was routinely stifled even as rigidity and caution were lauded (via example more so than speech) as the ultimate virtue. This would be an unnecessary and severely handicapping outlook in many lines of endeavor, but it is, it seems to me, particularly dangerous in the military realm. Newsman Harrison Salisbury’s observation is relevant: “I am wary of precise rules. Precision puts human conduct into a straitjacket. We are a disorderly species. Clean-cut cases are rare, and unless we recognize that there must be exceptions (e.g., I add: Rickover) we bind ourselves to rigidity and nonsense.” Exactly! But once again we shall leave the last word to Pat Conroy:

We didn’t receive a college education at the (Academy), we received an indoctrination, and all our courses were designed to make us malleable, unimaginative, uninquisitive citizens of the republic, impregnable to ideas or thought unsanctioned by authority. We learned to be safe. The (Academy) was making us stupid; irretrievably, tragically, and infinitely stupid.

Washington Post graduation announcement, 1940

Digital Edition Note: The text of the above announcement reads: “JOHN HERBERT WRIGHT, son of Mr. and Mrs. H. F. Wright, of 4315 Thirteenth Street Northeast; he attended St. Anthony's. High School and Columbian Preparatory School; received numerals in battalion baseball; was a member of the reception committee and was a feature writer and contributor to the Log”

Times Herald article about USNA graduation, Class of 1940

Digital Edition Note: The text of the above article reads:

T I M E S – H E R A L D

Be Ready, Edison Tells Middies At Graduation

456 Get Diplomas;
396 Commissioned As Naval Ensigns
Special to the Times-Herald

ANNAPOLIS, Md., June 6. With national preparedness as his keynote, Navy Secretary Charles Edison sounded an ominous warning on this day of days for 456 graduating midshipmen in his address at the eighty-third annual exercises of the United States Naval Academy.

Edison told the graduates:

"At few times in our nation's history has the attention of the American people been more focused on a Naval Academy graduating class and their brothers in the service than today. The unhappy series of events of this year belatedly has awakened our citizens to keen and active interest in our nation's defense.

"Fleet Must, Be Ready"

"We are determined, if needed, our first line of defense will not fail. In the words of our Commander-in-Chief, the President, “The fleet must be ready.”

"Like the fleet, each of you must be ready. I am confident that you will. The nation trusts that you will."

But the blanket of gravity, which covered the graduation exercises, gave way to the happy enthusiasm of the traditional hat-tossing ceremony after the coveted diplomas were awarded at the ceremonies in Thompson Stadium.

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

John Crocker Rait, Harold Woodall Biesemeir, William Whiteley Bush jr., James Charles Longino jr., Marshall Eugene Draby jr., John Herbert Wright, Lawrence Francis Fox, Royal Knight Joslin. Richard Lull Cochrane, Norbert Frankenberger, Hugh Blanchard Vickery, Leigh Cosart Winters, Michael Joseph Hanley jr., Miles Augustus Libbey, John Douglas Seal.

With paternal grandparents

Little wonder, then, that it was with some considerable pride that I found myself perhaps “not suited” to this cadre of military elite. So, do I then regret my years at USNA? Not at all. I’m saddened that I couldn’t have made more of them personally – even as I’m satisfied that I was probably stretched to the limits of my admittedly meager talents. I’m saddened, too, that my initial idealism about the “establishment” emerged so tarnished, but denying this unhappy outcome would serve no good purpose. There were good aspects to it all. Not the least of these were that in a post-Depression era I was paid (the handsome sum of $125/month) for in effect going to college. An even greater practical benefit was that I was better prepared than most of my peers for participation in the gigantic world war that almost immediately followed my graduation. Also, I would have a “position,” and one that carried with it a certain degree of inherent prestige. More than anything, I looked forward enthusiastically to the freedom from ritual for ritual’s sake that was part and parcel of the Academy system.

At Mt Vernon, post-USNA

Jack’s Children at Mt Vernon in 2015

Digital Editor Note: The above picture of the siblings at Mt. Vernon was NOT a part of Jack’s original book, but was included here at the discretion of the digital editors.

So I graduated on 6 June 1940, three days following the exodus that was Dunkirk. The “phony war” had come to an end and Germany had now overrun Belgium and Holland even as Churchill was replacing Chamberlain in England. The Secretary of the Navy told us that we were “ready.” At the University of Virginia, FDR was telling the country that it had best be ready. Ours was the 94th class to depart Severn’s shores. Out of a class of 456, I was 439 – 17th from the bottom. That may sound bad until you realize that, of our original 736 plebes, only 396 survived to be commissioned as Ensigns – an astounding attrition rate of 46%, exactly double that of 1983! (The apparent discrepancy between 456 and 396 is accounted for by many things. For example: one was released to study for the priesthood; 32 were not commissioned for “physical reasons”; and 25 were not commissioned Ensigns for “mental reasons” – that is, they opted for the Marine Corps.) And, ready or not, our class suffered both more numerical (49) and greater percentile (10.7%) combat losses in WWII than any other Naval Academy class.

Speaking of losses, both of my father’s parents were lost during my Naval Academy tour. My grandmother died at the beginning of plebe year (Sep 37), and my grandfather died toward the end of first class year (Jan 40). I was granted special leave for both funerals due to my father’s persuasive requests. I remember sitting up alone all night with my father at my grandfather’s wake. I still recall Pop turning to me solemnly during the middle of the night after surveying Grandpa’s remains for an extended period and saying, “Now, he knows!” And I remember thinking “Pop, don’t you know?”

So graduation came and went. I now had an education which 1983 estimates place at being worth $100,000, and not only had I been paid while getting it, I now had a firm job offer! And good fortune didn’t stop there. Now there would be no more freezing in the stands at Army-Navy football games in seemingly always snowy Philadelphia. I wouldn’t miss the long after-game walks into downtown Philadelphia (neither adequate nearby parking nor public transportation were available), there to stand in line at overflowing restaurants. No more quiet but fleeting moments with Kathleen on the loveseat under the stairs at the Feldmeyer sisters’ boarding house following Academy hops. No more grilled cheese sandwiches with chocolate sundaes at the Greasy Spoon. No long rides following games back to Annapolis in antique RR coaches filled with smoke and puking midshipmen unused to drinking. No more dreaded returns following exhilarating Christmas leaves to the dreary, barren halls of Bancroft Hall. No more rushing in response to formation bells. Now I was off to join the fleet.

With Pop, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With parents, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With Mom, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With Kathleen – ENSIGN Wright, USN

With Kathleen and Mom – ENSIGN Wright, USN

ENSIGN Wright, USN

My orders bore the signature of Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz – another of the few exceptional officers in my view. Morison says he “inspired more personal loyalty than did any other admiral in the navy.” The orders were to report to the heavy cruiser USS Tuscaloosa, my first choice. I gained this plum despite low class standing since most of my more ambitious classmates opted for the subsequently sitting-duck battleships in Pearl Harbor. Tuscaloosa was then undergoing overhaul at Navy Yard, New York, and I was to report aboard on 26 June 1940. (I was reimbursed the magnificent sum of $17.20 for 215 miles travel from Annapolis to New York City at 8 cents a mile.) Unfortunately, no one had alerted me to the protocol fact that to report 26 June meant to report before 0800 morning “quarters” was sounded aboard Tuscaloosa on 26 June. Hence I was greeted at the gangway about 1630 that afternoon by an obviously disgusted O.O.D. who told me that the executive officer wanted to see me the minute I reported aboard. Virtually the first words of greeting from the masters of my new home, therefore, turned out to be a devastating dressing-down for nonprofessionalism and stupidity. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot!

It seems I had missed an entire day of special indoctrination lectures and drills. My fellow classmates, who had reported the night before, were delirious with laughter. Way to go, Jack! I don’t know how it was that I’d failed to get the word about reporting. It was remindful of the Prince of Wales’ confession that the very best advice he’d ever gotten was from an old footman who warned, “never pass up an opportunity to go to the head or to sit down.” In a similar vein, the only memorable advice I could recall from Naval Academy days was from a French teacher, Lt. LaForce, who would begin each class with “Gentlemen, I don’t know now much French you’ll learn today, but learn this vital maxim now, once and for all – never pass up an opportunity to take as much leave as you have coming whenever you can.” Well, I was ready for some leave (sick leave!) already! Unfortunately Lt. LaForce had neglected to discuss reporting protocol.

As if things weren’t already bad enough, I was then told I’d been assigned to the engineering officer, and that I should report to him. I couldn’t have been received more coldly if I’d been wearing a leper’s bell. My boss was LCdr. William Franklin Slavin, and he made no bones about the fact that he wasn’t overjoyed to have me assigned to him. He dispassionately declaimed how he and the other heads of department had tossed liar’s dice for the order of selection and that he’d been the big loser. I was feeling more terrific by the minute. I didn’t know it then, but this was the most providential stroke of good fortune possible with respect to my total professional career. First of all, although it would have been my last choice, engineering thereupon became my life’s work. This presented a freaky parallel with my father’s career development – I virtually fell into engineering, and thence computers, even as he had just sort of toppled into the field of international law and political science.

Another happy aspect of this chance assignment was the character of Cdr. Slavin. He was an exceptional engineer and an outstanding gentleman – an all-around true professional. His very first move was to hand me a small book which included the motto heading this chapter: Elbert Hubbard’s A Message to Garcia. It was an 1899 account of the dogged determination of a Lt. Andrew Rowan in surmounting incredible hardships as he successfully persisted in delivering an allegedly important message. “Sealed in an oilskin pouch which he carried over his heart,” Rowan bore the message from our government in Washington to a rebel General in the heart of the Cuban jungle, on the eve of the Spanish-American War. This essay on duty, courage, and fortitude was a sensation, and has to date sold at least 80 million copies, which have been printed in 20 languages. Rowan did exist, and did search out General Calixto Garcia in Cuba, but the alleged letter in fact never existed. Rowan’s assignment was to secure data on troop strength, arms, and even sanitary conditions, all of which he did. He once joked to a woman at a party years later that the alleged letter was merely an invitation from President McKinley to an old-fashioned New England dinner at the White House. Such is the grist of legends!

Cdr. Slavin merely told me to go to my room and read the book and that he didn’t want to even see me again until I had fully digested it. Nothing could have better prepared me for succeeding in the Navy than this little gem of an unabashed exhortation to persevere in fulfillment of duty. Matthew Ridgeway echoed the same basic principle when he confessed that early on he learned “the lessons that every young officer (has) to learn to take any job that (is) handed to him, whether he (knows) anything about it or not.” The accent is on confidence, resourcefulness, and persistence, which are basic prerequisites for anyone who would be a leader. In consequence of this written sermonette, I didn’t question my next and first practical assignment: “Wright, I want you to go into that Navy yard and not return aboard until you’ve completed arrangements to get #3 Main feed pump overhauled without benefit of any work order or funds allotment. Understood?” “Aye, aye, Sir!” (We got the free overhaul.)

The period of June to December 1940 was another one of those times (like during the Depression) when my personal fortunes were 180 degrees out of phase with world conditions. The Dunkirk debacle-miracle (338,000 men escaped to freedom!) occurred on 5 June, Hitler took Paris on 14 June, and France fell on 22 June. (Hitler had thus accomplished in a mere month what the Kaiser could not in four years.) Such were the world happenings even as I reported aboard Tuscaloosa (following a most pleasant 18-day graduation leave) on 26 June, almost coincidentally with FDR’s 14 June signing of a “Two-Ocean Navy” bill. Meanwhile, although I worked very hard aboard ship learning my new job, a sort of holiday atmosphere continued aboard Tuscaloosa. This ship had a top-to-bottom esprit I was never to encounter again. Little wonder that several of the senior officers went on to become Vice Admirals, one (a mere Lt. then, in charge of deck watch officers) going on to become the right-hand-man of later CNO Forrest Sherman.

These folks were genuine professionals in all the best senses of the word, and their very demeanor communicated a desire to excel. Yet the spirit was at the same time happy and relaxed, and friendly rather than competitive. (We even had a band embarked, who delighted one and all by rendering “Empty Saddles in the Old Corral” or “Back in the Saddle Again” according to whether we were leaving or entering port.) Between gunnery exercises and other drills we spent many pleasant afternoons playing softball at Guantanamo Bay (with a can of warm Hatuey Cuban beer awaiting the base-runner at every base), then swimming in brilliant but crystal-clear blue water off the pier at the O-Club, followed by gin and tonics accompanied by sardines and lemon juice on crackers. Then back to the ship for “seven boy curry” served on silver service and immaculate white linen, followed by a new movie on the well deck, and “all night in and beans for breakfast.”

This, then, is the account of my venturing from a secluded home into the worldwide theater afforded by service in the U.S. Navy. It was a frantic, busy time, a time for growing up “on the double.” So busy, in fact, that little mention has been made of home or love. To take up that latter first, in the brief weekend flings we enjoyed over my four years at the Naval Academy, and apart from the momentary digression accorded by Melinda, Kathleen and I grew ever closer together. We corresponded in depth not only regularly but frequently. All was well there. As for home, the family too paid frequent visits to the Naval Academy, especially during plebe year. That was about it, though, except for my mother. Whereas I received perhaps only two letters from my father in my life, and none from my brother or sister, my mother wrote faithfully throughout the course of my entire 12 years in the service. This is a matter of some moment, since these letters revealed more of my mother to me than any face-to-face conversation ever did. (This is, perhaps, why I favor letters over personal talks until this very day when something serious is on my mind.) I regret that neither my brother nor my sister (except for very late in life) ever shared this medium for growth in understanding of our mother.

So, summer passed into the fall of 1940. The Battle of Britain began on 8 August and exploded into the blitz extending from 7 September to 31 October. Meanwhile Japan had joined with Axis forces on 27 September, so the threat to our American sanctuary was ever widening. So it was that Selective Service was initiated on 16 September, and some 16 million American youths between years 18 and 25 were to receive firm job offers from Uncle Sam before the month of November ended. The wisdom of my selection of the Naval Academy already stood well confirmed. While my civilian peers were now scurrying into military garb, I was already comfortably ensconced in a heavy cruiser of the U.S. Navy, complete with 14" armor and nine 8" guns. It was against this background that I received my very first “Report of the Fitness of Officers.” My profile ran thus: “Ensign Wright is a quiet, unassuming young officer, conscientious in his performance of duty, and willing and quick to learn. With more experience he should round out into an excellent officer.” At least my at-first-reluctant immediate boss had now become a convert, but the highlight of my Tuscaloosa tour lay immediately ahead.

VIII. NEIGHBOR

Everyone shall help his neighbor, and shall say to his brothers: be of good courage!  – Isaiah 41:6c

Shortly before two o’clock in the afternoon of 3 Dec 1940, the huge crowd assembled on Miami’s Municipal Pier 3 let go with a loud and sustained roar as a caravan of automobiles stopped abreast of the warship docked alongside. A familiar male figure was soon seen “swinging aboard” (literally, though they couldn’t see through the canvas-shrouded sides of the gangplank that obscured heavily-braced legs which scarcely touched the deck) via the uncommonly close-together handrails of the forward starboard gangplank hand-over-hand. He was in civilian garb, with a somewhat crushed fedora perched jauntily on the back of his head, and his pale face frozen in a broad, infectious grin. He paused briefly to salute the colors and the Officer of the Deck as he reached the quarterdeck, and immediately the flag of the President of the United States was smartly broken from the maintruck. The Commander in Chief, Franklin D. Roosevelt, was now embarked on the heavy cruiser USS Tuscaloosa.

The President stood at the deck-edge rail, waving cheerfully to the throng on the dock as the ship got underway at once and sped out through the harbor of Biscayne Bay. As the crowd on the pier gradually merged into the indistinguishable shoreline, the President turned to proceed to his quarters. Free of public view at last, he visibly shed his alert military posture and lapsed into an obviously spent and weary human being. Clearly, the man was tired, and I bet that every officer and man aligned in his honor on the quarterdeck breathed the same silent benediction: “You’re alone with friends now, Mr. President, you just relax and we’ll do all we can to help you recharge your batteries.” The crew in Tuscaloosa, after all, was practically his “family,” this being the president’s third sojourn aboard within the past eighteen months. In Aug 1939 Tuscaloosa carried him to Campobello Island, Nova Scotia, where he watched salvage operations then underway on the ill-fated submarine Squalus. More recently, in Feb 1940, Tuscaloosa transported the Commander in Chief from Pensacola via the Panama Canal to Baya Honda, Costa Rica, Cocas Island, and the Isles of Seca.

But now it Dec 1940, and things had changed mightily. France had fallen to Hitler in June, even as I joined the ship's company. The Dunkirk redeployment (to use Reagan-speak) had come and gone, the blockade of Britain began on the seventeenth of August. The Battle of Britain – “their finest hour” – carried from 7 Sep through the end of October. Nevertheless Great Britain was still threatened by the imminent invasion of a Nazi war machine which had already conquered most of Western Europe, and Japan was increasingly menacing In the Far East, probing further and further into China. The Chairman of the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee had gone so far as to say, “I call upon the British Government to abandon the British Isles.” In his own memoirs, Churchill himself titles his history of the period from Jul 1940 to Jan 1941 simply – “ALONE.”

Gallup polls in late 1940, while confirming that a majority of Americans conceded that the British were fighting for American interests, indicated that something less than 13 percent were for the United States going to war With Germany. FDR tried to dispel the evident apathy by proclaiming, “Never before since Jamestown and Plymouth Rock has our American civilization been in such danger.” Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau labeled this apathy “the blue fog here in Washington, that Britain is licked!” Seemingly, things were tough all over, and this is the apparent backdrop against which the president appeared to be embarking upon a holiday. (It was all so remindful of Kaiser Wilhelm's idyllic 20-day cruise even as the time-bomb that was to become WWI relentlessly ticked toward detonation. This was the period of 6–26 Jul 1914, which bridged the incident at Sarajevo and Great Britain’s actual entry into WWI on 4 Aug. Little wonder that military historian S.L.A. Marshall opines that this relaxing little sojourn at sea might better be labeled “one of the greatest marine disasters” of all time!)

Criticism was quick in coming, despite the fact that, on top of everything else, the president had just won re-election to an unprecedented third term after an extremely bitter and exceedingly exhausting campaign. So he needed a rest, but, after all, Great Britain was in the lines – alone – the last bastion between American complacency and Hitler’s expanding madness. What, indeed, was the Commander in Chief of our armed forces to do at this critical juncture? The press had badgered him prior to departure as to where he was going. The president parried questions with characteristically good-humored changes of the subject: “I wish I knew – maybe to Christmas Island to buy Christmas cards, maybe to Easter Island to buy Easter eggs.” And the make-up of the small party of accompanying associates didn’t provide any clues, either. This group included General “Pa” Watson, the president’s secretary and military aide; Admiral Ross McIntire, the president’s personal physician; Captain Dan Callaghan, his naval aide; one special friend and guest, Harry Hopkins. He was also accompanied, of course, by a communications specialist, Chief Pharmacist, Chief Boatswain’s Mate, and Chief Yeoman, and his newly acquired Scottie, “Fala.” The world might be going to hell, but the president’s presence aboard my ship assured me of a ring-side seat.

Actually we knew the Commander in Chief was headed our way long before the American people or even the ever-probing press. Taking aboard such an august guest requires a lot of advance preparation, all the more so in view of the president’s polio-crippled legs. All through the summer and fall of 1940 Tuscaloosa had been engaged in combination V-7 training cruises and on Neutrality Patrol (designed to forestall military operation within 300 miles of the Atlantic coast) in the Bermuda-Caribbean area. The V-7 program was the Navy version of accelerated ROTC programs, and I must state straightaway that these so-called “90-day wonders” were precisely that (wonders!), and soon, to my mind at least, made the real regimentation and specialization of the Naval Academy seem virtually superfluous. These guys were generally excellent officers.

In any event, Tuscaloosa was suddenly but quietly recalled to Norfolk, Virginia, Naval Operating Base. It soon became apparent we were being fitted out for another presidential cruise. There is just no way you can disguise the president’s “barge,” which provides his luxury-equipped personal ship-to-shore transportation whenever the vessel is “anchored out” rather than secured to a dock. Neither can you camouflage the numerous carefully fitted plywood wedges used to bridge the lower coamings of the watertight doors to ease the passage of the president’s wheelchair. (I’ll never forget how heartened and edified I was in these perilous times, just to hear presidential guest Harry Hopkins loudly invoke the second person of the Holy Trinity as his head unexpectedly intersected the upper coaming while traversing one of these bridges – rather than being able to merely step over the lower coming – as he proceeded to a Wardroom bridge game one evening.)

Newspaper article about FDR voyage aboard USS Tuscaloosa, Dec 1940

Digital Edition Note: Portions of the article were highlighted in Jack’s personal copy of the book The text reads:

FDR to Inspect New Caribbean Bases During Cruise

Party Is on Way to Miami to Board Cruiser Tuscaloosa

By the Associated Press.

ABOARD ROOSEVELT TRAIN EN-ROUTE TO MIAMI, Fla., Dec. 3. —President Roosevelt rode down the Atlantic seaboard toward Miami today to sail into the Caribbean in search of rest, fish and information on defenses vital to the protection of the Panama Canal and segments of the North and South American coasts.

The cruiser Tuscaloosa waited at Miami with two destroyers to take him on a trip whose details still were an official secret.

There was little expectation that the President would make a systematic checkup on all the South Atlantic and Caribbean sites for naval and air bases acquired from Great Britain. But it was understood he might inspect some of them. And there was a possibility he might turn up for maneuvers of units of the Atlantic patrol force near Puerto Rico next week.

Speculation of the first site which the Chief Executive might look over centered on Jamaica, where a fleet anchorage is to be established at Portland Bight. An area on the bight and on Portland Island has been set aside for defense batteries.

Landing Field to be Provided.

Under an agreement with Britian by which the United States traded 30 old destroyers for leases on strategic defense spots in British territory in the New World, facilities also will be provided in Jamaica for an emergency landing field for planes, and for recreational and hospital purposes.

While there has been nothing more than rumors that war vessels of European belligerents have been operating in the Caribbean and South Atlantic, special precautions were ordered.

Gun crews on the Tuscaloosa and the destroyers will maintain a con…

(Obscured)

Identical measures were instituted last February when Mr. Roosevelt sailed to Panama and into the Pacific in a similar trip combining business and recreation,

Ample Time for Relaxation

In spite of its defense aspects, the current cruise will give the Chief Executive ample time for relaxation and a chance to get in trim for a winter in which problems centering around aid to Britain and American policy in relation to wars abroad are certain to rise again in Congress.

The President was taking with him only a few White House officials and fishing cronies, including Harry Hopkins, former Secretary of Commerce.

His immediate party also included a 'secretary and military aide, Maj. Gen. E. M. Watson; Rear Admiral Ross T. McIntire, Navy surgeon general and White House physician, and Capt. Daniel J. Callaghan, presidential naval aide.

On a 25-hour run to Miami, Mr. Roosevelt broke the rule he set last summer getting no farther than a 12-hour train trip from Washington. He established the restriction on grounds world conditions were so critical he did not feel safe in getting too far from the Capital.

But he told a press conference Friday he might toss another precedent aside and use an airplane to return to Washington within his 12-hour limit should any emergency require him to become the first president to fly.

The Tuscaloosa carries planes on catapults. Furthermore, Mr. Roosevelt can keep in constant touch with Washington by naval radio.

Magazine article about FDR voyage aboard USS Tuscaloosa, Dec 1940

Digital Edition Note: Portions of the article were highlighted in Jack’s personal copy of the book The text reads:

FDR

At 1:25 p.m. on Dec. 3 President Roosevelt was piped over the side of the cruiser Tuscaloosa docked in Miami harbor. A half hour later, escorted by two destroyers, the Tuscaloosa edged away from her pier and headed out to sea, while a shore battery blazed a 21-gun salute. To thousands who cheered him from the quay, the President waved a contented au revoir. By his side on deck stood members of his official party. You see them opposite, left to right: Capt. Daniel J. Callaghan, the President’s naval aide; Secret Serviceman Jim Berry; Secret Serviceman Jim Rowley; Rear Admiral Ross T. McIntire, the President's physician; Harry Hopkins, the President's closest personal friend and adviser; the President; Major General Edwin M. Watson, the President's secretary; and Bodyguard Tommy Qualters.

Though Mr. Roosevelt made something of a mystery of his itinerary by telling reporters he was heading for Christmas Island to buy Christmas cards and Easter Island to hunt Easter eggs, reporters well knew his No. 1 goal was the open sunlit sea. He had missed his annual Thanksgiving trip to Warm Springs. He had made little news but enjoyed little rest since the election. Congress was drifting leaderless, November's achievements in defense and aid to Britain being far from spectacular. The President was tired and, for him, curiously inert. Best indication that he wanted to forget the Battle of Britain for a fortnight was the presence in his party of Harry Hopkins, who generally has little to say about foreign affairs. Also along was Falla (left), a silent and undemanding companion who in recent months has never been long from the President's side.

On Dec. 4 the Tuscaloosa cruised slowly along the coast of Cuba. It stopped briefly at the U. S. naval base at Guantanamo, then pushed south. On the 5th it reached Jamaica and the first belligerent waters touched by the President since the war began. Before his return Mr. Roosevelt planned to inspect a few of the bases leased from Britain under the destroyer deal of Sept. 8, perhaps to witness U. S. naval exercises off the island of Culebra-

There was even a small elevator to facilitate the president’s access to the communications deck (which was awninged and sort of served him as a “front porch”). There were also many special security and communications features which had to be installed and carefully and fully tested. It just wouldn’t look very good on the fitness report of anyone whose gear failed in the service of the president. Finally, and this is perhaps the ultimate tip-off as to the VIP quotient of our coming guest, Tuscaloosa was issued a full complement of a dozen brand-new, first-run motion pictures – this at a time when any ship was lucky to get even one good “B” movie – which always seemed to feature Ann Miller tapping her way from horizon to horizon.

I had then been aboard for a grand total of 160 days, was a junior Engineering Watch Officer, and served as the “A” Division Officer. As it turned out, the latter position was the engineering billet which afforded the most frequent intimate glimpses of the presidential party. There are four shipboard engineering divisions: “A” – for auxiliaries (which included such things as the refrigeration plant for perishable stores, the ship’s steering gear, the various repair shops, the evaporators for providing the ship’s fresh water, and all the ship’s small ship-to-shore boats); “B” – for boilers, the oil-burning sources of all shipboard power, “M” – for the main propulsion machinery; and “E” – for all the electrical apparatus aboard. It was due to my “A” Division responsibility that early one morning, attired in dungarees and a sweat shirt, I was the proud coxswain of the president’s barge in Hampton Roads, Virginia. There I was with Chief Machinist’s Mate Gregory (who knew more about small diesel-driven boats than any man I ever met), shaking the barge down in the most thorough test imaginable. (My first command at sea, and only 22 years old!) I only wish someone could have snapped a picture of me at the wheel. I must have been wearing an ear-to-ear grin that would have made Eisenhower look like a grouch. But, so far as I can recall, this was to be the one and only time the barge was to be swung out and lowered to the water. The president never used it. But back to our story.…

After clearing the harbor at Miami, the two escort destroyers, Mayrant and Trippe, took anti-submarine screening positions off the starboard and port bows, and course was set for Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, via the Old Bahama Channel at a speed of 27.5 knots. We held course and speed through a smooth sea all through the night and the fourth of December dawned sunny and clear. During the forenoon two navy patrol planes, a part of the Neutrality Patrol forces operating from the Guantanamo Naval Base, zoomed low over our three ships to establish our identity. I was readying myself for the afternoon (1200 to 1600) watch as junior Engineering Watch Officer. I was still under instruction at this time, being subject to a fully qualified Engineering Watch Officer. The latter were mainly seasoned Warrant Officers, up from below ranks, and like most blacks today, they had to be better than almost everybody else just to get their warrants. Mine, Chief Warrants Schumacher and Young, were the best.

You didn’t just “stand” watch with these guys, they had you tracing out every pipe and cable that transited the engine room, and constantly prodded you into fine-tuning throttles, temperatures, pressures, and fuel oil sprayer plates to achieve maximum possible efficiency. But there was never any question but that the “sack” was mine. They merely stood by in the event of foul-ups to give advice after action was completed. But even beyond fouling-up, as I say, the emphasis was, in automobile parlance, to get more miles to the gallon than any other Watch Officer. This was still nominally peacetime, and attaining an imaginary “E” for engineering excellence was still an all-hands’ rate, the end of every engineering officer’s rainbow, despite termination of formal competition. We were doing well, too. My fitness report for the quarter immediately preceding the presidential cruise includes the following notation: “This vessel recently successfully made a Full Power Run and has consistently steamed in a most efficient manner for which he [namely, your author] is accorded his share of the credit.”

So, it was with great anticipation that I slid down the accommodation ladder handrails shortly after launch to demonstrate my superb engineering proficiency for no less than our Commander in Chief. It was an exhilarating moment, but only a moment. Imagine my chagrin upon beholding the following note attached to the log as I relieved the watch:

FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE AFTERNOON ENGINEERING WATCH OFFICER – During the afternoon a presidential party will be fishing from the fantail. You will personally maintain direct communication with his party via 1JV (telephone) maneuvering circuit (which will also be monitored by the Officer of the Deck), and you will MANEUVER THE MAIN ENGINES IN RESPONSE TO THE PRESIDENT IN THE EVENT HE GETS A STRIKE!
–s/ F.M. Slavin, Engineering Officer.

I couldn’t believe it! I was first dismayed and then outraged. Imagine! Here we had a 10,000-ton heavy cruiser, around 600 feet long, and – well, we were serving as a 120,000-horsepower fishing platform! It crossed my mind that Drew Pearson, the sensationalist whistle-blowing columnist predecessor of today’s Jack Anderson, could really have a field day with this little item: “President cavorts on fishing holiday in vitally needed warship as Hitler’s warships harass bankrupt Britain’s coastal defenses!”

In any event, at 1315 speed was reduced to six knots as we steamed along the south coast of Cuba, 500 yards from shore and inside the 15-fathom curve, as President Roosevelt, Admiral McIntire, General Watson, and Captain Callaghan trolled from the stern. (This was the same Callaghan who was to die in the U.S.S. San Francisco on 12 Nov 1942 in the naval battle of Guadalcanal. His courageous sacrifice there saved Henderson Field, from which our airplanes sank 11 troop-laden transports the next day. This battle marked the transition of American efforts from defense to offense. FDR remarked that the turning point had at least been reached. Churchill labeled it “the end of the beginning.”) The only fish caught all afternoon was a 4-pound barracuda by Admiral McIntire, but it was hailed as probably the first fish caught off a vessel as large as the Tuscaloosa underway, suggesting that big moving ships don’t frighten fish. But the whole episode disheartened at me. I recalled the earlier byplay with the press as to whether the trip was a working trip or a vacation. At this point the answer seemed crystal clear – Nero was fiddling again. I didn’t give the matter any further thought, however, until some 15 or 20 years later.

Route of USS Tuscaloosa during 3-14 Dec 1940 with FDR

Digital Edition Note: On many devices, it may be hard to make out details in a small image. The route departs from Miami on December 3, sails south-east around Cuba, jogs west to Jamaica, then continues east to St. Lucia on December 8, and returns north-west to Charleston on December 13.

Admiral-Ambassador Leahy on Tuscaloosa, 22 Dec 1940

Digital Edition Note: The text of the article reads:

Leahy Sails With F.D. Note

Off for Vichy Post With Letter to Petain

NORFOLK, Va, Dec, 23. (U.P.). Admiral William D. Leahy, former chief of naval operations, sailed aboard the U.S.S. cruiser Tuscaloosa today to assume his new duties as U.S. ambassador to the French government of Marshal Pétain.

Leahy, accompanied by his wife, boarded the Tuscaloosa at the naval base here after an overnight boat trip from Washington.

The Tuscaloosa, which President Roosevelt used for his recent Caribbean Cruise, lifted anchor for Lisbon, Portugal at 10 a.m. Leahy will travel by train from Lisbon to Vichy, France.

The new ambassador, who carried with him a personal letter from President Roosevelt to Pétain, was met at Norfolk by officers from the Tuscaloosa and escorted to the naval base 10 miles away. His luggage, six trunks and a dozen suitcases, followed by Navy truck.

The letter from President Roosevelt to Pétain described Leahy as a very old friend of the President and said Mr. Roosevelt hoped he would be highly acceptable as the country's representative to France. It added that the President felt sure the admiral and the marshall would speak the same language.”

Our eldest daughter, Anne, was then about 12 years old, when she similarly became quite outraged (as did a large part of the American Press) when President Eisenhower held a rather important press conference over the Pro Shop at Augusta National Golf Club. “Hideous” is the word I recall that she used to describe the incident. This prompted me to think back to this 4 Dec 1940 fishing expedition, and I wrote a story about it that merited at least a personal (rather than pre-printed) rejection from the “First Person Award” editor of Reader’s Digest. It recounted memories of president Hoover in hip boots casting at Rapidan, Harry Truman’s poker sessions, and then detailed the foregoing tale about FDR. The point of my story was to the effect that the presidency was an incredibly crushing job, and that our presidents are well entitled to any respites they can beg, borrow or steal to ease its demands. I then concluded the Tuscaloosa odyssey with: “And who could have foretold that this was to occur, almost a year to the day before the ‘Day which will live in infamy’ which was to plunge us into a war which would sap the strength and then take the very life of our Commander in Chief? Let us leave our presidents to their relaxations.”

And so the fighting continued. A presidential party again fished from the fantail while underway on the tenth of December. For this, one could either thank or curse Ernest Hemingway, who had telegraphed the tip that many big fish have been caught in Mona Passage, a 1500-foot trench that separates Puerto Rico from Santo Domingo. Hemingway even suggested the bait: pork rind on a feathered hook. So it was that speed was reduced at 1000 to 7 knots, while the president once again trolled from the stern. Though he stuck with it more than an hour, the president didn’t so much as get a strike, so the operation was discontinued at 1130, and a speed of 25 knots resumed.

Then there were three separate occasions when a presidential party fished, while an anchor, from the forecastle. The first such episode occurred off the Navidad Bank, about 55 miles northeast of Santo Domingo, late in the afternoon of 10 Dec. Admiral McIntire and Harry Hopkins joined the president in this venture, with McIntire once again being the only one to get lucky, landing a 2-pound grouper. This drill was repeated late in the afternoon of 12 Dec, just off the southern tip of Long Island in the Bahamas. Pa Watson caught a 2-1/2-pound red snapper, and Dan Callahan landed a mango snapper weighing in at slightly over pound. But once again Admiral McIntire didn’t come up empty-handed, even though he only managed to get 1/2-pound bass. Just before sunset the president hooked a very large fish, and played it for almost two hours on a line that proved too light, as it finally parted and the fish escaped. We’ll leave the third forecastle fish-out until a little later in this story, but by now you might suspect who the big winner was once again.

Departing Hampton Rds, VA

Digital Edition Note: Text of the article reads:

On the evening of Dec. 22, Rear Admiral William T. Leahy, America's new ambassador to France's government at Vichy, bade sober farewell to his little grandson, Robert Beale Leahy (opposite) and left Washington on one of the touchiest missions any U. S. diplomat ever undertook. His task was to stiffen the spine of Old Marshal Henri Pétain against the Nazi conqueror, to make Frenchmen aware of America's compelling desire for British victory and the restoration of a free democratic France (see p. 62 for The Case For France," André Maurois). A specific ticklish issue he must negotiate concerns the protection and fate of Martinique.

By choosing Admiral Leahy for this job, President Roosevelt delivered a diplomatic coup before his envoy ever left U.S. shores. The Vichy post had first been offered to Pétain's old friend, 80-year-old General John J. Pershing, who declined because of ill health. Admiral Leahy, one of the Navy's ablest officers and one of Puerto Rico's most effective governors, will be no less welcome to the Old soldier who heads France. He will be distinctly unpopular with Axis agents who have sought to swing Pétain into open cooperation against Britain. In recent years thoughtful razor-tongued Admiral Leahy has said sharp things about aggressor states. The Nazi press has railed at him as a “warmonger” and “bullhead.”

Supposedly because of unsatisfactory boat schedules, Admiral Leahy embarked for his post aboard the cruiser Tuscaloosa. From Washington, he steamed down the Potomac and Chesapeake Bay on the Old night boat to Norfolk where he boarded the warship which took the President on his Caribbean cruise. With true diplomatic reserve, Ambassador Leahy declined to comment on his appointment. But it was unlikely that sensitive Frenchmen would overlook the significance of, the big-gunned Tuscaloosa's voyage.

By far the most fishing, however, was done from Tuscaloosa’s small motor whaleboats; and these, you will remember, were in my custody. To fully appreciate what a harrowing experience this was, I first must explain a little about how all these boats operate. They all had sea-water-cooled diesel engines. This little technical parley involved two headaches. First of all, the diesels used compression ignition rather than spark plugs, and more often than not they would fail to start due to the fuel system becoming “pressure bound” on either the high- or low-pressure side. The latter eventuality was just complicated enough to utterly confused neophyte boat engineers, even though both entailed simple “venting” procedures.

The second problem was infinitely worse and longer-lasting, although no less annoying to erstwhile passengers. This was the sudden seizing of the engine when the cooling system became sand-clogged from overlong operations in shallow waters. (Once, on an extended stay in Guantanamo Bay, we had so many boats in overhaul simultaneously due to this problem that we actually had to borrow the liberty boats from other vessels in the harbor. The clogging could result from stupid coxswains as well as non-alert engineers, and expansion to a two-ocean Navy had already resulted in an abundance of undertrained recruits as veterans were drained off to commission new-construction ships.) Given this background, one can imagine how the responsible officer sweated it out every time the president left the ship in a small boat. Of course I always made sure that Chief Gregory, himself, served as the president’s boat engineer. (The only other cardiac arrest situation of like magnitude was that of the “E” Division officer when the president attended shipboard movies – as FDR did five times. Movie machines seemed uniquely subject to Murphy’s Law – if something can go wrong, it will – but even these failures didn’t potentially endanger the president like a boat failure could.)

As it turned out, Mr. Roosevelt resorted to our small boats no less than half-dozen times: on Dec 5, 6, 7, 10, 11, and 13. (This could have been the start of my early transition to gray hair!) Turning the President of the United States, and a crippled one at that, loose in the open sea in a small boat presents many problems other than that of the reliability of the boat itself. For example, it requires the provision of several other accompanying boats. One has to be completely fitted out, each trip, with portable radio sending and receiving equipment, qualified radiomen and signalmen, and all the associated code books. (The ship’s Chief Quartermaster also manned the bridge throughout the president’s absence from the ship, continuously “fixing” the present exact location on relevant charts.) Again, there was an accompanying “medical boat,” complete with Chief Pharmacist and all feasible emergency medical equipment. (One story had it that the Chief Petty Officers who served as the president’s radioman, pharmacist, and so on, were so special that they were called “Master Radioman” and “Master Pharmacist,” which gave rise to surreptitiously referring to the President’s Chief Boatswain – who assisted him on his fishing forays – as the “Master Baiter.”) And spread through all of the boats you had your inevitable Secret Service personnel. Nor is that all. A special rack had to be fitted in the president’s boat for his ever-present a mineral water, and we had to fashion a special sandbox in his boat as well – Fala’s head!

Mention of the Secret Service brings to mind another item, probably apocryphal, which might even have happened on one of the earlier presidential trips in Tuscaloosa, for I didn’t witness it personally. It seems that one of the agents was lolling in the sun on the fantail one afternoon when he overheard unmistakable threats to FDR’s well-being. A big brute of a man, “Swede” Bjork, was allowing as how His Almightiness had better get off his ship real soon, because his presence was really getting to him, and something just had to give, and soon. Swede was one of those guys who looked belligerent even when he was in the most jolly of moods, which was most of the time. Naturally, the Secret Service man had to follow up on this, and he did. It seems that Swede had been in the Navy beaucoup years, but he had never been forced to wear shoes at sea until the president came aboard. This intolerable situation and the resulting threatening remarks were conveyed to FDR, so the story goes, and it soon developed that Swede became the only man in the Navy who could boast a special proclamation signed by the Commander in Chief which authorized him to go shoeless whenever the ship was at sea.

Now you may wonder why I clutter this recital with such stories, since they may not immediately seem really to relate to me and my life story. But they do. First of all, they were experiences which I actually encountered precisely as I have set them down here. Also, they testify to the up-beat, adventuresome, almost frolicsome cast of my early days in the pre-war Navy, a day all too soon to be “gone with the wind” of war. In addition, I’d have to say in retrospect that these stories gave the real flavor of what were perhaps some of the happiest days in my life, and which were certainly my happiest Navy years. Of course, even then I had my bad days too, just as not all the president’s time on this trip was one big fishing holiday. But he also worked, often and hard, though his opponents and much of the press persisted in characterizing his insistence that it was “an inspection trip” as “merely pretense.”

In any event, his working achievements (as I hope to make clear) certainly and considerably outstripped his dismal fishing accomplishments. And indeed, most of his work did relate to the specific task at hand, the personal inspection and evaluation of potential naval base sites as acquired in exchange with Britain for 50 over-age destroyers on 2 Sep 1940. The British desperately needed these craft to enhance their detection and neutralization of the German submarine threat, which Churchill then correctly perceived as the prime threat to England’s lifeline. Checking out feasible Caribbean bases was the president’s first concern at every stop on what was to be a 3,545-mile, 14-stop journey completed in a mere 11 days.

The president set the pattern at our very first stop in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Shortly after we anchored he conferred with the Commandant of the Naval Station, the Commandant of the Marine detachment, and the senior medical officers of the base. Together they went over plans for the expansion of the base then in progress. Similarly, at Kingston, Jamaica, we took aboard the Governor General, and then cruised some 36 miles to the southwest, to Portland Bight, where together they inspected a proposed fleet base. After the departure of the Governor General, who was returned to Kingston via the destroyer Mayrant, the president and Captain Callaghan took to a whaleboat to inspect the locality at closer hand. Again, at both Port Castries, St. Lucia, and off Fort-de-France, Martinique, the president conferred at length about the local facilities and conditions. Discussions with the Governor of the Windward Islands at St. Lucia touched upon aviation facilities, water supply, barracks, subsistence of personnel, and unsanitary conditions. These were not mere cursory inspections or perfunctory discussions, either. They were skillfully pursued by an Ex-Secretary of the Navy and led to action decisions. And at St. Lucia, the president again followed up with a detailed inspection of the inner harbor from a motor whaleboat.

Fort-de-France, of course, was another story, it then being the strongest Vichy outpost in the Western Hemisphere. There, consultants with the president comprised only our local Naval Observer and his boss, the United States Consul. An added fillip at this point, however, was the presence of the French Aircraft carrier Bearn. It’s safe to say that every telescope and pair of binoculars aboard Tuscaloosa were focused on this formidable potential enemy throughout our layover outside the harbor. And then we were off to a similar conference with the Governor of the Leeward Island at Antigua. An indication of the no-nonsense nature of these inspections is typified by the consequences of a morning-long survey of the southern coast of Mayaguana Island in the Bahamas a short while later. This precipitated the following dispatch from the president to the Secretary of the Navy: “Please hold in abeyance all negotiations for use of an installation on Mayaguana Island. No anchorage for surface vessels in northeast trades such as we experienced that locality.” But the most dramatic shipboard working conference was still to come.

This main event was first tipped off when the president invited “the three musketeers” who constituted the press pool traveling in Mayrant to come aboard for the day, hinting that “something quite interesting would probably occur aboard Tuscaloosa.” A short while later, a giant 4-motored Navy patrol plane out of Miami landed close aboard, only to disembark His Royal Highness, the Duke of Windsor, the former British King Edward the VIII (whose abdication in 1936 prompted some wag to remark on the greatest demotion in the annals of naval history, from Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Navy to 3rd Mate of an American tramp.) I was lined up with the officers on the Quarterdeck as the crew of the Tuscaloosa manned the rails. I will never forgets the shock of seeing him. He was exceedingly pale, and of shriveled skin, with an uncommon profusion of bags under the eyes. Altogether, he looked emaciated and dissipated, and I wrote home at the time that we should not be surprised if he died before the year was out, as he certainly looked weak and sick. This little prediction was off by a mere 32 years.

In any event, the Duke, who was then Governor of the Bahamas, met for slightly more than two hours with the president. They discussed both his problems and the common problem of choosing a location for a United States naval base in the Bahamas. The duke then graciously submitted to an interview by “the three musketeers,” at which he generously indicated that “whatever the president wants, we will give him the best we have.” After he departed the president continued working as he too spoke at length with the press. I’ll cover his remarks in some detail precisely to underscore the work dimension of this too-often-called “holiday.”

The president pointed out that the need for numerous bases to serve as Atlantic outposts embraced for more than just the defense of the Panama Canal, such bases being vital to the defense of the United States, Central America as a whole, and South America. The president emphasized that the farther away from the American continent a potential attack can be kept, the safer it is for the continent itself. The president stated that with a little dredging an excellent harbor could be had at the Jamaica base site, that the St. Lucia and Antigua sites were quite satisfactory, although the proposed base at Mayaguana was by no means satisfactory, because of the absence there of a lee and an anchorage, a ship seeking to anchor being either in a thousand fathoms or on the beach. It was remarked that even though some of the locations were mainly for aircraft bases, supplies would still have to be brought in by ships. In closing, the president also sketched some of the highlights of his talks with the British officials he had conferred with during the past few days. Looking back, the real miracle was that the president found any time to relax, let alone fish. This is the way it was Friday, the thirteenth, at Miller Anchorage, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas, B.W.I. But, “You ain’t heard nothing yet!”

Yet another aspect of the president’s working commitment was the regular delivery of White House mail pouches by Navy patrol planes operating out of San Juan, Puerto Rico. They made deliveries and pick-ups at Beata Island on the 6th, Antigua on the 9th, and West Caicos Island on 11 Dec 1940. The short turn-around time of the plane demanded the immediate and concentrated attention of the president. Nor was this merely routine domestic correspondence. Rather, it proved to be momentous in its enduring international and historic impact. The prime example of this would be the letter initiated by Churchill on 7 Dec (but ultimately dated on the 8th due to time-zone extension incident to its delivery.) This letter was no less an international bombshell than the Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor exactly one year later. (It would be well-nigh frivolous at this point to even suggest that since the day was spent approaching, at, and departing Aves (Bird) Island, that 7 Dec was sort of historically “for the birds,” so this temptation will be suppressed. (A touch of litotes is always welcome.) But the fact remains that Aves Island is a small, low-lying island that is uninhabited – except that it serves as a breeding ground for thousands of seabirds. Actually, it is little more than an exposed reef in the Caribbean about 135 miles to the west of a point about half-way between Dominica and Guadaloupe Islands.)

This was to be the scene of the biggest fishing catch of the entire trip. This seems only fitting in that it also turned out to be the most important work day of the trip, as we shall presently explain. In any event, President Roosevelt, General Watson, Captain Callaghan, and the redoubtable Admiral McIntire fished from the forecastle. While the president managed to land only a half of a red snapper, the admiral hauled in a 3-pound snapper, a 4-pound trigger fish, and a jack weighing 6 pounds. Meanwhile, Harry Hopkins had taken a whaleboat to fish closer to the shore. This proved to be a shrewd move, for he caught an 8-pound grouper, the largest catch of the journey.

The biggest triumph of the day, however, had to be the aforementioned letter authored by Churchill, which arrived by patrol plane off Antigua on 9 Dec. It should be remarked that this date represents a virtual midpoint of the year spanning the fall of France on 22 Jan 1940, and Hitler’s invasion of Russia on 22 June 1941; a period which Churchill’s memoirs described as one in which “the British people held the fort – ALONE – until those who had been hitherto half blind were half ready!” This historic letter, which the Prime Minister himself characterized as “one of the most important letters I ever wrote,” was a five-page, nineteen-point letter of about 4,000 words. Whereas up until Nov 1940 the British had paid for everything received, they were now down to their last two billions, which readily comprised not readily saleable investments.

In the letter Churchill described Britain’s dire plight, and warned of the impending moment when England would “no longer be able to pay cash.” He spotlighted critical problems in production and shipping, the twin dangers of bombings and U-boats, ask for more destroyers by either gift or loan, and saved a few blunt words on Britain’s perilous financial plight for the last paragraphs. He cautioned that divesting Britain of all of its saleable assets would cause cruel predations in Britain which could spill over into widespread unemployment in the United States after the war. He concluded by reminding the president that the defeat of the Hitler was a matter of prime consequence to the people of the United States and of the entire Western Hemisphere, but expressed confidence that FDR would find “ways and means” to cope with the crisis.

This the president could do and did – on board Tuscaloosa between 9 and 11 Dec 1940. Son Elliott testifies that “Before Tuscaloosa reached home port, he had invented what he first called ‘Lend-Spend.’” Of this period Hopkins said later, “I didn’t know for quite a while what he was thinking about, if anything. But then, I began to get an idea that he was refueling, the way that he so often does when he seems to be resting and carefree. So it didn’t ask him any questions. Then, one evening, he suddenly came up with it – the whole program.” Churchill corroborates this in his own memoirs, “Harry Hopkins … told me later that Mr. Roosevelt read and re-read this letter as he sat alone in his deck-chair, and that for two days he did not seem to have reached a conclusion. He was plunged in intense thought, and brooded silently.”

Historian Warren Kimball tells us that “From Whitehall to Washington men eagerly awaited the decision that could only be made by Franklin Roosevelt,” and goes on to pin-point the moment of decision: “In 1944 Churchill told … that Roosevelt had sat with the letter all day (9 Dec) after it arrived, and then sought no one at all the next day (10 Dec.) Then the following day (11 Dec) he came up with the Lend-Lease idea … and Hopkins states that Roosevelt told him of the concept two days after the receipt of Churchill’s letter.” This day, 11 Dec 1940, was spent in transit from Navidad Bank via West Caicos to Mayaguana Island in the Bahamas, a day otherwise marked only by a brief fling at fishing, the arrival of another White House mail pouch via Navy patrol plane, and the disappointing survey of Mayaguana. More significantly, perhaps, this was also the evening FDR attended a movie featuring Carole Lombard and Charles Laughton which had the trenchant title “They Knew What They Wanted.” Most assuredly both Churchill and Roosevelt certainly did.

Why the big deal about Churchill’s letter and the resulting evolution of Lend-Lease? Well, Churchill labeled it a “new Magna Carta … the most unselfish and unsordid … act of any country in all history.” Kimball marks as “the point of no return for American policy regarding Hitler’s Germany.” Joseph Stalin said that it was “one of the president’s most remarkable and vital achievements … in keeping the Allies in the field against Hitler.” What it did was provide a program of military aid by the United States to opponents of the Axis Powers, and kept the Allied cause alive and fighting on all fronts for the two years needed by the United States to become a decisive force in actual combat.

Lend-Lease gave the president unprecedented power to “sell, lease, lend, exchange with or make available in any other way to the government of any country whose defense the president deems vital to the defense of the United States, any defense article,” and further provided that any repayment to the United States might be “in kind or property or any other direct or indirect benefit which the president deems satisfactory.” There was no provision for repayment. Can you imagine any such blank-check legislation today! No, but you can take pride in the fact that this nation’s magnanimity stemmed the tide of fascism, for Lend-Lease was the catalyst in the quick conversion of American industry to defense production, and according to Kimball, marked “the creation of the most productive and co-operative coalition in modern times – the Anglo-American alliance against Nazi Germany.”

How was it all done? After all, then current polls revealed that only 30% of U.S. citizens believed that Allied victory was even possible. FDR introduced the idea to the American public in a press conference on 17 Dec, at a time when, according to speech-writer Robert Sherwood, “It still seemed he had spent two weeks in a state of relaxation and indifference [aboard Tuscaloosa, of course] toward the prospects of world calamity.” He began with characteristic under-statement (a thing Nixon surely never learned), starting off with “I don’t think there is any particular news,” but then went on to assert that to his mind “the best immediate defense of the United States is the success of Britain in defending itself.” He continued by observing that some people thought we should lend money to Britain, and that others thought we should deliver war materiel as an outright gift, but that he felt such thinking was “banal.”

Of course very few people, indeed, thought any such thing, but it would serve to convince almost anyone of what a reasonable middle-of-the-roader he was. Then he came to the heart of the matter, contending that what he sought to do was to “get rid of the silly, foolish, old dollar sign,” and went on to spin the fantasy of his now famous “good neighbor” analogy: “Suppose my neighbor’s house catches fire, and I have a length of garden hose.… If he can take it and connected up … I may help him to put out the fire.… I don’t say to him before [that], ‘Neighbor, my garden hose cost me $15; you have to pay me $15 for it.’… I don’t want $15 – I want my garden hose back after the fire is over….”

Digital Edition Note: A note in the margin of Jack’s personal copy of the book referenced this FDR quote as follows: “An analogy (used in reverse) by my Dad in an 8 Nov 1940 article. FDR spoke to 17 Dec 1940!” Jack’s point, apparently, was that his Dad had used the analogy before FDR had used it!

According to Sherwood, “It may accurately be said that with that neighborly analogy, Roosevelt won the fight for Lend-Lease.” And Sherwood continues, “One can only conclude that Roosevelt, a creative artist in politics, had put in his time [during the cruise in Tuscaloosa] on evolving the pattern of a masterpiece.” An ensuing poll showed 71 percent favored his proposal and an amazing 54 percent favored immediate action.

The president followed up on this tour de force with his equally famous speech of 29 Dec which pleaded for support in making the United States “the great arsenal of democracy,” and parlayed this with his 6 Jan message to Congress which not only introduced his proposed Lend-Lease legislation, but coupled it with his plea for his famous four freedoms – of speech and religion, and from want and fear. As a final Rooseveltian fillip, we somehow got the legislation introduced as H.R. 1776, a veritable “declaration of the inter-dependence.” The ensuing debate has been variously characterized (Sherwood’s superb “Roosevelt and Hopkins,” and Warren Kimball’s “The Most Unsordid Act” proved excellent references) as the “bitterest debate in American history,” and as “one of the most spirited and important debates in the history of American foreign affairs.” Pop’s views are elaborated in a document incorporated in the Congressional Record by Senator Hiram Johnson of California on 6 Mar 1941. Pop was against it!

The administration based its case on national security, noting that with the loss of the British fleet the Atlantic would provide no security. The opposition view was anchored on the twin fears of eventual deployment of Americans on European battlefields and the vesting of potential dictatorial powers in the president. No effort by even the most ardent supporter of Lend-Lease was made to defend it in terms of traditional interpretations of international law. Secretary of State Hull sought some vindication on the pretext of asserting that Germany and Italy were international law breakers and noting that international law provided no protection for Belgium, Holland, Norway and Denmark, and therefore only the law of self-protection was left to the United States. In response to a specific question in executive session, Hull went so far as to state that a breakdown of international law justified the application of the doctrine of self-defense. Secretary of War Stimson went even further, referencing a statement of the International Law Association on the Kellogg-Briand Pact which branded the Axis as law-breakers and justified such legislation as Lend-Lease.

Needless to say, Pop was adamantly opposed to such a legalistic flights of fancy. He pointed out that the proposed act represented “a complete reversal of the (U.S.) position of the past six years,” citing our neutrality laws of 1935, ’36, ’37, and ’39, and the Spanish Embargo Act of 1937. He additionally cited relevant provisions of the Johnson Act of 1934, the Criminal Code, The Hague Convention, and the so-called Budapest Articles of Interpretation re the Kellogg-Briand Pact distorted by Stimson. He stressed that “there is no stage between belligerency and neutrality,” and that “there have been no violations of the neutrality rights of the U.S. by Germany alleged by proponents” of the pending legislation. In brief, Pop contended that the implications of the proposed act were “contrary to the accepted fundamental rules of international law,” and therefore “one shrinks intuitively from having the U.S. sacrifice law observance by committing un-neutral acts while at the same time protesting its neutrality, even to secure a manifest advantage.”

Pop did leave an “out,” however. He conceded that “an argument might be adduced for the [proposed act] from the right to intervene for humanitarian reasons” but noted that no such argument had been introduced as a consideration by proponents of the legislation. This is especially noteworthy in the light of 20/20 hindsight of revelations anent the holocaust, and affords perhaps the only solution to an otherwise almost insoluble moral dilemma. In all events, Pop was in good company. Dr. Robert Hutchins of the prestigious University of Chicago declared that with Lend-Lease the “American people are about to commit suicide!” Eric Sevareid wondered if it did not involve a fundamental dishonesty.

Finally it should be remarked that in this day of intercontinental ballistic missiles, threats to our National Security might be said to be always “direct and immediate,” but moral decisions will be no less difficult. Even today it is difficult for me to accept the notion that Britain had to fall in WWII before we could be said to be sufficiently threatened to assist in England in our own self-defense. Pop was, in my opinion, morally correct, despite the practical implications of his position. One might write a great novel based upon the notion that Lend-Lease failed to pass, but (happily) it did pass.

Lend-Lease was signed into law on 11 Mar 1941, a mere 65 days after it was first presented to Congress on 6 Jan 1941, Kathleen’s birthday. (Contrast this with President Carter’s drought of more than a year in the field of allegedly urgent energy legislation anent the 1970s oil crisis!) But one further insight re Lend-Lease is worth remarking. At the last minute an amendment was introduced to bar aid to Russia. Catholics, mostly, mounted tremendous opposition to the aid for the USSR. FDR, of course, insisted that to exclude aid to Russia would amount to an invitation to Japan to forage into Southeast Asia. That was the major public argument in favor of Soviet aid, but the real reason was U.S. fore-knowledge of the German plan to invade Russia, thanks to some outstanding code-breaking successes.

The latter dimension is something we might all do well to keep in mind, when we sometimes don’t understand present day maneuvering in the field of international relations. We may very possibly lack some most significant facts. (We might also do well not to adhere too rigorously to following blindly the admonitions of religious leaders, who too often perceive secular affairs via a simplistic moral prism, with a vision that is sometimes further clouded by a single-issue conscience and religious tunnel-vision.) And remember too, that this highly controversial act by FDR was without precedent. Historian Albrecht-Curie underscores this by contrasting it with American obstinacy over debts from World War I, thus: “Eventually, America … acknowledged economic reality, and the skillful device of Lend-Lease used in the Second World War was in large part intended to avoid the recurrence of the situation and the recrimination that followed the first war, that the war was a joint enterprise for a common purpose of equal importance to all.” As Kimball puts it, FDR had devised “a give-away program that did not look like one.”

It took Churchill, as usual, to put it all in the proper perspective. He called it “The Third Climacteric” of World War II. (The first two of which were the fall of France and the Battle of Britain. The fourth and fifth were the invasion of Russia and the attack on Pearl Harbor.) Sherwood concludes that, “It was an historic victory for Roosevelt.” And though the program had been percolating in his mind since at least the preceding August, and although he had been inputted by all manner of advisers, the fact remains that it was indeed FDR who evolved, integrated and forged the ultimate totality, especially its timely translation into action. This was the essence of his genius. As Kimball says, “The plan was novel only in relation to the time, circumstances, and most of all the scale (but) … adding the final link in the chain took both imagination and political savvy.” The final link, and the one that probably sold the whole program, was the idea that should the borrowed fire hose be damaged in the fire, then the barrower would later replace it. “For want of a nail the shoe was lost,” had been fully redressed at long last.

As for his timing, the president’s fine touch would have put even such a recognized master as the great Jack Benny to shame. He had an unparalleled gift for never getting too far out in front of public opinion, and an equally immense talent for artfully contriving to appear to have been virtually pushed, despite tremendous personal reluctance, into taking precisely the action he had secretly sought to take for very long time. As for the scale of it all, how many people today are aware of the fact that Lend-Lease poured out over 50 billions of dollars in four years, as compared to only 12 billions dispensed over 3-1/2 years through the more popularly remembered Marshall plan? Imagine how ludicrous a Marshall Plan would have been if Lend-Lease had been denied! But then, there would have been no Marshall Plan except for the fact of a prior Lend-Lease, because the U.S. would have been numbered among the eventual victims of Hitler’s expanding tyranny. Make no mistake, no less than of this Chapter, FDR was the hero of this period in international history.

And he not only had genius, he had genuine class, as was repeatedly demonstrated in the course of his eleven-day journey in Tuscaloosa. For example, on the cruise with Jamaica’s Governor General to Portland Bight, his invitation conspicuously included a caveat for informal dress in view of the expected heat of the day; and for the associated communication-deck buffet luncheon, the invitation embraced the Tuscaloosa’s Commanding, Executive, Gunnery and Damage Control officers. And as mentioned earlier, his entertaining of the Duke of Windsor was preceded by an invitation to the accompanying press pool to be on hand, and additionally the Tuscaloosa’s Commanding Officer and the Navigator, plus the Commanding Officers of the two escorting destroyers – this latter being a nice touch indeed. He also acceded to the request of Commander Destroyer Squadron Two, in U.S.S. Moffett, to join up with the president’s escort group in the area of St. Lucia, and cheerfully agreed to pose one day on the fantail, fishing pole in hand, with all 40 of the Tuscaloosa’s Chief Petty Officers.

Two further examples of real class come to mind. The very day he received Churchill’s historic letter, he still found time to honor a previous commitment to join wardroom officers for dinner. (In passing, I must confess that this has been my uniform experience with truly great and so-called busy professionals – that they always find the time, even make the time, to accommodate each and every demand for their attention. Contrariwise, show me a person who takes off on the basis of being too busy, and I’ll show you a disorganized procrastinator who literally squanders precious time on trifles.) In any event the president not only joined us for dinner, lest senior officers pre-empt his attention, he insisted that an ensign (the lowest of the low, and I was among them) be seated to his right, and he even suggested a lottery in the interest of fairness.

I admit I found this both exciting and heart-warming, but I didn’t win. Nevertheless, I did have a ring-side seat for this memorable evening. (As Time’s Hugh Sidey has said so well, “Dinner with Franklin Roosevelt was a jewel that sparkled in one’s memories through life. He brought joy, understanding, wit and grace to the table for all to savor.”) Just imagine! This was one of the two evenings when the world-changing concept of Lend-Lease was crystallizing in his mind!

The final display of class was the president’s issuance (before he’d leave the ship) of a letter of commendation to be incorporated into the record of every officer and sailor then serving on board. And remember, the president had no protocol specialist along to prompt him, and no staff to support him in all these niceties. They all had to be his idea from start to finish. No less than Churchill, we had all found him to be a “good neighbor,” an excellent neighbor. Perhaps William Douglas sums up my sentiment best: “FDR gave the nation the kind of leadership I admired. We seemed to lose stature and greatness in his passing, becoming petty and greedy and small where we had known magnanimity, altruism and humanism.” As Joseph Alsop summed him up so eloquently on the occasion of the one 100th anniversary of FDR’s birth, “He was the unrelenting enemy of misery, poverty, oppression, cruelty, injustice, meanness, smallness, obscurantism, and every other form of nastiness and source of unhappiness that human beings and their societies are given to, and he was the stout friend of plenty, generosity, decency, liberality, geniality, openness, justice and freedom.” And, as if that weren’t enough, he then adds, “… guts, rational optimism, and tough obstinacy about accepting defeat were added in full measure to Roosevelt’s extreme wiliness, his magical sense of political timing, and his remarkable astuteness in avoiding showdowns until a showdown was likely to produce a satisfying result.”

Naturally, no man aboard wanted to see him go, but go he did – on 14 Dec the Charleston Navy Yard in South Carolina. Congressman Mendel Rivers was there, together with the Governor, to greet him. Exploding flashbulbs and screaming reporters at once signaled the end of the so-called vacation. Well, all right, let’s accept the fact that he did leave us as they said, “tanned and looking very fit,” so some people may always view it as a holiday at the height of hostilities. It all reminds me of a memo I once wrote to a boss of mine. I entitled it “Thoughts While Shaving.” In due course it was returned to me with the added notation, “Grow a beard!” So be it. If this historic trip is to forever be regarded as a mere fishing trip, then I suggest we must all persist in inciting our current inhabitants of the White House by exclaiming, “Why don’t you go fishing!” Maybe genius could strike again as it surely struck FDR. What a magnificent leader!

Isn’t it strange that we have no national monument to this man, who, no less than Washington and Lincoln, actually preserved the Union in a very real time of crisis; and this despite a crushing physical handicap that would have stopped most men before they began? This is all the more deplorable in light of a largely politically motivated national celebration of the birthday of Martin Luther King, and the almost obscene proliferation of memorials to JFK, whose comparable contributions to the benefit of world society, at least to me, remain relatively obscure. But, of course, Roosevelt does have the finest type of monument, one not likely to ever be equaled – four consecutive terms as the Chief Executive of the nation, and at the popular behest of the American people! I can only add that I’m delighted that I had ever so small a share in it all. And I, for one, couldn’t have agreed more had Churchill chosen to say of FDR’s incubation of the Lend-Lease concept in the course of his sojourn in Tuscaloosa – “This was his finest hour!”

IX. WAR

We have acknowledged war as … the ultimate form of competition. War is the father of all things, the potent source of ideas, inventions.  – Will Durant

Now we once again encounter the paradox of the seeming parallel between the course of my own life and the temper of the times. Jan 1941 marks the peak of the Axis powers’ thrust for world dominance, coming it as it does virtually midway between the fall of France (Jun 1940) and the fateful invasion of the USSR (Jun 1941); even as the Allied hopes reached their nadir and began their upsurge at long last, thanks to the catalytic effect of American Lend-Lease. If only Hitler known, his doom was already sealed – the turning point had come. So, too, this period ushered in the sealing of my happy doom – a matrimonial alliance with Kathleen. We would eventually wed on 14 Sep 1942, after which our separate journeys would become one, but first there was some extra-marital fighting to be done.

Life, and the war, did go on after the robust uplifting of the spirit afforded by our brief encounter with the charismatic FDR. A mere eight days after disembarking him, Tuscaloosa – with the Stars and Stripes painted atop turrets II and III, and with her largest ensign flying from the main truck – was off for Lisbon, Portugal, transporting Fleet Admiral and Mrs. William D. Leahy, bound for diplomatic service in Vichy, France. The foregoing sentence conveys the entire substance of the political history of Tuscaloosa anent this journey which concluded some 20 days later in Norfolk, Virginia, but this trip marked another major turning point in my life, further reinforcing the already remarked congruence of its “ups and downs” with (or its direct contrast to) the flow of international events. Seemingly, my life’s journey was never “in neutral” with reference to world events. I’ve already noted that things weren’t going too well in the Western World just then, and for me especially this was one rough trip. It is no exaggeration to state that between the “going and coming” on this trip my life course was literally turned around.

First of all, as any sailor knows all too well, the north Atlantic is never among the more friendly climes in the world, and in the winter months of December through March it is downright hostile. Wind-whipped outside air temperatures produce wind-chill effects which always hover well below zero degrees. Even in the normally 120-degree ambience of machinery spaces, the air blowers had to be sharply throttled down. The salt water temperature could drop as much as 3-1/2 degrees below freezing. (This provided a 40-degree contrast with the 50-mile-wide Gulf Stream – some fifty miles off shore and fifty miles wide before it curves slowly east and further diffuses just north of Cape Hatteras – which was so sharp that it could be used with confidence as a dead-reckoning navigational fix.) It was not only cold and windy, daylight hours were short, the sun clouded or fogged out more often than not, and the waves were relentlessly and monotonously rough.

The ship’s bow would float upward creating a sensation of weightlessness and then plunge hard and deep enough to plow green water over the bow. As often as not the water would freeze on contact with any and all severely sub-cooled metal equipment. At the same time, we’d roll some 40 degrees side-to-side with constant shuddering and frightening groans. You had to hold on, day and night, wedging yourself into your bunk upon which special guard-rails to had to be mounted. The galley remain secured, and all meals were cold, and generally eaten standing up (and holding on), because all tables and chairs had to be lashed down. A few days of this and you became mighty weary and envied every soul who had never left dry land, and you’d wonder why you’d ever ventured to see. And, I’m talking here about those who never got sea-sick (which, fortunately, I rarely did), which appeared to be a fate worse than death.

Nor was this the end of it. You must remember as German historian Cajus Bekker has noted, that “Sep and Oct 1940 [was the period] when the ‘era of the gray wolves’ reached its zenith.” Since we were not yet “officially” at war, combat information was merely “restricted,” which was then the lowest grade of classified material, to which any uniformed person had access. Thus it was that I maintained a chart on the bulkhead in my cabin of the north Atlantic ocean area, and I religiously posted every reported sinking of U.S. military and merchant shipping. (Memorable marks were 17–18 Oct 1941 U-boat attacks on USS Kierney and USS Reuben James in mid-ocean out of Halifax with a convoy to England. Of these two destroyers, one survived and one sank, with a total loss of 126 officers and men.) Clearly, gross weather and treacherous ocean elements were not the only hazards of north Atlantic operation the winter of 1940–41.

Nor were these the only dangers and discomfitures. Ships then had to stream paravanes in shoal waters, as whenever entering or leaving port. Paravanes are torpedo-shaped underwater protective devices with knife-edged teeth at the forward end designed to sever the cables securing underwater mines. As ships ploughed forward any intercepted mine cable would ride out the paravane cable to the cutting blade, where it would be sliced free and the mine would then bob to the surface, where it could be rendered harmless at a safe distance by rifle or small gun fire. This may sound like a good deal, but “sound” was precisely the problem. The paravane cable slicing through the water set up a horrendous piercing howl that absolutely precluded all rest or sleep for hours and sometimes days.

Did I mention sleep? What was that? Between the pitching and the rolling, with the ship’s motion giving its best possible imitation of a giant corkscrew, and the pounding into the waves, the groaning of the ship itself, the clatter of inadequately secured “loose” gear, the howling of the paravanes, the fear of mines, the ever present threat of submarine attack, the prospect of freezing in near arctic waters even if surviving on foundering – who slept? The fact is no one ever undressed on these trips, and you were afraid to risk being caught in a shower and even rushed “regular” trips to the head. You not only stayed fully clothed at all times, you wore your life jacket (uninflated, of course) at all times, and carried your gas mask everywhere. It was as though you labored under constant siege. As Eric Sevareid has noted, “There was no more sleep – only brief blackouts when the mind became unconscious, the body remaining alert. The sleep of wartime, which the minds and bodies of millions were to learn and practice for years to come.” Indeed!

Digital Edition Note: Eric Sevareid (1912–1992) was a CBS journalist from 1939 to 1977, starting as one of Edward R. “Murrow’s Boys” – a war correspondent who worked in Europe and was shot down and rescued in Burma, an anchor who was investigated by Joseph McCarthy during the Red Scare, and an award-winning commentator for 12 years on the CBS Evening News.

And for responsible engineering officers afloat, this alertness was made more acute by a well-honed awareness of the slightest deviation of machinery sounds. One became instantly alert to the most minimal fluctuation propeller RPM, as occasioned by the necessity to keep tight position in fleet or convoy formations. The engineer noted the rising whine of forced-draft boiler blowers as they were accelerated to “blow tubes” in the darkness of the night, a process wherein live steam was jetted on the firesides of boiler tubes to dislodge the accumulated carbon deposits from combustion and flow them up and out the stack, thereby enhancing heat transfer efficiency.

The engineer came second only to the navigator to note the sounding of the foghorn, and equally as troubled. The navigator worried about collision; the engineer worried about the loss of the precious boiler feed water as each sounding of the horn released gobs of pure steam to the atmosphere. This meant already over-burdened evaporators (never designed for the actual wartime inflation of ship’s crew-size as occasioned by unexpected technical developments such as radar and degaussing gear) would have to work even harder and longer. The engineer was alert, too, to the popping of boiler safety valves, and the “kicking in” of diesel-driven emergency electric power generators. He heard sounds in the night beyond those of any other shipboard member.

Is there any exaggeration here? Not the slightest! In his memoirs, “I Was There,” our distinguished passenger, Fleet Admiral Leahy – surely an experienced seaman – noted that, “A half gale was blowing from the northwest on Christmas Day and our dinner had to be served on individual trays. We opened our Christmas presents on a long settee (bolted securely to the deck!) while bracing ourselves against the heavy cruiser’s violent motion.” Did he say “heavy” cruiser? Yes! And though Tuscaloosa was a heavy cruiser, the “heavy” refers to the caliber of its main battery guns (3-triple 8" gun turrets), rather than the ship’s displacement. Nevertheless, she did carry 14" armor plating. I felt very secure behind these bulkheads despite the loss of several of our destroyers in the area. After all, everyone knew that destroyers were “tin cans.” So, as I just said, I felt very secure – well, up to a point.

That point came on the night of 9 Aug 1942. This was the battle of Savo Island in which the Japanese demolished four heavy cruisers within 32 minutes. Three of these cruisers were sister ships (replicas) of Tuscaloosa. My sense of security fled completely with receipt of the report of this battle. As a consequence of this tragedy, in which follow-on fires played a major part, our meticulously well-kept wooden deck was ripped out stem to stern, every bulkhead throughout the ship was chipped clean of all paint down to bare steel, every inch of deck linoleum was scraped clean off, and all upholstered wardroom furniture was immediately off-loaded for the duration. So, the relentless drone of around-the-clock chipping hammers was then added to the already considerable din of shipboard living, and few places could be found for even a moment’s comfortable relaxation. Hey! It still beat sharing a half-flooded foxhole with rats!

While I began with mention of our special mission to Lisbon, the conditions reported thus far pertained, of course, to sea-going in general during this so-called last year of “peace” for the U.S. After all, too, we were streaming paravanes through U-boat infested waters long before any GI’s were in foxholes, wet or dry. And should you be tempted to deprecate the submarine threat, I beg you to recall the Churchill himself testified that, “The only thing that ever really frightened me during the war was the U-boat peril.… I was even more anxious about this battle than I had been about the glorious air fight called the Battle of Britain.” In any case we eventually arrived in Lisbon, totally exhausted. Leahy was disembarked immediately, and four days of liberty were to be granted (alternating port and starboard watch sections, of course) before heading home. That is, liberty was to be granted to all except this young engineering watch officer.

Tuscaloosa’s had been on the go constantly for several months now, and so this four-day layover had to be seized as an opportunity to clean both the fire and water slides of half of our 8 boilers. This grimy and grueling operation entails completely opening up the fireboxes and setting crews to working inside the firebox, snaking rods and chains through the tube banks to literally beat the hard carbon deposits off the tubes. Meanwhile all waterside headers and drums were opened to enable the removal of scale deposited on the inside of tubes incident to the evaporation process – the conversion of water to steam. (Incidentally, the difference between a drum and header is that a man can actually get into a drum. This might suggest to some why sailors sometimes classified women one way or the other.)

Why all the detail? Well, first of all, to indicate to some younger unbelievers that indeed there was a time when I worked for a living. More importantly, it is necessary background to any understanding of what happened next, and why I did the stupid thing that I did, and which, as I’ve already noted, effectively turned my life around. The facts are that the boiler cleaning necessarily entailed the follow-on tedium of running hydrostatic tests on each boiler (to ensure against leaks after reclosing), and then actually getting up steam and running up the pressure so as to actually “pop” and correctly re-set all safety valves. As you might imagine, this operation consumed the better part of 3 nights and 3-1/2 days, such that the possibility of liberty in Lisbon for me didn’t come up until the very last afternoon in port. Upon disembarking FDR, I had coincidentally been rotated from the “B” to the “A” division for training purposes. So it was that on our final afternoon in port, I went topside with two of my engineering officer shipmates (Ensigns Howard Hickman and George Babb, both of whom had previously been ashore – I alone then being assigned to the boiler division), to catch a motor launch to my first and probably only liberty in Lisbon.

Upon arriving on the Quarterdeck, the OOD, a wimp named Dinwiddie (whom the crew appropriately dubbed Dimwittie) confronted us. Though we were all together, this insipid little Lt.(jg) addressed only me – “Wright! Whereinhell do you think you’re going?” I meekly replied, “On my first liberty at last in Lisbon, sir!” “The hell you are!” he replied, “the Exec just told me to get somebody to make a courtesy call on the (newly arrived) Coast Guard cutter, Campbell, and you’re it!” Just then Dinwiddie’s attention was diverted by some commotion on the other side of the quarterdeck, and at the excited urging of my two shipmates, I was easily expedited down the accommodation ladder onto a waiting the liberty boat. “He’ll easily get somebody else,” they assured me, “and you can explain later how this was your last and only chance to get ashore. Besides, he hadn’t yet really given you any specific orders.” (Easy for them to say!)

And so I began a really great liberty in Lisbon, which at that time was, as a neutral city, a city of great excitement and intrigue where officials of even contesting nations could and did freely mingle. It was there that I bought my first and only pair of hand-crafted leather boots – a Lisbon specialty. (I didn’t like them – too cumbersome – and later gave them away.) I also purchased another Lisbon specialty, three delicately filigreed replicas of Columbus’s galleon in full sail, one for Kathleen, one for my mother, and one for my sister. All in all, it was a great day – up to a point.

Upon returning to the ship I was accosted by two large and menacing Marines (replete with sidearms) and advised by the then-OOD that I was under arrest. I was next hustled by the Marines to the Captain’s quarters. There a stern and serious C.O. ordered me to deliver my sword to him forthwith and advised that I was suspended from all duty for five days for disregard of official orders, and should consider myself under room arrest. Did I have anything to say? Hardly. Well, I thought to myself, at least I could relax on the trip home. No way. The second day out I was released in response to the urgent need for qualified Engineering Watch Officers, but it was made clear that the full five-day suspension would remain a matter of my official record. Great! The authorities had their cake and yet ate it – and it was my butt that they were chomping. Now, you might think that was the end of that, but I knew better.

It occurred to me immediately during my one-day sojourn of stateroom incarceration that this little incident marked the end of my naval career. There was no doubt in my mind that a day would come – undoubtedly when I could least afford it, somewhere between the ages of 30 and 40 – when a board would be selecting candidates for commander. There would be 5-to-10 times as many qualified applicants as available billets. Hence, they would have to weed out the list unmercifully and drastically. “Ah,” I could imagine the board saying, “here’s one for the trash bin, a guy with a five-day suspension for disregard of official orders!” It would all be that simple – and that inevitable. This was the turning point in my would-be military career. Thenceforth my career thinking was wholly civilian oriented.

Knowing my propensity for planning, it shouldn’t surprise you that I immediately set about developing a specialty appropriate to civilian life. This was early 1941, remember, and it occurred to me that perhaps the two most engineering-oriented fields of potential development were plastics and air-conditioning. The former offered no shipboard opportunities for learning, while the latter did, and hence I opted for air-conditioning. At that time A/C was available only to movie houses which “beat summer” by advertising “20 degrees cooler inside,” and I figured that this would really be a burgeoning field after the war. At that time A/C was so new and limited in its application that the closest affiliated professional society was the American Society of Refrigerating Engineers – which I promptly joined.

I also started playing shadow to our heating systems honcho, CMM Rowley, who additionally maintained all of our refrigerated scuttlebutts (drinking fountains). When he wanted a special dual gauge enabling virtually simultaneous checking of “hi” and “lo” pressure sides, which wasn’t on our authorized ship’s allowance list (because it was so “new”) I got him one by direct purchase. I also hung out sufficiently in our ice plant (which maintained all our refrigerated stores spaces) that one morning when CMM Batten was late in showing up, I “lit off” the plant single-handedly. From then on, I was learning all I could about A/C.

Meanwhile, turning back to the home front, this is the appropriate point, I think, to digress to what I consider one of the most enlightened (an unheeded) speeches my Pop ever made. He made it there for the 44th annual meeting of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, in Philadelphia, on 5 Apr 1941. I’m largely indebted for my information on this to a report appearing in the Washington Post of 6 Apr 1941, and headlined: “Dr. Wright Warns Against Policing World.” It is poignantly amusing to note that the great Walter Lippmann was some years later to be credited with coining the phrase re “world policeman” anent U.S. foreign policy. (Whoever gets the credit, it’s too bad we never paid more attention to the concept!) Anyhow, speaking some eight months before Pearl Harbor, Pop said, “It is idle to prate of peace and non-intervention and no entangling alliances, but the United States should not seek to be the policeman of the world.” Pop indicated that policing the world would commit us to perpetual war.

Turning to the situation then threatening in the Far East, Pop noted that “Speaking merely in terms of dollars and cents, Japan has been and will continue to be one of our best customers, as we have been hers. Hence all unnecessary hostility to her should be avoided and a sympathetic attempt made to understand her peculiar problems.” Pop continued, “An enlightened foreign policy could and should make allowance for some Japanese economic penetration of nearby lands in order to give Japan outlets which she needs.” Pop concluded, “A military Japanese Monroe Doctrine would be a serious threat to the peace of the Pacific … but a form modeled on our own is not unthinkable.” Just imagine how different the course of history might have been if only our leaders had heeded Pop’s advice! For one thing, I may never have gotten to the Pacific because the Japanese might never have descended on Pearl Harbor. But this wasn’t to be.

But for the rest of January through July, Tuscaloosa was essentially engaged in off-shore Atlantic coast neutrality patrol, with a collateral mission of giving a series of newly commissioned ROTC “90-day” Ensigns a shake-down cruise. About this time (it was on 16 Jul 1941, actually) I applied for enrollment in the engineering correspondence course conducted for junior officers by USNA PG school, even though I conceded I was ineligible. The request, of course, was denied, but this initiative still had to look good on my record. In fact, I went further, as my “fitness report” for this period attests: “Though barred by his rank from enrolling in the correspondence course in engineering, he has obtained a copy of said course and is proceeding with self-instruction.” As appreciators of George’s music will realize, he was a pretty good at self-instruction, too. Wonder where he got that?

In any event, during this period only two breaks in the monotony of the routine occurred. The first break was a two-day layover in Bermuda for alleged recreation. My only liberty there came on 8 Apr 1941. A one-page letter from me to my parents and salvaged from my mother’s archives tells the story. Rather, it doesn’t tell the story at all, but let me introduce the letter itself before elaborating. It is on Tuscaloosa stationary, and datelined Saturday, 12 Apr 1941 (four years to the day before my Pop died.) Thus:

Hello folks – Well, here we are in Newport, R.I. I decided to get my summer house here all straightened out, just like I fixed up the one in Bermuda on Wednesday. In Bermuda I went ashore and had a pretty good time. First I hired a bike for $1.00. (There are no autos in Bermuda, you know.) Boy, I rode all over the island – which, though beautiful, is greatly over-rated. Not as good as Madeira by a long shot – quite a fizzle of a joint, I thought. Bought myself a red necktie there – and had a few Planters Punches (the drink for which the island is famous). They were really excellent. One of the guys had a camera and so I’m in quite a few pictures – and I’ll try to get some for the scrapbook if he ever has ’em developed.

Well, back to Newport, which – if you remember my letters of second-class cruise – is famous, as far as I’m concerned, only for the apple pie a-la-mode, which I intend to enjoy tonight – if I get ashore.

Expect to be in the Navy Yard again starting 17 Apr. Don’t know for how long. Oh, yes – Bermuda is British – full of war posters, etc. Very interesting.

Now that all seems straightforward enough, but in fact, it is as sanitized and misleading as a Ron Ziegler White House Press briefing. Here’s what really happened in Bermuda. It was a blazing hot and clear sunny day. We did hire bikes (me and engineering buddies of Lisbon fame – Ensigns Hickman and Babb), and did pedal all over the island. And we didn’t merely sample a few Planters Punches, we stopped for one at virtually every bar we passed, and Bermuda had more bars than the D.C. jail. Beaucoup hours later, the last thing I remember is the three of us roaring down a hill, screaming like wounded banshees, wildly waving our “torches” (which is proper English, don’t you know, for required post-sundown-biking “flashlights”), thereby causing some astounded Bermudans then emanating from an evening movie to scramble for safety in all directions. I have no idea what happened to my bike, and the rest of this story (until “Church Call” at 1000 the following day) is pure hearsay on my part. It seems I was carried out of the liberty boat and tucked into my bunk aboard ship by a 6'4"-tall Marine corporal.

I next awoke the following morning to the bugle announcing 1000 Sunday Mass. Quick as a whip I was up and dressed and off to Mass in the hangar. I was told that I was white as sheet and still weaving. I can vouchsafe that I felt like I was going to die. I barely made it back to my cabin when my roomboy, a huge black fellow named, appropriately enough, “Knight,” brought in a formidable platter of hot cakes and sausage (which was never standard wardroom fare), plus a huge pitcher of hot black coffee. This was a guy who had a reputation as one mean, knife-wielding SOB who (like many other misfits) had been specifically assigned to me because “Wright really knows the secret of dealing with them.” He simply said, “I saw you at Mass, Mr. Wright, and I thought you could use this!” It probably saved my life. I would not have dared to venture into the wardroom, and couldn’t have made it if I tried. But, true to the axiom of “if you really feel terrible, then stuff yourself,” I devoured everything in sight, and immediately was on the road to recovery.

There were several consequences of this quite accidental debauchery via potent “punches” exacerbated by the blazing hot sun. First, I got an embarrassing lecture from the Chaplain, who had heretofore held me up as his prize exhibit – this being the same one who would later teach me how to serve at daily Mass. Then, later, I got a more formal but quite understanding admonition by the Gunnery Officer, who happened to be the same SOA (Senior Officer Aboard) that evening, about how I had a good record, a promising future, and I should never let anything like that happen again, etc., etc. It didn’t! (It never occurred to me until now, as I write some 43 years later, that on both of these occasions I might have been, in effect, set up by my two “reserve” buddies. I wonder???) Finally, forever after, I was always greeted by every Marine aboard with an over-enthusiastic “How are you doing today, Mr. Wright?” to the accompaniment of a huge grin. Little wonder that I sanitized my letter home, even as Kathleen and I now learn from time to time how our children, in their turn, have often spared us worrisome details. (Thanks, kids!)

The second break during the spring of 1941 was more of a professional nature – diversion of Tuscaloosa to participate with the British in the search to destroy the great 42,000-ton battleship Bismarck. Accompanied by the cruiser Prinz Eugen, the Bismarck had slipped into the Atlantic in mid-to-late May, bent upon a surface raiding mission. After several intermittent en route spottings, she was locked-in by the radar of HMS Suffolk at 1922 on 23 May in the Denmark Straits, that bitterly cold and always violent body of water which separates “a snow-white” Greenland from a Gulf-Stream–warmed “perennially green” Iceland. Suffolk was soon joined by her sister cruiser HMS Norfolk. The battle cruiser HMS Hood and the battleship Prince of Wales were summoned via the Admiralty in London to close on the targets. The latter, in fact, sighted the Germans at 0535 on the morning of 24 May and opened fire in 0553. The Germans returned fire at 0555 and six minutes later HMS Hood was gone! Prince of Wales immediately broke off the action and Bismarck and Prinz Eugen didn’t pursue.

It was this sinking of the Hood and the subsequent retirement of the Germans into the North Atlantic mists which resulted in the employment of Tuscaloosa in the follow-on search to relocate Bismarck. Tuscaloosa’s had been patrolling from Bermuda to the Cape Verde islands (off Dakar, at the west-most bulge of Africa), and the call caught her in port between sorties with much of the crew on liberty. The emergency was considered so dire that a “scratch” crew was hastily put together consisting of men from sister-ship cruisers Vincennes and Quincy, augmented by a group of V-7 reserve ensigns then attached to Tuscaloosa for a training cruise. Tuscaloosa headed north, even as it was presumed Bismarck and “friend” would head south to wreak havoc on merchant shipping. It should be noted that German raiders had accounted for the loss of more than 115,000 tons of merchant shipping in the central Atlantic in the period of Jan to Mar 1941 alone. Of course the British soon polished off Bismarck by themselves, even as Prinz Eugen escaped, and so Tuscaloosa was released to resume its semi-dangerous but boring neutrality patrols a mere three days later.

The passing of Bismarck and should be further elaborated, however, because this event changed not only the complexion of Atlantic operations in general, it altered the further deployment of Tuscaloosa, which was then dispatched for duty in the north Atlantic – or more specifically, in the horrendous Denmark Straits – but this story comes later. The thing to remark about the termination of Bismarck is that, like so many land and sea battles of WWII, it was a comedy of ineptitude on the part of commissioned officers on both sides. Sad to say, this recurring theme is too often unremarked in discussions of present-day weapons systems and war plans. You can load soldiers and sailors up with technological marvels galore, and the outcome of confrontations will still turn on the balance of ineptitude among the contending officers!

In the case at hand, the British radar gave them the advantage of surprise, but they first squandered it by closing at an angle so tight they could only bring their forward guns to bear, thereby sacrificing half their firepower. Secondly, the British then squandered their initial bursts on the lesser threat. Thirdly, they only partially rectified this error by then adjusting fire to disperse it between the two targets rather than concentrating on their prime target. (It might be further noted that the Germans had interchanged the positions of their two ships during the night. It should be further remarked that this fortuitous switch by the Germans was not the result of genius, but the simple recognition that the concussion of Prinz Eugen’s guns when she was in the lead distorted Bismarck’s forward radar scan.)

Notably, when the Germans opened fire, it was concentrated on the formidable battle-cruiser Hood, and they made short work of it, indeed. But then, the Germans erred by not pursuing the Prince of Wales when she broke off the action. The reason for this dismal decision was the classic one: “I was only following orders!” Actually, the German Admiral Lutjens prided himself on strict adherence to official orders, and his orders were that his mission was merchant targets, not military ones. True, Bismarck trailed a tell-tale oil leak as a result of a hit by Prince of Wales, and so Lutjens did arrange a separation from Prinz Eugen which ultimately enabled her escape. At the same time his withdrawal foreclosed all chance for a two-for-one parley.

Nowhere was that the end of the errors. The British actually lost radar contact, but Lutjens didn’t realize this, and so he kept radio transmissions going to the German Admiralty, thereby enabling British D/F (direction-finder equipment) to relocate him. Then (can you believe this?), the British misinterpreted their D/F readings and took off to the north, away from Bismarck! H.M.S. Ark Royal from the Gibraltar Force then came on the scene – and immediately her planes bombed H.M.S. Sheffield! Fortunately, she scored no hits. Finally, the second wave from Ark Royal disabled Bismarck’s steering gear, leaving her a sitting, circling duck for the three hours it took the torpedo bombers to finish her off. This is one melee I’m glad Tuscaloosa was spared.

The Bismarck sinking marked the end of the German surface raiders ranging through the south Atlantic, and the focus shifted north. At the same time with Barbarossa (the invasion of Russia) being launched on 22 Jun, the focus of the European land war shifted from the west to the east (and incidentally freed the northern flank of the Japanese, inviting their subsequent penetration of Southeast Asia.) So it was that on 8 Aug 1941 Tuscaloosa embarked three important persons: General Hap Arnold, Chief of the Army Air Force, whom Joseph Alsop salutes as “without peer for his tough concentrated intelligence, and crafty courage”; Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner, Navy Chief of War Plans, who warned Pearl Harbor on 5 Feb 1941 of a potential disaster, and who Morrison labels “a practitioner of amphibious warfare second to none”; and then-Captain Forrest Sherman (later a CNO), who Morrison avers is deserving of “a special accolade” as one of the Navy’s “top planners” in his capacity as Nimitz’s Chief of Staff.

We were off to Argentina where FDR was to meet Churchill on 15 Aug 1941 for the formulation of the Atlantic Charter. En route we joined up with heavy cruiser USS Augusta in which the president was then embarked. We then joined the HMS Prince of Wales (which was sunk in Malaysian waters only four months later) in which Churchill was embarked at Argentia, Placentia Bay, Newfoundland. This was another of the British bases passed to us as payment for our transfer of 50 overaged destroyers in Sep 1940. According to author William Manchester, Placentia Bay is “one of the most desolate places in the world,” and it was from here slightly over one year later that I would fly to Boston and thence “train” to DC for my wedding.

The Atlantic Charter was a joint Anglo-American declaration of principles modeled on Wilson’s Fourteen Points and Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms. Its terms were subsequently incorporated in the first declaration of the United Nations’ charter. Was not formally signed, but merely mimeographed. As author T.R. Tehrenbach wryly observed, “Roosevelt could not yet give Churchill all he asked for – the U.S. Navy, the Air Force, and millions of American fighting men – but he could commit the power of American principle … which Churchill accepted with delight.” It was released on 14 Aug 1941 (and at virtually the same time that the U.S. Congress extended the selective service act by a mere one-vote margin.

Robert Sherwood states, “Its effect was cosmic and historic.” At the same time, and a matter of no small importance, this event marked the first face-to-face wartime conference between Roosevelt and Churchill. Churchill reported to the Lord Privy Seal, “I’m sure I have established warm and personal relations with our great friend.” It was also during this time that the Navy commenced the nighttime practice of darkening ship, which was to constitute the totally blacked-out condition of all sea-going ships until shortly after V-J Day some four years later. Somehow “darken ship” seemed a proper response to Argentia, which qualified well for Gertrude Stein’s famous description of Hollywood – “There’s no there, there!” Nevertheless, the Atlantic Charter did put Argentia on the world map for all time. It was an historic occasion.

Digital Edition Note: Jack was meticulous, as always, even in small details. In the rear fly-leaf of his personal copy of the book, there were several clippings of newspaper headlines with the construction “V-J” circled and underlined. Apparently, he struggled to assure that he was correct in writing it as “V-J” (rather than, say, VJ or V/J) and retained several sources to serve as justification for his choice.

Henceforth Tuscaloosa was ever on the move, totally absorbed by the sweep of wartime events. Immediately upon our return from Argentia we conveyed the Under Secretary of State, Sumner Welles, to a conference in Portland, ME. Pausing only briefly, Tuscaloosa then steamed northbound to overtake the first American troop convoy bound for duty in Iceland (strategically important as a great-circle viaduct from North America to England), which we had occupied on 4 Sep 1941 and which Morrison marks as the start of “a de facto state of war.” Then, with the reorganization of the Atlantic Fleet, Tuscaloosa receive new orders – assignment to a Task Group also comprising Wichita, Mississippi (BB 41), Idaho (BB 40), and New Mexico (BB 42), and two destroyer divisions. This became the “Denmark Strait Patrol.” Under the two-starred flag of RAdm. Robert Giffen, in Wichita, Tuscaloosa became an element of the “White” Patrol based out of the wind-frenzied and frozen “Valley Force, North” that was Hvalfjordur, Iceland.

Cruising northward of Iceland (since the Denmark Straits had been mined), Tuscaloosa and her consorts pounded back and forth on dull and cold patrol duty. This was truly miserable duty, and the threat of contact with and possible destruction by the enemy was perhaps the least of it. As Morrison tells it, “between Newfoundland, Greenland, and Iceland is the roughest part of the western ocean in the winter. Winds of gale force, mountainous seas, biting cold, body-piercing fog and blinding snow squalls where the rule rather than the exception. The continued rolling and pitching, coupled with the necessity for constant vigilance night and day – not only for enemy attack, but to guard against collisions with other vessels (in the formation) – wore the men down.” The so-called rest periods at Hvalfjordur … were rests merely from enemy attack, not from the weather; for, “the holding ground was bad and the weather (with fierce winds) terrible.” Amen! More often than not we had to set an underway steaming watch even in port, with steam up to the main engine throttles, and turning over the main propulsion turbines of every 20 minutes. Often we even had to sustain a few revolutions per minute on the propellers to avoid dragging anchor and being driven ashore by frigid winds and fierce currents.

The approach of war, however, was never far from our minds. We had been nearby when the destroyer Greer exchanged depth charges with unsuccessful torpedoes from the U652 on 4 Sep, when Reuben James was torpedoed and sunk with loss of American life on 31 Oct, and when the destroyer Kearney and the tanker Salinas were damaged by torpedoes in the area on 17 Oct and 30 Oct – all well before Pearl Harbor. The earlier events, taken in the overall context of the fast-deteriorating world situation, have let FDR to issue an order to “shoot (any submarine) on sight” on 4 Sep.

A short time later, on 7 Oct 1941, I had served Mass for the very first time in my life at age 23. I had long been Chaplain Mehling’s only regular weekday Mass-attender (the altar was his stateroom bunk), so we both agreed that it would be neat if I’d learn the necessary moves and Latin to assist him as server. My main job was to hold onto the candles for dear life (as he did the chalice), to prevent their being flipped by the motion and relentless rolling and pitching of the ship. On 5 Nov 1941, together with Wichita, we stripped ship with for action in response to the rumored escape of the Nazi warship Tirpitz (sister ship to the powerful Bismarck) and the Prinz Eugen from the relative safety of Norwegian fjords to threaten shipping lanes to Britain and north Russia. It was probably very lucky for us that the expected enemy foray never materialized.

During this period in late 1941 and carrying through 1942 we alternated and with other U.S. and British cruisers in monitoring the patrol in and north of the Denmark Straits against such threatened sorties by heavy units of the German navy. After all, this was the route previously taken by Bismarck and Prinz Eugen. Submarines were always active in the area, contacts by accompanying destroyers were frequent, and the ocean was never quiet, but no surface activity was encountered.

Norway-based long-range German reconnaissance planes were also a constant threat. I’ll never forget Thanksgiving Day (27 Nov 1941), when we spent the entire day responding to and securing from anti-aircraft stations. (These stations differed from “General Quarters” battle stations in that the main battery 8" turrets were not involved, the ostensible target of our 5" and 20- and 40-mm batteries being either enemy aircraft or submarines.) I remember we sat down to a turkey dinner at least half-dozen times and never once got to take bite number one. (We finally ended up eating cold turkey sandwiches at anti-aircraft stations.) A rather comic if potentially lethal aside here was our gunnery control disarray. I can remember (being sealed in the engineering spaces well below the waterline) taking great comfort in hearing our guns open up on the assumed airplanes, only to hear the gunnery dudes guffawing over wardroom coffee afterward how they totally screwed up, firing harmlessly into the water out of an anti-submarine set-up rather than shifting into an anti-aircraft set-up. Really make you feel secure – like hell!

It was also during this period that I acquired my Bluenose certificate attesting to my first crossing of the Arctic Circle on 22 Aug 1942. Actually we made eight crossings in October, 18 in November, and more in December. It was a damn cold winter. On the positive side, there were the in-port visits to the wardrooms of our British cousins at “tea” time, where one could down several warming gin-and-lime-juices. Limes, of course, had long been a seafarer’s staple – for scurvy, you know – and “the gin was added merely to make it palatable.” In any event, this practice sure beat hell out of the dull, dry wardrooms of the U.S. units. This should also explain why the Britishers are sometimes called “limeys.”

On 7 Dec 1941, some 360 Japanese planes, from six carriers which had departed the Japanese home islands on 22 Nov, shattered the Sabbath silence in a surprise attack on 86 ships anchored in sunny Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Tuscaloosa was at that historic instant resisting the dragging of its anchor during a wind-swirling snow storm at Hvalfjordur, Iceland. We were “out in the cold” in every way as Pearl Harbor was finding things very hot, indeed. It was already dark when we got the first word on returning from the evening movie in the hangar. (Daylight at that latitude that time of year is scarcely six hours long.) We had noticed a steady trek of communication-shack personnel to the C.O. in the front row throughout the movie. In fact, the C.O. and his heads of department left the hangar long before the movie was over. When we hit the wardroom, the reason was plain to see. A new bulletin board had already been installed. Its first message was a real shocker:

AIR RAID, PEARL HARBOR – THIS IS NO DRILL!

A short time later this was added:

First estimates indicate Arizona and Oklahoma sunk, possible severe damage to Nevada, California, and West Virginia. Considerable damage to several cruisers, destroyers, repair ships and amphibious craft!

There were no details, AND these critically significant statistics were sent “in the clear”! This fact alone gives a tell-tale indication of the real degree of chaos already reigning on that faraway scene – seven important capital ships out of commission within the first hour of hostilities!

The new bulletin board turned out to be a superfluous gesture. An information blackout (at first self-imposed aboard Tuscaloosa) descended almost immediately thereafter. This startling Pearl Harbor SOS turned out to be the first, last and only information about what was really going on with which we were to be favored during the entire course of the war. Thereafter, we participated in many wartime events, but we never had any idea what was going on or what we were involved in until we read about it long after the war was over. It was as reported in an earlier war by British historian Alexander Kinglake:

Each separate gathering of English soldiery went on fighting its own little battle in happy and advantageous ignorance that any great conflict was raging.

Perhaps now you’ll pardon my occasional lengthy digression into minute details. You have to understand that this very narration represents my first realization and clear understanding of what I was actually doing during those years! Only much later would we know that 2,403 Americans were killed in Hawaii that Sunday morning, while another 1,178 Americans were wounded, at a cost to the Japanese of only five torpedo bombers, one dive bomber, and three Zeros from the first of the two waves. The second wave lost an additional 14 dive bombers and six Zeros – still an amazingly cheap shot. It is edifying in the light of this tragic situation to note that of 300–400 bed patients in the Naval Hospital that day, virtually every patient able to walk had voluntarily left to return to his ship prior to the serving of evening supper! Meanwhile, Tuscaloosa fueled at midnight in a blinding snowstorm and then sat aimlessly in harbor until a “refresher cruise” was ordered on 6 Jan 1942. Thus, the net effect of an actual state of war as regards Tuscaloosa was initially a considerably more tranquil existence.

Before leaving this passing reference to events transpiring almost on the other side of the world, it might not be out of place to sum up the lessons of history on this “day that will live in infamy” (which, incidentally, it really never did become). I’ve read a very great deal of literature on the subject, including the “Monday-morning analyses” of some formidable so-called military minds. Nevertheless, the two most penetrating analyses of the tragedy have, to my mind, been the work of two civilian authors. The first is Gordon Prange, late professor of history at the University of Maryland, whose posthumously published 738-page treatise, “At Dawn We Slept,” is generally conceded to be the definitive account of Pearl Harbor. He concludes, “We cannot stress too strongly that all the American failures and shortcomings which contributed to the Japanese victory at Pearl Harbor stemmed from the root disbelief that the Japanese would undertake the risky venture.… This fundamental disbelief is the root of the whole tragedy.”

There can be no question about this. Nevertheless, I believe this evaluation might better be termed the proximate cause of the disaster. There is, I believe, a much more subtle underlying cause which one-time columnist Joseph Alsop elucidates most effectively: “What had gone wrong? The answer is beyond question. All Americans, markedly including officers of the armed services, were only too aware of the political limitations on the President’s freedom of action. Thus they made the cardinal error of supposing that the Japanese would see their own problems as those problems were seen by American eyes.” Amen!

Even as the Japanese Supreme War Council adopted a war plan on 6 Sep 1941 which provided for first, prior to a declaration of war, destruction of the U.S. Pacific Fleet,” Alsop continues, “the officers who prepared our 11 Sep 1941 estimate for the Joint Intelligence Board, and the service chiefs who signed it, and Roosevelt himself who received it, all gloomily foresaw that the President would probably be unable to respond except with gestures if the Japanese seized the rich prizes to be had in Southeast Asia and the Dutch East Indies. Hence they fully expected the Japanese to do what they were obviously able to do with near impunity. But they never expected the Japanese to make the militarily classic move of removing the American threats to their exposed Pacific flank, for they did not regard these threats as real because of the political limitations on the President” (my emphasis added). It is fascinating to observe that these political limitations still pertain as I write in late 1983. Consider the nonretaliation vis-à-vis the downing of the Korean Flight 007, and the Sunday massacre of the Marines in Beirut. (Note that day, again: Hitler’s invasion of Poland, Hitler’s invasion of Russia, the Japanese destruction of Pearl Harbor, the communist invasion of South Korea, the Beirut massacre – ALL occurred on a SUNDAY MORNING, local time!) Surely, these events all underscore the supreme lesson of Pearl Harbor – which Americans must never forget: the unexpected can and does happen! OFTEN! But, we digress.

While Tuscaloosa swung around the hook in Iceland – cooling it, you might say (I sure won’t) – things really got hot in the U.S. The draft was immediately modified. Henceforth, going military would be an “all-hands rate.” There would be no more college deferments. All men between the ages of 18 and 45 (!) were called up for “the duration (of the war) plus six months.” By war’s end, there would be fifteen million Americans in military uniform. And not only was the bugle sounding from coast to coast as we entered 1942, the clanging of General Quarters, Submarine or Anti-Aircraft Defense became a too-familiar daily refrain throughout the Atlantic and Pacific. This was to be the year of the convoy and the Battle of the Atlantic. Some 1,664 ships were lost in 1942, 1,160 of them from submarines that infested the waters in which we plied our trade in Tuscaloosa. (The USS Jacob Jones was sunk in actual sight of the good folks at Cape May, New Jersey.) That one year, 1942, we lost no less than 8 million tons of allied shipping of all varieties. Clearly, the natural elements were no longer the only or even the major enemy of seafaring men. You said your prayers every night.

The reality of the war, though, still hadn’t touched me personally in that January of 1942. I was still thinking of and expecting a future when I applied for postgraduate training in engineering that month. I was, of course, rejected, being much too junior. I frankly don’t recall any nuance of ducking out of the war being involved. It was more a case of availing myself of any opportunity to enhance my civilian salability. And I was making professional progress. In early April, I became the Senior Assistant Engineer Officer, even as I only made Lt.(jg) on the 15th of April!

Already the need to siphon off both junior and senior lieutenants to man new-construction vessels was being felt among forces afloat and was accelerating promotions. As Morison remarks, “The first four months of 1942 were the grimmest period of the war for the Allies, everywhere.” But as with the Great Depression, you couldn’t tell it by me. Thus, I was able in February to hitch a hop in one of our own SOCs (“Same Old Curtiss” pontooned biplanes) from a Norfolk overhaul to Annapolis. My pilot was shipmate Lt. “Spinner” McGee, on a routine training flight, in which he and Lt. Mike Massad spent the entire trip side-slipping close and below each other to reverse positions in a very tight formation en route to Annapolis. There I caught a Greyhound bus for a short, quick leave at home and with Kathleen. The war would go on, but it would have to wait for me.

X. MARRIAGE

Man and woman may only enter Paradise hand in hand. Together, the myth tells us, they left, and together they must return.  – R. Garnett

Manila had fallen on 2 Jan 1942, and by 11 March, MacArthur had departed RPI by motor torpedo boat for Australia, not to execute his “I shall return” until 20 Oct 1944 – a tough 2-1/2 years later! Following a Navy Yard overhaul, we joined a Task Force under RAdm. J. W. Wilcox and proceeded to barrage balloon–umbrella-ed Scapa Flow, arriving 4 April. We there came under the operational control of the Commander-in-Chief, British Home Fleet, and a British liaison unit forthwith joined our ship’s company. One bizarre feature of this adventure was that a man-overboard muster turned up the fact that it was Adm. Wilcox himself who was lost at sea during heavy weather. (The Task Force didn’t so much as pause in its journey.) He was thereupon succeeded by our own Adm. Giffen. From April to September 1942, Tuscaloosa, as an element of the Home Fleet, participated in several convoy-screening operations along the northern route to Russia, then under heavy German air, submarine, and surface pressure.

Halfway across the world, on 18 Apr 1942 (a mere 132 days after the infamous and devastating Japanese strike on Pearl Harbor!), Doolittle’s daring raid on Tokyo occurred. His 16 B-25s, each carrying one 500# bomb, took off from “Shangri-La” (in Roosevelt’s great phrase, which confounded the Japanese as to their source until after the war). Actually, they lifted off the U.S. carrier Hornet – some 688 miles off the coast of Japan – overflew Tokyo, and then proceeded another 1100 miles to friendly Chinese airfields. The surprise of the Japanese matched that of the Americans at Pearl Harbor, and not one B-25 was lost over Japan, although two pilots who splashed off the coast were caught and executed – an ugly practice in the Pacific theater which augured for the hanging of responsible officials following the war.

And, as if this imaginative venture did not in itself presage the ascendancy of aircraft-augmented vessels over mere surface craft, the battle of Coral Sea followed on 7–8 May 1942. This was the battle that effectively saved Australia (and MacArthur) from the advancing Japanese hordes, and marked the first naval conflict in which the opposing seagoing forces in fact never actually sighted each other. Clearly, the air age had arrived. Yet, as recently as December 1983, and despite the success of the Exocet missile in the 1982 Falkland Islands fracas (not to mention Japanese kamikazes of WWII as an attractive option for fanatic Middle East terrorists), the U.S. battleship New Jersey patrolled the coast of Lebanon. Apparently the lessons of military experience are most difficult to learn.

Next came the pivotal battle of Midway on 3–6 June 1942. It should be noted in passing that Japan was goaded in part to this critical overextension by the Doolittle raid. It should further be noted that the American success is attributable in part to critical foreknowledge accruing from fortuitous code-breaking by American intelligence personnel. Nevertheless, a major share of credit for this crucial American victory must still go to the planning of Admiral Nimitz, and calm, competent execution by Admiral Spruance (who had just replaced the hospitalized Admiral Halsey – whose choleric temperament might well have engendered a less fortunate outcome).

In the brief span of a mere six minutes, the tide of the Pacific war turned once and for all in favor of American forces, which thenceforth assumed the offensive. What a prophetic name for this famous turning point – Midway. This aerial victory wiped out the entire fast Japanese four-carrier task group, some 250 planes and most of their pilots, and about 2200 officers and men. The 2403 Americans lost at Pearl Harbor had been avenged. The price was some 60 American pilots, who might well be compared to the flying heroes of the Battle of Britain, and equally worthy of the paean: “Never have so many owed so much to so few.”

And even as those courageous airmen turned the tide in the Pacific, the tide had turned too on the American home front by that June of 1942. Already our industrial might was turning out destroyers in four months rather than the pre-war 12 months, and carriers were being completed in a mere 15 months rather than the earlier-required 35 months. But, you might well ask, “What was I doing about this time, and how were things going in the Atlantic?” The shortest (and perhaps the best) answer would be to reply: “Don’t ask!” Maybe you’ve already heard of PQ-17, this being merely one of the murderous convoy runs to Murmansk (one of only two absolutely ice-free ports in northern Russia). Author Robert Sherwood has remarked that “this was by all odds the most terrible of the whole war, subject as it was to attack not only by U-boats, but by surface raiders darting from Norwegian fjords and bombing planes from Norwegian air bases.”

He might well have added the danger of submersion in arctic waters, where potential survivors of sinking ships almost immediately lost all four limbs from instant frostbite (becoming, literally, basket cases) – if not actually freezing to death. Over a span of only two months in mid-1942, U-boats sank some 132 ships – sometimes getting close enough to American shores to see the glow that arose from Broadway! Eventually, a “brown-out” of the coastal “neon glow” was effected from Atlantic City to Miami amid anguished cries from merchants that “the tourist season will be ruined.” Morison remarks that this success of the U-boats in 1942 “was as much a national disaster as if saboteurs had destroyed half a dozen of our biggest war plants.” We lost 400,000 tons from 7–14 July 1942 – “a rate unexampled in this war or the last,” according to Churchill. Clearly, this wasn’t a “pacific” ocean.

This, then, was the background against which we sortied as a unit of PQ-17. In order to bait a trap for the Tirpitz, Anglo-American naval operations were mounted in an attempt to draw the German battleship out of her snowy Norwegian lair. Convoy PQ-17 was one such attempt, and it ended in disaster, even though an operational star for the area ribbon was later awarded all participants. The 34 ships comprising the convoy departed Iceland on 27 June and were spotted by German air reconnaissance on 1 July somewhat east and north of Jan Mayen Island. It was transporting 157,000 tons of vitally needed Lend-Lease war materiel.

In the late afternoon of 2 July, the battleship Tirpitz and heavy cruiser Hipper left Trondheim with 4 destroyers and 2 torpedo boats, and the next night the pocket battleships Sheer and Lutzow plus 6 more destroyers departed Narvik. Fog-reduced visibility and a treacherous following current soon resulted in the grounding of Lutzow and 3 of the destroyers – an inauspicious beginning for any operation, though the German forces were willfully braving the known hazards of a route through the fjords to avoid detection by enemy aircraft. Meanwhile British air reconnaissance had revealed the empty berths at Trondheim on the afternoon of 3 July, sounding the alarm for a possible attack on PQ-17 by heavy ships.

At this point, miscalculation took over. The Germans lost track of the British Home Fleet’s heavy covering forces and refused to venture out of the fjords. However, this development was represented, until very recently, as being unknown to the Admiralty, which accordingly expected the heavy German ships to momentarily pounce on PQ-17, or worse yet, use that threat as a shield for springing its pocket battleships into the Atlantic, there to wreak havoc on less-well-protected merchantmen. Admittedly, the Admiralty was also reluctant to expose its combatant ships unduly to land-based Ju-88 dive-bombers unless assured of a chance to engage Tirpitz. In all events, the Admiralty chickened out at 2111 on 4 July with the following order: “Most immediate. Cruiser force withdraw to westward at high speed.”

This sealed PQ-17’s fate. Shortly thereafter, orders were issued to the convoy to disperse and proceed separately to Russian ports. Meanwhile the feared German ships languished in Alten Fjord (the northernmost port from which they might launch an attack on the convoy) like chained dogs, taking to sea only the next morning upon news of the allied withdrawal and dispersal actions. In short order they sent 23 of 34 ships to the bottom and littered the floor of the Barents Sea east of Bear Island with thousands of vehicles, tanks and aircraft that comprised their priceless cargo. Once more Mahan’s dictum anent the strategic value of a fleet in being was roundly substantiated. So was bureaucratic bumbling, as we in Tuscaloosa were awarded a battle star on our European theatre emblem for our non-part in this sorry affair.

Tuscaloosa, like too many of the merchant ships she abandoned, never did make it to Russia with PQ-17, but she did survive to complete successfully a Russian run the following month, August 1942.

Digital Edition Note: In Jack’s personal copy of the book, the “August 1942” date here is underlined. All of the references to PQ-17 are marked with a highlighter pen. And there is a notation in the margins with a line drawn to one of the PQ-17 references which reads simply “27 Jun 42.” Perhaps Jack was justifying his memory of the precise date for PQ-17?

There can be no doubt – these were frightening times in the Atlantic as well as in the Pacific. An exchange of letters with my parents during July 1942 is indicative of the tenor of the times as assessed by an on-site participant. Charles Lindbergh sums up my sentiments best in his observation to the effect that war underscores values of life and death like nothing else. “The uncertainty caused an intensity of life, a deepened awareness. One truly had a greater appreciation of the moment because one sensed that each might be one’s last.” It was in this threatened frame of mind that I wrote “Dear Mom and Pop” on Saturday, 18 July 1942:

Every man likes to feel that he is individualistic – that he is different. At the same time, another common belief is that man, having a free will, does just as he pleases – and thus each man represents everything that he personally wants to be. Now there are no doubt many people who go through their entire lives believing just such things, but I hope I’m not one of them – I’ll certainly try not to be.

There are no individuals in this world, and I can prove it. An individual is a person singularly independent of all other persons – a physical entity. Now, I’ve never had a son, but I am myself a son, so I can grasp, even from this opposite scale position, some of the fundamental truths of life. Thus I perceive three aspects of life – physical, mental, and spiritual. It is a known fact that many, if not all, physical traits are hereditary – the color of the eyes, the hair, etc. To be sure, I am the very substance of my parents and, though I exist as an individual, it is only a paradox. Every time I become sick or injured, I know my parents suffer equally with me. And I know that they share my pains, for their absorbing sympathy has eased so many of them. So – I can’t possibly consider myself a physical individual.

My mental capacity is likewise a most unsingular thing. When I was a child, my mind was molded by you! You taught me infinitely more than the three R’s. And even today, my formal schooling completed, I still learn something every day from you. It’s a trite rule, but a true one – experience is the best teacher; and you have always shared your experience with me. To be sure, I’m free to make my own decisions, but there are few of them that aren’t considered in the light of the principles you have taught me. Public education is a luxury; domestic education is essential, and the influence of the latter is, in any case, the greater.

We are especially not spiritual individuals, because at baptism the Holy Spirit inherited my soul as surely as He has an option on yours. God is everywhere, and He is One; and He is in us all! Of all the things I treasure, my religion is certainly foremost – and because of your faith it was virtually a matter of birthright.

The only conclusion I can draw from the propositions so far presented is that I’m your son, and as such I owe you a debt of gratitude, respect, and love that is as yet a little beyond my means. I have so often heard people speak of their late parents “They were swell! I wish I had done a little something to repay them.” It struck me that after one’s parents are gone, it is a little late to be expressing thanks, so I thought I’d thank you now.

I must admit that I was at first confused. There is so little apparent means of showing gratitude. Anything of a material nature in the way of thanks would be insulting, so I couldn’t just give you something and call it all “square.” I thought of praying for you, and though that is a means of thanking you, we know very well that my prayers for you will be equally effective, when some direct form of thanks no longer would be. After all, the souls in purgatory have millions of laborers, and those in heaven need none. Also, a mental picture of thanks in my mind certainly won’t automatically indicate or reflect gratitude in yours. There is something I can do, though, and that is why I’ve written this letter.

First, I wish to thank you now for all the suffering, sacrificing, and all manner of enumerable hardships that you have undertaken in my behalf. I have told you that I am grateful; now I tell you I will attempt to prove it! I shall always attempt, with the grace of God, to live honestly and faithfully by the principles you have inculcated in me; and I promise always to try to conduct myself so that I shall forever be a credit to you, and to the God you introduced me to at birth.

Knowing this, I feel you cannot ever believe you have not lived successfully – whatever setbacks you yet have to face in this world. You have shown Margaret and Tom and myself the way, and now it is simply up to us. Thanks to your minute care, and your patience with drudging details, we have a correct map of life for which we all thank God every day of our lives.

My mother replied on Sunday, 23 August 1942. (Only the day before I was receiving my Blue Nose certificate for having crossed the Arctic Circle.) I offer only the initial portion responding directly to my earlier letter (as she then went on with six additional pages of purely family/neighborhood news). She wrote:

Received your nice letter of July 18th on August 18th – just a month old. And I want you to know Pop and I sure appreciate all those kind words of thanks you passed along so generously. It made us feel that our years of life together had not been spent in vain. There are many hardships in bringing up a family and there are times when there are so many problems involved it is hard to know which way to turn to solve them. I only know that I have prayed a lot for guidance to do the best at all times and sacrifice didn’t mean a thing to me – especially in my younger days – my only thought being in trying to please God and in doing what I thought was my duty. I do not feel that you owe me a thing – all that I want is a little love and respect in return. Also, I must say I feel amply repaid by bringing up three good kids for the honor and glory of God. I think I have three exceptional children (not because they are mine) but from accounts from all who know them, and I think I have just cause to be proud of them and I am especially proud of their religious fervor in regard to duties. I only hope and trust the three of you will always remain as you are now and never stray from the path upon which I started you. Of course we all have our faults – no one of us is perfect, but we can strive to do better ourselves and lend a helping hand to others who are still struggling. There have been lots of times I have felt that I was a failure and have not done enough, but I must admit I did find lots of consolation in your letter and feel that maybe I have been of some use after all.

Pop replied five days later on Friday, 28 Aug 1942, thus:

It was a great pleasure for your mother and me to receive your letter of 18 July. It is in the nature of things that parents should spend themselves and their resources in trying to fit their children to fight the battle of life and their greatest reward is to find that their efforts have not been in vain.

You would be wrong in saying that there are no individuals in this world. Everyone is different from everyone else. No two persons are precisely alike, even identical twins. But you are right in what I believe you meant by that phrase, namely, that man is a social animal and normally (that is, unless for high spiritual motives he lives the life of an eremite) requires the aid and association with other men.

You are right in saying there are three sides to life (physical, mental and spiritual), but you would be wrong if you were to assert that the individual plays no part in the development of those three sides. It is true that from your parents’ physical bodies, through the mystery of the creative act of God, you receive in your body certain aptitudes or potentialities for physical perfections or defects, but the realization of these potentialities depends on a number of factors exclusive to the individual, such as food, environment, exercise and the like; otherwise the children of the same parents, being treated alike and from a common origin, would develop the same (which they do not). Blind parents would have blind children; perfect physical specimens would have perfect physical offspring. What you mean is probably that children, because they spring from the flesh and blood of their parents, have a special social tie, and empathy that identifies to a certain extent their mutual sufferings.

With regard to the mental element, of course the cast of a child’s thinking is molded in large measure by the influence of home. But here again this is not the entire picture. At school and at play and in all the social contacts outside the home, there are influences which at times support and at times frustrate the influence of the home. Perhaps you would say that the experience outside the home is but the application of principles learned inside the home. This is quite true to a certain extent, but here again you hit the nail on the head without apparently realizing its full import, when you said that you are free to make your own decisions. Herein is the importance of the individual himself. Otherwise there would be no bad children of good parents. Of course, as you say, the influence of the home is greater, especially in the early formative years, and more lasting, especially where the lessons of home have been well learned.

With regard to the spiritual element, you are right in saying that at baptism the Holy Spirit inherited your soul and that because your parents happened to be Catholics it was virtually a matter of birthright. But the retention of that birthright after you reach maturity rests entirely upon you. Otherwise how do you account for defections and apostasies of children of Catholic parents?

So while we appreciate your feeling a debt of gratitude, respect and love, this is merely for giving you the start in the right direction to the best of our ability. We owe you reciprocally gratitude and love because you have grasped the torch which we handed you and are carrying it forward in the right direction. While we are naturally delighted to have you express such feeling toward us now, you may rest assured that our greatest delight will come from your always conducting yourself to all men as befits your knowledge of the purpose of creation. I remember once talking to Mr. Barnum, who had done innumerable favors for me, and I asked him how could I ever repay him for all he had done. He replied that the best way I could show my appreciation to him was to pass the spirit of his favors on to others. I have never forgotten what he said. It made an indelible impression on me. So I pass this same thought on to you. In this connection, I hope you will read The Catholic Pattern by Thomas F. Woodlock, the book which Kathleen has sent you. The first half sums up in a hundred pages in a very able fashion your philosophy of life and mine. The second half demonstrates how this pattern offers an explanation for the mess we are in in the world and what is necessary to correct it. In the latter the individual plays but an infinitesimal part, but remember how the Lilliputians were able to tie down the huge Gulliver and you will not feel hopeless in doing what you can and in inducing others to participate. And in your relations with others, I do not mean that you should be superior and condescending or argumentative just for the sake of argument, much less bigoted, like some Catholics we know who are more Catholic than the Pope and display such intolerance as would put one to shame, but act in the realization that to be Catholic one must be catholic, intolerant of error but tolerant of those in error who through some chance have not had the good fortune and blessing of the faith. My own reading of Woodlock’s book has induced me to start reading Father Walter Farrell’s Companion to the Summa. It will be in four volumes, three of which have already appeared. I am reading the first volume now, about fifteen pages every night. If you like Woodlock and would like to read Farrell, let me know and Kathleen and I between us will see that they reach you.

Of course all this is like carrying coals to Newcastle, especially after reading your letter, but I wanted you to know how pleased we were to receive it. Your mother prays for you (as well as Margaret and Tom) constantly. In my Mass petitions is one special one for the three of you that you may select a life work and a life mate consistent with the maximum happiness in this world and salvation in the next. You do not hear often from me, but you must know that I read all the letters your mother writes and frequently suggest items for her to include. May God bless you and watch over you and keep you to do what is in His holy plan! May all good things be yours!

I confess a great serenity descended upon and enveloped me after this exchange of letters. I experienced the peace that comes with the feeling of having “closed the gap” or having “completed the circuit.” I felt totally comfortable knowing that my folks forever after would know precisely how I felt about them, come what may. And things weren’t long in “coming.” Even as the foregoing letters were winging back and forth, U.S. Marines struck Guadalcanal on 7 August – an event which, I’m sure, sent many Americans to the book stores in search of an atlas. Where was Guadalcanal, for chrissakes? On 12 August we lost the three sister ships of the Tuscaloosa at the battle of Savo Island, which I have alluded to earlier. Meanwhile Tuscaloosa herself was off again to Russia through sub-infested waters about 15 Aug 1942.

The first day out, and after almost immediate sighting by a German long-range aircraft, we were fortunately forced to turn back due to the outbreak of a case with the symptoms of spinal meningitis. The entire crew was canvassed for symptoms, the sick man was put ashore, and we were soon once again departing Seidisfjord, Iceland, for the Kola Gulf on 19 Aug 1942. We were transporting aerial torpedoes, ammunition, medical equipment, and large supplies of other critical stores and Allied personnel. Tuscaloosa was screened by destroyers Rodman and Emmons, with this small American contingent augmented by HMS Onslaught. This time we were favored by terrible visibility and thus remained undetected by German air patrols.

In the evening of the 22nd we rendezvoused with HMS Marne and HMS Martin, which thereupon joined the task group. On the afternoon of the 23rd, a Russian destroyer met and escorted the group into Kola Inlet, where Tuscaloosa secured alongside a dock at 2000. (We thus became one of the very few U.S. ships to merit a Pacific-area campaign ribbon by having entered the area by heading east! There, and within 25 miles of a German air base, all deck hands turned to furiously unloading stores. The black gang was just as eagerly engaged in refueling. Some interesting sidelights were the sailors passing off brightly packaged soap as candy bars in exchange for souvenir rubles, and Russian officers directing their refueling crews with drawn pistols. Just prior to departure, Tuscaloosa embarked 243 passengers, most of whom were survivors of ships attached to previous north Russian convoys which hadn’t fared so well. The passenger manifest even included a number who had endured the peculiar tribulations and special agony of PQ-17. There were 35 “basket cases,” which were berthed in the airplane hangar. I sadly confess I couldn’t even bring myself to pass through the hangar en route back to Iceland lest I have to confront these pitiful youngsters. We departed Kola Gulf on 24 Aug after an all-night, around-the-clock workout.

In the afternoon of the 25th, acting on Admiralty advice received while still east of Bear Island, HMS Onslaught, Marne, and Martin were detached from the group to make a sweep of that island, while the main body of the group continued on to the northward. The British destroyers discovered a German submarine supply vessel, ULM, and after a brief engagement sank it by gunfire, recovering numerous prisoners. As a result of radio reports by the ULM and sighting by German reconnaissance aircraft, a formation of enemy planes appeared in search of Allied ships. Due to the prevailing low visibility, both groups of ships happily eluded them. Tuscaloosa was sighted and shadowed by enemy long-range seaplanes through the morning and during part of the afternoon of the 26th, but only the first plane’s probable relief appeared. The latter was lost to sight shortly after Emmons fired on it, placing bursts very close. HMS Onslaught, Marne, and Martin rejoined later that afternoon and the entire task group arrived at Seidisfjord on the 28th without further incident.

After a brief stop at the mouth of the River Clyde to disembark our British contingent, we were detached from the Home Fleet, at last, and proceeded via Hvalfjordur, Iceland, to a routine overhaul at Boston Naval Shipyard, thus completing our arduous Atlantic patrols.

We were still at war, of course, and were even in process of negotiating the perilous north Atlantic, but my heart and mind were now almost exclusively with Kathleen back in D.C. In this interim I had become eligible according to naval regulations to get married. I well remember coming off watch (out of the depths of the torrid engineering spaces) in the dark of night and proceeding topside for a brief moment of cooling refreshment. I’d look up at the golden moon and reflect how somewhere over the horizon at that very moment Kathleen could be beholding the same scene, and so the moon was indeed a proper symbol for linking lovers. (Later, in the so-called Pacific, I’d behold the same moon linking me to my stateside family, and then consider how beyond the horizon to the west even then danger was lurking in the form of Japanese fanatics who sought nothing else than our utter destruction. Yet the moon sped on through peaceful cloud-etched skies. But, enough dreaming.)

En route to Boston my boss, the Chief Engineer, Cdr. Slavin, got ashore briefly at Argentia. It was long enough for him to arrange air passage for me via the Air Force to Boston, there to entrain for Washington. I also had him send a telegram to my father, asking that he contact Kathleen and ask her to set a fast marriage in motion.

To say that my sending this caveat via my father rather than directly to Kathleen didn’t precipitate at least a mild fit of pique would be somewhat inaccurate. She was put out, but only momentarily. Naturally, I had my reasons. To begin with, although our engagement had at long last been published in the Post on 8 May 1942, I had never spoken of marriage to her folks. Furthermore, I still (rightly or wrongly) regarded her mother as formidably proper if not somewhat hostile. As to her father, I regarded him as so absorbed in church work as to seemingly be more or less oblivious to me and (certainly relative to Mrs. Kirk) unaware of the doings within his own family. Hence I assumed all decision in the matter would reside in Mrs. Kirk, and I didn’t want Kathleen to have to take on any potential pleas for delay alone.

Further, I felt my father was perhaps the most persuasive adult I knew and, in the event of any difficulties with my proposition vis-à-vis Mr. or Mrs. Kirk, or necessity for circumventing civil or ecclesiastical red tape, I wanted him on hand from the outset. Keep in mind that the Kirks not only (and correctly, of course) regarded marriage as a most critical life event, there was the consideration of the added complexities attending wartime marriages. Remember, too, I had been away a rather long time, and exposed to danger. So, sorry, Kathleen, I still think I proceeded in the most intelligent manner possible under the circumstances.

In any event, I arrived in Washington on a Thursday evening, barely more than 24 working hours before the marriage set for 10 AM, Monday, 14 Sep 1942. Once over her initial fit of pique, Kathleen confesses,

From then on I was just sort of floating – overwhelmed with delight that we were getting married at last. It seemed that everyone else (my parents and yours) made all the decisions, but I didn’t care – went along with all their ideas and suggestions. First, your Pop went with me to get the license and blood test – I don’t remember what you did about a blood test [nor do I!]. Then mother and I went to Garfinkels – the only time I have ever shopped like a rich person. We explained the situation and they took us to a very fancy fitting room and brought everything to us – suits, dresses, underwear, blouses, even shoes and luggage. The only thing we had to leave the room for was to order the announcements.

Last picture as a single man

Of course, the very first thing I did was call work [the Federal Public Housing Authority where she labored as a CAF-7, Junior Fiscal Accountant, for $2000 per year] and tell them to put me on indefinite leave. Then there was the procedure (dispensation from the waiting period) which had to be arranged at church. At this time St. Anthony’s church was in the process of renovation and was full of scaffolding, so we (someone, probably your Pop) arranged for us to be married at St. Martin’s. Because of the time element all guests had to be invited by phone, but I have no idea who did all this. I was amazed that so many people did come on such short notice, and on a workday Monday morning at that! Also Mother arranged for the reception at the then-very-chic Wardman Park Hotel just off Connecticut Avenue. I vaguely remember going there with her, likewise arranging for a limousine and a photographer.

Now that I think of it, all this must have been quite an expense for my folks, but at the time I never gave it a thought. (We started our 40th wedding anniversary party, you may remember, by belatedly thanking my father for our “first” reception.) Our nuptial mass was celebrated by Fr. James P. Grace, then assistant pastor of St. Anthony’s and later pastor, until his death, at St. Camillus in White Oak. The choir of St. Paul’s College provided the music – Gregorian Chant, from the proper for the Blessed Virgin Mary. The papers reported that I wore a suit of blue chiffon velvet (which several of our daughters have since worn) with dubonnet accessories and a corsage of white orchids. [Your author, of course, wore the uniform of a Lieutenant, j.g., U.S. Navy.] My sister, Lucille, was maid of honor and Uncle Tom was best man. My cousin, Kirk Krutsch [whom we now visit in Largo, Florida], Uncle Jimmy, and a mutual high school classmate, Tom Walsh, were the ushers. Newspaper accounts report that I’d be living temporarily with my parents after my husband rejoined his ship on 9 October 1942.

It’s all over now! 14 Sep 1942

Flanked by Kirk Krutsch and Tom Walsh

So we were married at last – on a beautifully bright and warm early fall day, much like the one Pat and George got married on in Boston many years later. I personally have only one recollection of the hectic period between my arrival in town on Thursday evening and the wedding on Monday morning. I still recall my frustration and impatience over my father insisting that I interrupt my shaving the night before the wedding to listen to some radio comedy show he was enjoying. Naturally my mind was otherwise preoccupied, and I finally begged off – to his evident hurt. He had only wanted to share enjoyment. As to the wedding itself, I have not one single memory. I first “came to” in a private parlor in the Wardman Park Hotel, which had been reserved for Kathleen and my private sausage and biscuit breakfast (between the wedding and the reception). It was our first moment alone as husband and wife, and our act would have earned something between a PG and R rating. As to the reception, I couldn’t have cared less. All I wanted to do was catch our plane and be off to our brief New York honeymoon. I kept insisting from the start that we had stayed long enough, and in fact we finally did leave, I’m sure, much too early.

Leaving Wardman Park reception for NYC honeymoon

Our trip to New York was in a DC-3, out of Hoover Airfield (Washington National didn’t exist then) at the western end of the old 14th Street bridge. The only event worth mentioning was our mutual delight at the hostess being the first person to address Kathleen as “Mrs. Wright.” Our reception in New York was at best a mini-disaster. I’d neglected to make any reservation, and rooms were mighty hard to come by during the war. We ended up with a bathroomless broom closet in the Hotel Taft. Luckily, my buddy, John McCarthy, who missed the wedding in virtue of the Army’s prior claim on his services elsewhere, sent a congratulatory telegram to us at the Taft. Thus, the next morning, the hotel management was almost apoplectic with apology, and forthwith they moved us to a suite (large bedroom, sitting room and kitchenette) at the nearby and substantially more ritzy Hotel Warwick – for FREE. We immediately stocked meals from the world-famous 8th Avenue Delis. Believe me, soldiers and sailors – especially those on fleeting honeymoon respites – really knew the meaning of RHIP (rank has its privileges) in wartime NYC! Thus, too, when we went to dinner at the Hotel New Yorker the next night to dance to Johnny Long (of Shanty in Old Shantytown fame) and watch the Ice Capades, we were ushered around a long line to a ringside seat, and (because, as I remember, Kathleen was still sporting her corsage) got a newlywed salute from the band.

Another night we covered the jazz spots on 52nd Street. There, within 50 steps of each other were John Kirby at the Onyx Club, Woody Herman at the Hickory House, and Count Basie (still featuring Lester Young) at The Famous Door. Immediately across the street were Jimmy McPartland at Jimmy Ryan’s Bar and the King Cole Trio plus Billie Holiday at Kelly’s Stable. Still another night, we joined several couples of shipmates at the Cafe Society Uptown to check out Hazel Scott at the organ and the Golden Gate Quartet (then featuring Stalin Wasn’t Stalling). Bing Crosby (without toupee) was in a group at the next table. We got so wild they almost threw us out. We took the bunch back to our Warwick Hotel “drawing room” for a snack and nightcap. They were amazed that we could afford such luxury. (We never told them how.)

Still another night, Kathleen and I literally “took the A-train” to 125th street and then strolled after dark through Harlem to the Cotton Club, where we shared a table with another couple (black). We watched Cab Calloway and a featured ex-gospel singer, Sister Rosetta Tharp, whose wailing of a song called And It Made Him Mad entranced me so much that I tried unsuccessfully for years afterward to find a recording.

Digital Edition Note: Now that we can search on line, Martha did. Could find nothing like this from Sister Rosetta, but iTunes has several versions of “Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad,” which may well be the song.

We even stopped by the Savoy Ballroom where Chick Webb alternated with Al Cooper’s “Savoy Sultans.” Finally we took in the zany Olsen and Johnson madhouse stage show Hellzapoppin! (They had stunts where audience participants received live chickens and 10-pound blocks of naked ice as awards, and doused the lights and dropped “snakes” from the ceiling. Also, when a baby started crying in the rear, Olsen begged someone to rock it to sleep, even as Johnson wound up and heaved something toward a cringing audience while announcing, “And here’s a rock!” Quite some show.) Quite some honeymoon!

Then it was back to the war. On 1 Oct 1942 I made full Lieutenant. On 23 Oct 1942 we sortied from Norfolk, thence to rendezvous off Bermuda. The next morning we awoke to the most stirring sight I was ever to witness – we were stark in the middle of 800 horizon-to-horizon ships! Awesome! (Some 1400 ships would later assault Sicily, and 5000 were employed on D-Day.) We were a unit of Operation Torch – the Allied landing in Africa. Some 107 “sail” comprised our force, which ultimately split off for the northwestern coast of Africa from Mehedia to Safi. This, in what then was French Morocco, constituted the first ship-to-shore continent-to-continent landing in history, and came, it should be noted, exactly eleven months after the disaster at Pearl Harbor. The Western segment of Torch (which comprised wholly U.S. forces) involved northern, central and southern units, and included some 25,000 troops under Major General George Patton. (Eisenhower was Commander-in-Chief of Allied forces.) Tuscaloosa was an element of the central force under Admiral Ike Giffen, which included the battleship Massachusetts and heavy cruiser Wichita.

At 0700 on 8 Nov 1942 (on the so typical American code phrase of “Play Ball!”) we opened up on the four 8-inch coast defense guns of El Hank Battery near the Casablanca lighthouse, which were augmented by the 15-inch gun of the French battleship Jean Bart, immobilized in the harbor. Morison reports that the American gunfire was faster, heavier, and more accurate. You couldn’t prove it by me. I was again battened-up below decks, but this time I was at least above the waterline. To improve the probability of a qualified survivor, the Chief Engineer kept station at main engine control in the forward engine room. The Asst. Chief Engineer (me) accordingly kept station at Engineering Repair (which was Repair 5 in Tuscaloosa) with my specific location being in the Oil King’s shack amidships on the outboard starboard side of the second deck – which put me above both the waterline and the armored deck. There I sat out the battle with Chief Watertender Red Hanrahan, and the main propulsion maneuvering phone circuit talker.

Hanrahan was an extremely savvy Oil King. In battle, his main function was to assure a continuous supply of good (undiluted by sea water) fuel out to the steaming boilers, all eight of which were on line at GQ. Otherwise his function was to maintain fuel and fresh feed water inventory, assure full tanks were always on suction to steaming boilers, and transfer oil and flood empty tanks with salt water to maintain an even keel and preclude any quick or drastic list should an unballasted tank suddenly be opened to the sea by a gun-hit, mine or torpedo. He was also the most involved and responsible person in fueling ship, in harbor or at sea. It’s safe to say that the Oil King was customarily the smartest enlisted rating in the black gang. Hanrahan was certainly no exception.

Digital Edition Note: In no way meant to be derogatory, the term “black gang” refers to the boiler-room crew, so-called because they were historically covered with black coal dust from shoveling it into the boiler fire boxes of a ship.

I can still remember our exchange of white-faced stares when our topside smoke watch exclaimed over the 1JV phone (maneuvering circuit), “Jesus! A 15-inch shell from Jean Bart just pierced the colors just forward of #1 stack!” Also, Tuscaloosa “was forced to maneuver to avoid a torpedo fired by a French submarine near the beach, which swept down the port side not over fifteen feet away.” So reads the bland official history of Tuscaloosa. I can assure you – it’s something else to actually hear the warning cry, “Torpedoes approaching, port side!” when you’re buttoned up below decks. I can remember sinking to the floor on my rump and hoisting my legs from the deck by grasping my knees. Battle reports were replete with data on broken ankles of those caught standing when torpedoes struck. Still Wichita took the only hit, from El Hank, which wounded 14 men.

Eventually we sank most of the French fleet while planes from Ranger (“Teaspoon”) rocked enemy tanks ashore. We broke off the action at 1145. Patton’s troops encountered little resistance ashore, and a ceasefire was issued from Marshal Petain at Vichy on 11 November. Herman Wouk says of this fray: “… Perhaps never before had oceans borne such a force: aircraft, battleships, cruisers, troop transports, and newfangled landing craft crammed full of small craft, tanks, trucks, and mobile guns; also destroyers, minecraft, submarines, and assorted supply vessels; from several directions, in far-flung formations, these warships of frowning shapes and many sizes, painted gray or in gaudy camouflage colors, were crawling the watery curve of the planet.… It was the largest, most difficult, most successful long-distance sea-borne invasion in history.”

Newspaper article about the naval battle off Casablanca, November 8, 1942

Digital Edition Note: The above copy of the article shows Jack’s hand written markings. The text of the article reads:

First Eyewitness Story Of Victory at Casablanca
U. S. Navy's Biggest Achievement Since Spanish-American War

WITH THE ATLANTIC FLEET, ABOARD A FLAGSHIP, OFF CASABLANCA, Nov. 8 (Delayed). Hostile French aircraft appeared like a swarm of hornets in the pale dawn sky today, and a few minutes later you were in the midst of a panoramic naval battle.

You stood there on the flying bridge, and, like your shipmates, hoped the French would not fight. None of you were afraid, but the suspense spawned a strange nervous tension that gnawed you inwardly.

You waited and wondered whether the next moment would bring French shells screaming at your ship. You reached into your emergency rations for a stick of chewing gum to keep your mouth from drying up during the intense delay.

Then it all happened—

Their planes sputtering fire at ours … The rattle and boom of our antiaircraft guns rising in angry crescendo … shells from the French battleship, Jean Bart, screaming overhead and mushrooming gigantic geysers.

You have seen America’s greatest sea victory in the Atlantic since the days of Sampson and Schley.

Your ship, bearing the flag of Rear Admiral Robert C. Giffen, directed the fight and was in the thick of it all the way. You are tired and nearly limp from lack of sleep and the strain of battle.

The events started when a clarion call to general quarters came over the loudspeaker system sometime after the 4 a.m. breakfast.

At 5:45 a.m. you grabbed the day's emergency rations—a can of sardines, a bar of candy and a pack of chewing sum—and stuffed them into your gas mask bag, then hurried up the nearest ladder to the flag deck, adjusting your steel helmet as you went. You lugged along a kapok life jacket—just in case.

Admiral Giffen already was on the flag deck—he’d been there since 4:30 a.m., after a hasty breakfast of beans and coffee.

The French had not shown the designated symbol of friendship. Fighting already had broken out in near-by areas where our troops landed.

"Looks like they may fire a few at us," the admiral commented.

Admiral Giffen, tall, heavy-set and wearing a soft brown sweater over his Navy khaki, was the picture of a fighting man deliberately calm on the brink of battle.

Admiral Exposed to Fire

The admiral, his lieutenant, chief signalman and marine orderly climbed to the flying bridge. It is exposed on all sides to bullets, shrapnel and shell.

You stood there while the flagship led a column of two other vessels closer and closer to this date with destiny.

It was 6:30 when the admiral sent planes into the sky for a reconnaissance over Casablanca.

You looked up in time to see French fighter planes roaring down our observation craft. A brief dog fight ensued. One of our flyers was forced to land in the water, but one of the Frenchmen went down in a smoking tailspin and crashed into the sea.

Our ack-ack opened up. The French flew away.

Admiral Giffen meanwhile refused to open-fire upon the harbor …as ordered only to protect American troop ships from attack by French war vessels.

Moments later you heard the eerie scream of a shell. It plunged into the water uncomfortably close. Another fell on the opposite side. The Jean Bart had opened fire. It was 7:03 a.m.

Fight Starts

Another flash brightened the shore line as French shore batteries swung into action.

Admiral Giffen was roaring out orders.

“Play ball!” He exclaimed. This was the secret signal for American ships to open fire.

A terrific explosion nearly rocked you to the deck as your forward belched shells from all guns.

Jarring repercussions of the salvo snatched away your note book.

You saw smoke boiling out of the harbor. Someone said the Bart was afire, but just then a lookout pointed to port side, announcing the approach of a torpedo plane. A destroyer unleashed its guns and the plane wheeled away without dropping its torpedo.

Shore batteries continued pounding at us, but fire control, meanwhile, received a report that the Bart had been hit and had ceased firing. It was 8:04 a.m.

Our ships then laid a concentrated bombardment on the shore emplacements.

Minutes later a kid blurted out a report from our observation planes. Units of the French fleet—submarines, a cruiser of the Primagauget class, at least two light cruisers and three destroyers—were steaming out from Casablanca apparently headed northward to attack our troop ships.

What followed was a flame of compact action.

Admiral Giffen strided about the deck in a near sprint, snapping orders, bellowing encouragement to the men about him.

"Keep firing!" he said, and once yelled out: "Let them have it! Pour it on them! "

Suddenly, you heard a new note in the loud, crashing symphony of battle. A shell thudded into the armor plating on the forward deck, and shrapnel clattered across the steel like a thousand dice tossed on tin roof. A repair party reported that damage was slight. You were happy without reasoning why.

At 9:48, the fire control tower reported two French destroyer leaders or light cruisers had been hit. One of the French ships was down by the stern. Another had sunk. Loss of life must have been tremendous. There was no time to rescue survivors.

A lookout then screamed:

“Torpedoes approaching off port bow!"

Torpedoes !

A swift turn to port. You saw the "tin fish" approaching—four of them—two thousand yards from the port side. They looked like tey’d hit before we could extricate ourselves from that fast, dizzy turn.

“Stand by for torpedoes …”

You fell to the deck to brace yourself for the blast.

You waited. They went past—one to the starboard, three to port.

The French were continuing a game but losing battle.

Our main batteries now were hammering hard at the Frenchmen. The ships behind were closing in for the kill.

The French ships soon had the range. Their salvoes repeatedly bracketed our beam. Their shells were dyed, the accuracy of their shots being determined by the colors of the splashes.

Our guns - boomed again, and the hapless foe was ensnared in a withering cross-fire.

With at least two of their number sunk and others badly damaged, the French vessels, in a few more salvoes, had their fill.

We closed in.

One of the shells whined against the main deck aft and sprayed its splinters into the thick iron bulkhead on a deck above.

Another French destroyer took the count. It was 2:05 p.m., however, before the depleted foe withdrew and staggered under the protection of shore batteries which had opened up anew.

November 8, it can be revealed today following surrender of the strategic French Moroccan port.

Regarded as the most important American triumph in the Atlantic since the Spanish-American War, the sweeping victory forced capitulation of Casablanca and smashed the focal point of resistance to American occupation of northwest Africa.

Dreadnaught Bart And 9 Warships Sunk

WITH ATLANTIC FLEET, ON PATROL OFF CASABLANCA, Nov. 11 (Delayed); (I.N.S), —Atlantic fleet units destroyed or damaged at least 10 French warships in a surface battle off Casablanca Sunday.

Well, at least I was there. But, by 26 November, Kathleen and I were once again ensconced together, this time in a room at the Bellevue-Stratford atop Boston’s Beacon Hill. We celebrated the evening of 27 November in the lower-floor Melody Lounge of the Coconut Grove night club, which featured jazzy black singer-pianist Rose “Chi-Chi” Murphy. I raved about her all the next day to my two shipboard roommates, Marine Lt. Walt Goodpasture (married to Mary Daly two days) and reserve Ensign Barney Ireland. All three perished the next night, 28 Nov 1942, in the historic Coconut Grove fire, which claimed 49l lives! We were alerted to the tragedy when our ship conducted a phoned bed-check to the Bellevue-Stratford around midnight.

Think of it. Casablanca 0: Coconut Grove 3! The tragedy occurred on the Saturday night of the day on which Holy Cross upset Boston College 55-12. The Boston College team accordingly canceled its reservation for a victory dinner celebration at the Coconut Grove. Talk about providential intervention! The fire started at 1008, and the first fire engines arrived (from another nearby fire scene) by 1012. Nevertheless, by 1020, in the span of a devastating 12-minute holocaust, 491 lives were snuffed out and an additional 200 were injured. Among the latter was cowboy movie star Buck Jones, in town for a war bond rally, who died 2 days later.

The first victims arrived at the nearest hospital by 1035. There another providential intervention was reflected in the availability of the full staff – thanks to all hands being present for a Thanksgiving party. Most deaths occurred due to inhalation of smoke and superheated air. It was all over by 1110, when first re-entry was effected a mere one hour and 10 minutes later. The main reason for the incredible carnage was that the ONLY free exit was a revolving door, which was rendered inoperative by panic-driven celebrators simultaneously charging both sides of the door. Bodies were piled three and four deep there, and on the single narrow stairway leading up from the Melody Lounge where we had been the night before. Post-fire inspection revealed all other exits to be double-locked, and one was even welded shut.

The next day, it was almost impossible to find a public place to eat. Every restaurant and club had been shut down by a citywide ordinance to enable checking of compliance with safety regulations. In fact, new regulations were immediately introduced. Henceforth there had to be emergency power supply to exit signs, all exit doors had to open outward and revolving doors had to be fitted with collapsible hinges in the opposite direction, all decorations had to be fire-proofed, etc. So, once again the barn was locked after the escape of the horse. Still, you can bet that anybody who was associated as closely with the Coconut Grove disaster as we were still checks the exits immediately upon settling in any public area even to this day!

Again, life and the war went on. On 2 Dec 1942, the first successful atomic chain reaction was accomplished at Chicago. On 2 Feb 1943, the Germans were finally stopped short at Stalingrad, marking the turn of the tide of the war in Europe. By 9 Feb 1943, the uphill struggle begun on Guadalcanal on 7 Aug 1942 was completed as the island was swept clean of Japanese, thereby signaling that the allies were in the far Pacific to stay. Meanwhile, I was still looking ahead. On 12 Feb 1943, I submitted my second request for postgraduate training. This application was buttressed considerably by the personal action of my then Commanding Officer, Captain Norman C. Gillette. First of all, Captain Gillette endorsed my request for PG school as follows:

1. Forwarded, strongly recommending approval.

2. Lt. Wright’s reports of fitness amply prove him qualified for postgraduate instruction. His low class standing (traditionally you had to be in the top 25% of your class, and I was in the bottom 3.7%) is considered no criterion of his intelligence, application, and ability.

Lt. Wright is an outstanding officer. Although only having 2 and 1/2 years of commissioned service, the entire time has been in the Engineering Department of this vessel where he has performed his duties in an outstanding manner and for the past 10 months has most ably filled the billet of Assistant Engineer Officer, an assignment which would normally be filled by a much more senior officer. I would be especially desirous of having him serve under me in wartime.

In addition to this, Captain Gillette appended a handwritten postscript to my typed fitness report covering the period 1 Jan to 20 Apr 1943. My immediate boss and the author of this fitness report, the Chief Engineer, stated merely, “Took part in engagement with French Naval Forces and shore batteries at Casablanca, Morocco, on 8 November 1942. Conducted himself in accordance with best tradition of Naval Service.” To this Captain Gillette hand-scrawled, “Same for several Murmansk convoys. Excellent personal and military character. As Senior Assistant Engineer Officer he has performed his duties in an excellent manner which is especially noteworthy considering his age and experience. Recommended for promotion.” These credentials apparently carried the day, for I was indeed selected for PG training, and thus landed 1-1/2 years shore duty with my new wife less than 40 miles from our parents’ homes at the very height of the war. How did I feel about such a chicken development? Simply great!

But I wasn’t out of it yet. As Morison has said, “The battle of the Atlantic came to a head in 1943. The Germans concentrated under Doenitz on producing more and better U-boats and new types which could submerge for long periods. The number operating in the Atlantic more than doubled, and their effectiveness was increased by sending supply subs – ‘milch cows’ – enabling replenishment without returning to France. Few outside the two navies (British and American) and merchant marines realized how serious the situation had become in Mar 1943. The U-boats … sank 108 ships that month, totaling 627,000 tons.… So many U-boats were at sea (an average of 116 operating daily in the North Atlantic) that evasive action was futile.…” The big question in mid-1943 was whether existing U-boat types could be mastered in time to enable America to get enough men and weapons across to beat Germany before the new U-boats got into production.”

All was saved by a dramatic reverse of fortune in the anti-submarine war in Apr and May. By Dec 1942 some 260 new DEs were in commission, and by Mar 1943 the first CVE (capable of operating 24 planes) was in service. Nor was that the whole story. A book review in the 19 Jun 1978 Newsweek pinpoints the coup de grace thus: “Suddenly the U-boats became Germany’s last hope of survival. What extinguished it is one of history’s choice ironies: a staggering 85% of the Wehrmacht submarine fleet succumbed to the Allies’ new radar, reconnaissance and targeting mechanisms because the exodus of talent from Hitler’s regime had brought German technological development to a standstill. To the submarine crews, these new Allied technologies were mystifying. ‘It was as though the sea was suddenly of glass,’ writes German historian Michael Salewski.” Tough rockos, Adolph!

Digital Edition Note: “DE” means Destroyer Escort; “CVE” means Aircraft Carrier Escort.

So the tide turned. Much of this time Tuscaloosa operated off the east coast on training exercises, at the same time serving as an element of a fast, mobile striking force ready for any eventuality – as, for example, a breakthrough by a German surface raider. In late May Tuscaloosa escorted RMS Queen Mary, which bore Prime Minister Churchill to a New York meeting with FDR. The only other contribution I made during this period (and one I continue to this day) was incident to the pay-as-you-go income taxes initiated by the withholding law of 10 Jun 1942.

Tuscaloosa hangar show 5/43

Digital Edition Note: The caption in the original book enumerates the cast of the show:

MC = Prof Fizz – the Author
Oracle – Ensign Hickman
Prof Fuzz – Ensign McGee

Crew reaction – Made DC Sunday paper

Picture from Washington Star, August 29, 1943

Digital Edition Note: The caption in the newspaper read “A good laugh eases war tension at sea. These sailors and officers are enjoying one at a shipboard entertainment that has put the worries and dangers of war in the background. Captain J. B. W. Waller (center) joins the merriment.”

Jack’s handwritten note in his personal copy of the book indicates USS Tuscaloosa – Papa on stage 5-15-43 indicating the picture was published more than three months after it was taken.

On 22 Jun I was detached from Tuscaloosa with orders to report to Annapolis for postgraduate training on 27 Jul 1943. This was as it should be. Morison attests, “There is no denying that the submarine was the greatest threat to Allied victory over the Axis.” He then adds, “The graph of Allied and neutral merchant ship losses was overtaken by that of new construction in Jul 1943, and the two never converged again.” Clearly, my job in the Atlantic was completed. I now looked forward to a stint ashore (ostensibly to study engineering in depth, actually to start begetting a family in earnest). Even so, I also looked back fondly to Tuscaloosa and her splendid crew.

Tuscaloosa was to go on to pound the beaches at Normandy on D-Day, 6 Jun 1944; to bombard the Bitter Rock better known as Iwo Jima in Feb of 1945; and to splash two kamikazes at Okinawa on Palm Sunday, 25 Mar 1945. She rightfully claimed “a charmed life” throughout WWII, and on Thursday, 29 Nov 1945, she crossed the International Date Line, homeward bound as part of the “Magic Carpet” returning veterans to the States. She thus finally enjoyed two Thanksgivings (advanced a week in 1939–40–41 by FDR to aid Christmas sales) in a row, thereby atoning at last for the miserable one we suffered on 20 Nov 1941. She made yet another run to Noumea, New Caledonia, via Guadalcanal in the Solomons on 14 Dec, thereby crossing the equator and converting polliwogs to shellbacks, the one sea-going ritual in which I never got to participate. She entered the reserve fleet at Philadelphia on 13 Feb 1946, was struck from the Navy list on 1 Mar 1959, and was sold for scrap to a Baltimore salvage company on 15 Jun 1959. She remains my favorite ship.

XI. FAMILY

Raising children has throughout history been the most consistent way that people have found of bringing riches and meaning to life.  – J. Fallows

As has now long since become evident, my life has always been a study in stark parallels with or contrast to the nature and tempo of prevailing world conditions. It should therefore not be too surprising that by the very height of the war years – the last half of 1943 and all of 1944 – my seafaring life went into a 1-1/2-year hiatus as I began postgraduate instruction in Machinery Design at West Annapolis, Maryland. There were only 24 in my class, with numerous representatives from the classes of 1939 and 1941, and a few Reserves. I was the only fugitive from the class of 1940. So, once again, I was totally out of phase with my classmates. The strangeness of my situation didn’t stop there. Even as my peers were fighting and dying around the world, I was setting up the first shoreside home of my very own, striving furiously to get a family of my own underway.

Digital Edition Note: In Jack’s personal copy of the book, there was a clipping from the July/August edition of The Washington Monthly inserted loosely at this page. The highlighted portion of the clipping reads “People obeyed rules. Children obeyed parents. No excuses were made for deviant behavior. Men wore neckties when they went out in public and stood when a woman entered the room. There was a real shared excitement about the future.”

This is not to say that I neglected my school work. In fact, I studied very hard and long. Yet, I must confess I was now in deeper over my head at PG school than I had been at USNA. One of my PG classmates went on to be a top assistant to become Chairman of the Board of National Cash Register, NCR. This was fast company indeed. Figures were never forthcoming, but I can easily imagine that I stood 24 in the class of 24. My record shows one A (Outstanding, in Thermodynamics), twelve B’s (Excellent), five C’s (Very Good), and one D (Passing, in Mechanical Engineering). Now, I’m not proud of that. It’s just a fact, and I can assure you I did my best. Anyway, that doesn’t tell the whole story. My entire professional career is living proof of an increasingly common belief that school grades are not necessarily any true indication of a person’s intelligence or worth. The fitness report occasioned by my detachment from Tuscaloosa further testifies to a contrasting evaluation, thus: “This officer has demonstrated administrative and planning ability well beyond that expected for his length of service. He has initiative and is energetic and industrious. His personal and military character are of the highest.” To all that I can only add, “Oh, hell yes!”

From this it could be easy for all my children to see why I’ve always preached to them to always give their work efforts their very best shot. I know this is the road to success. Perhaps the main reason this is true is that such a large majority of people take so little pride in their work and so goof off and do everything in half-assed fashion. As Dr. Charles Malik, former President of the U.N. General Assembly, has said, “That a man (or woman) should seek individual, personal, human excellence … is exceedingly rare.” In such a milieu (which, I think, has become even more prevalent today than in my day) any genuine worker who pursues excellence is bound to stick out like a “stripper” in a Carmelite monastery.

In any event, PG school actually began for me on 2 Aug 1943. Prior to that, Kathleen had managed to procure us both an automobile and a place to live. Now these two accomplishments represent a considerably more amazing achievement than might be appreciated. All new car production had long since ceased, along with the production of replacement parts and vital appurtenances such as tires. In a phrase, getting any kind of a car was a formidable project. Kathleen came up with a car model that had ceased production even before the shutdown occasioned by the war. Our first family auto was – are you ready for this – a Graham! (What do you mean, you never heard of them?) The neatest thing about this deal was that, precisely because they had been out of business for so long, they had plenty of replacement parts. All you had to do was to write to their warehouse in St. Louis.

This was the car, incidentally (and the time and the place), where Kathleen taught me to drive. I’ll never forget my driver’s test. The streets were a mixture of ice and snow, for starters. To make it even tougher, I had to parallel park (my very first such effort!) between 2 parking markers on a hill on a circle (Church Circle in Annapolis)! That ain’t easy, folks, but I did it. The check rider OK’d my slip and told me to take it back to DMV for my license. He then got out of the car to take on the next testee. I then proceeded to return to DMV – knocking over the parking marker as I left! I didn’t stop to look back.

The house we got was something special, too. It had formerly been a summer cottage, comprising upstairs and downstairs apartments. It was therefore furnished with minimal summer-type wicker furniture and no insulation. I don’t remember what (if anything beyond electric plug-ins) had been added for heating. I remember the fun we had converting an ancient bathtub into a combination shower by the judicious use of coat hangers, sail cloth, rubber tubing and a garden hose spray nozzle. There just wasn’t any custom hardware available during the war. You couldn’t buy any appliances, either. We salvaged a broken portable washing machine from somebody’s junk heap, took down nameplate data to order spare parts from some Midwestern manufacturer, and actually got it to work. We installed it in our walk-in pantry, and it sure came in handy for doing diapers after George was born.

The place had two bedrooms, one of which became my study until George arrived and took over (and did he take over!) Water was supplied from a well via a not-so-automatic pump, which always seemed to fail during cold winter morning shaves. Fortunately, our downstairs neighbor (who had preceded us on the premises) assumed it was his prerogative to brave the outside elements to restore it to operating order. (His piercing “God damn it!” often first alerted me that we had a problem, and that still rings in my ears.) The grass was mowed by a grazing work-horse who was moved along by a black tenant farmer known to us only as Thomas.

PG school home – 44, George’s birthplace

What we lived on was an old, virtually unworked farm, complete with a private dock (on Weems Creek) and high diving board. Kathleen and I each went off it twice, so we could say, “Sure! We’ve done it more than once.” Ours was one of four side-by-side summer cottages, and then there was the big white clapboard master’s house. The area was called Solmson Heights, and was within a 10-minute walk to the PG school gate of the Naval Academy grounds. It was not only a perfect set up for us, it also served as the locale for our annual class picnics. Everyone gathered to dive, boat, and swim off of our dock, hold a softball game in our front yard, and then steam fresh-caught crabs in our kitchen. (At that time I didn’t even eat crabs myself, but I was told over and over that they were succulent!)

Kathleen decorated and even furnished the place through her own dexterity. She made curtains for all the windows, slip covers for the summer furniture, and even fashioned end tables by garbing actual orange crates in stylish custom-made (by her) cloth coverings. I still remember how, after cleaning up the place, we drove into town to stock our larder and complete our equipment for housekeeping. We really loaded up the car and were sure we had everything, but we had to make a return trip for a broom and a trash can! Thereupon we sat down to Kathleen’s first home-cooked meal (which turned out to be her second, third, nth!): something plus boiled potatoes and sliced tomatoes. Midway through our second week I suggested to her that there were other ways to fix potatoes, and other vegetables besides tomatoes. Still, we were very, very happy.

It was hard, too, for us to believe that the world was still at war. There were shortages and rationing, but that hardly bothered us. We were together at last. The Battle of Salerno came and went. We missed it. Then FDR went to Teheran to meet with Stalin and Churchill. It seems weird that we must leave it to Stalin to pinpoint the single most important key to allied success in WWII. This he did in a memorable toast to FDR at Teheran:

I want to tell you, from the Russian point of view, what the President of the United States has done to win the war. The most important things in this war are machines. The United States has proven that it can turn out from eight thousand to ten thousand airplanes per month. Russia can turn out, at most, three thousand airplanes per month. England turns out three thousand to thirty-five hundred, which are principally heavy bombers. The United States, therefore, is a country of machines. Without these machines, through Lend-Lease [my emphasis added)], we would lose the war.

Amen! There can be no doubt in the mind of any American who has ever viewed the tremendous quantities of heavy equipment simply abandoned at war’s end on Pacific atolls, or our huge moth-balled fleets, or the vast arrays of planes lined up in Arizona deserts, that we simply machined the enemy to death. (This also suggests the basis of the seeming paranoia of the USSR even today with the numbers of weapons aligned against them on European soil.) At the same time, reading wartime military leaders’ memoirs will equally well assure one and all that military leadership or genius had virtually no part in our victory, even as augmented by phenomenal intelligence breakthroughs. Our unthreatened home industry won WWII.

The year 1944 started with the Anzio landing. Kathleen and I were enjoying Saturday night Steak Nites at the Naval Academy Officers’ Club. Then came the retaking of Saipan and Guam in the Pacific, even as Overlord was launched on 6 Jun 1944 in Europe. (Tuscaloosa did herself proud. Morison reports, “A powerful factor in breaking down German resistance at Utah was abundant and accurate naval gunfire support … directed by RAdm. Morton Deyo in heavy cruiser Tuscaloosa.” Morison goes on, “When General Gerow set up headquarters on the beach, his first message to General Bradley, still aboard Augusta, was: ‘Thank God for the U.S. Navy!’”) Of course I heard about the invasion on the radio while having breakfast, prior to just another day at PG school. I must confess, this was the one time during the war that I did really feel guilty about my having it so good.

On June 12–13 the first V 1 cruise missile buzz-bombs started zinging into London neighborhoods, and these were followed on 8 Sep 1944 by the first V 2 rockets raining on London. MacArthur himself splashed ashore at long last on the Philippine shore on 20 October. The battle of the Philippine Sea was already history (19–21 Jun) and the battle of Leyte Gulf was in progress. My greatest hardship throughout this entire period was to affix my signature on 17 Apr 1944 to an agreement to serve in the U.S. Navy at least three years after the conclusion of my PG training. And, oh yes, there was another sinister development in the war. The first kamikaze suicide pilots showed up in October of 1944, and were to continue to harass the Pacific Fleet with devastating results until 22 Jun 1945. I find it extremely difficult to so much as hint that I’m sorry that I just barely missed all this. I wasn’t running away, but neither am I stupid. I thank God for all my blessings, and most especially this first year-and-a-half of shoreside married life.

Speaking of blessings, 18 Nov 1944 marked a truly blessed event – the birth of our first child, our son, George – a mere six days after the sinking of our old nemesis, the Tirpitz. He arrived on a Saturday afternoon, between halves of the Navy–Notre Dame game. I had delivered Kathleen to the hospital earlier and was listening to the game on the radio while awaiting developments. The hospital called just about halftime, and told me the great news. I responded that I’d be over as soon as the game was over. (Do you suppose that’s why George has no disposition for sports to this day?) Aw, come on! Did you really believe that? What they told me was to give her an hour or so to rest up before barging in on her.

I confess, for my part, I don’t remember ever returning to the game. I have no idea who even won, let alone the score. My mind was completely transformed. I felt different – like I felt being a father must show so much that it was like I’d even glow in the dark. It was just a tremendous feeling. Perhaps George Bernard Shaw has summed it up best: “Life is a flame that is always burning itself out, but it catches fire again every time a child is born.” And I couldn’t agree more with hard-nosed economist Paul Samuelson’s confession that, “I think having children is the biggest kick in life.” It was a time for praising God and giving thanks.

Soon I was off to the hospital, and there, over the course of the next few days, Kathleen had some very interesting stories to tell. Her main worry had been that nobody would be available to help with the delivery when George finally made his move. It seems they parked her, all alone and well off the beaten track, in some remote dark corner of the hospital to wait out her labor. She was afraid they might have forgotten she was there or where she was. She further recalls that she couldn’t dwell on this concern too much, however, because some fellow laborer in some other remote corner kept screaming, “Charlie! Get off!” It seems this greatly amused hospital personnel, since the young lady’s husband’s name was Dave.

Kathleen’s final recollection is even more bizarre. Shortly after George was born, she was visited in her hospital room by a very young girl who strangely questioned her about her baby’s sex. Upon being told it was a boy, the little girl shrieked with delight. It seems that the girl suffered from severe facial burns from some accident and, every time a new male was circumcised, the little girl received another healing skin graft. The circumcised flesh was especially valuable for this facial surgery since it is virtually the only male skin that is totally hairless. Live and learn.

Nothing in life really prepares you for the shock of taking your first offspring home, and suddenly finding yourselves there alone with total responsibility for its enduring welfare. And, let’s face it! You can’t learn parenting by reading a book anymore than you can learn to swim. You’ve got to jump in the water! It is downright scary. I can still remember our first night with George. One or the other of us was popping up all night long to check on him – first because he was making noise, then because he wasn’t. Somehow, he survived. After all, as some wag as remarked, “To heir is human.”

Certainly it has to be the most incomparable of all human experiences. As hundreds of parents must have said since Henry Ward Beecher, “We never know the love of the parent till we become parents ourselves. So it is that parental love soon overcomes parental ignorance. The loved child doesn’t merely endure, it thrives.” So it was with George. One of the very first rules we made was to maintain our normal environment. Thus, we never spoke in whispers or tiptoed around the house, and we kept our radio (which was almost always tuned to good music) at its normal volume setting. We agreed he would have to adjust to our natural ambiance, we weren’t going to adapt to his whims. It seemed to work out OK. In fact, who can say George’s love for music didn’t actually start while he was still in the crib?

This happy little sojourn was to be short-lived. The Battle of the Bulge burst the allied front in Europe on 16 December. Patton arrived to bail out Bastogne on 26 December, and the Germans’ final advance was stopped once and for all on 28 December. It was on 23 December that I was detached from the PG school with orders to report by 22 Jan 1945 as Assistant Engineer Officer to the brand new light cruiser, USS Amsterdam, then fitting out in Norfolk, Virginia. Hey, that sounded like a good deal, right? I’d be enjoying 30 days leave over Christmas and New Year’s. Wrong! On Christmas day I got Western Union orders to report to Philadelphia, 31 Dec to 20 Jan, to attend Damage Control School. Perhaps this will help Mary to understand why I counsel “Never count on anything in the military!”

It’s also why I counsel (with Lt. LaForce), “Take all the leave you can, whenever you can.” (You’ll still lose unused leave in the end, and there are no quid quo pro contractual promises for sacrificing leave opportunities in the military.) Needless to say, though, this really enraged me, even though I had to admit it made sense. The ship must have figured, “Hell! He’s been on shore duty for 18 months, and we’re getting ready to face kamikazes in the Pacific.” Regardless of what they thought, or what I thought, I went to Philadelphia. I still managed to wangle weekend leaves while I was there, and even inveigled my way out of the big final-day damage-control exercise in which they set fire to and actually flooded a full-scale ship model for practice purposes. Despite all this copping out, I managed a 3.5 and stood #3 in a class of 36 (which perhaps proves that the less I’m around, the better impression I make).

This seems the proper time to splice into this more or less chronological saga with a substantial accounting of our family life. After all, the most significant events of the period just related were the establishment of our very first home, and the birth of our very first child. Meanwhile George, as a phrase I’ve read somewhere (Lk 2:40) goes, grew in size and strength, filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was upon him. As some of you will recall, Kathleen and I subscribed fully to the dictum variously attributed to Rudyard Kipling or as a Jesuit saying, but perhaps best enunciated by St. Francis Xavier, “Give me a child for the first seven years, and you may do what you like with him afterward.” (Jesuits are commonly reported as saying, “Give me your son from one to six and you can have the man.” But a specific Jesuit, Joseph Kurismmootil, really captures the thought when he notes, “A man’s fate, his nobility and all his degradation are molded by decisions he has already made by the age of five”! All parents, hear, hear!)

Maybe this wisdom isn’t as well known as it should be. Consider a 6 Mar 1984 news clipping: In an eight-year, $485,000 study, a research team directed by Dr. Francis A. J. Ianni, a professor at Teachers College of Columbia University, found that while urban, suburban, and rural teenagers all enjoy the fashions of the youth culture, most rely on their parents to interpret life. Well (expletive deleted)! The article then goes on to elaborate how 300 teenagers, 15 anthropologists, sociologists and mental health professionals discovered that children learned values from parents, not from their peers. In the immortal words of Amos and Andy, “Oh, Wow!” Hey, there’s more! Harvard political scientist James Q. Wilson is quoted as saying, “Good parents are needed to raise good kids”! Really makes you think, doesn’t it? And you, my dear children, thought your old foggy folks were really out of it. Shame!

We were also committed to the notion that if you give your #1 offspring your best shot, then all subsequent children will follow suit. Perhaps our third and final major principle was one that we just fell into naturally, without ever having formalized it, and it was that mother would represent mercy, and father would represent justice, but that in all events one would always support the commitments of the other. And just one more thing, for sure. We were dedicated to our home being a home built upon love – one our children would always want to come back to visit. Visions of my own parents were still very vivid. My Mom and Dad were OK when they were apart! But together? They were like two scorpions in a bottle. No! They were more like the two gladiators of old, each with one hand tied to the other, leaving each with one hand swinging free as a weapon. The only difference was my Pop didn’t hit back. As with Monty Python, our resolve was to do something completely different.

Moving beyond basic principles, we strove mightily to translate them into practical habits. After all, principles are inanimate ideas, whereas life is real-time action. As a corollary to setting up habit patterns, we tried to integrate them as naturally as possible into the regular rhythm of life, rather than impose them as some extraneous appendage to conduct. For example, to try to instill a constant awareness of God as the pre-eminent force in their lives, we made sure there was a crucifix in each room, we installed holy water fonts at each outside door to remind the children (as well as ourselves) that we go and come by God’s grace. Then, too, we installed a striking clock, and provided the example of shouting our “Glory be to God!” as each half-hour was sounded. We made sure that religious reading material appropriate to the varying ages of the children was always not only at hand but in plain sight.

At Christmas each child was given one inside toy or game, one outside toy or game, and one religion-oriented gift. Also, we put on Christmas plays, making our own props, and never taught the myth of Santa Claus. Similarly, we celebrated name-day/feast-days rather than birthdays. We tried every way we could think of to make religion – consciousness of God’s presence in all our lives – part and parcel of the daily living routine. Admittedly, the jury is still out on the enduring efficacy of all of this. We just knew no better way to translate our ideas of life priorities into day-to day praxis. No doubt, we made mistakes. (Reality often skewers intentions, as witness how often prostitutes seemingly are the daughters of ministers.)

We also placed great emphasis on doing things as a family, and tried to develop a series of happy traditions. Thus we arranged fairly regular forays to Hains Point, to climb in the trees, and to Rock Creek Park to walk on (or more often fall off of) the rocks strewing the streams there. We’d go to parks, museums, memorials, and other public places of interest. As the children grew older, we instituted regular summer trips to Mayo Beach (encountering numerous multi-colored darbs en route), with inner-tubes for all, and sand-augmented peanut butter sandwiches. Will anyone ever forget the day Big-Winner-Moni was run off the slot machines for being underage, or our first on-site enjoyment of a real live rock band?

This tradition soon gave way to annual forays to Ocean City. First there was the Shoreham (and our separate tables at Melvin’s), then Mr. Steinmetz, then across the street to the Seacrest. Will anyone ever forget the nightly lynchings of poor John’s vulture? Then we graduated for a few years to the Stowaway with a pool! Finally we advanced to the Quality Inn at 17th Street. Will anybody deny we haven’t had some great family vacations? Hey! We’ve had people join us from as far away as Texas and even California, and sometimes the crowd has even required adjoining connecting apartments.

Our children, of course, bring a somewhat different perspective to family childhood memories. Chesterton provides a possibly explanatory insight: “Children are innocent and love justice, while most adults are wicked and prefer mercy.” First they recall the alarm clock on the dinner table. If vegetables weren’t disposed of by the time it rang, such culprits got no dessert. This fiendish regimen provoked a series of disappearing peas stratagems. (Peas were a particularly despised vegetable because, as KT could so graphically demonstrate, swallowing them makes your head move.) So we had the old hide-the-peas-under-the-rim-of-the-plate trick, the stuff-the-peas-into-the-mashed-potatoes trick (since one didn’t have to consume all starches), or the peas-in-the-bottom-of-the-milk-glass trick. No doubt there were many more which are still classified information. Anne was especially marked by the alarm clock routine, thus:

I was just learning the difference between the color gold and the color silver. (If you think this is unrelated, for God’s sake be patient.) As you may remember, those are the toughest to get straight because they were unwittingly left out of Roy G. Biv. One night I was sitting at the dinner table expanding my consciousness with the startling discovery that I would never again confuse gold and silver. I had just discovered that silver was by an incredible coincidence the color of silverware. So gold must be the other one. What an amazing discovery! As I was silently congratulating myself for embarking on a career of marvelous creative thought, the aforementioned alarm clock went off. Imagine the immense psychological damage!

The predilection of children for justice alluded to above is borne out by another of Anne’s recollections:

I remember that you (your author) used to inspect the bathroom after we would take a bath, and you would buy a toy for the person who did the best job of cleaning. There is a very early memory of a 3 x 5 card on the inside of the upstairs bathroom at Dallas Avenue. (This is one even your author had forgotten.) Apparently you would keep a running (weekly?) score, and the prize went to the best composite. If you can date this barbaric practice, you will probably have some appreciation of how much it marked some of us. Now, everybody has sad stories of being compared to older siblings by elementary school teachers and unfeeling parents. Especially anybody with an older sibling like George. But imagine the problems it has created for me to have one of my first conscious memories of my big brother being awarded a plastic boat as a bath toy for passing inspection better than I. I bet I was all of two years old. I was so crushed that I marvel that I ever made it to three years old (or did I skip three years? I’m sure George must have skipped several years.)

Of course George had his traumas, too. These three must date from circa 1951, because Martha was still a vegetable. We had a summer cabin near Deep Creek Lake at New Germany, Maryland, way out in the western panhandle. One day George ventured out into the surrounding woods alone and then came roaring back into the cabin because he had stumbled upon and was being chased by a snake. Now I, for one, didn’t take this lightly, because it was only a day or so later that he and I ventured up a nearby mountain together, only to suddenly race each other madly down the hill before what we considered to be a stampeding herd of wild mountain goats. (We were definitely not outdoor types at that point in time, and I never made the conversion.)

Finally there was the ultimate trauma for George as we made ready to depart this pastoral paradise. Holy Moses! He couldn’t find his pet stuffed elephant. This was tantamount to Linus losing his blanket. We won’t even mention the plethora of lesser crises of our first and last venture into the primitive life, such as George turning over steppingstone slabs to frighten Anne by revealing the host of creeping, crawling uglies thereunder; or trampling Anne to death in a dash up into the loft upon our arrival to commandeer the best bunk; or the nightly sounds of the mouse patrol attacking our foodstuffs, which ultimately had to be stored in the oven to preclude penetration. Lastly, amidst the great multiplicity of Be Careful of Forest Fire signs, I don’t remember Pioneer Papa ever managing to get a fire going in the fireplace.

The main memory of our junior family (Mary through Herbie) about our senior family (George through John) seems to be George’s shooting of Anne with a home-made zip gun. This, as I recollect, he fashioned after a design found in a library book! (And they ban Tom Sawyer in some places!) Thank God he never discovered a book I once found in the library that detailed primitive underground-resistance weapons such as do-it-yourself derailing devices and Molotov cocktails. (PLEASE, don’t anyone tell me if he did!) I guess none of the kids were old enough to remember George pressing a blazing automobile cigar lighter to Anne’s cheek in the moment it took me to dash into a store to pick up a newspaper. (George, I think you’ll agree that Anne owes you a few.) And Anne wasn’t the only one to suffer because of George. Moni still blisters at the recollection of having to run all the way home from Judy Ericson’s just to say goodbye when he was leaving for the Naval Academy. Lucky for George, though, Charlie came along and took off some of the heat. Well, not really, I mean did anyone inherit Kathleen’s temper to the extent that son Charlie did? You say you don’t remember Charlie’s temper? Who taught you to ride a bike?

Digital Edition Note: Charlie notes here that his memory is that the zip gun was fashioned from a 6-inch length of the hollow metal shaft of a toy golf club (which just happened to be the exactly the diameter of a .22-caliber bullet) wrapped with an entire roll of masking tape to an exterior diameter of about one inch, with a stubby wooden block taped onto one end as a pistol grip. A .22 shell was manually inserted into the back end of the tube. The hammer and firing pin consisted of an old house key filed to a point. The hinge mechanics of the hammer remain vague (to Charlie.) The hammer was forced against the shell by means of a dozen rubber bands. The gun was fired by manually pulling the hammer back and releasing it so it would strike the back of the shell. Firing caused the “bullet” to fly out of the front of the barrel, while the now-empty shell was simultaneously ejected out of the back – against the force of the rubber bands. The usefulness of the “gun” as a weapon was, however, rather limited because the mass of a real – lead! – bullet so greatly exceeded the strength of the rubber bands that the person firing the gun was at greater risk of being hit in the face by the ejecting shell casing than the intended victim was of being hit by a slow-moving bullet. In any event, none of that mattered, because George had replaced the lead bullets with wads of paper (used simply to prevent the entire charge of gun powder from spilling out of the shell casing prior to being fired.) So, to complete the story, Anne was hit by a wad of paper, while George had to duck to avoid being hit by a flying shell casing. I’m not sure who got the worst end of the exchange. I still have no idea where George got the bullets in the first place.

Here’s a string of short memories for you: Kathleen packing ice cube trays in newspapers for the trips to Mayo before they invented Styrofoam; Dad inflating 6 to 8 inner-tubes at the Texaco station just short of Mayo; Anne dropping one of Dad’s lead weights on Charlie’s foot; Moni demolishing John’s ego by besting him in street foot races; John getting through a whole session of lights-out hide-and-seek by hiding on top of the braces under the dining room table; KT breaking the big BVM statue one night when she was playing with it instead of sleeping; Mo just always being little; Snork stories; Moni being afraid of the dark; multi-colored darbs [Charlie recalls these as multi-crudded darbs, for what it’s worth]; being sent to bed before dark on summer evenings if caught running through a sprinkler with your clothes on; Mary having to race from steps to street and back so Dad could see if her feet turned out; being sprinkled with a hose with your clothes on, by Dad on hot nights when he didn’t want to have to sweat over giving baths; later, older kids giving younger kids baths; Dad turning his watch over on his wrist en route to Mayo so Maureen (who was not allowed to ask, How much longer?) couldn’t see it; sleeping on the floor under the pull-down seats of the DeSoto on the way back from Mayo; Dad distributing the little guest soaps he brought home from trips; eating bugs and dirt by just riding in the DeSoto convertible; breakfast at a restaurant alone with Mom and Dad on First Communion Day; Monica’s so-becoming red eyeglasses; that supreme mortal sin – spilling milk at the table - and the consequent total silence promenade to the inevitable hand slap; being splashed with BronzeTan at Mayo or Ocean City but then having to wait an hour after eating before going into the water; KT rushing home from school to play teacher but (what a drag!) having to hold it down once Dad showed up; Charlie tapping at the table until Dad yelled; Charlie and John shouting into their pillows at night until drawing a ‘Knock it off or I’ll flatten you!’; Mary thumping through the house on her very favorite red-shoes shoe board; Kathleen’s pre-hospital lists for everything (like the one for operating the washer and drier which was so detailed that it began with, ‘Turn on the light in the furnace room,’ but one of which neglected to warn Anne to pour off the grease before mixing in the meat with the spaghetti sauce!); and ambulances for taking Kathleen to the hospital. (It was a family status symbol. Nobody else in the neighborhood got such service, certainly not on such a regular basis!)

Ready? Who built the Karnack at Thebes? Who discovered Baffin Bay? Who was Champollion? Now there’s a list of Wright authenticators to equal ‘What happened to the man with the fur coat?’! Or perhaps you remember, “Don’t examine it!” (What was it, a phone?) Anne, remember Kathleen’s final crucial instruction before leaving for the hospital: Don’t ever run out of milk when Charlie is expected home! Anne recalls she got the feeling that it was sort of on a par (in terms of dire consequences) with the admonition to Lot: “Don t look back!” On the other hand, others recall that when Kathleen went to the hospital was the only time that the clothes hamper was completely emptied and the stove got a complete cleaning, as the great organizer, Dad, took over. Oh, and remember the chores: carry-out, rinse and load, pans, kid-to-bed, sweep, and the inevitable trade-offs? And could you ever forget what drag it was when the guy at the sink had to give way to Grandma to wet her rag to wipe down the table which had already just been wiped down by the carry-out guy! Memories.

To be sure, some memories were at once a little more complex and little more personal. Martha recalls how I would sit alone in the living room sipping bourbon whenever Kathleen was out for an evening (she said it was to Sodality!?!), and “You would sometimes let your hair down.” She especially recalls my revealing how I once discussed sex with my Dad after my honeymoon, and how I assured one and all they could always come to me about anything. She confesses that she was deeply touched. On a similar occasion she recalls how I once discoursed on how bad off Kathleen was at Herbie’s birth, and how I disclosed that the Doctor had then indicated to me that another pregnancy could end in death and that something akin to abstinence was indicated, but that this had strangely brought Kathleen and I more close together. Martha again was touched, but at the same time she was incensed at a Church she felt was kicking us when we were down. (How disparate the perception of age and youth.) There is a point to be made here, however, one shouldn’t (in Graham Greene’s great phrase) go through life clutching dogmas as though passports to heaven.

Monica recalls accidentally breaking the switch on my living room reading lamp, and then frightenedly lurking out of sight in a nearby room until I discovered it. She remembers the fear, too, with which she responded to my yell of, “Who did it?” She slunk slowly into the room, expecting the worst, and confessed. She was shocked, she recalls, when I didn’t say a thing, but quietly went upstairs only to return a minute later with a handful of small change which I silently presented to her. She remembers well the reward accruing to the virtue of truth. Maureen recalls a somewhat similar surprise. Charlie had been teaching her to ride a bicycle (which, as anybody who knows Charlie realizes, is a euphemism for turning you loose with the thundering command: RIDE!!!) It seems she immediately spun-in and badly skinned a knee, embedding sand and gravel in the wound. You can imagine her dismay when I then angrily confronted her at the front door. It really hurt, as her tearful explanation made clear. Imagine her surprise (and appreciation) then, when instead of lighting into her, I took off rather after Charlie and chewed him out. Apparently, I sometimes (even if accidentally) did the right thing.

It is nevertheless fascinating how the concept of justice seems to be the overriding concern of youth. (This, certainly, is something all new parents would be well advised to keep in mind.) For example, Mary still pouts at the recollection of how she once got clobbered when it was Charlie and John who were lighting matches against all orders about playing with matches. To prove her innocence, Mary will demonstrate how she herself can’t even light a match to this very day. In like vein, Anne is still nursing the wounds of a chastisement for prematurely opening a Ginny-doll Christmas present while still not-so-secretly cached in the furnace room. She still luxuriates in a vivid Technicolor image of George constructing a fiendish frame-up. It’s not too preposterous to suspect that upon completion of her legal studies she may yet haul him into court for defamation of character. (Kathleen always suspected Charlie or Johnny.)

Digital Edition Note: Charlie strenuously denies culpability here – having been far too focused on secretly opening his own Christmas presents! Besides, Charlie readily admits to often (getting caught) playing with matches – several stories about which are detailed in later pages of this tome.

In the second place, beyond justice, a dominant concern of our offspring was apparently fear. Especially among the younger girls this is a frequently recurring refrain. This fear centered on what they uniformly sum up as the chair. It seems that when I really wanted to lower the boom, they were invited to a spot beside my desk, and told to draw up a chair and sit facing me without moving. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes I’d talk. Sometimes I’d just turn aside to work at my desk and they’d just sit there, immobile, for what seemed like hours. Any whimper or movement would bring a devastating look from me. Maureen has the memory of getting the chair for being caught riding her bicycle on University Blvd. during rush hour. So, it seems I invoked the chair when the children needlessly hazarded life threatening situations. Maureen (and no doubt Mary, too, about which more later) also remembers Mary getting the chair upon revelation of her pregnancy. (Well, clearly, some discussion was indicated.)

It is ridiculous to go on, I suppose, everyone has their favorite best and worst memories, and what I’m attempting here is to hint at the flavor of the personality that I evidently appeared to be to my children. I’m the not-so-innocent bystander in this situation. Everything I’ve presented on this point is necessarily hearsay. But, I think a picture does emerge. My children were alternately proud and embarrassed by me. E.g.: Good grief, my Dad played the drums while other kids’ Dads were Lutheran Ministers. I screamed hate into my pillow, then bragged to my friends. We never really bickered, tattled, or held any grudges. We even got to vote on a name for the child. I picked Jerome, but it turned out to be a girl. I not only had to wipe up every ounce of the broken jam jar, I was called back to rinse out the rag. I discovered I liked potato salad. (What Dad fixed, you ate!) I was awed when I heard you say Sir on the phone to Balboa Hospital, and I was so touched when you cried at Herbie’s funeral. I was really impressed when I asked if I could smoke and you said you’d stop if I wouldn’t start and you did! I loved cuddling up to you to watch TV like I later on was delighted to see you doing with Laurie. I was so relieved when you consoled me on the way home from the Police Station for that car sleep-out by saying, “Hey! I went through this with all the rest.” I loved those family chats over luncheon at Leonie’s. I was appalled when a nun phoned about my school attitude and you gave me a long lecture on the virtues of “brown-nosing.” I was so thrilled by your telling a nun your mouth had been open while in the first communion line because you were “catching flies.” That made you my #1 role model.

All the foregoing is just generalized background. Perhaps a few personal notes are in order at this point. Allowance must be made for a failing parental memory in this respect, but it has been augmented to some extent by many marvelous letters which our children have volunteered to us over the years. We’ve already covered George’s origin in some detail. No doubt he’ll be thrilled to learn he shares the same birthdate as movie star, Marcello Mastrioanni. Perhaps this accounts for his savoir faire, his suaveness. Certainly he didn’t inherit that from me. In fact, George relied on me for very little. In contrast to the debt I owed my father for his tremendous assistance in gaining my admittance to the Naval Academy, George arranged virtually everything himself. Indeed, I was unaware of any such disposition toward the Academy until he had actually begun formal preparations, as through passing an unofficial preliminary vision exam as conducted at the U.S. Naval Dispensary in the old Main Navy Building where I then worked on Constitution Avenue. This he did on 21 Mar 1961.

The very idea of George going Navy struck me as a complete surprise. I certainly never pushed it, in fact, I don’t even remember ever talking much about the Navy, positively or otherwise. Nor do I remember him ever actually voicing any such interest prior to his overt preparation. He passed an official preliminary (but complete) USNA physical exam at the Bethesda Naval Medical Center on 20 Jun 1961, to which he returned from Balboa Naval Hospital on 1 Dec 1968. So it might be legitimately stated that George’s naval career both began and ended at Bethesda. Similarly, it could be said his married life began there, since that is where he met his future wife, Navy nurse, Lt. Pat Brady. (The real Bethesda, interestingly enough, is a spring-fed pool in the North quarter of old Jerusalem, made famous by Christ’s curing of a paralytic. Our new Bethesda certainly helped heal George.)

Digital Edition Note: Bethesda Naval Medical Center has since been consolidated with the former Walter Reed Army Medical Center into the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center.

I think our family has always regarded George as our resident genius. He had qualified scholastically for USNA admission by the end of his junior year in high school. Also, he took his college boards as a junior, and stood in the top 2% of all seniors who took the exams that year. Clearly, he did take after his Dad in the academic realm. Oh yeez! He wasn’t bad in the athletic realm either (though his sons may never believe it) having been a member of the city-wide CYO champion football team while still in the 7th grade. This promising career was cut short by the onset of Osgood-Schlatter’s disease. Gotcha? That’s degeneration of a natural protuberance on the knee-end of the tibia, the long bone of the lower leg, you fool. (Let’s hope George had it only in the leg bone since shed at Bethesda!)

George also placed second in an area-wide spelling bee as a 6th grader. Everyone is familiar with his feats of teaching himself to type, and to read music, and learning to play every musical instrument in the guitar, saxophone, and clarinet families, not to mention the flute. I said, don’t mention the flute! But it’s too late as son Matthew (and his cousin, Terri) are already into the flute. Then, too, son Bobby is already into the guitar (and bass), and son Michael has already had a bout with the alto sax. So, the beat goes on! If I failed to incorporate any childhood memories by George himself, it’s merely because George never really was a child. He was born an adult.

You don’t believe that? Well, just draw up a chair and read an excerpt from his letter, written 22 Apr 1964 as a USNA third-classman (sophomore!), to Martha on the occasion of her winning a scholarship. Prescinding from his egregious error of extolling her at the outset as having done something none of your family or even your relations have done, (and of course we now know that super-Dad also attended high school on scholarship, and super-Mom won a two-year scholarship to Dunbarton College) George displayed wisdom beyond his chronological age. He wrote:

If you’ll permit me to offer some sage advice based upon long years of astute observation and first-hand experience: pay special attention to your religion courses. There is a terrible tendency for many young people to get an exaggerated sense of their own importance. This leads them to an agnosticism in which they presume to pronounce on any philosophy or religion (even though they may be getting D’s and F’s in math, history, etc.). The only cure for such an attitude is a religious faith. Unfortunately, such people always adopt a sneering attitude that such childish beliefs are ridiculous. Although such agnostic over-self-confidence is probably more widespread among boys, it becomes truly obnoxious in girls.

Hear! Hear! I wish I had said that. I might also add that I’m afraid this tendency to place an inflationary value on one’s own youthfully evolved opinions is perhaps even more highly prevalent today. Today it is fashionable to the point of chic to belittle and ridicule religion a la Monty Python’s Holy Grail and Life of Brian shticks. (Thus, some young parents of today consider it enlightened not to give their offspring any religious indoctrination, lest they taint the kids’ free choice. They might as well let a kid take out his or her own appendix.)

George wrote another memorable letter betraying trenchant maturity, but that might be expected of one who has the same birthday as Thomist philosopher-theologian, Jacques Maritain. This letter, written 5 Feb 1966, is addressed, Dear Dad. Once again I take issue only with his opening observation. He wrote:

I remember thinking once when I was in high school of you: the man certainly has his faults but he has an extraordinary capacity for distinguishing importance from inconsequentials, for thinking straight. Evidently you recognized and expected thoughts such as these, for you warned me that it was common for young men to over-estimate their fathers.

What George failed to mention, of course, is that I must have added, present company excepted. All kidding aside, I confess that I was always impressed by St. Thomas Aquinas’ method in which he began his response to every issue with Distinguo – I distinguish! And in line with George’s proposition that I have an extraordinary capacity to distinguish importance, I must state right here that the balance of this letter (recounting an extended cruise in a nuclear atom-bomb-armed submarine) warrants incorporation in full at this point, without further inane editorial comments from me, thus:

It is very sobering for a twenty-year-old young man, this particular one at least, to be so completely isolated in the manner I was this summer. For seventy-two days I was in my own little four-hundred-and-twenty-foot world, and it had its effect in more ways than one. I think it took a little while before the significance of our strategic employment and the sixteen missiles sunk in. We had periodic weapons system readiness tests, to keep us on our toes, I guess. About twice a month we would get an alert message from ComSubLant and only the radiomen and the OOD would know if it were real or not. I hope the melodrama of all this doesn’t completely obscure what I’m trying to say.

Once I was overpowered by the fear that this might not be a drill. But it was, of course, and how easily that “of course” comes now. I was still unable to go to sleep, and for the next six hours I just lay in the truly absolute privacy of my curtained-off rack in the cool, dark PO’s quarters in the truly absolute privacy of my own thoughts. Well let me tell you those few hours eliminated any faith I might have had in deductive reasoning, for thoughts without facts to guide them can really run wild. Wasn’t it Descartes who pointed out that clear and concise reasoning is by no means correct reasoning on its own strength? But again, I digress; I must have learned it from you (your author).

I thought about the possible significance that a real alert would have. It was – well – it was just an exhausting, draining thought to realize that a missile shoot would mean you and any other acquaintances of mine outside our inch of HY80 steel would be dead. Please don’t suspect that I was just over-excited by the prospect of real guns and realistic war games. I learned a better respect for war and peace then than the average pacifist with an introduction-to-philosophy course under his belt, I can assure you.

But, to try again, more than anything else I felt remorse. Remorse for never having said things and done things I would have liked to have said and done had the alert been real. It should be pleasing to you, I guess, to read that most of all I felt sorry that I had never thanked you and Mom. No! That’s not true. Most of all I regretted never having really tried to thank you and Mom. And I shall not try to enumerate anything in support of my contention that I owe you both many thanks; I will just say that if you have any confidence in my ability to judge objectively, and in my sense of values, you will respect the fact that to me (and I say ‘to me’ just to limit my statement to things I know something about, i.e., construe ‘to me’ to mean as far as your relations with me alone) to me, you and Mom have been better parents than any of my contemporaries’ parents have been to them.

That is to say, while you and Mom are not faultless, you have less to wish had been otherwise than any other father and mother I know. If that is true or not I don’t really know. I only know that it seems that way to me, and for that I thank you. I thank you because it inspires me. Not that I will narrowly try to emulate you, I just feel inspired, that’s all; and for that I thank you. This page, needless to say, I consider important. I hope the fact that I didn’t mention it until I had finished it didn’t cause you to minimize it. I had intended to write more introduction. There were many things I wanted to say first, I suspect mainly because I thought they looked very profound when I wrote them to Mom. But they were so much introduction anyway and not really important. I just wanted to write as fast as my mind moved lest I omit something.

But that last paragraph, while probably the most important one, isn’t the only thing I want to say now. First a little build-up: Right now I’m a first-classman at the United States Naval Academy who has just finished exams but has not yet felt the drag of the last semester’s academics. As such, I have an unusual and unfamiliar amount of blue and gold mixed with the rose-colored tint in my glasses, but I think there is really more to it than that and that is why I want to make the following request.

I would like to use your sword. Not because it belongs to my father, the proud naval officer who etc., etc., but not either because it belongs to my father the government worker who has a good family, a good home etc., etc.; not because it will ever be a family tradition or heirloom. You know as well as I that it will log in as much attic time with me as it has with you. (It was in fact stolen from George’s room at Miramar after his crash!) I just want to use it because it belongs to my father, who in spite of what faults were his, gave me not a model to be emulated but an ideal to strive for in spite of my own faults. Well, that’s the other important part, and that’s all too. (Thanks son!)

As a matter of fact, that’s not all. Not only are there nine other children yet to consider, it’s not even all for George. We’ll meet him again in this story. However, now it’s Anne’s turn. She is our only other child born outside of the greater metropolitan area of Washington, DC. Oh, she was born in Washington all right, but it was Washington State. As her expected arrival approached we were living in another summer cottage, this time on the banks of the Hood Canal at Sunset Beach, Union, Washington, near Bremerton and Seattle, and in the shadow of majestic Mount Hood. I had joined Kathleen and George there after Grandma and Grandpa Kirk had driven them there in our 1936 Buick from our home on Santa Paula Way in Vallejo, California. However, our west coast family saga really should begin with mention of our 1931 Buick.

First, you must recall that in reviewing our family we have dispensed at this point with the chronological order of our overall story, which is on hold circa January 1945. This helps put the chronological age of our cars in better perspective. You will remember that I left PG school at the end of 1944 to join the light cruiser Amsterdam in Norfolk on 22 Jan 1945. We transited the Panama Canal in late Apr, shortly after we buried my father who had died of a heart attack on 12 Apr 1945, within an hour or two of FDR’s death. On 8 May, V E Day, we crossed the international dateline as I was initiated into the order of the Golden Dragons. By early July I was fully involved in the Pacific war against Japan.

Meanwhile, life on the home front went on. For about 2 months after my father’s death in April of 1945, Kathleen and George lived with my mother in my parents’ home at 13th and Varnum streets, in northeast Washington. Then, sometime in the summer of 1945, Kathleen and George moved in to share a two-bedroom apartment with Aunt Louie and little Joe Woods located in Queenstown, Mt. Rainier, Md. Apartments were then very hard to get, but Kathleen and Louie had some kind of priority, since they were families of servicemen. (They didn’t, however, have enough priority to get a telephone, which were then even more scarce than rental property.) They were there for about four or five months, when Joe Woods returned from the Pacific, at which point the Woods family relocated to North Carolina, and Kathleen and George settled in with the Kirks at 14th and Otis streets. They remained there until Dec of 1946, at which point George got to join in Kathleen’s first cross country flying adventure, to join me for Christmas in Long Beach, California.

I had already procured a neat little house in a wartime housing project for servicemen, called Lexington Gardens. (Our backyard contained one of those ubiquitous southern California oil well pumps. We were almost afraid to let George dig in the yard.) I also secured our fabulous 1931 Buick, and believe me, cars were harder to come by than telephones. It had a high, straight-back (Model-A-Ford-like) profile, running boards, and a spare mounted on the back (which was so rust-frozen in place that we had to jack it off to fix a spare en route later from Bakersfield to Richmond, California – a trip on which we consumed 40 quarts of oil, which we actually ran out of and had to hike for once). It also had a fabric-coated roof to which I applied a full coat of paraffin wax to stop leaks. It had two redeeming graces: it didn’t use much gas, and it always started. In fact, a neighbor with a relatively new car often had to borrow it for Sunday Mass when his plush convertible wouldn’t start.

Jack with Geo, Lexington Park California

Lexington Park California (Long Beach)

Well, I was supposed to meet Kathleen and George’s flight, and we were planning a happy Christmas reunion together while our ship underwent overhaul at Terminal Island Naval Shipyard (long since phased out, as the entire island was sinking several inches per year). We all forgot just one thing (Mary, please note!): we were part of the military establishment. Hence it happened that less than 24 hours before their flight was due, and while one-third of our crew had already been granted leave, our Terminal Island overhaul was shifted to Pearl Harbor! So it was that Kathleen and George were met by my shipmate, Assistant Engineer Officer Ace Foster, and his wife, Bernice. This is the same Ace Foster who would years later visit George in the Balboa Naval Hospital and then give us phoned reports of his condition. This is also the same couple which we diverted course to visit at Borrego Springs, Arizona, on our cross-country auto trip of 1979.

The Fosters met the plane in our Buick, and it seems Kathleen had visions of a much fancier car. Sorry, Kathleen! Anyhow when they arrived, George was starving, so the Fosters stopped at a roadside stand and George opted for a string of fresh bananas (something we hadn’t had on the East coast for years because all ships were being used to carry war supplies). While he was feasting on monkey food, I was en route to Hawaii, suffering through a steady diet of Les Brown’s Sentimental Journey (with Doris Day vocal) via the ship’s PA system. I still get a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes at the sound of that tune. After all, this was the second family Christmas that military vagaries had devastated.

Life, and the war, went on, and while in the San Francisco area (of which Richmond is a Silver Spring–like northern suburb, on the Oakland side of the bay), we swapped the ’31 for a ’36 Buick. Now, there was a car! It was long, low, and sleek, with chromium sheathed spares sunk in forward fender wells on both sides, and with full leg room and a pull-down, back-of-the-front-seat bar compartment in the rear. It would have done a bootlegger of the ’20s proud! It still ranks with our Corvair station wagon as my all-time favorite car. Once, commuting from our new quarters on Saipan Road (which is still on the map!) in Midway Village (at the foot of the San Bruno mountains in the Bayshore area) to our ship at the San Francisco Naval Shipyard (at Hunter’s Point), it was smashed in the rear port quarter (well, actually it was smashed at 3rd and Army streets) by a truck, demolishing the fender and tire. We didn’t have a jack. My fellow commuter, shipmate, and neighbor, Machinist Joe Botti, immediately fashioned a workable levering system from two wooden beams from the truck’s load. Engineering magic!

Later I was to renew the water pump on the car with a mechanical proficiency long since gone with the wind. I even personally remedied a transmission that wouldn’t go into reverse. A garage had offered repairs at several hundred dollars. I removed the stick shift and top retaining plate and replaced a broken 35 cent detent spring. Again, engineering magic! (Many years later I learned that this should never be attempted except by a pro, as the slightest movement of the nipple to which the stick attaches, while the plate is removed, can bollix up the meshing of the gears forever! Luckily I didn’t know that then, and so saved a couple hundred dollars!) Another thing we were to learn later, after Grandpa and Grandma Kirk had accompanied Kathleen and George on their relocation (in my absence) from Vallejo to Sunset Beach in the Seattle area, was that they had driven the whole 700-plus miles with a cracked rear axle – the ultimate consequence of the 3rd and Army street car crash! The repaired car finally went to a shipmate, Machinist Williams, when we returned east for the last time. That transaction earned us $25!

So it was that Anne, still lurking snugly within Kathleen, came to be pre-positioned in Washington State. Shortly before she was due to be born, my ship returned from the far Pacific for an overhaul at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. We really got the red carpet treatment. After all, I was returning to Bremerton, Washington, in the USS Bremerton (CA130)! We were all adopted sons of the city. But this son’s wife was expecting a child, which turned out to be our first daughter. Well, it behooved us to move from rented quarters in the beautiful but remote boondocks, into government housing more within hailing distance of the Naval Hospital.

So it was that we spent all of Friday, 7 Mar 1947, going back and forth between the two places, moving all our earthly possessions. We finally holed up at Sunset Beach that night, with only one trip to go the next morning to complete the job. We did finish up the job with a trip the next morning, but it was a hurry-up journey to the hospital, where Anne was born on a Saturday morning, attended by the same O.B., a Dr. Peterson, who had attended George in Annapolis some 2-and-1/2 years before! As usual, Kathleen’s water broke early in the a.m., and we were off with a bang. I hurriedly threw some diapers (with which I had mopped up the bloody floor) into the bathtub as we departed with George, who I then had to take with me to the ship. Later the wife of the ship’s Dr. Jacobs looked after George until we got Kathleen back home. (Dr. Jacobs was later killed in a tragic auto accident.)

George and I had breakfast in the wardroom, and he then accompanied me on my rounds of the engineering spaces, to the delight of all my snipes who enjoyed taking him off my hands and showing off for him. Chief Machinist Mate Maciolek dubbed him Chief Dugan (everything was Dugan this or Dugan that in those days, even as Mo was later to be dubbed Dugan Dog). Kathleen and I had lined up a live-in lady aid to assist on her first few days home alone, but we decided that we’d rather be alone, so we cancelled her. I took as much liberty as I could, leave being out of the question with all my machinery undergoing overhaul. The night before Kathleen returned home, my assistant, Lt. Ivan Rich (a mustang [“mustang” is an enlisted person who is promoted to the rank of Warrant Officer] like Ace Foster), came over for an evening’s celebration during which we killed a bottle of bourbon (the Lamaze method of my day). Upon leaving, Ivan rammed the back of his car into a low retaining wall, stalling it, and it wouldn’t restart. He had to taxi back to the ship. Next day we found where he had jarred the battery cable loose, an easy failure that I’ve quickly spotted many times since. Live and learn. Which reminds me, never leave bloody messes in your bathtub. When I finally returned to Sunset Beach some days later, I was stunned by the stench and sight of crawling critters in the tub. Oh Wow! Yes, I remember Anne’s birth.

Some twenty years later we got a succinct letter from Anne (6 Jun 1967) testifying to the value of the intervening years:

Mom and Dad, I have just reached a time in my life between the time I thought my parents were way off base and the time I realize too late (?) that they were right all along. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

To be sure, we must have done lots of neat things for her, but I’m not about to undertake a recital that might just provoke another mock comparison tirade from Martha like her ‘I was the only one whose kindergarten picture Mom wouldn’t buy.’ Anyhow, Anne’s birthday was a Saturday, and you know what the anonymous rhyme says: Saturday’s child has to work for a living! (Sorry about that George, Anne, Martha and Mary, but not to worry, Herbie!) Maybe as an aspiring lawyer, it might help Anne to know that Oliver Wendell Holmes had the same birthday. (It is likewise the birthday of dancer Cyd Charisse and actress Claire Trevor. It is also a holiday celebrated as International Woman’s Day in the USSR.) I’ll leave it to Anne to evaluate the ultimate cosmic significance of all these priceless data. Anyhow, it strikes me that Anne has always displayed the inquisitive mind so typical of lawyers penetrating to the ultimate reality of things.

Let me just cite three examples. Driving down 16th Street one Sunday for a family afternoon at Haines Point (followed by a bag of 10 hamburgers for a dollar from the Little Tavern), we passed the Greek Orthodox church of Sts. Constantine and Helen. As was our custom whenever we passed our church, Anne sang out, Glory be to God! I unctuously intoned, that’s not a Catholic church, honey. She immediately demolished me with this plaint, it’s the same God, isn’t it? Wow! Maybe I’d better let one of Anne’s letters (15 Feb 1978) tell another story:

To give you an idea that things around here are not nearly as bleak as this letter may sound, the other day I was stuck behind some cars on a winding mountain road. My friend Sally was visiting from Washington and we drove together up into the mountains for a few days. I was explaining to her that when I was a kid we used to get stuck behind such slow drivers on the way to the bay beaches. I told her my father had called them darbs. Suddenly, at the ripe old age of 31 I knew that darb was an acronym. What an amazing discovery. All these years I thought we had an invented family nonsense word, and I realized it means Dumb Ass Road Block. It has to. Right? That is just too much of a coincidence not to be true. You adults smugly allowed your innocent kids to bandy about a semi-obscenity. Amazing! Doug couldn’t believe it when I told him. Sally couldn’t figure out why I thought it was so funny.

Well, what can I say? Strange to believe, I almost hate to confess that darb was just a nonsense word to me. Rather, it was part of a nonsense phrase, multi-colored darbs! Still, it’s a great example of Anne’s penetrating mind at work. And so to the final example of Anne’s penetrating mind, this time in an introspective mode, with an excerpt from a letter of thanks following her Christmas homecoming in 1978:

You have always treated all of your children with a sense of acceptance. Never using your love as a weapon to enforce our behavior to conform to your beliefs. Love is not conditional in your house. I have taken that so much for granted that I am still and always will be amazed to discover that this isn’t so for most of the people I know. You have let us all know that during bad times you are there to offer support or advice when requested. I have recognized the wisdom of this approach when I saw it operate with Mary and Maureen, but to feel the glow of that acceptance myself is something I hadn’t realized I wanted so much until I took it home with me on the plane to San Diego.

I wish I could express what it meant for me to come home at Christmas, after making such a radical change in my life, and know I wouldn’t have to face any questions, make any excuses or even talk about any part of it unless I wanted to. This was a pretty bad year for me. I spent the entire time at home in Maryland soaking up the love and building up my strength like a recuperating patient just home from the war. Just sitting in your bedroom that one night and watching TV and not talking about anything in particular was such a comforting feeling.

Dressing in the dark on Christmas morning to go to early Mass, riding to Rockville with Mom to get the onion rye bread, sitting up late in the kitchen with Kate and drinking coffee, driving down the same old streets, seeing my brothers and sisters and their kids and friends…. The night we arrived after everybody was in bed I went downstairs and just walked around touching things. You see it all again like new, and you are amazed to find that home is a beautiful place to come back to.… Christmas healed the big hurt and unrest I had about being able to love again and to recognize and appreciate it when I saw it.… And in a few hectic days, without ever really directly touching all that hurt, I felt at peace again. Now I am ready to look outside my own soul again. I have been living inside myself since June. It’s good to see the sun shine again.

It’s no joke that I could return to my own home with such solace, so renewed and healed. Your passive support system saved my sanity if not my life. So aside from a thank you for the hospitality, the parties, the entertainment, the babysitting, etc., thanks also for that, for the unspoken, unspecified support and encouragement. Just because you didn’t take me aside and pat my head (which would probably have been too painful just yet) doesn’t mean that I didn’t recognize and appreciate the love I felt. I have the neatest family, my brothers and sisters and my parents. Prolonged sigh. Deep breath. Thanks, family. I love you.

Well, that is quite a large testament, and I rest my case re Anne’s penetrating mind. The truth is, however, I could add so much more about each and every one of our children, but you have to remember that ostensibly this is an autobiography. Hence I must try to limit progeny prose to that which reveals child-parent relationships and interaction. This isn’t easy, so please don’t be too critical.

Recall, as well, that I can only work with the written testaments actually available to me. In this connection (and thereby passing over Charlie for the moment), Martha remains a fascinating enigma. Alone and distinct from all of our children, I believe, she has always been uniquely independent, a very tightly held private person. One is almost tempted to ask, Will the real Martha Wright Toth please stand up! This is particularly interesting when you consider that she has, unlike any of her siblings, spent all of her married life (13 years as I write) well removed from the area of the parental domicile. We’ve gotten many a long letter from Utah, the Philippines, Alabama, Detroit and Florida. All are most revelatory of Martha herself, but you’ll find nary a clue as to feelings or reaction vis-à-vis Mom and Dad.

Martha has always seemed serenely self-sufficient. This is not to suggest that she is cold or even indifferent, it’s just that her quiet self-assurance has (wittingly or otherwise) served as a sort of shield against personal disclosure. It’s perhaps significant that even George (in his letter congratulating her on her high school scholarship) remarked on Martha’s low-key temperament, thus: “You are an outstandingly intelligent kid. Now don’t go getting a swelled head. (One of your best qualities is that you are quiet, you can keep to yourself).”

One might be easily tempted to conjecture that perhaps the reason for Martha’s detachment stems from the fact that she shall always remain our very first child of the TV age! In fact (and this, too, may be more revelatory of me than even I suspect), my sole recollection of Martha’s birth is that I stopped in the Woodmoor Shopping Center on the way from greeting Martha’s arrival at the hospital and bought our very first TV set, a 12" table model Westinghouse. It was black and white, of course. So, we might fantasize that Martha passed the formative first six years of her life propped up in front of the TV set, rather than luxuriating in the minute-by-minute doting of fully attentive parents. TV does breed a certain detachment, even among a tight little community of watchers.

In any event, Martha was in fact born on 29 Jul 1950. Like George and Anne before her, and Mary and Herbie after her, she was born on a Saturday. For some strange reason, we had no child born on a Thursday or Friday, so (according to the poem) none of our children have far to go or are loving and giving. (Well, the second part of that prophecy is certainly suspect!) Martha is our only child whose birthday is also her feast day, since 29 July is also the feast of St. Martha. It is also the anniversary date of Drake’s defeat of the Spanish Armada (1588), the birth of Mussolini (1883), the birth of UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjold, and authors Booth Tarkington and Alexis de Tocqueville. Martha, clearly, remains the outstanding event of 29 Jul even though spawned in the community detachment and general amnesia heralded by the coincident advent of the so-called golden age of TV.

But, like the lady in Hamlet, perhaps I, too, protest too much. After all, we do know how Martha feels about her folks. Even her latest letter (Jan 1984 as I write) speaks volumes regarding our interaction. It may not always be explicit, but a wealth of heart-warming information may be safely inferred. Thus, out of a total of 5-1/2 pages, fully 3-1/2 pages are a paean to her children, her husband, and to old-fashioned, stay-at-home motherhood. Her very lifestyle is the highest sort of endorsement for our example, as is her adherence to the one-man-in-your-life principle. We could hardly ask for more, but there is more. “We all really (her emphasis!) enjoy your visits, which are getting to be a nice Fourth of July tradition. As long as you can stand the trip, please do come!” Then she concludes: “I’m almost as sad for Mary (re her recent separation) as I am happy for KT (in her pregnancy). KT is in one of the most naturally happy periods of life I can imagine. And I suppose Mary must be just as down. Damn it! They’re supposed to live happily ever after! I suppose you feel it even more than I. Well, if it’s any consolation I am (Martha’s emphasis) living happily ever after. You can scratch at least one kid from your worry list.” (Where did I ever get the idea that we didn’t know how Martha felt about us?)

Now, you’ll recall that we momentarily skipped Charles. That is really symbolic. It has almost Freudian significance. We’ve always skipped Charlie! That’s just the way it is with children who have the misfortune to be born within 3 days of Christmas! Little wonder that he registered a protest against the Wrights by being our first left-hander. He was entitled, but he certainly has never demonstrated it, if ever he carried any grudge. In fact, I’d have to say Charlie is our foremost representative of stability. It’s so appropriate that he sprang up in the age of Mad magazine and the ‘What, me worry?’ kid. If he had been born in the days of kings he might well have been labeled Charlie, the Unflappable. Ralph Waldo Emerson must have had Charlie for his prototype when he coined the famous phrase, Stay cool! This isn’t to say that he doesn’t have a helluva temper, but this is my story, so let’s leave his mother’s influence out of this. Well, we can’t very well do that, can we, and with Charlie, least of all. Both Maureen and Herbie had traumatic births. Herbie died within 3 hours, and a birth can hardly have a more traumatic result than that. And, even though Maureen came 2 months early (weighing in at 3-and-1/2 pounds), there was little doubt that she hadn’t come to stay.

It was different with Charlie. His arrival kept us all on pins and needles all the way. More than that, his touch-and-go arrival was another of those events in my life (the death of my father was the first) to evoke a trance-like mode in which one experiences a dream-world suspension of time and reality. The best simile for trying to explicate this condition that comes to mind is that, if life is indeed a story, then this event was like when the author lays the pen down and goes to lunch, and the characters are then on hold until he returns. For several hours on the afternoon and evening on which Charlie was being born, the Author of Life was out on a long lunch indeed. We waited with bated breath for Him to return and pick up the thread of the action. (As an aside, this mode returned on the news of George’s crash, and upon my awakening in the intensive care unit following heart surgery. It’s a truly magic time. I expect the hour of death will be similar.) I can’t remember the exact details of the problem, but I sure can remember the nature of it.

It all came down to this. A somber Dr. Holden approached me late in the evening, in the appropriately threatening gloom of twilight. He indicated that the situation had developed into the classic question of whether Charlie or Kathleen would make it, and Dr. Holden sought my input on the matter. I was so spaced out that I addressed him as a priest. Are you a Catholic, Father? I asked. Yes, he replied simply. Do you know what the Church teaches regarding such situations? I asked. Again, a simple, Yes. Then, I said, Proceed according to the Church’s teaching. My receding memory still projects a picture of relief on his face, as though I may have relieved some unspoken burden. I myself can confess to a surging serenity. The matter had safely been placed in the hands of the Author of Life. I was no longer worried about the outcome.

A search of the archives reveals that Charlie has also been an author, the case in point being a Father’s Day note presented to me in Jun of 1983. Thus:

For so many years I’ve been wanting to somehow let you know how you have affected my life. You worked for so many years, you and Mom, trying to raise nine of us the best way you knew how. Many times trying to teach us how to live, and many times teaching by example without realizing it. Over the years, as you watched us all grow up, it must have been so difficult to watch us make our own individual mistakes. Must have been so hard when things seemed to be going exactly against your hopes and prayers. Well, it didn’t all go bad. The really good things are quiet things like a love for your parents and a desire to have a family as happy and as optimistic as the one you and Mom made for us. Over the years you wonder whether the effort you put out was worth it … wonder if anyone ever heard any of the things you said. Well, I did and I know I’m NOT alone. We have lots of parties in our family but I find that for my part, I rarely talk about things like love. I suppose one trait I share with you is my difficulty in talking feelings. But, again like you, I can write them. So I’m taking this opportunity this Father’s Day to let you know that I love you. I’m taking this opportunity to say “Thank you” for all the years of being my Dad. Thank you for all those things which just can’t be described like my values, my attitude in life like.… I truly hope that I am able to be for my kids as good a Dad as you have been for me.

Well, I can’t possibly top that! A letter like that is quite a present indeed, and I guess that’s the best way to look at Charlie himself. He was and remains a present – a Christmas present to our whole family. Some people may remember 22 Dec as the birthday of famed Italian composer, Giacomo Puccini. Others might celebrate it as Ladybird Johnson’s birthday. That date is also remembered as the day they opened the Lincoln Tunnel in New York City (1937), the day Wake Island fell to the Japs in WWII (1941), or the day General McAuliffe told the Germans “Nuts!” (1944). In fact, if you wish, you may celebrate 22 Dec as the feast day of Mother Cabrini. Actually, I’m afraid, we’ll all mostly continue to think of it as “only three more shopping days ’til Christmas!” That’s really too bad. Let’s hope that the foregoing crazy recital of trivia will help us all to remember that Charlie was born on a Wednesday that was 22 Dec 1948, and that he’ll never be forgotten again in the Christmas rush. I’ll never forget him! Being our only child born between Navy benefits and Blue Cross coverage, he’s our only child that was bought and paid for!

And so we come to John-Boy. He was a Sunday arrival, just like Kathleen and I, and our only child to be born on that day. So, as the poem promises, we can expect him to be “fair and wise and good, but (Thank God) he’s not “gay”! John’s birthday, the 24th of Aug, is also the feast day of St. Bartholomew the forgotten apostle. (His name is found on the list of the apostles but he’s mentioned nowhere else in the entire New Testament.) John is hardly likely to ever become a forgotten man, however, as he is more in the image of his patron saint, St. John Vianney (4 Aug), one of the best known modern saints, a.k.a. the Cure of Ars. John enjoyed a rather unremarkable birth, which is highly appropriate, since he’s been so remarkable ever since. (For example, how many of his siblings can claim to have pole vaulted over 15 feet?) Kathleen’s only recollection anent the advent of John into this vale of tears is that, “He seemed to be telling a joke as he came on the scene, but as usual I didn’t get the point.” So it goes, and John has been the family joker ever since.

JJ hasn’t always had a lot to joke about, however, and his encounter with rocks and shoals in the sea of matrimony evoked some very serious moments. In fact, John probably didn’t get all the support that he needed early on when his matrimonial ship went aground. He remains, even under the most trying circumstances, such a bon vivant, such a great pretender, that it is difficult to believe that his outwardly cheerful disposition might only be skin deep at times. He kids about everything so much that it is too often impossible to take him seriously. So, let the word go forth, here and now: we realize, John, that you often hid a bleeding heart behind a widely grinning face, and we sure admire your fortitude, and we do love you, so we also often bled silently with you! The same goes in this respect for Anne and Mary.

John, of course, always knew that. As with the other progeny reviewed thus far, Johnny is also “on the record.” An undated letter, circa 24 May 1983, comes to hand. With characteristic ruffles and flourishes John establishes the date only as: “Sunday night, about 8:15 pm, the calm of dusk.” That’s John! Everything he does, he does with style. As Flip Wilson might put it, John is swave (suave). So it is that he also closed the referenced letter with typical style, thus: “With true love, from your youngest living son.” (It’s nice to note his remembrance of Herbie, even in the very midst of his own traumatic tribulations. Way to go, John!) But it’s time to let John himself testify to our relationship. (That’s what these kiddy-capsules are all about remember!?! – an attempt to portray, however briefly, the interaction of parents and progeny.) So, speak, John!

Your letter of last week re my personal crosses was very comforting and well received. I respond now mainly because it’s very important to me that I’ve never [the emphasis is John’s] had the slightest doubts about your love, concern, and willingness to help me or anyone else in the family for that matter. I do understand your commitment to never “fail to speak up” again. I too carry certain regrets about my de facto seeming indifference to other family concerns such as Mary’s teenage problem. So, where am I now? Wounded, yes! But not mortally so. The trauma has helped me to grow. In spite of the pain of transition, I’m not blind to the fact that I still am so very well off. I’ve so much to be thankful for that self-pity rarely lingers long. Number one on my list of good fortunes are parents who care.

John reminds me of my father. Neither wrote often, but when they did write they managed to say it all! And, curse that it may be, I suspect that John might well also be the son most like me, which is kind of appropriate since we both share the same first name. Anyhow, like me, he can only get serious via a letter. In person we both are prone to parry every overture to serious conversation with a joke. A letter from KT (19 Dec 1977) is relevant:

Mom has always been so easy to love. I think nothing of telling her I love her. We’d always go up and hug and kiss her. That’s Mom, she’s very affectionate. And that was (and still is) nice. But you [your author] were different. You weren’t as verbal with your thoughts. You tended to joke around rather than come right out and say to me, “KT, I love you.”

That’s me, all right, and, I believe, that’s John, too! We strive mightily to hide our real feelings behind a mask of devil-may-care levity. There’s probably a very good reason for this. Personally, I attribute it to a keen sense of vulnerability. I dare not risk letting anyone peek too deeply into the secret garden of my soul, since I live in constant fear that they might trample the fragile flowers they’d find there. I never could stand ridicule. Outright physical pain was, for me, much to be preferred. I don’t know why this is so. Surely, it’s pride, but whence such tremendous pride? Again, in my case, I suspect that it’s a direct hangover from my mother’s all-consuming inferiority complex. Perhaps I passed these genes on to John. Sorry about that!

But there remains this further similarity between John and me. Even as my birth occurred on the anniversary of the advent of the world’s biggest gun ever – the Germans’ WWI “Big Bertha,” John’s birth is also marked by the anniversary of a singular super-event: it marked the day the British burned our nation’s capital city to the ground in 1814. Both of our birthdays were days historically signaled by outstanding fireworks displays. John will no doubt agree with me this is simply as it should be.

And then came the 6th little Indian, Mary. I’ve been good-naturedly accused of regarding her as my favorite child, a self-contradiction if ever there was one. Still, I’ll admit to the charge to the extent that a slightly special relationship was experienced on my part, stemming from my belief that she was our only child whose features favored me more than my devoted spouse. Mary’s arrival in this world was also “slightly special.” There were no big fireworks that I can recall, but she did arrive on the day, 20 Feb, that was to become the anniversary (in 1962) of John Glenn’s pioneering American earth orbiting. (Hers is also the birthday of Gloria Vanderbilt, Sidney Poitier, Sandy Duncan, Patty Hearst Shaw, and the late Premier Kosygin.) Like George, Anne, and Martha before her, and Herbie after her, Mary was born on a Saturday morning, precisely at 11:40 am. What made her arrival “slightly special” was that Mary remains our only child whose birth was induced. It seems that she and Kathleen had gone full term, and Mary was reluctant to come forth. How characteristic of Mary. She never did become a joiner, and she even started life by hesitating to join the human race. As the German soldier used to say on Laugh In, “Vee-rry in-tuh-rres-ting.”

The fact might well have been, of course, that Mary was struggling all the while to be born. She certainly has been struggling since. For sure, she is one Saturday’s child who has had to “work for a living”! And the entire family is mighty proud of her. Of course, here once again I must confess to a slightly special warmth. Mary is, after all, the only daughter to opt for a stint in our military service. I have to admire that, but not because I’m a hawk or gung-ho military fanatic. If you’ve read thus far, then you’re already familiar with my residual evaluation of the services. No, I admire this course on her part precisely because I’m so intimately aware of the tremendous sacrifices it entails. In this perspective, to my mind at least, Mary has exhibited uncommon character and courage. “Well Done, Mary!”

You may now well ask but what about Mary? How does she feel? You may not believe this, but, yes, we have yet another letter to introduce into evidence. Let’s let Mary speak for herself (24 Apr 1981):

This letter should have been written many years ago, but in truth, you don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. In this case, until I was gone. The reality of what I have done has finally sunk in and it’s really shaken me. In Texas I had no time to think about anything or anybody, until the last 2–3 weeks. Then I was really homesick. I’m not so busy here in Denver, and the enormity of what I’ve done has finally hit me.

I never realized what home meant until I visited these alien parts. The sight of a green tree or a blooming azalea brings tears to my eyes now. How good to be back home at Easter; how bitter to have to leave again. The knowledge is that much more bitter when I realize that my life, from now on, will be a series of partings. A poet once wrote, “Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.”

I feel I must take time now to square old accounts. How long has it been since I told you both how much I love you? Have I ever thanked you for loving me? I feel like I’ve redeemed myself now for past mistakes, by doing some difficult and challenging things. I’ve certainly proved a thing or two to myself. But I never could have accomplished anything without your love and support. Since Laurie was born and I crossed over into the realm of parenthood, many things became clear to me. But I’ve always had difficulty talking to the people I love. You know, Dad, I’m my father’s child. (Now, how can I resist that!?!) So everyone came to San Antonio, and I was touched beyond words. God what a handicap to be unable to put feelings into words. I wanted to hold each of my brothers and sisters close to me, and I wanted to really talk to them about themselves.

Yet somehow I seem to miss connections verbally. I look at my family, and my siblings are good people, every one of them. How proud it must make you feel to look at your children, and you have every reason to be proud. Yet at the same time I know how your hearts must be breaking over Anne and John. (And later, of course, over Mary herself.) What parent doesn’t want to spare his children pain? It’s one of the curses of parenthood that you must let each child live and learn; for their own sake you cannot and must not shield them from life’s unhappiness. They have to grow up on their own. All we can really do is try to provide guidance.

So here we are. This letter is to thank you for the guidance you provide me, and the more important guidance you provide Laurie. I don’t have to tell you that she is more precious to me than life itself. You are parents, so you’ll understand that. Thank you for Texas. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for everything. I hope I’ve made you proud of me.

You say, “But we still don’t know how Mary really feels about her parents!” Oh ye of little faith! I guess we had best include at this point a postscript from Mary’s letter to Kathleen on her 65th birthday (6 Jan 1983):

Happy Birthday, Mother! I don’t know that I ever thanked you for all that you’ve done for me. Sometimes it takes a long time for children to truly appreciate their parents. I’m reminded of the climactic scene between Sidney Poitier and his father in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? The one where he screams at his father that as a parent he owed his child everything, because he voluntarily accepted the responsibilities of parenthood, while Sidney (on the other hand) owed his father nothing. I suppose that’s technically correct, but morally it’s pretty hard to swallow.

So here goes. Thank you for never yelling at me when I wet the bed until I was 10 or 12. Thank you for taking care of me when I was sick. Thank you for teaching me to sew. For setting a good example. For acting as the peacemaker. For always doing your best and encouraging us to do likewise. For having a happy marriage. For giving me the religious education that came to mean so much when I grew up. For loving me no matter what I did. For always standing by me. For being a mother to Laurie when I was at work, and gone in the Air Force. For teaching me right from wrong, and showing how strong love can be. Thank you for being my mother.

Always know that I love you, and Dad too, and I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me. All I am today is because of you. I pray for you both every day, and I wish I could be near you. I guess in my heart I’m always with you.

And so, at last, the spirit of our Air Force representative zooms off into the wild blue yonder, leaving us to focus on Maureen. “Wait!” I hear someone scream. Shouldn’t it be KT? Tough bunny cakes! Here’s the deal. I went through WWII and a total of 38 years of government service with the name W-R-I-G-H-T. This means I spent a lot of time standing in a lot of lines, always at the end. And now here’s Maureen. As long as she lives she will always be our youngest living child. She’ll always bring up the rear. Well, Mo, I can sympathize with that. So, let this record speak for itself. This is one time Mo doesn’t come in last. Okay, everybody? This is appropriate in another way: Mo almost didn’t come in at all! She arrived on 3 Aug 1959, even as her godfather-to-be (Gene Sheehan) and I sat across the street from Columbia Hospital in Melona’s Bar and Grill sipping martinis. (Gene’s wife gave birth to a daughter almost simultaneously with Maureen’s birth. I think her name became Eileen. Hope you two meet someday, Mo. It might be interesting.) Mo, of course, is our only child born on a Monday. Thus she is undoubtedly “fair of face”! (So, why did we dub her “Dugan Dog”?) [A hangover from the Chief Machinist Mate who dubbed toddler George Chief Dugan when “everything was Dugan this or Dugan that in those days”?]

Digital Edition Note: Charlie insists that Maureen got the name because she was an expert crawler and moved around as fast as a little puppy dog. Jack added “Dugan” as an honorific title, as noted above.

In all events, Mo came early for the party. Being only 7 months into term, she weighed in at a mere 3-and-1/2 pounds! She knew how to get a head start on a trim figure. Of course, she immediately went into an incubator, complete with respiratory apparatus. It being 3 Aug and beyond, we came to liken her private, climate-controlled cubicle to an apartment on the Riviera, and I’d drop by for a brief visit with her every day on my way from work to home (which wasn’t to be air-conditioned for another six years). Once there, everyone would greet me eagerly with the double query: “How’s Maureen? When’s she coming home?” And I’d make my routine reply, beginning with the immortal words of Jackie Gleason, “She was just lying there. She wasn’t doing nothin’!” And, “They wouldn’t say, yet, when she can come home.”

This was all really a very new and strange business for us as well as for Mo. Kathleen’s return home with new babe in arms was now a well-established tradition. Usually I’d carry the baby in, and place it in the arms of the senior kid present, and then I’d return to the car and carry Kathleen in, because she was to avoid all steps for a week or so. Then all present would sit on the couch, and the children would take turns holding the baby while I’d snap pictures for the family archives. This time no baby accompanied Kathleen’s homecoming, and the whole business seemed a little weird, as though we were missing the main character in the whole play. I think we all felt just a little cheated. As near as we could tell, Mo didn’t seem to mind. She just lay there like a lump “on the Riviera.”

It was something like 4-to-6 weeks later that Mo was finally welcomed home. As I recall, Kathleen and I drove down to get her, and then Kathleen stayed in the car while I lugged the little lump out of the hospital. From thereon, we acted out our usual homecoming tableau – it was all just a month or so late. Our little family was all together again. Of course, we didn’t realize it then, but this was to be the final performance of this wonderful little scenario. Herbie never made it to his earthly home, opting instead to go directly to his eternal home. And Herbie ventured into the world via the Caesarian route, a fact which (together no doubt with a consideration of Kathleen’s age) prompted our good Dr. Holden (who delivered everyone from Charlie to Herbie) to say, “No more.” Forthwith we were forced to confront birth control, or rather birth avoidance, for the first time. We used the temperature charting method of determining periods of “safe” sexual activity from then on through Kathleen’s so-called “change of life.”

But let’s get back to Mo’s “change of life,” her descent from the Riviera to our humble if hot little home. It’s really unfortunate that we don’t have the precise date for this homecoming. Earlier I merely speculated that Mo had remained “on the Riviera” for perhaps 4-to-6 weeks. Upon analyzing the records which we do have, I now can confirm this more positively. A review of the baptismal records of John, Mary, Katie, and Monica disclosed that they were baptized respectively 7, 8, 11, and 12 days after their births. This suggests they were uniformly baptized the first Sunday following their return home about 3 days after birth. Maureen, on the other hand, was baptized 41 days after her birth. This strongly suggests that Mo may well have spent on the order of 29 days in the hospital.

I also have a lingering memory of getting pretty tired of having to divert and delay my trip homeward, suggesting that this practice went on for quite a while. I have a similar lingering memory of the growing exasperation of family members at the nightly announcement that there was still no word on when Mo would be released. It could be that Mo had an inkling of the good deal she was enjoying and wasn’t too excited about giving up her position as Queen Bee to become the last in a line of nine living offspring.

In any event, there’s no question about Mo’s 3 Aug birth. Her advent into the world shares billing with such other illustrious events occurring on 3 Aug as Columbus’ departure to discover the so-called New World, and the Jules Verne–like atomic submarine Nautilus traversing under the North Pole. Yes, folks! Mo’s birth ranks right up there with these historic events. Singer Tony Bennett also belted out his very first song on 3 August (1926), and Mary may well turn pea-green with envy to learn that Mo, rather than herself, shares her birthday with the redoubtable Dolores del Rio! Naturally the question arises, “Has all this celebrity turned Mo’s pretty little head?” Hardly. She may be frugal with her words, but she’s always to the point. Thus, on Christmas 1975 she wrote:

I really do appreciate all the things you (Mom and Dad) have done for me. I know I’m a spoiled brat, and I hope to get over it (which, if ever it was true, she surely long since has). No matter whether I’m the biggest brat in the world or the shyest little girl in town, I will love you always.

Again, on the occasion of my near complete heart failure in November of 1979, Mo wrote:

It’s sad that someone has to get sick before you realize how much you really care for them, but I’m guilty and I’m sorry. I know you know I love you very much, but I had to say it again.

Now, that’s truly a ton of love from a former 3-and-1/2 pounder, and on that happy note we’d best move on. I guess our review might as well proceed in reverse order, back up the list, and so we now turn the spotlight on Monica. She is our only Tuesday’s child, and so the poem goes, she must be “full of grace.” She’s also fair of face, and often reminds me of comely Shirley MacLaine. Her Birthday, 28 May, is also Puerto Rico’s Independence Day, and the anniversary of the Charleston, South Carolina, earthquake of 1866, which remains the biggest earthquake ever, east of the Mississippi. She also shares her birthday with William Pitt, St. Thomas More, and the Dionne quintuplets (1934). Monica became our first child born from our Kinross Avenue home. I guess this really proves that eight is enough when it comes to 3-bedroom homes like the one we left on Dallas Avenue.

I must say I’ll never forget the night of 3 Aug 1957. I had just switched jobs in the Navy Department, joining the Navy Management Office on the Easter Monday of 21 Apr 1957. The guy who had opened the door for that promotion was a fellow I had formerly worked with in the Bureau of Ships, Jack Smith (whose son Jim was later briefly to live in the apartment above Katie and Greg in Hyattsville). It was only natural, therefore, that Jack came over to Kinross Avenue that evening to help me celebrate. We drank everything we had in the house – not a lot of anything, really, just a little of this and a little of that. I still remember that it finally came down to where all we had left was some vermouth available simply for making martinis with long-gone gin. So we ended up drinking straight vermouth. What with all the other junk that had preceded it, we both ended up – not drunk, there hadn’t been enough of anything – but sick as dogs. This, then, was the only time I might have been said to have had labor pains of my own.

I wonder what Monica might have thought of all this! Luckily, she wasn’t home yet. And even when she came home, and all the while she was there, she never really said very much. But she definitely had a mind of her own. For example: when she was barely 5 years old we discovered her left eye was not focusing properly, so the doctor said she must wear a patch over the right eye to force the lazy left eye to work more. Well, Moni didn’t care for this at all, but she dutifully put the patch on every morning, only to discard it on the way to school! This was discovered by the other children who found the discarded patches littering the route to school. And from then on she wore glasses. You might say, Monica just couldn’t see eye-patches (I certainly won’t).

Monica could sure see the value of letter writing, however, especially when you wanted to really pour out what was in your heart. We found this out shortly after she left home for what turned out to be forever. She had just moved into a little house all by herself in Tallahassee to complete her master’s degree at Florida State University. Thus, she wrote on 3 Sep 1975:

You’ll never know how thankful I am. You might wonder thankful about what or whom? I’m thankful my utmost for you two. I’m thankful to you two for everything you’ve given me (and are still giving me), but more important everything you’ve made me. Dad, you’ve said how you and Mom weren’t perfect (and your author is so glad that here Moni put that statement in the past tense), but you’ll never be able to realize what perfect examples you’ve been to me, or, I should say to us, because I’m sure the rest of the family would agree. I, too (like you’ve said about your father, Dad), have an apprehension about being able to live up to two such wonderful examples. It’s not only me who admires you, but when I was talking to Mrs. Blakely, before I left, she too mentioned how the neighbors hold you two in great respect. This is something I’ve always wanted to be able to say face-to-face, but I (like you, Mom) get too emotional. Being away gives me a chance to see how much you (Mom and Dad) and everyone else really mean to me. It gives me a medium (letters!) through which I can finally communicate what I’ve felt all along. I love you! (Thanks, Monica! We love you, too.)

So at last we come to KT. It’s ironically appropriate that she should be reviewed last, since she was the one to suggest this project in the first place. KT is also, incidentally, the last child to be born in our first family home on Dallas Avenue. It’s rather remarkable, I think, that all of our children grew up in one or both of our two family homes, situated within a short two blocks of each other, and that all of them completed their entire elementary education in the same school, St. Bernadette’s. I expect such stability is a very rare experience among their peer group. But, this is the way it was.

KT shares her birthday with Arthur Godfrey, Frederick March, and famous educator Maria Montessori. Her birthday also marks the anniversary of the start of Lewis and Clark’s trek to the northwest, and the date Thomas Edison patented the modern motion picture projector. (No doubt these little forays into historical trivia have amused my progeny, but I think all will agree that stooping to such detail not only is revelatory of the author’s penchant for detail, but it lends a certain uniqueness to each one’s birthday. Anyhow, I herewith promise no further such digressions. Of course there will be other kinds of digressions!) KT left a rather large literary legacy as a byproduct of her foray into the far west to find her fortune in 1977 at age 22. (How’s that for a double dose of alliteration, folks?) Rather than persisting in proliferating my own painful prose, perhaps it would be preferable to yield to KT’s complimentary compositions, thus:

These are just a few thoughts on Father’s Day (Jun 1977) to let you know what you mean to me. I’ve come to know you better during these past few years. You try strive to be the best person you possibly can be and this shows. The neatest and most important thing about you is that you welcome change. Too many people, of all ages, stop growing, stop learning, and thus really stop living. They become tight and very intolerant of new ideas and people unlike them. How sad! But you still desire to learn and change, and that’s beautiful! You also love us all very much, and we know it. And you love Mom a lot, and it’s neat to see you two together, because the love and caring is so sweet and evident.

Not only did KT say all those nice things, she didn’t (as far as I can remember) owe me any money at the time. Certainly I owe her some after that! But there’s more! She wrote again on 19 Dec 1977:

Hi Dad! I just finished watching a movie (Wilma) on TV. It prompted me to get off my butt and write down some feelings that have been inside me, growing, for the past several years. They concern you. I love Mom. She’s the best lady I’ve ever known (and the same goes from your current author!). She’s the sweetest, most loving person I’ve ever known. Any of my friends who have met her think she’s so neat, so special. And of course you must have been impressed – you married her! At any rate, during the past few years when I was going to school and you were retired, (from 31 Mar 1973) we got to know each other better. You got to know me as Mom had always known me. Mom stayed at home and had the advantage (although she may not have always looked at it that way, ha ha!) of being around her kids and thus knowing them. So, although I knew you when I was younger, it wasn’t in the same way as I knew Mom. It wasn’t until you were retired and at home that I finally began to know my own father. All I can say is, thank God for retirement!

You’re so very special to me. You’re such a proud father. You’re so proud of your kids, and you love us, too. But fathers are funny sometimes. (Author-editor: God knows, I try to be all the time.) Often they don’t know how to show their love, mostly because they’re not used to it. I guess that’s why your hugs mean so much to me. I guess that’s why I like to get letters from you so much. Because you’re special to me, Dad. And whenever you give me attention, show your love, or talk to me on the phone, it makes me feel special to you.

Mom knows I love her. All of us kids tell Mom that. But for some reason, because we’re afraid of how you’d react, we shy away from telling you that. I still remember so well one afternoon when I came into your room to talk to you about school and what I’d do for a career. (This was a couple of years ago.) At any rate, you talked about yourself and when you were looking for a job after the war. You talked about your feelings of insecurity and discouragement. And this whole meeting touched me so much that by the time I got up to go, I was in tears. And when you saw the tears you looked surprised and then scared. You thought you had said something to hurt me. How funny … you said something that really touched me … you came nowhere near hurting me. For the first time you talked to me as a person. I saw a part of you that I had never seen before and I felt privileged. I saw the tender human side of you that I always knew was there but never really saw. It meant so much to me to have my proud father be human to me.

I was so relieved to find out that just because I felt discouraged, confused, or insecure about my future didn’t make me a failure. It simply made me human. I always looked up to you and Mom as being perfect. And when I found myself falling way short of perfection I got worried. I thought to myself, I’ll never be able to live up to my parents’ image. So, for you to let me in on the secret that you weren’t perfect, and you got discouraged sometimes, even though you put on a show of confidence, really comforted me. By the time I got up to leave, I was crying I was so touched. And when you asked me, “What’s wrong, what’s the matter?” I just said, “Nothing, I just love you.” Your reaction to my answer was so nice. You were so surprised. Here my big, old, proud father was taken aback, and it was so neat. It was neat to see that you were glad that I love you. It was neat to see my stonewall Papa be so moved. And I’ll always remember that, Dad, and I just want you to know that you really are very special to me. You mean a lot to me. I guess you could say I’m a proud daughter!

Watching the relationship between the father and his children in the TV movie prompted me to write. Men are so funny sometimes; they need love and affection more than women do, yet supposedly it’s the other way around. I guess that’s why God made daughters … to teach their Daddies that it’s OK to kiss and hug and talk.

~ picture?? ~

Well, now you’ve met them all – that is, most of you have met them all. But some of us have met still another – Herbie! He was born and died 3 hours later on 19 May 1961. I named him after my father, and already they are together in heaven! His short life was all excitement from start to finish. First of all, his early afternoon “move” fouled up the St. Anselm car pool. Naturally, it had been Kathleen’s turn to “pick up.” Again, the avalanche – the water broke. This was Great Grandma’s shining hour. She called the ambulance, she cleaned up the damage. She notified me that the ambulance had once again “done its thing.” It took Kathleen to the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital in Takoma Park. Seems there was then an ongoing jurisdictional dispute that prevented the Wheaton Rescue Squad from venturing into the District. Not to worry the Adventist Hospital rerouted Kathleen to Columbia Hospital after a brief examination. Evidently they wanted no part of this one.

Thanks to Grandma not knowing about the Seventh Day Adventist diversion, I was already at Columbia when Kathleen arrived. As customary, she was a stream of blood down to her ankles – “not a pretty sight,” as the saying goes. I’ll never forget her only words to me at that point until after Herbie had come and gone: “Don’t forget to take the rolls for dinner out of the freezer.” That’s Kathleen, all right, always thinking of herself. The situation was really precarious, but you’d never suspect that from Kathleen’s demeanor. It had to be a Caesarian (so called from an unsubstantiated belief that Julius Caesar was so delivered). It meant that Herbie had to be taken from the uterus by cutting through the walls of the abdomen and uterus. At her age it also meant no more children.

In due course Herbie was brought forth, to be immediately relocated to an incubator complete with respiratory mask. This was the first way I saw him – the one and only time any family member was to see him alive. He was a pathetic sight. It was truly difficult to judge whether he was in fact breathing, or being “pumped” up and down. He was duly baptized, but in a mere three hours he was gone. It was a sad time. After all, we had been looking forward to him for seven months. Fortunately, there were nine truly live ones already on hand to ease the pain. Kathleen and I will never forget the next evening, holding hands as we looked at all the new babies in the maternity ward nursery. Some sweet little young and “new” mother standing next to Kathleen immediately asked, “Which one is yours?” Kathleen just as immediately blurted out, “Oh, ours died!” Well the poor young lady was virtually devastated on the spot, but there was nothing we could do but quietly slink away. It just wouldn’t do to say, “It’s all right, we’ve already been blessed with nine others.”

Digital Edition Note: Using Jack’s data, both Mo and Herbie were delivered at seven months. But Charlie believes that Herbie was even more premature than Maureen, which might have exacerbated Herbie’s condition. Martha recalls Herbie being a seven-monther, too, and assumes the problem causing the hemorrhage was placenta praevia. Herbie’s lungs were not mature enough yet, and there were no effective therapies then. Maureen, obviously, must have been closer to term by several weeks.

In any event, now a funeral and burial had to be arranged. Martha visited Pumphrey’s in Silver Spring, and then St. Bernadette’s. At the latter she encountered Fr. Bonfiglio and told him she wanted a Mass of the Angels (that being a Mass in which the priest wore all white vestments in lieu of the more customary black, and included the “Gloria” as a special sign of joy). Fr. Bonfiglio inquired as to the situation, and then unctuously (perfect word, I think) said, “Oh, no Mass is required in this case.” Martha responded sternly, “I want one!” At this point she’s pretty sure he was certain she was lethally insane, and he didn’t argue. It’s only since Vatican II (actually effective 1 June 1970) that the Catholic Church does in fact officially provide a special funeral Mass for innocent children.

Prior to the Mass and funeral I took all the children to Pumphrey’s (Kathleen was still in the hospital). I only allowed the “reasonable” older children to go in to view the body. I imagine this may have included George (then age 17) through Mary (then age 7). I expect I left Katie, Moni, and Mo in the car. Whoever it was I had left, they had an exciting tale about some woman who had parked in front or behind me while I was inside, and who had seemingly rammed our car. As they saw it, she was really concerned about whether or not she had hurt anyone. As for the remainder, they all got to see the little white coffin, barely bigger than a good-sized shoe-box, with this little well-lipsticked cherub. To me, it was a touching sight. Then came the funeral. Fr. Bonfiglio celebrated the Mass, then rode to the cemetery in the hearse.

At the cemetery he beheld our whole family except for the still immobile Kathleen for the first time. At the conclusion of the brief ceremony he came over to me and said apologetically, “I didn’t know you were one of these Wrights.” (Now, it could be argued that this tidbit might well have been omitted. After all, there is no dearth of animosity against the Church already. But I wish to make a point. The Church is people, and there are all kinds. Popes and priests are no less human than you or I, and we’d be wrong to impute to the Church quite universal human deficiencies.) Anyway, and notwithstanding that ambiguous incident, the funeral was a tender family moment. I’m told that at graveside I cried. I wouldn’t be surprised, but it was because it was such a beautiful and tender family experience and Kathleen wasn’t there to share in it.

There, now! You’ve really met them all. This is the family which Kathleen and I (with the generous grace of Almighty God!) have managed to nurture through our more than 40 years of married life. Indeed, this is the family which has always been and continues to be our very life. It was fashioned in a span of a mere 16-and-1/2 years, between Nov of 1944 and May of 1961. This was the period that extended from the battle of Leyte Gulf and MacArthur’s return to the RPI, the sinking of the Tirpitz, the Battle of the Bulge, the birth of the A-bomb, the death of Hitler, the invasion of Europe on D-Day, and the advent of the kamikaze, to the first black Supreme Court Justice, urban riots, “black is beautiful,” Hare Krishna, Charlie Brown, Timothy Leary and LSD, and the tragic deaths of 3 astronauts in a practice session in a space capsule right here on earth! Many momentous happenings, these, but certainly not as momentous as the arrivals of George, Anne, Charlie, Martha, John, Mary, Katie, Monica, Mo, and Herbie. We haven’t heard the end of them yet, of course, they’ll be flitting in and out of our story in the pages ahead. All the foregoing was just sort of a preview, and an introduction to our cast of characters. But the beat goes on, and from now on we’re all in this together.

Of course all memories by the children aren’t all sweetness and light. It’s frightening to learn how their most commonly shared recollection is one of fear of good old Dad. Perhaps, like the alleged “good officer,” a good father has to appear as a really mean SOB. Vince Lombardi raised this approach to a high art form, but I don’t really believe in it for either leaders or parents. In fact, I’d aver that resort to fear is more like seizing a crutch, a signal of an inability to handle either the situation or self. Besides, I could never feign that I only appeared to be a mean SOB – I was a mean SOB. This was a mistake. I knew it then and I confess it now. I hated my anger more than my children ever did. I wept over it many a time in secret.

I can’t render my feelings in the matter better than St. Paul does in his letter to the Romans (7:15–24):

I cannot understand my own behavior. I fail to carry out the things I want to do, and I find myself doing the very things I hate … though the will to do what is good is in me, the performance is not, with the result that instead of doing the good things I want to do, I carry out the sinful things I do not want. When I act against my will, then it is not my true self doing it, but sin which lives in me.… What a wretched man I am! (Little wonder, then, that nobody recognizes better than I that we can’t make it on our own – we need help! We can only make it by the grace of God. I’m still struggling.)

Another surprising aspect of reported recollections by our children is how selective they tended to be. They all remember Dad smashing a hole in a wall with a wildly flung alarm clock, and they all remember the daily rages that accompanied my giving up smoking for Lent, such that their penance was considerably worse than mine. But no one mentioned how every Lent (and Advent) we would all announce the one good habit we’d strive to add to our repertoire, and the one bad habit we’d try to eliminate. I was surprised, too, that no one mentioned what I thought had been real treats, like NMO picnics with all the game stands and the sneaking of cokes to the car trunk, and the K of C Fourth of July picnics with foot-races and fireworks. And who could ever forget the joy of older kids proudly marching younger kids to unwanted T-bone steaks at Melvin’s in Ocean City, while Kathleen and I enjoyed a separate table?

And how about the tramps through the monastery garden, and the catacombs, and hurtling down the cliffs on the GW Memorial Parkway (and Dad almost not making it back up)? Or who will ever forget the earlier Fourth of July picnics at the Meehan’s (merely the prototype of our new annual forays to Martha and Gary’s house). And there was John’s famous bit on the grounds at the Washington Monument one Fourth of July when he begged Mom to cover his ears so his hands would be free to pick his nose? Or, recall the Holy Thursday bread and wine ritual, or the double-exposure film tableaux we staged on Dallas Avenue? Then there were the hosing-downs from the back steps, in lieu of baths on hot summer nights, with kids fighting for safety behind trees.

Hey! There’s so much more, we’ve done a lot of living together! Remember four of us, each holding one leg of the swing set, moving it via Lanark Way from Dallas to Kinross? Or Charlie being caught playing with matches, and my saying, “You’re too old to spank. Hell! I’ll do it anyway.” After all, it turned out Charlie was the one who burned up the lot across the street from our house on Dallas Avenue. For years we all attributed it to “somebody.” Then there was Noel, John, and Charlie making fuses for Steve Shine’s firecracker. But then it was Charlie, too, who squirreled his arm through the car radiator grill up to the armpit to open a defective hood latch, thereby getting his shirt so greasy he got to skip a May procession one year. This could have been about the time I removed the automatic choke from the Chrysler, stalled at St. Bernadette’s, and hurled it clear across University Blvd. into Indian Spring golf course [now the new campus of Blair High School]. Or remember the day the accelerator linkage broke on the DeSoto at Mayo Beach, and we drove all the way home through a thunderstorm with it held together by scotch tape? And who didn’t love the way I slopped BronzeTan on, first at Mayo, later at Ocean City?

Of course, there’s a logical explanation for these gaps in our children’s recollections of their childhood years. I think Anne put it best in one of her letters (18 May 1978):

That is the amazing thing about our family, Dad. I lived in a different generation than some of my sisters. My childhood memories are some 15 years older, because by the time I was in high school there was a different bunch of little kids living in our house, building up a different set of memories. The fascinating thing is that it is a composite of these different sets of memories that comes closest to what you and Mom must have experienced. I don’t remember silly incidents which Moni and Maureen and probably even Katie cherish. I wasn’t around. Likewise, they weren’t around in any of my early childhood memories.

There you have it. We in effect raised a series of small families, which are only now, as the age gap of childhood contracts into the uniformity labeled “adulthood,” congealing into a single, unified, large family. It is our hope that these pages may hasten this congealing process. And in this connection, we must not just be caught up solely in the happy superficialities of our family life. We should also reflect on the common substructures of our life together.

In this more serious regard I would naturally be tempted to cite our religion. Unfortunately, too many people (and too often, I’m ashamed to have to say, with proper cause) regard “religion” as just another four-letter word. But, says Harvey Cox, “We can talk about sex now, and maybe we can soon talk about religion.” If so, it may well be begun by our sometimes still resisting offspring, since, as Harvey goes on, “Christianity did not begin in the fields of the Greek philosophers, but in the boondocks.” So a resurgence of religious fervor may well be in the offing, even in our very midst. In fact and as of now, an antipathy for organized religion, most especially as it was reflected (or perhaps misrepresented) via our children’s elementary school-teaching nuns, still seems to persist in certain of our children.

They take a dim view of Catholic schools generally, and especially the superstition-loaded “brain-washing” perpetuated by some nuns under the guise of theology. To them it was a poison not yet altogether purged from their systems. They became angry, as indeed they should. As Graham Greene has said, anyone “who cares for nothing finds it difficult or absurd to be angry.” Anger, furthermore, is the tip-off that another butterfly is about to emerge from the stifling cocoon of childhood. It is a signal to rejoice at the discovery of independence – a recognition of personal values. All of this is not only normal, it is good. The trick, of course, is not to throw the baby out with the bath water. A high order of discretion is also necessary. Unfortunately, discretion is learned only many, many years after anger. The latter is almost an instinct, the former has to be cultivated through long experience.

In any case, “religion” is today a pejorative term. So let us eschew this word and phrase the matter in different terms. Let’s (with thanks to author Judy Frank) talk about maps! Everybody knows my addiction to maps – which is second only to Kathleen’s addiction to lists – and what we tried to do was give our children a map of life. So.…

A few words in praise of maps. Diagrams of what’s out there and how to find it. Can you think of a more abundant source of innocent entertainment, of information and instruction, than representations of the whole or a part of an area? Somebody in charge of school curricula should make the three Rs subordinate to a course in map-reading. That ought to be the first thing children are taught after crayoning inside the lines … in fact, they’d all be better off if they could start out crayoning blue for the ocean, green for mountains, yellow for deserts. As soon as the little tykes are old enough to beg for an expedition to Busch Gardens or the 7-11, they should be given a road map and put in charge of all navigational commands.

A compelling reason to succeed will help focus their attention. A spur to success. I’m sure there must be surveys proving how map-reading sharpens up eye-brain coordination … “turn left here, watch speedometer for 1/3 of a mile.” And it certainly offers reinforcement to such good concepts as clarity of thought, not to mention being master of your fate, captain of your ship, etc. My own experience cites map-reading as a litmus test for the sort of folk who are satisfactory to deal with. Map people are good people. If they can read a map, I’m going to enjoy them; if they can’t, watch out.

Let me add just a word here. It is our belief that if only our children stick to our map well, they’re all going to make it – and I’m not talking about “to the 7-11”! So, here’s to our children! We love you madly, and our wish for you is fair winds and following seas! And for chrissakes, don’t forget the flaming map!

XII. PEACE

This is the true nature of home – it is the place of Peace; shelter not only from injury, but from all terror, doubt and division.  – J. Ruskin

I reported aboard the light cruiser USS Amsterdam (CL101) at Norfolk Naval Shipyard on 22 Jan 1945. She was a virgin, new-construction ship that had just completed fitting-out and shake-down. Officially, she was ready for duty, but it would be a while before she was ready for combat. We were off almost immediately for extended training exercises out of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba (where the weather is almost as constantly perfect for sea-going training as Pensacola is for flying instruction). So began a three-year-plus tour of sea duty that would take me all the way to Tokyo Bay a mere three days after V-J Day, 2 Sep 1945. I wouldn’t see Kathleen and George again, who relocated from Solmson Heights to my parents’ home in April, thence to the Kirk family home in June, and thence to an apartment in Mt. Rainier with Aunt Luie and “Little Joe” Woods, until they rejoined me virtually a year later in San Diego the following December.

So, it was back to sea once again, but this time there were some significant differences. The Navy was no longer the central focus of my attention. Now I not only had a wife, I had a young son. Another major difference arose from my rank. I had left Tuscaloosa a Lieutenant. I joined Amsterdam as a Lieutenant Commander. This was only a one-grade step, but it represented an elevation (or was it the opposite?) from the more-or-less anti-establishment junior officer brigade to the uniformly loathed senior officer establishment. It was sort of like transitioning from labor to management. There was (and probably still is) always a tension between junior and senior officers, and I confess straight off that I never really felt comfortable as a senior officer. I always had to literally work against a tendency to over-familiarity and downright camaraderie with my junior officers. At the same time, I always felt my peer group of senior officers ranged from stuffy and stiff to outright snobs or SOBs.

The Commander with proud parents

In any event, my greatest difficulty stemmed from the fact that I now had actually tasted shoreside family life. I can well remember driving into our family garage with my Pop for the last time. We had been on some errand together, and apparently I’d been unusually quiet. As my Pop put on the brake, and before getting out of the car, he asked, “Is everything all right?” Sad to say, I just broke down and cried. “I just don’t want to leave my family,” I blurted. Well, I left them many a time after that, many times to face genuine danger, but it was this first parting that I still recall as by far the toughest. Once at sea, of course, you were not only too busy to give much thought to the family, you were shielded by the further recognition that there was no way (certainly in wartime) that they could contact you or you them. It is this fact which at the same time engendered a sense of family irresponsibility in many husbands, and a sense of independence in many wives – a mixed blessing at best.

In any event, the job once again got all my attention. It was easy to concentrate on what had to be done. We had to get ready fast to fight, and perhaps to die, and this time we knew we were headed for the anything-but-Pacific! Meanwhile, in the Atlantic, where we were still operating for the moment, the Germans had upped the ante with the fleet introduction of the snorkel, which greatly enhanced the operational flexibility of their deadly submarines. In early Feb, FDR conferred at Yalta with Uncle Joe Stalin, with traitor Alger Hiss looking over his shoulder. On 19 Feb 1945 the Marines stormed Iwo Jima. General Howland (Howling Mad ) Smith termed it the Marine Corps’ most costly battle in history, before the famous flag-raising was photographically recorded for all posterity on my 27th birthday (24 Mar 1945). Meanwhile, in Europe the Allies had crossed the Rhine on 7 Mar 1945.

So the war was very hot indeed from east to far west, even as we honed our skills midway between in the semitropical, paradise-like climate of the Caribbean. We were underway everyday, drilling gun crews and damage-control crews. Every item of gear and equipment was checked, tested, and rechecked. Drills were run, critiqued, and rerun. After all, this was not only a new ship, it was a new crew. Not only did teamwork have to be relearned by veterans, a major percentage of the crew was pea-green new recruits with no seagoing experience whatsoever. Time was short and everything was all business. Our cups were filled to the rim with grim. To indicate just how grim, after only two months aboard I got the worst fitness report of my entire career, with only five of nineteen marks being within the top 10% in the naval service. Even so, they grudgingly conceded, “He has the required [acquired?] initiative and planning ability to promote an efficient and smooth-running organization. He will make an excellent Chief Engineer.” Damn right!

I managed to get home for one brief, final east-coast leave the last week in March 1945. I recall my Pop’s 53rd birthday of 28 Mar 1945. After a nice dinner complete with birthday cake and ice cream, he and I were leaning over the back porch rail together, chatting, with him on my left. My mother, Kathleen, and sister Margaret were in the kitchen cleaning up. I have no idea where my brother was, and I have no idea what my father and I were chatting about. But one thing remains etched in my brain, if only because a mere 15 days later my father was suddenly dead of a massive heart attack. I therefore vividly remember that last evening on the back porch. I suddenly turned to my father, put my arm around him, and kissed him smack on top of his bald head. “You know I love you,” I asked, “Don’t you, Pop?” He responded appropriately in kind, and it was a most tender and touching moment. I could hardly know I’d never again see him alive, but we had closed the circuit. We had unknowingly made our final peace. For me it was and remains a beautiful moment. (I’m delighted to say that I similarly made a final peace with my mother, although well before she died. It’s important to remark, however, that this equally tender moment came as a direct result of this very writing project, in the course of which – haven’t you already guessed – I came to realize that I am more my mother’s child than my father’s, and that I owed her everything and loved her a great deal indeed.)

So we come to the fateful day (not just for me, but for our country and the world ) of 12 Apr 1945. I had returned to my ship, then hooked up to a dock in the Norfolk Naval Shipyard, for last-minute debugging of equipment. So it was that I was able to pick up on a shoreline phone-ring in my Engineering Log Room office shortly after noon. Uncle Bernie was on the line. He wasn’t cut out to work for the State Department or the Diplomatic Corps, you know, he was to become a flinty steel IRS man. “Is this you, Jack?” he began, “Your father died this morning of a heart attack.” Now, that’s what I call really breaking the news! I was stunned. Needless to say, with having just returned from leave, the other half of my department then on leave, and frantic preparations underway to leave for the Pacific in a mere 7 days, I had one hell of a time getting leave even to travel the mere 225 miles to Washington for the funeral. But there is still more to the story of this fateful day. At 1535 FDR died of a stroke. This news was on the radio by 1747, just about when I was finally leaving the ship for the Greyhound bus station in Norfolk for a fast run (6 hours for 225 miles!) to DC (as the bus hit every en route military station in Virginia).

Well, FDR’s death really turned the world weird. When I got to the bus station they were already playing funeral-like music over the PA system. That was the way it was to be for the next four days. Radio commercials were completely suspended. Movies were closed down. The whole nation suddenly switched into a state of shocked mourning. Wherever you were, all you heard were dirges. While I was home I dropped into the Franciscan Monastery for confession. The organist was practicing Dies Irae (Day of Wrath, the ultimate funeral hymn) for an upcoming FDR memorial mass. I remember Mrs. MacKavanagh (after whom Monica Louise is named) saw me and immediately set off to have the organist desist until I had left – a nice, if unnecessary, touch. It was as though the whole country had fallen into step with my personal funeral procession.

Incidentally, and still speaking of weird, to our boys in the Pacific all of this was even more ominous. In the Pacific this all happened on Friday, the 13th! So FDR, our great wartime leader, and Pop, the would-be great peace-maker, both left us on 12 Apr 1945. By the 18th all German resistance ceased. On the 20th Mussolini was strung up by his fellow countrymen. On the 30th Hitler did himself in by his own hand. All-in-all, Apr 1945 was a very deadly month. This was the atmosphere in which I set forth for the final months of the war in the so-called Pacific.

We transited the Panama Canal in late Apr 1945. I virtually missed this, too. After all, my special sea detail was at main propulsion control in the forward engine room. You really don’t see much scenery from that vantage point. In exasperation I finally took a chance and dashed topside for a minute or two – long enough to see them transit one lock to another, and switch cables from one diesel engine puller to another. It was a marvelous if quick study in team-work between the ship’s company and their extremely competent dockside counterparts. (And, after transiting 21 locks on the Rhine between Nijmegen and Basle, I can assure you if you’ve seen one lock, you’ve seen them all!) Then it was on to Pearl Harbor for a brief replenishment stop. It was at Pearl that we got the news of the epic battle begun at Okinawa on Easter Sunday 1 Apr 1945.

We didn’t know it then, but this was to be the last amphibious operation of WWII. The plan was the brainchild of Vice Admiral Kelly Turner, whose head, Morison says, could conceive more new ideas and retain more detail than any other flag officer in the Navy. Also participating in the battle were my old English Prof, now Captain John B. Heffernan, skipper of the battleship Tennessee, and my old Bancroft Hall main office watch officer superior and grease sponsor, now Rear Admiral Jerauld Wright, who commanded a Demonstration Group which laid on a fake landing at the southern tip of Okinawa. The landing itself was a piece of cake due to the enigmatic Japanese decision to voluntarily retire from the beach area proper. The worst was yet to come, both ashore and at sea.

I don’t want to labor the details of this momentous battle, since I happily had no part in it. It was effectively concluded by 22 Jun, while Amsterdam only joined Halsey’s famed 3rd Fleet in early Jul, just in time for the 10 Jul–15 Aug final carrier plane assault on the Japanese home islands. Nevertheless I must give some brief indication of the nature and intensity of the battle for Okinawa precisely because it presaged the savage climate into which we were about to enter, and therefore had a profound effect upon us mentally. What happened was that at Pearl we picked up battle damage reports from initial phases of the Okinawa operation. These were hot off the presses from the Bureau of Ships in Washington, D.C.

It can’t be stated too strongly what a remarkable product these battle damage reports were. The smoke of battle would be scarcely cleared before engineering and damage control personnel throughout the Navy would hold in their hands complete analyses of damage inflicted, damage control measures taken (and which should have been taken), and the results. Needless to say, such reports, complete with detailed 3-dimensional (isometric) sketches, were invaluable in educating all concerned with what to expect and how best to deal with it. (It’s sort of like my library read-down on the subject of coronary surgery prior to my operation.) It is supremely helpful to be fully prepared – there were no surprises after that.

At the same time, you’d be lying not to admit to fear and trepidation. Among the threats at Okinawa was the Japanese super-battleship, Yamato, whose nine 16-plus-inch guns could hurl 3200-pound shells 22-1/2 miles. (This, incidentally, was to be the last battleship ever built. No nation was ever to build another, though President Reagan still resurrects them as I write in 1984.) Still, the main story at Okinawa lay elsewhere with the dreaded kamikaze suicide planes. All in all, the Japanese launched 2,550 kamikazes and still had 3,350 left as we arrived on the scene. One half of the kamikaze sorties occurred between 6 Apr and 22 Jun, in the Okinawa campaign! Nor was that even the end of it. Okinawa also saw the first use of the baka bomb. This was a rocket-boosted glider, complete with suicide pilot, which was slung on the under belly of a two-engine bomber, and then released over the target where it became a 260-lb., 500-mph guided missile. This assortment of instruments-from-hell really put the fear of God in every man present. FDR had coined the phrase that we had nothing to fear but fear itself. I can assure you that was enough.

Even so, you can never safely discount the spirit of the American fighting man. Two examples from the period warrant a brief mention. Both are drawn from the battle off Samar, an episode in the Leyte Gulf operation of the fall preceding Okinawa. Here were a few tin-can-like CVEs up against 4 battleships and 6 cruisers. All the CVEs had going for them were 5- and 40-mm guns. As the Japanese charged in for the kill, a Chief Gunner in White Plains sang out, “Hold on a little longer boys, we’re sucking them into 40-mm range!” A bit later a Wildcat Avenger attack from a nearby U.S. carrier force suddenly hit the Japanese, who shortly broke off the action. This elicited a yell from a signalman in Fanning Bay, “Goddammit, boys, they’re getting away!” (Notably, this spirit endured at least through Korea, where we had then-Marine Colonel Chesty Puller exclaiming, “The enemy is in front of us, behind us, to the left of us, and to the right of us. They won’t escape this time!”) Yes, I was wrong earlier when I contended that we merely machined our way to victory. Our fighting men were really something else, too!

So Okinawa came and went. And in the immortal words of Maxwell Smart, I “m-I-s-s-e-d it by that much!” (Actually I didn’t miss it at all. That was plenty close enough for me, and it sure kept you on your toes!) After all, the Navy suffered 34 ships sunk at Okinawa, and another 61 damaged. The biggest and most courageous victims were the radar pickets, vulnerable Destroyer Escorts placed alone on the far periphery of naval formations to sound the early warning of incoming kamikazes. They themselves became prime kamikaze targets. And, despite our huge losses, they might have been infinitely worse except for the battle-proven value of our fire-fighting and damage-control schools. Still, when all was said and done, this epic conflict was just another steppingstone on the long journey to Japan. It was of Okinawa that Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz said, “Uncommon valor was a common virtue.” Churchill marks the battle of Okinawa among the most intense and famous in military history. But history was already tending toward peace.

We know that now. Those of us on the scene didn’t know it then. Still, the signs were already in the air. Even as we crossed the International Dateline, the world marked that 8 May 1945 as V-E Day. And the United Nations conference had already begun at San Francisco in Apr. The 46 nations there represented concluded their deliberations on 26 Jun with their issuance of the United Nations Charter. Nevertheless, the war was still in full swing, and other ominous signs were still on the horizon. On 13 Apr our old shipmate Admiral Leahy told our new President Harry Truman that the ongoing Manhattan (atomic bomb) Project was the biggest fool thing we have ever done. Later he was to add, “The bomb will never go off, and I speak as an expert in explosives.” The scenario for the end was now set. Things were now happening at a frantic pace, like the speeded-up tempo of a running-down clock.

Even as Kathleen and George were relocating from the apartment in Queenstown to her folks’ house on Otis Street, I was relocating from west longitude to east longitude. I was initiated into the ranks of the ancient sea-going order of Golden Dragons. I was the senior officer to be so initiated, and as such assumed leadership of the opposition. The worthy opposition was led by my Oil King, Chief Watertender Turner, who merited that post by virtue of being the oldest Golden Dragon aboard. So, the battle was really a good-natured but fierce battle within the Black Gang itself. The final highlight came when Ensign Daly and I finally fell back to the boat deck where we held off the mounting hoards of Golden Dragons with a high-pressure firehose until Turner had the fire pumps secured. Then it was our turn to wriggle through the garbage-laden towing sleeve which at the same time served as a gauntlet well-manned by stick-flaying Dragons. We finally emerged battered and bruised, then to be hosed down with salt water and immediately set down on a chair, which turned out to be a truly electrifying experience! OUCH!! Life goes on in the Navy even in wartime.

As most every WWII buff knows, the giant carrier Task Force charged with pressing the attack on Japan in the last six months of the war was by turns labeled the 3rd or the 5th Fleet, depending on whether commanded by Admiral Bull Halsey or Midway hero Admiral Raymond Spruance, who spelled each other about every 60–90 days. So it was that the 5th Fleet became the 3rd Fleet for the very last time on 27 May 1945, even as Amsterdam closed on Pearl Harbor, there to become a unit of CruDiv 8. We thereupon sailed west to join up with the 3rd Fleet for the final 10 Jul–15 Aug assault on Tokyo. We maintained station during this period, which comprised 37 days at sea, just 170 miles southeast of Tokyo. There Amsterdam became known as the Flying Red Horse (then a popular Mobil Oil Company logo) as a byproduct of our daily refueling of 3 destroyers every morning before breakfast. Literally, we were serving as a gas station.

It was in this setting that I’d take up station beside my Oil King, Turner, at the forward starboard fueling station every morning at dawn. This was always a frantic time of high anxiety and tension, since we were so close to the enemy homeland and were literally sitting ducks while hitched to a parallel destroyer by two six-inch fueling hoses and therefore constrained to hold a fixed course. Little wonder that the Skipper was forever yelling down from the wing of the bridge, “How much longer, Chief?” Invariably I’d ostentatiously remove my slide rule from my shirt pocket, manipulating it furiously, all the while beseeching Turner out of the corner of my mouth for the answer. Turner, of course, was on the fueling-at-sea phone circuit, in direct conversation with snipes below deck busily engaged in continuous sounding of the tanks as to their level of fullness. Needless to say, my little mini-drama with the slide rule was very impressive and always carried the day. I was dubbed the smartest Chief my C.O. ever had. (Appearances, unfortunately, are sometimes everything.)

Now the war really began to wind down in a hurry. On 17 Jul 1945 Truman was already at Potsdam carving up the European peace. By 25 Jul the British were already feeling so secure that they dumped Churchill for Clement Atlee. Graffiti from a Gibraltar sentry box seems apt:

God and the soldier all men adore,
   In time of trouble and no more.
When war is over, and things are righted,
   God is neglected and soldiers slighted.

Meanwhile in the Far East the war was really on the wane. We’re talking about 6 and 9 Aug 1945, folks. On 6 Aug we dumped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. On 9 Aug we dumped another atomic bomb (Fat Man) on Nagasaki. The moralists (with good reason, in my opinion) have been dumping on these decisions ever since. (Whenever you hear discussions today on the doctrine of first use, remember these dates. The question is already moot. This was first use! Let us pray it was also last use.) In all events, the complexion of war immediately and completely changed – forever! If ever there was a situation where the old canard, “I guess you had to be there,” was apt – this was it!

What a transformation of mood and spirit these two explosions effected in anyone then serving in the 3rd Fleet! Here we had horizon-to-horizon hulks packing devastating destructive forces. Surely this had to be the mightiest armada of all time. Two puffs in the sky suddenly rendered it all second-rate-to-meaningless. One minute you felt a part of the mightiest force in history; the next moment you felt like nothing, overtaken by history, obsolete. It was an awesome feeling, and it reflected a lesson our military leadership still hasn’t digested, but more on this later. (I’m referring to the futility of giant modern fleets.) Just consider this: each and every SAC pilot rides more destruction than launched by the sum total of all allied bombs in WWII!)

Little wonder that Marines were landing unopposed at Yokasuka by 28 Aug, that V-J Day came on 2 Sep, and Amsterdam herself was steaming peacefully into Tokyo Bay by 5 Sep. PEACE!!! It was wonderful. It was also very strange. The reason this was so lurks in a remark of Mussolini: “War alone brings up to its highest tension all human energy and puts the stamp of nobility upon the peoples who have the courage (or are forced) to face it.” As cited earlier (see motto for Chapter IX. WAR), historian Will Durant reinforces the notion: “We have to acknowledge war as … the ultimate form of competition.… [It] is the father of all things, the potent source of ideas, inventions, institutions, and states.” True. After months of almost unbearable tension and excitement, in constant fear for your very life, peace came as a real letdown. You had a sense of uselessness, of futility. A wave of ennui engulfed all hands. Immediately one objective subsumed all others: let’s get home!

However, before we move on, let’s pause a moment to salute the architects of our victory. We have, of course, already paid an extended tribute to the master FDR. After him (speaking only of American leaders), Harry Hopkins deserves special mention. As Joseph Alsop has noted, “He not only wielded great authority, he enjoyed the President’s absolute confidence, and saw more of him day-to-day than any other person.” In addition, as you go further up the scale of human quality among the men who served America and Britain so well in the war years, you find that the admiration for Hopkins grows greater and the affection warmer until you reach the top of the scale with Winston Churchill and General George C. Marshall. Churchill went so far as to admiringly dub Hopkins “Lord Heart of the Matter.” Passing to the military realm, Alsop had this to say: “It is to be doubted, in truth, whether the American government ever boasted before, or will boast again, such a constellation of great American public servants and military leaders as Washington contained in the Second World War.… I wonder … whether we shall ever see another leader of the U.S. Army with the all-around greatness of George C. Marshall, or an Air Force leader with the tough, concentrated intelligence and crafty courage of H. H. Arnold, or a Chief of Naval Operations to compare in fighting spirit and general astuteness with grim, relentless Ernest King.” As for me, my fitness report for the period showed an increase to eleven out of nineteen marks within the top 10%, and noted that I displayed great initiative and good judgment in performing all assigned duties in a manner which guaranteed to achieve the best possible results. Hey! What’s new?

With the end of the war, Amsterdam was employed in the ferrying home of troops between Pearl Harbor and the west coast beginning in Oct 1945. Our first post-war return to the states began from Pearl Harbor on 9 Oct 1945, when we set forth for Portland as a unit of Halsey’s entire 3rd Fleet as it got underway en masse for the last time, passing in review before Honolulu – where it had begun just a little less than 4 years before.

En route to Portland we stopped briefly at Astoria, Washington. There we discharged approximately 100–150 ill crew members, the majority of whom were ambulatory. Lucky thing, too, because the illness was bacillary dysentery which literally kept you running in every sense (acquired when we were tied up briefly alongside dysentery-plagued USS Birmingham in Tokyo harbor), and which ended up rendering those so afflicted totally unfit for duty. Thereafter, for several weeks all hands (all fannys, really) had to line up outside sickbay daily while a not-so-gentle corpsman ran a brace and bit up your spread cheeks to take a culture, which was then studied between glass plates under a microscope. This routine naturally inspired a snipe from Engineering Repair Five to parade up and down outside sickbay everyday with a huge 15-inch-long by 1-1/2-inch-diameter brace and bit. (A brace and bit, of course, is a hand-cranked drill.)

We arrived off Portland, Oregon, on 16 Oct where we disgorged 1,000 Seabees from Okinawa. While the Kirks took care of George in Washington, Kathleen flew out and was there to meet the ship. We remained there through the 27 Oct Navy Day festivities, and as the first fighting ship to come to Portland in five years, our welcome by the city was simply fantastic. I remember one childless couple who introduced themselves to Kathleen and me on the street, and then voluntarily chauffeured us all over town. They even transported us out to Multnomah Falls, the famed salmon spawning area, and ended up having us into their home for dinner. Virtually everybody invited you into their bottle club (where their private stock was stored in personal lockers) and instructed the attendants that we were their guests with unlimited access to their goodies. It was unbelievable the joy and openness of the whole deal.

Of course my personal joys were almost always accompanied by woes. Kathleen and I had only a brief time together, then it was back to DC for her, and back to the far Pacific for me or rather, back and forth to the far Pacific. We had practically served as a tanker toward the end of the war, and now that peace had come we were to serve as a troop carrier – a returning troops carrier. In the following flurry of forays back and forth to the west coast from the far Pacific, I particularly recall one overnight turnaround in San Francisco. The ship’s doctor and I (since doctors, even as the fictional Hawkeye, seemed to especially share my antiestablishment bent) went ashore about 1700 one afternoon. We ended up at a cozy little bar called The Backyard. (I can’t help wondering if it’s still there, and further wonder if I’d risk being caught dead there today.) In any event, we discovered the smoothest drink I’ve ever enjoyed in my life – the Royal Gin Fizz, which is made with sloe gin and a whole raw egg. As Red Skelton used to blurt and burp about Guzzler’s Gin, s-m-o-o-t-h!

We managed to get back to the ship just as morning quarters was being sounded on the bugle. Moreover, we were literally bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. That is, this marvelous drink seemingly had no lingering adverse effects. I don’t know why I even bother to mention this, except that it is such a pleasant memory. It goes without saying that this mini-binge was occasioned by acute homesickness, severely aggravated by being a part of the operation Magic Carpet which was returning thousands of deliriously happy servicemen home, while we ourselves had to wave goodbye and head back out to the far Pacific for another load. This was a most trying time for the spirit. It was as though we’d all been to an exciting party, and now the party was over, and everybody was going home, but we had to lag behind to clean up the mess. All was not lost, however. I turned what might otherwise have been a monstrously boring and demoralizing time to good use. I had accumulated a rather excellent shipboard library, thanks to my now departed father and to Kathleen. It was during this immediate post-war period, especially at sea, that I set about plowing through all these books. I especially remember The Catholic Pattern by Thomas Woodlock, the four-volume Companion To The Summa by Dominican Fr. Walter Farrell, and a six-volume study set from Sheed and Ward that included such classics as Belloc’s Survivals and New Arrivals, Chesterton’s What’s Right With The World, and Arentzen’s What Think Ye of Christ?

All in all, these carefully digested and thoroughly marked-up books provided an excellent foundation in the philosophical-theological fields. As William Osler has pointed out, “There are four kinds of readers: sponges which absorb everything without distinguishing; hour-glasses which receive and pour out as fast; bags which only retain the dregs and let the wine escape; and sieves which retain the best only.” Osler then went on to observe that a man wastes a great many years before he reaches the sieve stage. I must confess I feel I am an exception. I think the pressure of Mr. Puhl at Columbia Prep compelled me to graduate to the sieve stage very early on.

Perhaps this is the time to remark my lifelong love affair with books, which I feel have been a tremendous influence in my life. I suppose my chief thanks in this regard must go to Sr. Regina and my Pop. Both encouraged me and funneled me into the realm of truly good literature. (I find it totally impossible even today to suffer even a few pages of trash such as spewed by the likes of Irwin Shaw, Harold Robbins, and Andy Greeley. The poor quality of the writing just inhibits any possibility of enjoyment. Conversely, I can become completely absorbed in the masterful literary mechanics of an artist such as Graham Greene, even when the substance is such fluff as constitutes Our Man In Havana or Dr. Fischer of Geneva and the Bomb Party.) Of course I’ve already noted how the Book of Knowledge actually led me to pursue a naval career, and I’ve conceded that it was Edgar Rice Burroughs who first stimulated my present propensity for reading. I agree with Graham Greene’s statement, “The influence of early books is profound.… Early reading has more influence on conduct than any religious teaching.”

Soon I was reading Chesterton, C.S. Lewis, St. Thomas, Garrigou-LaGrange (the foremost Dominican theologian prior to Vatican II), Bernard Haring (my favorite moral theologian), Karl Rahner (then the greatest living theologian), Teilhard de Chardin (still highly underrated in my opinion, possibly because – like John Kenneth Galbraith, who suffers the same handicap – he was a cross-discipline scholar, and thereby incurred the jealous wrath of both disciplines), not to mention the writings of such as St. John Vianney and St. Catherine of Siena. Of course I can still enjoy the entertainments of John MacDonald (who projects more philosophical substance than one might suspect), Ian Fleming, John LeCarre, and Maryland’s own James M. Cain. At least these fellows can write extremely well. (From Greene I learned that vivid descriptions were confected by minimizing adjectives and adverbs in favor of nouns and verbs, and also by appealing, in turn, to all five senses. From McCain I learned that tempo could be accelerated by alternating lines of dialogue which omitted the identity of the speaker, compelling you to rush on lest you lose the thread of who was speaking.) Certainly, I was never taken in by hype. For example, as briefly alluded to earlier, at a very early pre-Tarzan age, a schoolteacher neighbor gave me some allegedly true adventure stories by a then-well-publicized predecessor of Lowell Thomas (of Lawrence of Arabia fame) named Richard Halliburton. I found them barf-bait. Finally, I wonder how many people you might find who have read Bartlett’s Quotations cover-to-cover. You know I did! And now you know a lot more about me. As Silas Mitchell once said, “Show me the books he loves and I shall know the man far better than through mortal friends.”

Post-war life at sea was, however, not totally devoted to thinking, studying, and reading. There still were moments of high excitement. One incident that is etched in my memory is the loss of lubricating oil pressure on the #2 propulsion system reduction gear during one of my morning watches. (Yes, friends, demobilization had already so depleted our ranks that by Nov 1945 the Assistant Chief Engineer was already reduced to having to go back on the watch list.) This oil system not only provides lubrication for the reduction gear, it also serves the main propulsion thrust bearing (which absorbs and transfers the 30,000 horsepower of the propeller into the ship’s structure ), and the high-and low-pressure main propulsion turbines.

Needless to say, if these things continue to rotate long without an oil supply, you can end up with a pile of junk in a hurry. What you have to do, of course, is stop the main propulsion shaft from rotating. This isn’t a simple matter of closing the steam throttle to the turbines, since the shaft will continue to rotate as a consequence of propeller drag. At the same time, the engineer watch officer must alert the OOD on the bridge, alert the Chief Engineer, and – since you’re operating in a fast-moving and very tight formation – direct the appropriate increase in speed of the three remaining shafts so as to maintain constant ship’s speed. This is real bedlam time, folks! I immediately alerted the various parties and directed the proper adjustments in the three operating shafts. I was, of course, in the main propulsion control station in the forward engine room, whereas the disabled propulsion system was located in the after engine room.

When I contacted the Chief Engineer he told me to remain where I was, that he’d proceed to the after engine room and take care of the emergency. Needless to say, by the time he got there he found me already on the scene. And what a scene it was! The ambient noise level in an operating engine room is on the order of 100–110 decibels. (Oh, really? Hey! All you have to do is think Fahrenheit. Eerie quiet would be 32 degrees and below like walking in snow whereas sound, like heat, really becomes offensive above, say, 90 degrees. Got it? And, while I’m at it, I’ll tell you another peculiarity about noise. You’ll find you can accommodate to any noise as long as: (1) it is steady, and (2) you know you can’t do anything about it! Failing one of those conditions, the slightest noise can drive you crazy! End of instructional segment!) This is the clime in which the Chief Engineer and I thereupon exchanged screaming curses. “Goddammit!” he shouted, “I told you to stay where you were!” “Goddammit!” I bellowed, “I’ve got the sack and I wanted it done right”! Back he screamed, “You sonovabitch! That was a direct order!” And back I came, “You stupid bastard, can’t you see I’m busy!” Members of the black gang in attendance were incredulous, and during all of this I was, in fact working furiously. It’s a race against time, and it’s a tricky business. As they say about the gusto, “You only go around once,” that is, you only get one shot at performing this operation properly.

The way you stop a shaft from turning when you’re in a Task Force moving at 15 to 25 knots requires exquisite cooperation between the throttleman and the guy (me!) at the reduction gear. The two principals can’t see each other, and we exchanged info (between the foregoing exchange of curses) over the sound-powered phone each of us had cocked over one ear. This communication is critical, since the throttleman cannot see the propeller shaft and has no sufficiently sensitive indication of shaft movement. What the throttleman is trying to do is to momentarily stop the shaft’s rotation by bleeding short blasts of steam into the astern turbine, trying to balance the thrust of the dragging propeller. Meanwhile, the guy at the reduction gear (me) is watching the propeller shaft itself as it emanates from the rear of the reduction gear. The instant it appears stopped, it is my job to apprise the throttleman and immediately engage the jacking motor on the reduction gear, and then whip on its shaft-locking brake. If you attempt to engage the jacking motor when the shaft is other than dead-still, you merely strip off all the teeth on the jacking motor shaft.

You’ve got to be sharp. You’ve got to be fast. You’ve got to be precise. It helps not to have distractions. It’s a really critical situation, and as you can see, I really did once work for a living. (The jacking motor is a small electric motor that can be clutched into the reduction gear to enable slowly rotating the shaft during main engine warm-up, thus precluding warping of the main turbines by slowly rotating them as warm-up steam is bled in.) Well, the propitious moment came, and the deed was safely done. Everybody sighed in relief and stepped back. The Chief Engineer and I glowered at each other for a moment then simultaneously broke out into huge grins and laughed uproariously. Now the tense crew was relieved, too.

Yes, we still had our exciting happenings. This Chief Engineer (my last, as ever after I was to be the Chief Engineer), was a Cdr. Garvin, and he was almost as off-the-wall as Bruce Garvin of Kinross Avenue fame. For one thing he actually carried fancy calling cards which were simply but elegantly engraved, “Don’t call me Chief.” (Perhaps if I’d ever have made full Commander, I’d have felt the same way.) He was also the one who would always sing out “Tallyho!” whenever the Supply Officer would appear in the wardroom for meals. You have to know that the Engineer and Supply officers are traditionally bitter enemies aboard ship – one striving for more and better tools and supplies, the other always fighting limited budgets. Moreover, a careless Supply Officer could mess up an Engineer Officer in other ways. For example (and this is another engineering insight I picked up via a round-table seminar at PG school), on one occasion our shipboard refrigeration plant seemed to be on the blink. We were unable to maintain adequately low temperatures in several central refrigeration compartments. Well, before you tamper with the apparatus, the first (and sometimes the only necessary) thing to do is to check and make damn sure the Supply Officer hasn’t blocked off all circulation to the cooling coils by improper dense-packing of stores.

Anyhow, Cdr. Garvin was asked one day to explain this Tallyho! business, which he did, thus: It seems there was this uneducated driller who once struck oil real big and became an instant multimillionaire. Soon he was traveling in style all over the world. In England he was invited to participate in a royal fox hunt. When the fox was suddenly flushed from cover the oilman shouted out, “There goes the sonovabitch!” Thereupon he was in very proper English fashion corrected, “Oh, no, my dear boy! Over here we just say, Tallyho!” Well, at least Garvin and I respected each other.

We also had our real downers. In Dec 1945, Kathleen and George relocated to the West Coast just in time for Christmas together with me. As recounted earlier, this was not to be. It was sort of an instant replay of the fractured Christmas of the preceding year. Remember? Then they had packed me off to (Good grief, Lucy!) Philadelphia. This time it was the occasion of my Sentimental Journey (with Doris Day) to Hawaii, but we’ve already covered this. By Jan of 1946, only three months after the conclusion of virtually a four-year world war, the Army was already discharging one million soldiers a day! Peacetime had come with a vengeance. Our own ranks were depleted so fast that in Jan of 1946 we were moved to the San Francisco area to commence decommissioning of the CL101. Amsterdam was going to be put into mothballs in the Reserve Fleet.

USS Amsterdam decommissioning crew

Digital Edition Note: The caption the Jack included on the above photo reads “Non-establishment Commander complimented by seven Ensigns at Top of the Mar”

Not stated explicitly in the text of the book, it appears that “Non-establishment Commander” is Jack, seated 4th from the right.

Newspaper item about USS Amsterdam decommissioning

Digital Edition Note: Text of the item reads:

Cruisers Join “Mothball” Fleet Here
Pulling the stops to join the “Mothball” fleet here, the heavy cruiser (obscured) (in the foreground) and light cruiser USS Amsterdam being towed to the nations support drydock at Hunter’s Point.

The official report reads, “being prepared for inactivation in Pacific drydock Port of San Francisco Naval Shipyard. Built during the war, the 1,100 foot drydock is capable of handling largest ships afloat.

Digital Edition Note: There is no indication in the book precisely what the “Green Flash” logo on the right of the above image represents. No mention of it is made in the book. It likely refers to the flash of green light occasionally seen briefly at the moment of sunset, referring to the “sunset” of USS Amsterdam as she was mothballed. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_flash.

USS Amsterdam entering drydock for decommissioning

This was the time, incidentally, upon my return from Hawaii when we moved bag and baggage from Long Beach to Richmond, California. This was the time of our trek in the ’31 Buick (using 40 quarts of oil!) laden with ironing board on one fender, high chair on the other, crib behind the spare tire in the rear, and George on the crib mattress atop all our belongings crammed into the back seat area of the car. These were the days of the migrating Okies and we fit right in. I’ll never forget cresting the mountain in Bakersfield and beholding the cities of Tulare, Fresno, Merced, Modesto, and Stockton strung out like sparkling jewels on a strand that was the highway – a beautifully impressive sight.

Decommissioning was a drag. You virtually had to stand in line for that, too. In fact, for the next eight months that I was aboard Amsterdam we never really got around to it. Like Jackie Gleason, “we just sort of sat there; we weren’t doin’ nothin’.” It was purely a housekeeping operation, awaiting the resources to enable proceeding with actual decommissioning. This, then, is when I began my study of law. Like all officers, I was drawn into participation in Summary Courts Martial, the Navy provision for judging and sentencing enlisted trespassers of the law. I found it (as with every other subject I ever get attracted by) totally absorbing. I really studied the manual governing procedure, and the regulations. Soon I was quite good at it.

For example, there were the cases of the three Chief Petty Officers who were charged with being drunk while on Shore Patrol. I defended the first one and we won an acquittal. The Skipper thereupon appointed me as prosecutor in the second trial, and I won a conviction. Naturally, the 3rd Chief protested my potential assignment as prosecutor, stating he had a right to have me represent him in his defense. Our Solomon-like Skipper thereupon solved the dilemma by appointing me a member of the Summary Court itself, thereby rendering me a neutral judge. The foregoing legal performance won me a substantial following among the crew, and I became in great demand. In fact, the word was so well spread via liberty parties that I was soon getting requests from sailors in other ships in harbor requesting my services.

My main recollection about all this is that though it was extremely interesting and very rewarding work, it was in fact damn hard, long, and tedious work. It required careful research, extensive preparation, and tremendous concentration and alertness in court. The latter proceeding invariably left me completely drained. And, after all, I was concurrently still carrying the full burden of my engineering duties. Nor was that the worst of it. All too soon I became caught up in the awesome anxiety arising from recognition that my activity was substantially affecting the lives of the accused.

For example, I’m still haunted by my prosecution of Electrician 2/c Fairchild, one of my own snipes. We had a group of reserves aboard for a training cruise, and at disembarkation time the suitcase of one of the departing reserves turned up missing from the quarterdeck. A few days later my Warrant Electrician discovered the missing suitcase stashed inside the locked-for-security cage behind #1 main switchboard. His investigation ultimately focused on Fairchild, and I was assigned as prosecutor at his Summary Court Martial. Well, I won a conviction, but unlike the petty penalties normally associated with drunkenness, AWOL, and the like, Fairchild was sentenced to beaucoup years hard labor in the naval prison at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Believe me, the magnitude of this life impact put the fear of the Lord in me and took a lot of the fun out of my legal machinations.

On the other hand, there were some happy triumphs, too. I’ll never forget how a chubby and rather cherubic Commander Ingalls almost rolled off his chair with laughter when I presented him with a letter addressed to the Bureau of Naval Personnel. This was a case where a CPO had shipped-over (extended his enlistment) some six months before on the basis of certain monetary bonus inducements that were then being offered. Subsequent to this action, the Office of the Judge Advocate General had ruled that certain of the stipulated benefits were null and void since they exceeded the authority of the Department of the Navy to grant them. Thereupon the Chief came to me with the plaint that under these new circumstances he wouldn’t have extended his enlistment. He asked me if he had any recourse. I researched the relevant facts and applicable law and suggested he had nothing to lose if he’d sign a letter I’d prepare, and that he had an excellent chance of getting released. Needless to say the Chief readied his fountain pen to sign on the spot. Our letter cited the relevant before-and-after provisions of the Navy’s enlistment offer, and then concluded to the effect that since the Navy had arbitrarily, unilaterally, and capriciously altered the terms of his enlistment after the fact, that they had effectively abrogated the contract and the Chief was entitled to immediate release.

Well, Cdr. Ingalls thought this was just about the funniest, wildest thing he had ever heard, but if we insisted (he was the Executive Officer) he would forward the letter. We insisted. Unfortunately, Cdr. Ingalls had been transferred by the time (barely a month later) that the Judge Advocate General approved the requested release. Little wonder, then, that I was by now hooked on the law. When I got ashore I went searching for law books. I bought a copy of Blackstone’s classic Commentaries, and Oliver Wendell Holmes’ classic The Common Law. More than that, the United States Armed Forces Institute then provided a broad range of legal correspondence courses. I completed Principles of Business Law on 31 January 1946; Introduction to Business Law I & II with distinction on 28 February 1946; Advanced Principles of Business Law I & II on 26 March 1946; and Advanced Business Law on 26 March 1946. I was busy! This, however, completed the law material available through USAFI.

By this time we were relocated from Richmond (just north of Oakland) to Midway Village (just south of San Francisco), and on 13 Mar 1946 I formally applied for law school under Navy auspices, which was then being provided by George Washington University in our own hometown. My Skipper, Capt. Gerald D. Linke, endorsed it as very highly recommended . He further commented that I was excellently suited, and that I had performed all my duties in a capable and unusually [he says!] thorough manner. Having first set forth in my application how I met all the requirements for such assignment, I then added the following:

The applicant pleads the following additional qualifications:

(a) A keen inherent interest in the law attributable to hereditary and environmental influences coincident with being the son of a law professor. That this interest has been long sustained is a matter of record, as witness the applicant’s original preferences for future service employment as recorded in his original Reports of Fitness and Qualifications Questionnaires.

(b) Pre-Navy educational achievements in related fields, consisting of: four (4) years of Latin; comprehensive Ancient History, outlining the development of the Civil Law; and elementary Logic.

(c) A quasi-industrial background as acquired while attending a course in Engineering Design. This course afforded a series of ten (10) lectures on industry, emphasizing the development of capital-labor relations, unions, contracts, liabilities, workingman compensation acts, etc.; and a ten (10) week field trip covering several major industries, which provided a first-hand insight into liaison relationships existing between the government and industry. The course further benefited in the means of acquiring a technical vocabulary; and an understanding of principles frequently confused during formal investigations of service casualties, and subject to consideration in litigation involving breach of governmental contracts.

(d) The Harvard List of Books for Prospective Law Students states “Law students and Lawyers are confronted with many stimulating problems, which can be solved only after hard thinking, carefully planned.” Accordingly, Reference (A) (a proposal to the Pope, forwarded by the Apostolic Delegate, to initiate evening masses) is presented as unsolicited evidence of a definite ability in the related fields of logic and philosophy. The question in point was one of canon law, the necessary background for which was largely obtained by an assimilation of a wide assortment of theological-philosophical documents, including the Bible.

(e) Arthur Train’s Yankee Lawyer states “The law is pre eminently a literary profession. Words are the lawyer’s media of exchange.” Accordingly, attention is respectfully invited to the fact that while the applicant had a low Naval Academy class standing, his standing in English and Composition was markedly high, he once having attained a standing of 35 in the class for that subject. In addition, he served in the capacity of feature writer for The Log staff for one year, and has written publicly for profit. References (F) and (G) (two reports of machinery derangement, one of which was then confidential, and both of which are covered elsewhere herein) as originally drafted by the applicant are offered as evidence of an ability to construct formal written reports of complicated incidents.

(f) The applicant has sustained his interest in the law by continual collateral reading of legal treatises and associated literature, including: Gavit’s-Blackstone Commentaries, Harper on Torts, Holmes-Pollock Letters, and government publications on the Walsh-Healy Act and the Norris-LaGuardia Act, etc. This active interest is further attested to by the completion of available USAFI courses in law as witness Enclosure (B).

(g) The applicant has actively participated in practical military law by serving successfully as Recorder, Member, and finally Senior Member of Summary Courts Martial.

In April I enrolled for a regular pre-bar law course with LaSalle Extension University (in Chicago), concurrently registering with the state of Virginia as a bona fide law student. This entailed them getting satisfactory monthly reports from the University on my progress. It also involved my being aligned with a resident Virginia member of the bar, a sort of sponsor. How did I manage the latter? I went to the library and checked Martindale and Hubble’s several-volume compendium of all lawyers in the U.S., complete with a background and rating summary of each. At the same time I studied Virginia for optimum locales in which to raise a family and settle down in civilian life. I had been through a similar exercise earlier, that is, before I got associated with Virginia via the law. I had assiduously studied the entire U.S. to determine the most favorable locale. This study was governed by two major considerations: an adequate cultural center that would afford the maximum naturally attainable safety from the threat of any atomic war in the future; and my realization through Navy travel that Bermuda was beautifully warm while Washington wallowed in ice and snow, i.e., there was a wide choice of climes, and one need not be wedded to a less favorable one merely because of the accident of being born there. This exhaustive study led to the selection of Lincoln, Nebraska! I liked its unique unicameral legislature, low taxes, high culture, and its midway location well inland between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. How ironic that even as I chose it for safety, it was being transformed into a prime target of atomic warfare, being only miles from Omaha, where the military was even then installing the Air Force’s Strategic Air Command Center. Well, at least this confirmed my view of the area’s relative insulation from danger.

This time I settled upon Lynchburg and Roanoke (not too big, not too small, and close to Washington), contacted a few choice single-member law firms, and lo and behold, I had a sponsor. In May of 1946 we moved from Coral Sea Village to a Quonset hut in Midway Village on or near the naval shipyard at Mare Island. Also by May, I had received official disapproval of my request for legal training by the Navy. Not to worry, the overall program was still on track, and I was enjoying life with my family. This is the time and place where on daily walks I apprised George of all the engine nomenclature on a nearby tractor. It is also the time and place where we made a home recording of George reciting all this nomenclature and more (which record I believe George still has).

Kathleen with Geo – Coral Sea Village – Vallejo, California

Jack with Geo – Coral Sea Village on Mare Island

Two other particularly favorite memories of our Quonset experience are, first, that another nearby Quonset housed a soda fountain to which we regularly trekked for ice cream cones. The other memory concerns the visible pulsating of the Quonset’s walls to the base viol during the daily airings of Duke Ellington’s band then playing somewhere in the area. One memorable tune of the time was Just Squeeze Me featuring Ray Nance’s trumpet and vocal.

But, moving right along, by July we had relocated once again, this time to a beautiful little Spanish-type furnished house on Santa Paula Way in Vallejo. By now the war was already a memory. By June 1946 some 12.8 million men and women were already returned to civilian life by the military. Moreover, the Philippines were granted their independence on 4 July 1946, and the atomic bomb testing experiments on the fleet were already underway off Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. On 26 Aug 1946 I was detached from CL101, the Amsterdam, with orders to report as Chief Engineer to CA131, the heavy cruiser Bremerton. In my nineteen-month tour in Amsterdam we had earned one battle star on our Pacific area ribbon for our participation in the 3rd Fleet’s final strike on the Japanese home islands. In the Amsterdam I had also learned of atomic bombs and made the transition from war to peace. It had been an historically momentous period even as it was a brief tour.

USS Amsterdam arrives in Astoria, Washington

Digital Edition Note: The caption of the above photo reads: “Astoria  The light cruiser Amsterdam, first naval vessels coming to Portland for Navy day, October 27, arrived at the mouth of the Columbia River on Sunday. The ship is scheduled to reach terminal No. 1 in Portland sometime between 3 and 4 P. M. Monday and will be greeted by a band. Red Cross workers, veterans’ organizations and the public. Other ships of the fleet will arrive in Portland at later dates. (Photo by U. S. navy.)”

Newspaper clipping about USS Amsterdam’s arrival

Digital Edition Note: The text of the article reads:

Amsterdam at Astoria Packed With Humanity
(Also See Story on Page One)

ASTORIA, Oct. 15.—It was a port of which many of them had never heard but to the crew of the light cruiser Amsterdam, which arrived here Sunday, it was the United States in all its glory—the one place in the world they wanted to see.

Three hundred of the Crew received shore leave Sunday to roam the streets until 11 p. m. There wasn't much to do but they just tramped up and down the streets of the good old homeland.

The cruiser, a 10,000-tonner of the Cleveland class, came from Tokyo via Okinawa and Pearl.

Lieut. (jg) Eugene L. Soares of New York city, public relations Officer of the ship, described the crowded conditions on the ship as something that had to be seen to be appreciated. Men slept anywhere they could find room.

“It’s a mess,” he groaned. “Everybody sleeps everywhere—on the gun mounts, in the turrets, on the ladders—probably curled up in the funnels for all I know. Nobody can take a step on deck without putting his foot in somebody else’s face, we chow all day long in great lines, and if there’s one inch of space without a gob on it it's full of souvenirs.

CRUISER'S MARINES LAND

The Amsterdam, carrying the last word in gunnery detection and radar was commissioned January 8, 1945. She was sent out to join the fleet in mid-summer and was with the fast carrier task force 38 of Halsey's 3d fleet in countless strikes which were made against the island of Honshu in the closing days of the war.

Her marines were the first to land at Yokosuka naval base in Tokyo bay, the force which took over control of the harbor entrance. These marines were transferred at sea and sent ashore, a naval officer casually remarking that "marines do anything."

Capt. Lawton, with 28 years in the navy back of him, formerly commanded one of the navy's big transports, He has been commander Of the Amsterdam since she was commissioned. Her executive Officer is Comdr. J. R.Moore.

Photo of USS Amsterdam in Astoria

Digital Edition Note: The caption on the above photo reads “THE LIGHT CRUISER AMSTERDAM   Amsterdam was with Halesy’s 3d fleet of continuous strikes against the Japanese mainland in the closing months of the war. She went 66 days off the coast of Honsu without dropping anchor, taking on oil and supplies while at sea.”

There was, however, no real affection on my part in favor of Amsterdam as a ship like there was (and continues to be) for Tuscaloosa. To be sure, I would miss my immediate friends and shipmates in the black gang – Ace Foster, Charlie Feldhaus, and Red Fleming – all three mustangs (former enlisted ratings with upward mobility) who graduated during the war to commissioned ranks.

Fleming was 6'6" tall, with a matching robust physique. He was menacingly huge, and yet owned a gas-miserly English car called an Austin. These were a miniature auto breed, precursors to and smaller than the VW Beetle to come. Fleming used to fold himself into the car like a carpenter’s rule – a truly comic operation. He couldn’t even wear the flat overseas hat in the car – it would have put him through the roof. I’ll never forget the day the four of us – me, Ace, Charlie and Red – were en route somewhere in the Austin when some guy suddenly cut in front of us and stopped abruptly, causing us to brake sharply with the force of a reverse catapult. The guy comes back to Fleming’s driver’s side window and starts haranguing him about his allegedly having previously cut him off. Fleming heard him out without saying a word. Then he slowly opened the door and started unfolding himself out of the car. By the time he was his fully erect 6'6" the other guy was back in his car and roaring madly away. Yes! I’d miss these guys.

Digital Edition Note: Charlie believes that this is almost certainly an Austin Mini Cooper. Anne at one time worked for a dentist who raced Minis on weekends. Production of these Minis ceased in the late 1960s only to resume again in the mid-2000s in a somewhat updated (and marginally larger) incarnation.

My fitness report from Captain Linke upon my detachment was one of the very best I ever received. Of the 19 rating factors, I was marked within the top 10% in 16. The other three factors (standing deck watches underway, reactions during emergencies, performance in battle) were simply marked unobserved. (The engineer, after all, does labor unseen in the bowels of the ship.) Beyond that, Captain Linke noted that “LCdr. Wright is an energetic, capable, and intelligent officer who performed all duties in a most excellent manner.” He went on to add: “He has maintained the engineering installation and personnel of his department at a high degree of upkeep and efficiency under constantly adverse conditions of personnel shortage (occasioned by rapid demobilization). He displays commendable degrees of initiative and devotion to duty.” Well, at the worst this just goes to show you can fool some of the people some of the time. Personally, I’ve always thought that Capt. Linke was an outstanding judge of men.

In any event, with my detachment and the receipt of this report, our little family now settled into about a 2–3 week period of high anxiety. We were still living on Santa Paula Way, and each morning I would put George in his wagon and drag him several blocks to the nearest phone booth. Each day I had to check in with the Military Air Transport Command at Moffatt Field regarding the first available transportation to Guam, out of which Bremerton was currently operating. Kathleen would stand at the kitchen window (unbeknownst to me at the time), watching for our return, and trying to judge what the answer had been. When the fateful news came that I’d finally caught a ride, though, she had been unable to detect any such sign from my demeanor. (It’s too bad she couldn’t have seen into my crestfallen heart.)

So it was that about 1000, just a few days before our 4th wedding anniversary (yes, Mary, the military split us unfeelingly for that, too!), I learned that I’d be departing from Moffatt (some 35 miles SE of San Francisco) for the far Pacific that very night at 2200. The trip would begin by an Air Force bus leaving from central San Francisco. For a combination farewell and wedding anniversary celebration, Kathleen, George, and I set out to San Francisco for a fancy dinner at one of Bagdad by the Bay’s most famous restaurants, Luigi’s. This was one of those old style western restaurants that you see nowadays only in the movies. For example, we shared one of those curtained-off private booths. The meal was sumptuous, but we were hardly in a holiday mood. It was a tender, loving time, an almost quiet time. At least this time it wasn’t as if I was going off to be possibly blown away in a war. Partings, nonetheless, do remain such sweet sorrow.

The trip to Guam was memorable. All my gear was in a previously forwarded cruise box (which was to be received aboard a good month after my arrival). I was truly traveling light. All I had with me everything was the gray (now obsolete) uniform I was wearing (with overseas flat hat, no cap), and a small zippered packet in my pocket containing tooth brush, comb, and shaving gear. That was it! Right off the bat, on the very first leg of the flight from SFO to Pearl Harbor, I spilled a cup of black (ugly brown, really!) coffee in my crotch. Luckily, the coffee wasn’t all that hot, but traveling the rest of the 5000-plus miles (we made stops at Johnson Island, Kwajalein, and Midway also) with a huge brown stain at the crotch was deeply embarrassing, to say the least. It had the aura of a truly bad case of front-end diarrhea. At Pearl Harbor, during a fairly lengthy layover between flight connections, I traveled from Hickam Field to Ford Island, there to visit prior Solmson Heights neighbor Dottie Tyng for an afternoon’s swim at the Ford Island Officer’s Club. She couldn’t leave the house later that evening to drive me even to the boat landing, let alone to Hickam Field, so I set out per instructions to walk to the boat landing, after which I could catch a military bus to Hickam Field. Well, I got lost, and for so long, that when I finally got off the island I had to catch a cab to Hickam that cost me a small fortune and just barely made my plane connection.

I was never so frightened of possible fouling-up in my life. (The only other near-miss of comparable anxiety was Kathleen and I dashing to Point Loma to verify my Navy travel orders incident to our trip to California after George’s crash. See Chapter XVII. CRASH.) But, soon I was off and island-hopping to Guam again. At Midway, as I was getting ready to reboard, who should come walking into the flight center from the tarmac, in full flight gear, but my old USNA roommate, Ab Street. This was only the second time I’d seen him since graduation, and it turned out to be the last time I’d ever see him alive. A few years and four children later he died of cancer. The meeting was all too brief, we hardly got to exchange hellos. Until then I hadn’t even known he had gone into aviation. He was no dummy, though, he opted for “driving” the virtually fool-proof old reliable PBYs we had first met during second class summer.

But my adventurous trip still wasn’t over. When I finally got to Guam, Bremerton was at sea. So I spent several days literally sweating it out on Guam. Believe me, Guam is the humidity capital of the universe! I remember sitting in bottom shorts and not another thread, at my BOQ room desk, writing letters home, and having to shield my letter with another sheet of paper to protect it from the constant drip of perspiration from my brow, and the moisture bathing my writing hand and arm. You had to leave bulbs on in the closets, around the clock, to fight the moisture and mildew, and every morning you checked your shoes for geckos before slipping your feet into them. And, of course, there was the daily 1630 downpour, which abated 20 minutes later but left everything even more drenched and steaming, so that going to the evening movie was like taking a sauna bath. I was glad when the day finally dawned when a coxswain of a motor launch from Bremerton finally came looking for me, and I joined the Bremerton at last. This was on 17 Sep 1946. As with the Amsterdam, I was to remain aboard Bremerton for 19 months. Well, there was one exception to remaining aboard during that period. I was briefly and temporarily attached to USS Dayton, to conduct a formal Admiral’s Inspection of its engineering plant. Normally this was a 3-day gig that included an underway battle damage exercise. Unfortunately for me, Bremerton was moved from Tsing Tao to Shanghai in the interim, and I had to remain aboard a few extra days, until I could catch a flight to Shanghai from the Military Air Transport Command. This little 350-mile journey was more exhilarating than might be surmised, since it entailed a two-hour sitting-duck posture as we flew over communist China. Sort of exciting!

The balance of the year of 1946, Bremerton operated in the Marianas Islands (where I discovered stingers at the Top of the Mar [for Marianas], the Guam O-Club, the name of which was fashioned after that of San Francisco’s Mark Hopkins Hotel’s Top of the Mark), off Japan, China, and the entire west coast of the U.S., ranging from San Diego to the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. One exciting incident of this period was the day our Skipper tried to make the green light on F Street (which was effectively a continuation of the Navy Pier) in San Diego. We were entering port to tie up at the dock for a few days of R & R. As usual, my underway sea detail station was at main engine control in the forward engine room, and I had my smoke watch on station at the rear end of the signal bridge. At sea it was important not to make smoke since you could then be detected thereby while still well over the horizon from a potential enemy. Going in and out of port, what with rapid maneuvering of the engines and consequent sudden up and down demands upon the boilers, making smoke disclosed a sloppy unprofessionalism. At all times making smoke betrayed a highly inefficient operation. Hence any proud Chief Engineer (who, me?) stationed a smoke watch who immediately relayed an alarm to the fireroom at the first hint of smoke.

Anyhow, I always kept one ear plugged into the 1JV maneuvering phone circuit so as to monitor topside action through the eyes of my smoke watch. He had told me we were already alongside the seaward end of the pier, a couple hundred yards from the seawall at the shoreside root of the pier, and were coming in “awfully damn fast.” So it was that I was expecting a “full speed astern” order. Instead, we suddenly got a “full speed ahead” order over the engine annunciators. I was immediately on our machinery intercom screaming, “Disregard the annunciators, give ’em full speed astern!” I yelled this several times, noted from the gauges they had so responded, and I then notified the bridge of my disregard of orders. Well, this was chancy stuff, indeed! I had put my neck in a sling, and had to be ready for the chopping block.

Each throttleman has a bell sheet at his throttle on which law requires him to enter each and every engine order and the time of receipt, and the Engineering Watch Officer must sign these official logs as the last entry on his watch. I immediately signed both of the forward engine room log sheets with a note re my countermanding the order received, and told the Chief of the Watch in the rear engine room to do the same “on instruction by the Engineer Officer.” Our dangerous initiative was now a matter of the official record. Meanwhile, our smoke watch had screamed, “Jesus Christ! I think the old man is trying to make the green light on F Street!” At the same time, the Skipper ordered both anchors to be let go, and the starboard one actually pierced a barge secured just to the right of our bow at the seawall. We then actually nosed into the seawall but ever so gently.

Passing under Golden Gate

Of course there had to be a board of investigation. My 1JV talker, my Logroom Yeoman (Engineer’s Office secretary), was called to testify, and I was scheduled to be called. They asked him, “And when the order for ‘full speed ahead’ came, what did the Chief Engineer do?” The yeoman calmly replied, “He screamed, ‘The goddam old man must be out of his mind,’ and told everybody to ‘Give ‘em full speed astern.’” Obviously, the undeleted expletive was pure invention. Strangely (?), I was never called to testify. But I ask you: don’t you think I should have gotten a (expletive deleted) medal? I mean Bremerton could have ended up safe at second base in what is now Balboa Stadium, several blocks up F Street!

So I didn’t get a medal for saving Padre’s Park from Bremerton’s kamikaze attack, but a month or so later I did garner an official commendation for something else. Sometimes, it seems, an engineer’s most exciting times come when the ship is in port – hold it! – and the engineer is still aboard ship! Remember my boiler-cleaning-deferred late liberty in Lisbon, and the ensuing surrender of my sword? Well, our Navy Day 1946 trip up the Columbia River is another case in point. This time the problem was a high-pressure, superheated steam leak from the throttle chamber of the high-pressure turbine driving our starboard outboard propeller. Well, such a leak simply can’t be tolerated. To begin with, it represents a danger to life. Second, it represents a severe loss of precious feed water, every drop of which we had to provide through energy-consuming shipboard evaporators. Finally, high-pressure superheated steam that penetrates even a slight defect then proceeds to act as an acetylene torch in its cutting action, continuously increasing the size of the hole until a great blow-out materializes. More than that, we were well up the Columbia River.

Well, it turns out that the Columbia River has the greatest water volume flow rate of any river in the world, so the current is fierce. Beyond that, we’d be moving downstream such that the current would compound our momentum. Also the Columbia River from Portland to the sea might better have been labeled the Snake River, for all its twists and sudden turns. It wouldn’t do to try to negotiate it on only 3 engines, especially since the defective one was tied to one of the outboard propellers which are the most effective for maneuvering purposes. Clearly the leak had to be fixed before we could get underway. Two problems: we didn’t have any spare high-pressure piping suitable for superheated steam; and anyway, you needed advance permission from the Bureau of Ships in Washington before you could weld on any vessel carrying or containing high-pressure superheated steam.

We not only fixed the damn thing, I got a personal commendation for the job. As for getting a piece of suitable replacement pipe, our blueprints indicated the drain on the high-pressure superheated steamline connecting the forward and after engine rooms (a flexibility provision to accommodate potential war damage to one or another engineering space) was of the same specification as our defective turbine drain. We simply cut out a section of required length. This entailed wiring shut and tagging all associated valves for this crossover line, lest somebody open it and thereby spew live steam into the area of the cut-out section of the pipe. (During the Korean War, when Bremerton was recommissioned, I got a note from my old shipmate. “Recalled” Ens. Converse wrote, “Chief! You’ll be happy to know your wires and tags were still in place and the cut-out has now been repaired.”)

As for the welding, here was another instance where my P.G. training paid off. We had, of course, immediately wired the Bureau for permission to proceed with repairs, outlining our intentions in detail, but our schedule was such that the deadline for beginning repairs came and went without any word from the Bureau. So we simply proceeded according to my submitted plan. It turns out that on a field trip to the Naval Experimental Station (across the Severn from USNA) we had been treated to a presentation by Bela Ronay, then acclaimed as the world’s foremost authority on welding. As he spoke, I (alone) copied down into my notebook an entire table of welding instructions anent high-quality steel. There were columns for thickness of subject plate, diameter of electrodes to be used, polarity to be used, and amperage to be used, etc. Ronay saw me copying it and admonished, “Son, those recommendations haven’t been approved for publication by the Bureau yet.” Fortunately, I had by then just completed my transcription. As of the start of our repairs, the specifications I copied down that day so long ago still hadn’t been approved and published by the Bureau, but I had them, and we followed them! We completed the repairs, tested them OK, and were off and safely down the Columbia River on schedule, and with all four main engines.

Once clear of the harbor, I (who had not only been without sleep for over 48 hours, but had even taken my meals in the engine room) collapsed on my bunk. Almost immediately I was awakened by the thumping of the Captain’s Marine orderly on my stateroom door. “The Captain respectfully requests you to report to the bridge, sir!” I shouted back, “And I respectfully tell the Captain to go to hell! I haven’t slept for three days.” (One is reminded of Lindbergh’s remark, “There comes a point when the body’s demand for sleep is harder to endure than any other pain I have encountered.” One’s state becomes one of fearless irrationality, or vice versa.) I don’t know what that poor Marine told the Skipper, but in a few minutes he was back with, “Mr. Wright, the Skipper sends his apologies and requests that you give him a report on the repair operation as soon as you feel sufficiently refreshed.” Well, we later reported to the Skipper, and then got off a detailed report to our Type Commander (ComBatCruPac), my old swearing-in officer, now RAdm. Walter S. Delaney. Shortly, his commendation was entered into my record for “soundness of decisions,” and “initiative displayed in directing emergency engineering repairs.” Well, at least I sometimes did something right.

By Nov 1946, in time for a dandy Thanksgiving dinner at a “big-family” neighbor’s house, Kathleen, George and I were together again, this time at Sunset Beach on the Hood Canal. And it was here that we finally got to enjoy a Christmas together at last. Soon we were into 1947. This was the year TV was really born, the Department of Defense was formed, and Richmond, Virginia, finally opened its public libraries to blacks for the first time! In February I got my first fitness report from later-Admiral Ruthven E. Libby, who subsequently served as a Chief Allied Negotiator at Panmunjom, Korea. This time I got 17 of 19 ratings in the top 10%, with the other two being “unobserved.” By then the factor of performance in battle had been changed to performance at battle stations. My overall evaluation ran thus:

LCdr. Wright is an excellent officer of the highest personal and military character whose performance of duty has in all respects been very satisfactory. His knowledge of engineering is comprehensive (who would have believed it?), and his department is administered in a very capable and efficient manner. All of his work is accomplished expeditiously and efficiently; the engineering efficiency of this ship has improved rapidly and steadily since he took over the plant. He is strongly recommended for promotion when due. [I think Admiral Libby must have liked me. Quite understandably, of course.]

Hood Canal – Sunset Beach – Union, Washington

Anne’s birthplace – Hood Canal

I have already recounted the big event of Mar 1947, the arrival of our first daughter, Anne Kathryn, named after her two grandmothers. This development only served to underscore the wisdom of opting for a civilian career. The abrupt transition from the high-tension tempo of wartime to the Mickey-Mouse make-work of peacetime had had a debilitating effect on me, and this was greatly magnified in my mind by a realization that, with the almost-concurrent advent of atomic weapons, the forces of which I continued to be a part became almost instantly archaic. Consider too, that George was then only barely over two years old and already he had flown cross-country and had lived in ten houses due to the exigencies of my military service. And now we had two children, and hoped for many more. The service therefore didn’t strike me as providing the most viable family-raising environment. So it was that (almost concurrent with the expiration of the draft on 31 May 47) I initiated my first resignation from the naval service on 29 Mar 1947. My slightly-over-one-page-letter request included the following representation of my feelings in the matter:

The precise reason for the submission of this resignation is the unequivocable realization that this applicant is not temperamentally suited for a life dedicated to service in a profession which must of necessity abnormally infringe upon personal liberty and the otherwise inherent right to a settled, unencroachable homelife. Moreover, the repugnant rules and regulations, together with the cumbersome customs and traditions that govern life in the Navy, tend to stifle imagination, initiative, and interest. While the foregoing reasons comprise my primary objections, it is also desirable to disclose, as elements contributing to my disinclination toward a naval career, certain specific interests favored by a civilian status. These interests include a wife, two children, and an active civilian professional interest (pursuit of the law) manifestly rejected by the Navy. Admitting that such interests are of little concern to the Navy, still it must be recognized that the consequential predilection for civilian life must inevitably operate to the prejudice of any service interests.

You must understand that it was then damn difficult for a regular to get out of the service. The over-rapid demobilization had stripped all branches of the service of qualified personnel, and virtually every operating unit was already seriously undermanned. Moreover, you may recall that, incident to postgraduate instruction in machinery design, I had signed an agreement to serve, as a minimum, through 23 Dec 1947. I attempted to meet this head on by requesting a waiver, thus:

It is to be noted first that this promise was prompted by the fact that, the United States then being in a state of war, any declaration of a desire to resign would tend to discredit one’s due respect, courage, patriotism, and personal honor. Further, such agreement was undoubtedly motivated by a consideration of the best interests of the service, which consideration is patently incompatible with the lack of zeal evidenced by the very fact of this resignation.

Well, at best you might say, “Nice try!” At worst, you might charitably muse, “Bull Feathers!” In any event the Navy denied my request out of hand, and trenchantly noted, “If you desire, you may, in Dec 1947, resubmit your request for acceptance of resignation for reconsideration.” End of exercise.

In the early summer of 1947 it became expedient to relocate Kathleen, George, and Anne to the Kirk residence at 1404 Otis Street in Washington, D.C. I was underway more than I was in port, and when I was in port I was working virtually around the clock, to decommission ships with an almost pitiful insufficiency of men and against ludicrous deadlines. Besides, by then we were committed to getting out of the service in December. Also, Grandpa Kirk was due to visit Seattle on a business trip and could accompany Kathleen and the children on the way home. So, it just seemed like the proper time to begin the move. This would enable my proceeding to DC with the utmost dispatch once I’d secured my freedom. This move to DC was essentially a “people” move, since our entire worldly goods (“household effects”), as evidenced by our reimbursement voucher for the move from Vallejo to Bremerton, reflected the princely charge of $60.07. We all traveled light in those days.

So, I was once again alone, and on occasion I was even completely out of touch with my family as we frequently ventured to sea for training cruises. I vividly recall an incident from one of these cruises which, I’ve always felt, revealed an inadequacy of common sense and concern on my part. It should be included here if only to dramatize that I, too, was not always on top of things. We had a fire one day in our forward emergency diesel generator space. This is a small compartment in the bowels of the ship (housing only the diesel generator and its associated switchboard), which can only be entered via a watertight trunk that traverses several hatched decks. When I arrived on the scene, smoke was emanating from the trunk, and I got busy helping equip a fire-and-rescue-party engineer with his rescue breathing apparatus (RBA) so he could descend into the space to investigate the situation. We were still fiddling around when the Skipper arrived on the scene. “Is anybody trapped down there?” he asked excitedly. “That’s what we’re going to find out, Sir,” I replied. Forthwith the Old Man was off and descending the trunk through the smoke. Well, nobody was down there, the problem was minor, and all fire and smoke ceased with the de-energizing of the forward emergency switchboard by remote control from the main electrical switchboard. I didn’t miss the point, however, of the Old Man’s example. My alertness and initiative had apparently been on hold. I don’t think (?) it was a question of courage. It bothered me that the Skipper’s concern and course of action hadn’t even occurred to me. Once again, John D. MacDonald captures my thought best: “I think the closest we get to awareness is when we see one man, under stress, react … in a noble, a selfless way.” Amen. Well Done, Captain M. N. Little, USN!

I would like to say that I learned a lesson, but apparently I didn’t. There was another incident of which I’m less than proud, and in fairness to accuracy it belongs in this record. It occurred in early 1948 when I was decommissioning Bremerton just prior to my own decommissioning. One of the most tedious and repugnant chores incident to “moth-balling” a ship was the purification of the inner surfaces of all grimy fuel oil tanks down to clean metal. This thoroughly obnoxious and back-breaking labor required the major share of our limited personnel resources. To expedite this tremendous job, the use of powerful solvents was introduced. Now fuel oil tanks not only don’t have any windows, they are exceedingly cramped, tortuous in their full utilization of every available nook and cranny of space, and are honeycombed with obstructing but perforated “swash plates.” They are dark, cold, and totally unventilated. Well, you can already sense the dimensions of the problems involved, and the inherent danger to personnel safety.

So, despite the precautions of a permanent sentry at the entrance to each tank (to maintain constant communication with those working inside the tanks), and a vast network of jury-rigged portable ventilating fans with canvas pipes trunking fresh air to each working station, one day one of my men passed out and was hustled topside. To my everlasting shame, rather than concern for the welfare of this poor sailor, my #1 interest at the scene was shielding it from the Skipper, lest he terminate the use of the solvent that had been our salvation in meeting the outrageous deadlines. My reaction in this situation distresses me to this very day as well it should. Fortunately, my men had the good sense to prevail, and refused to enter the tanks thereafter unless the use of the solvent was discontinued. Now, I am deeply ashamed of my part in this, but I hope this recitation might contribute to a better understanding of how (as at My Lai) people under pressure can sometimes do some damn stupid things. As the saying goes, “You really had to be there,” and some degree of tolerance is in order for those “carrying the sack” from those who never have had the pleasure.

On 15 Aug 1947 Hindu India and Moslem Pakistan were granted their independence, even as I made another move for mine by initiating a request for duty in Washington. D.C. I predicated my case on the fact that the Navy Department had previously conceded my eligibility to resign effective in Dec of 1947, and pointed out that I would at that time have 60 days accredited leave (which one traditionally took prior to separation, and therefore I’d then be in the DC area in any event). I further noted that a relief for me would in any case soon have to be provided. I also stressed my previously acknowledged qualification for the quasi-engineering billet I requested. My C.O. appended a strong endorsement, thus:

Forwarded recommending approval.… It is believed LCdr. Wright is well qualified for the duty which he seeks. He has had more than 5 years operational and engineering experience afloat in major combatant vessels, has completed the correspondence course in engineering formerly conducted by the Post Graduate School at Annapolis, and has also completed the resident postgraduate course in Naval Engineering (Design). He has likewise received certificates of satisfactory completion of three USAFI courses in business law and is currently pursuing a pre-bar course in common law. He has been a registered law student in the State of Virginia for more than a year, and will be eligible for admission to the bar in that state in Jul 1948. LCdr. Wright’s administrative and planning ability has been favorably commented on in correspondence from CTF-77, INSURVPAC, & COMBATCRUPAC. [Clearly, I’d been doing something right, and also making good use of my time!] His performance of duty aboard this vessel, both in administration of his department and as to maintenance and operation of the material under his cognizance has been very satisfactory.

The foregoing request, too, was in due course rejected due to “the short period of time” I’d be on such duty if granted. My fitness report for this period concluding in Aug of 1947 reveals my then-somewhat-deteriorating state of dedication. Oh, sure! It incorporated some nice things, thus:

LCdr. Wright is an excellent officer, especially well-qualified in engineering duties, of superior personal and good military character, who has performed his duties in a highly satisfactory manner. His department is capably and efficiently administered. He possesses an outstanding knowledge [get that!] of engineering and could be a valuable asset to any command in these duties. He is thorough, dependable, and can be relied upon to make prompt and accurate decisions.

Well, I don’t know about that last statement, and in any event, the tip-off re my declining morale was that I was (in lieu of my previous 100% score) found within the top 10% on only four of the 19 rating factors! A contributing factor to my less-than-enthusiastic attitude was the rather pedestrian nature of our operational assignments during the previous six months covered by this performance rating. We participated in refresher training, inter-ship and type training, a west coast Reserve cruise, and underwent a 90-day ship overhaul. None of this is very exciting stuff. Moreover, my family was now on the east coast.

My melancholia must have peaked on our 5th wedding anniversary, since I initiated my second tender of resignation from the naval service on 14 Sep 1947. It was a short, succinct one-page request in which I merely stated that, “The precise reasons for this request are as listed in my original resignation dated 29 Mar 1947, and asked for the earliest practicable termination date.” My C.O. simply endorsed it with one word: “Forwarded.” The reason for initiating this particular request was that the timing of my impending separation from the service was fast becoming a critical matter, thus I wrote:

It is requested that my orders to temporary duty in connection with separation processing be effected in Dec 1947, such that the aforesaid temporary duty shall terminate in my effective date of resignation on or about 23 Dec 1947. The aforesaid date is coincidentally that on which my agreement not to resign expires; and is compatible with the recognition by the Bureau of the pending lapse of necessity for my services, as expressed in reference (a).

The latter was the Bureau of Naval Personnel’s denial of my request for assignment to duty in the Washington, D.C., area. In it the Bureau stated that, “It is regretted that favorable action cannot be taken on your request because the short period of time you would be on duty with the Materiel Division would not warrant such a change.” Clearly, I was trying desperately to force the issue by convicting them, as it were, by words out of their own mouth. My ploy failed. This request, too, was denied. Still, as Alexander Pope has lyricized, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” So it was that I tried yet another ploy. On 11 Oct 1947 I initiated another assignment-to-duty request, this time seeking placement in the Office of the Judge Advocate General (the Navy’s #1 lawyer) in Washington. This letter warrants quoting, in part, since it elaborates the critical nature of the timing involved, to the benefit of both me and the Navy:

In substantiation of my qualifications for such assignment attention is respectfully invited to … [my denied earlier application for legal training under Navy auspices] and my Commanding Officer’s endorsement thereon representing me as excellently suited for such instruction. Within a month of receipt of the Bureau’s rejection of my application I officially registered as a law student in the State of Virginia, coincident with enrolling in the pre-bar law course of the La Salle Extension University of Chicago. Under this arrangement I have now been pursuing the study of law on my own time and at my own expense for about a year and a half.

In accordance with rule three of the Rules of Virginia Board of Law Examiners, however, official residence in the State of Virginia for at least seven months immediately prior to examination for admission to the bar is required. This request is submitted to enable me to gain admission to the bar, and thus become fully qualified for legal duty in the Navy. It should be noted that this request is consistent with previous requests for acceptance of resignation, and requests for assignment in quasi-legal billets in the Materiel Section; all of which have been rejected. The latter requests were initiated on the premise that rejection for legal training quite possibly was based on the fact that the applicant previously had had advanced training in another field at the expense of the Navy.

This time my CO forwarded my request, recommending approval, and additionally noted that, “the Commanding Officer is not qualified to judge LCdr. Wright’s legal ability. LCdr. Wright, however, is painstaking, thorough and industrious [and he might have added persistent] to an unusual degree and it is believed that with the opportunity to devote himself to legal work during working hours as well as to the study of law in his spare time, he will soon overcome any deficiency in his legal knowledge.” Now that was really nice, and I concede this fully supplanted any overdue medal for saving this skipper from sliding our cruiser into second base at Padre’s Field in San Diego. Alas, I had forgotten that Alexander Pope had also said, “For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” Yes, this request was also denied, on the basis of the limited quota of officer lawyers authorized for assignment to the Judge Advocate’s Office. BUT! At the same time, the JAG recommended that my previous request for postgraduate training in law be referred to the selection board, which will be convened the latter part of this year … in view of his continuing interest in the study of law.

Eureka! I had finally scored. As a consequence, in due course I was actually issued orders for assignment to Washington in the quasi-legal billet of executive secretary to the U.S. Navy Retirement Board, then headed by Admiral Hoover. But this came too late, and I opted out via an urgent and finally successful resignation request. I was eventually separated on 2 Apr 1948 precisely two days too late to qualify by residence for the next regularly scheduled Virginia bar exam! So ended my dedicated bid for a legal career. Strangely, it only occurred to me as I recorded all this that I could have easily established legal Virginia residence via domiciling Kathleen, George and Anne there while I was yet thousands of miles away. El Stupido!

So life went on well, after a fashion. It isn’t much of a life when you’re on the west coast and your family is on the east coast. Anne was now fast approaching her first birthday, and I hadn’t seen her since she was barely a month old. (At least her siblings will now understand how she got started on all her bad habits, being beyond reach of good old Dad’s disciplinary paws in this most formative year.) As for good old Dad, USS Bremerton was secured on the north side of Pier 20 at the Embarcadero in San Francisco. Sometimes we were even secured to the ground. I remember heading back to the ship from one evening’s liberty, and noting as I approached that the engineering plant was venting via the emergency atmospheric exhaust, rather than exhausting to the auxiliary condensers. It seems that with the out-running tide the ship merely settled on the bottom, slightly listing to one side, and coincidentally blocking off all sea water suction for condenser circulating water. This meant the plant was then operating on emergency diesel-driven electrical power and that engineers were scrambling madly about below decks trying to rectify the general engineering chaos. I merely turned on my heel and headed to the nearest hotel for the night.

USS Bremerton, CA-130 – My last ship, 1948

As the ranking engineer officer I would have automatically been in charge of restoring order the minute I set foot on deck, and might well have been up the rest of the night. I chose the happy alternative of a quiet hotel room. Back aboard the next morning I contacted Mare Island Naval Shipyard and set about arranging their provision of a dockside portable diesel-driven emergency fire pump. This was not only to provide the requisite plant cooling water in the event of further groundings (which thereafter occurred at virtually every low tide), but provided essential emergency firemain pressure. When my shipmate Ensign Converse was recalled from the reserves during the Korean War, he once again visited Pier 20 at the Embarcadero. He dropped me a brief note: “Chief! You’ll be happy to know your fire pump is still sitting there on Pier 20.” Well, it is my fire pump. As far as I can recall, I’m still signed out to Mare Island as its custodian! Check it out if you’re ever in San Francisco! Incidentally, now you know why I never opted for the Reserves. I could have been right back there with Converse during the Korean War! Good grief, Lucy!

As we close out the year 1947, mention might well be made of the special fitness report I received in December incident to the detachment of the C.O. I think it encapsulates my disposition in those trying times infinitely better than I ever could, thus: “LCdr. Wright is an excellent engineer officer. He is thoroughly competent technically and administers his department very well. Beyond that, however, he displays little interest in broadening his knowledge of other duties of a line officer.” (This is not quite accurate, but the CO couldn’t know otherwise. At the time I was privately studying seamanship especially as regards maneuvering multi-engined ships out of simple fear I might be called upon to take the conn in such a drill. I was also deeply into meteorology, and my archives from this period still include one superb article on “a weather eye” culled from Yachtsman magazine.) The Skipper’s report continues, “He does not desire to continue his naval career and has explored every avenue by which he might honorably separate himself from the service, or if that be impossible, to be assigned to shore duty. [Fair enough!] He recently submitted his resignation for the second time. LCdr. Wright would probably make an excellent Engineering-Duty-Only Officer. He is intelligent, highly industrious, and tenacious to the point of stubbornness. [Mom! Are you listening, wherever you are?] His whole outlook, however, has been affected by his dissatisfaction with his present situation and his inability to change it. [Amen!] Despite his feelings, however, he has not shirked his duty and his performance as an engineer officer has been very satisfactory.” As I say, I couldn’t have said it all better myself. I was literally champing at the bit to rejoin my family.

So it was that we began the year of 1948 still a continent apart. This was slightly less than a mere 40 years ago, but 1948 marked the first time that our freedom-and-equality-loving nation allowed our native American Indians in Arizona and New Mexico to vote. On the other hand, we were already mass-producing atomic weapons of double the power of the initial 40-kilo blasts unleashed on Japan. On 29 Mar 1948 my brother Tom married Aunt Mary. I missed the wedding by a mere 4 days! As alluded to earlier, the upcoming Virginia bar exam required candidates to be residents of the state by 31 Mar. (On 18 Mar 1985 the Supreme Court found such residency requirements then in 40 states unconstitutional!) I arrived back in the area on 2 Apr. Do I hear Maxwell Smart exclaiming, “Mis-s-s-ed it by … that much!”? Do I hear Kurt Vonnegut sighing, “So it goes.…”? Needless to say, with these two events on my mind I was virtually climbing the walls by then. Little wonder, then, that my naval career almost came to grief on the rocks and shoals of bitterness at almost the very last minute. My final fitness report for the period only hints at the problem, thus:

Except for one tactless outburst of criticism of a decision of his Commanding Officer, LCdr. Wright’s services during this period (12-5-47 to 2-29-48) have been excellent. Though his resignation has already been accepted to take effect upon the final deactivation of this vessel, he has consistently carried out his duties with zeal and intelligence. The Navy will lose a valuable officer when LCdr. Wright leaves the service.

Well, the foregoing was not, as a matter of fact, the original fitness report covering this period. It was, to say the least, a negotiated fitness report. Perhaps the complex and highly volatile situation that developed can most expeditiously be presented by merely incorporating the relevant correspondence bearing dates of 29 Mar to 1 Apr 1948, thus (from my letter to the Bureau of Personnel):

Subject fitness report includes the following comment: “Except for one tactless outburst of criticism of a decision of his Commanding Officer, LCdr. Wright’s service during this period has been excellent.” Since this is a mere conclusion devoid of fact it is herewith proposed, per Naval Regulations, to delineate the facts in the case, in order that proper authorities may better formulate an unbiased opinion that may inure to the greater benefit of and justice to all concerned.

Inactivation of the Bremerton commenced in Dec 1947, and is presently expected to be completed in early Apr. Inactivation places a high premium upon experienced officers, particularly technical men. The originator, the Engineer Officer, was fortunate in having several highly trained officers in the department, among them the Mike Division Officer, Lt.(jg) M. S. Dawson, USN. Lt. Dawson attained his present rank via the enlisted ratings, which is in itself indicative of his high caliber. He has had over 17 years operating engineering experience in the Navy. More important, he was, immediately prior to reporting aboard the Bremerton, directly involved with inactivation work at the Mare Island Yard. His next assignment calls for him to serve as Executive Officer. It was the Commanding Officer’s categoric decision to bar this highly trained officer at a critical period during inactivation from any further employment aboard ship to which the Engineer Officer took calm but decisive exception.

The Commanding Officer emphasized that such radical action was occasioned by his recognition of a completely unacceptable attitude and impliedly general incompetence in Lt. Dawson. He then went to great length to disclose the primary factors contributing to his decision: (a) One of Lt. Dawson’s men was discovered using power rather than hand tools to clean (not polish) floor plates in preparation for painting same. The Commanding Officer thereupon reiterated the not so obvious dogma that hand tools should be used for such purpose in the interest of saving time. The result: whereas the individual concerned had completed 20 plates by power tools in a half-day, he than was able, with one man assisting, to complete 20 plates in a full day. Lt. Dawson was censured for his poor judgment and improper supervision. (b) During a routine inspection of machinery spaces the Commanding Officer declared that the inactivation of a particular engine room could well be accomplished in ten to fourteen days. Lt. Dawson ventured an opinion that it would take approximately twice that long even if the number of men available to him were doubled. The CPO in charge of the engine room supported Lt. Dawson’s contention. This incident directly resulted in Lt. Dawson and the CPO being barred from the engine rooms for the duration of inactivation. The CPO involved was CMM C. E. Finch, USN, who served most creditably during the war in Warrant Officer rank. It should further be noted that the actual inactivation of the engine room required more man-days than even Lt. Dawson allotted.

The Engineer Officer, upon being confronted with this enigma, proceeded according to Naval Regulations, which set forth his duty to submit written suggestions regarding prospective improvement in the administration of his department; and Naval Regulations, wherein it is stipulated as the absolute duty of a department head to communicate his views to the Commanding Officer when deemed in the best interest of the department or the naval service. Accordingly, a written memorandum to the Commanding Officer was initiated by the Engineer Officer, outlining the essential nature of Lt. Dawson’s services during inactivation. The Commanding Officer chose to reply to this memorandum in the course of a head of department conference. The Commanding Officer emphasized the urgency of the request made by the Engineer Officer, and then declared that he nevertheless vigorously over-ruled the request on principle; and that Lt. Dawson would thereafter be employed ashore as a Barracks Officer. He made his point clear by saying, “I don’t want a man like that aboard my ship.”

The Engineer Officer then proceeded according to Naval Regulations, wherein the right of an officer to appeal to the ISIC is preserved. (Further basis for being wary of unreasonable perversity may be readily inferred from a review of the record in the Summary Court Martial case of G. E. Clinton, Coxswain, USN, wherein the Engineer Officer, acting as defense counsel, objected to certain irrelevant and highly prejudicial testimony of the Commanding Officer as a prosecution witness, and was upheld by the court.) Upon the Commanding Officer delivering his ultimatum barring Lt. Dawson from further Engineering Department employment the Engineer Officer said, “Captain, I propose to submit this to Commodore Ray, as it is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever encountered.” This statement was delivered calmly, evenly, and as respectfully as circumstances would permit; although its impact upon the Commanding Officer cannot for a moment be doubted. All other officers present were immediately dismissed.

The Commanding Officer then contended that the Engineer Officer’s position was indefensible. It was then pointed out that the Commanding Officer was only recently in receipt of a BuPers dispatch requesting information as to availability of the Engineer Officer for immediate detachment, and he had replied that retention was essential and in conformance with Naval Regulations. It was then explained that the Engineer Officer was similarly empowered, by Naval Regulations, to designate for retention his key personnel. Further, it was reasoned that as Mike Division Officer, Lt. Dawson was most familiar with all main machinery plant spare parts and equipage which had yet to be identified, inventoried, and preserved. None of this information was new, having previously been elaborated upon in the aforementioned written memorandum to the Commanding Officer. However, the Commanding Officer thereupon modified his demand, and required only that Lt. Dawson stay out of the engine rooms.

Recognizing what a complete change of face this constituted for the Commanding Officer, and in view of the fact that the Commanding Officer had unequivocally denounced Lt. Dawson publicly before all department heads, the Engineer Officer (fully aware of the dangerous implications of the Commanding Officer’s reversal, and their inherent potential for promoting disrespect) volunteered to inform all officers who had been present of an apology to the Captain for so directly taking exception to the latter’s opinion. This is mentioned merely to preclude the apology being misconstrued.

Lt. Dawson had previously very satisfactorily inactivated all the engine room machinery, and has further contributed to the overall inactivation effort since this event by inventorying and preserving all engineering spare parts; and by assisting in the preparation of engineering records.

It is respectfully submitted that the Engineer Officer proceeded soundly, and in the best interest of the ship. Also, it is believed that the Commanding Officer’s modification of orders reflects a more mature evaluation of the logic of the Engineer Officer’s position. This contention is reinforced by the great reluctance of the Commanding Officer to show the Engineer Officer this fitness report. It was delivered to the latter by the Ship’s Secretary, with the stipulation that it be signed without being read. On noticing that the report on its face purported that the Engineer Officer had seen it, the latter refused to sign it. The Executive Officer then requested that it be signed, saying that the Commanding Officer would personally disclose it to me later. Again signature was refused. The Commanding Officer then sent for the Engineer Officer, offered the report for inspection, and disclaimed any knowledge of requiring the same to be signed without being read.

Attention is also invited to the fact that while the originator is within the top 10% bracket on the majority of all items in each category of military aptitudes, he is nevertheless recommended for promotion only if 30% are promoted.

Every statement made herein is subject to confirmation by others than myself.

Of course, the C.O. got in his licks also, thus (from the C.O.’s endorsement of my foregoing letter):

Based on my twenty-nine years of naval service, it is my opinion that LCdr. Wright deserved disciplinary action for his disrespectful remarks. Such action was not taken on account of the special condition of LCdr. Wright’s continuing to serve after his resignation had been submitted and accepted to become effective upon inactivation of this vessel. Also, immediately afterwards he said his action was ill-considered, or words to that effect. I had no intention other than to show the fitness report to LCdr. Wright. His remarks in this paragraph are considered indicative of his quick resentment over imagined grievances. I must candidly state that I would not want him under my command in the future on account of his hair trigger resentment, and resultant disrespectful behavior.

It is interesting to note, as I conclude testimony on this incident, that in my final fitness report, upon 1 Apr 1948 detachment for separation from the naval service, this same C.O. nonetheless brought himself to state that my performance of duty during the period of this report (3-1-48 to 4-1-48) has been very satisfactory. So, I suppose, all’s well that ends well, and I leave to my readers (if there be more than one!) to draw their own conclusions as to who was on the side of right reason. Of course, from a backward perspective of some 35-plus years, all of this might seem like so much ado about nothing. I can only assure you that at the time this was mighty serious business. And, you’ll have to admit I kept my Yeoman (clerk-typist) busy!

In fact, my last Yeoman merits a special accolade. Brutus was his name, and he not only hardly ever went on liberty, he could usually be found typing away no matter the hour of day or night that I might pop into my Logroom office. He never had to be coddled or coaxed to get a job done. I mention this because the shift from male Yeoman to female typists was one of the hardest adjustments I had to make (if, indeed, I ever did make it) on transitioning to a civilian office. Somewhere in Beau Geste author Percival Christopher Wren has a character observe that he had discovered that “One could call an American almost anything, so long as one smiled.” True enough if the phrase be applied only to males. I wasn’t prepared for the kid-gloves approach with which women in the office expected to be treated. I’m afraid I became famous (infamous?) for the number of my secretaries who were found crying in the ladies’ room. “Women’s lib” or not, they just couldn’t be bawled at like sailors. They seemed to take name-calling personally. But, enough already!

Yeoman Brutus – 3 December 1948

Continuing with our mighty saga, and unmentioned so far, was a truly scurrilous fitness report presented for my signature at this time anent which I really raised hell. I was even presented a fictitious alternative and fairly reasonable report for signature, to which the original signature page had been appended, so that the offensive covering sheets might later be easily substituted. (I’m telling you this Skipper was as paranoid as Captain Queeg and Mr. Robert’s Skipper all rolled into one!) As I set about concocting my rebuttal to this sorry business, the Skipper withdrew the report, and went so far as to say that I must have imagined it – that the pressure of my situation had me hallucinating! The only problem with this was that I had shared the report with my officers and CPOs, and in fact one of my Chiefs had taken it ashore to have a copy made for me by some new-fangled Haloid duplicating process that was to become XEROX. It was only when I confronted the dumbfounded Skipper with this that he relented and withdrew to a position with which we both could live. Talk about fun and games!

Last officer crew – Lt. Rich my r.

Digital Edition Note: Despite the above caption, Lt. Rich (?) is not mentioned in this book?

Little wonder, then, why I was happy to become free at last on 2 Apr 1948 – a 100% civilian. I refused to wear blue for several years after my separation. All my early civilian suits and slacks were brown. And I wanted nothing to do with working for naval officers as a civilian in the Department of the Navy. This latter was short-sighted, of course, as my naval experience was the only exploitable experience I had. This reactionary attitude does, however, account for the Apr to Sep period of unemployment that ensued.

Last picture in Blue and Gold

Before launching a recital of my civilian career, however, let’s briefly sum up the 12-year naval career spanning from 10 Aug 1936 to 2 Apr 1948. I saw service afloat in the battleships USS Wyoming and USS New York, the destroyer USS J. Fred Talbot, the light cruiser USS Amsterdam, and the heavy cruisers USS Tuscaloosa and USS Bremerton. I rose in rank from Midshipman 4th class, the lowly plebe, to Lieutenant Commander, serving ultimately as a Head of Department of a major combatant vessel in time of war – the Chief Engineer. My service spanned the northern hemisphere of the globe, from Murmansk in the east to Shanghai in the west. I crossed the Arctic Circle and the International Dateline. My zeal for the service peaked in Tuscaloosa and plunged to its nadir in my final days in USS Bremerton. My official awards are as follows:

American Defense Service Medal
American Campaign Medal
Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal
European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal
World War II Victory Medal

Operational stars were awarded for affixing to the European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal for participation in the Operation Torch landing at Casablanca. (Unfortunately, I never got ashore to look up Humphrey and Ingrid.) Another operational star was awarded for affixing to the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal for participation in the final 3rd Fleet assault on the Japanese home islands. All in all, a rather prosaic record for such a violent four-year war. But, remember, I spent one-and-one-half years, right in the bloody middle of the war, safely ensconced at P.G. School in unthreatened West Annapolis. In any event, my awards testify that I was not only there, I was everywhere! And, above all, I offer no apologies – I’m damn happy to be here NOW!

One very important postscript covering this period is in order. Mention must be made of the service award that should have been forthcoming to Kathleen. I’m sure you’ve seen many an old WWII war movie, or even a post-war movie about any of the armed services in which a service wife has been portrayed (too often with good reason) as being about as useful as something between a fifth wheel and an anchor. In our years in the service we met many a neurotic shrew whose whole purpose in life seemed to be to bitch about how her husband’s service career screwed her up, held her down, or just plain kept her spinning her wheels. Happily, Kathleen had absolutely nothing in common with these wimpy albatrosses. She would pick up on a minute’s notice and bus to Norfolk, train to Boston, or fly cross-country to Seattle or San Diego with or without small children. She could buy and sell cars, lease houses, switch banks coast-to-coast, or whatever else was compelled by the situation. More than this, I’m STILL waiting to hear her FIRST murmur of complaint! So, WELL DONE, Kathleen! Consider yourself the first recipient of the Jack Wright Memorial OUTSTANDING SERVICE WIFE AWARD!

Inspiration for my post-service future

XIII. DESIGN

Just to carve out a living, is holy work.… In doing and creating, the human being becomes more and more God-like.  – Irving Greenberg

I was separated from the naval service at the Naval Station, Treasure Island, which is reached from an exit at about the midpoint of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. My flying trip home was via the classic three-rudder Constellation, which required close to nine hours for the trip plus a three-hour time change. That made the homecoming a long day indeed, and we arrived in Washington well after dark. Somebody with a car bearing Kathleen and George met me at the airport. After a year with strictly adult male associates, I couldn’t get over George’s high pitched voice. I can remember asking (as he exclaimed over the big needle as we drove past the Washington monument) if he always spoke in such a high, squeaky voice.

As usual, I traveled with little more trappings than what I was wearing and carrying in my pockets. I was “traveling light,” as the old song by Billie Holiday goes. All my gear and then some arrived later via my cruise box, which was a beautiful custom-crafted piece of art fashioned with special care as a tribute from my enlisted men. Now, that WAS heavy! This was due in no small measure to the “and then some” referenced above. It seems that my Black Gang had loaded it with the fullest set of tools you could ever imagine – all manner of flat and round files, open-end wrench sets, box wrench sets, ball-peen and claw hammers, regular and Phillips-head screw drivers, punches, chisels, mauls – you name it. As Ed McMahon might say to Johnny Carson, “EV-er-y TOOL you could EVER WANT was IN THAT BOX!” (Later I went to confession about these ill-gotten gains to a good old priest in downtown St. Dominic’s parish. “Did you also serve in the Navy during the war?,” the good father asked. “Yes, father,” I replied. “And I’ll bet you worked some crazy hours. I mean, it wasn’t any 9-to-5 job, right?,” he went on. “No, father, it was sort of on-call 24-hours-a-day duty,” I responded. “Well, then,” he said simply, “And considering you didn’t even know you had the stuff, just consider it a fringe benefit and forget about it.” How about that? I don’t know, but I think they just don’t make priests like that anymore.)

Digital Edition Note: Charlie STILL has (one of?) Jack’s tool boxes with at least one of the files mentioned. He claims that “Tools like that simply aren’t made anymore” and that the files he has remain razor sharp even in 2021.
Martha notes, though, that they were not impervious to being broken when used, in lieu of a hammer, to detonate gunpowder-on-paper caps.

Besides job-hunting and house-hunting (which latter action was, of course, contingent upon success in the former), I had to spend a lot of time churning through the red tape which tied up my considerable veteran’s benefits. Several days were spent wading through the maze that goes under the euphemism of Veterans Administration, securing the necessary vouchers for GI loans, GI unemployment benefits, and GI educational benefits. I received just about the maximum home loan and unemployment benefits, but used very little of the educational benefits. The sad fact was, I couldn’t afford the time for the extensive free education allotments that I had coming. I had to get a job! That was so critical that all thought of my considerable investment in a legal career in Virginia immediately went by the board. I just couldn’t wait out the additional year now needed to meet legal residential requirements. So, the only so-called educational benefit of which I could avail myself was submission to a day-long battery of aptitude tests then conducted by the Catholic University Psychology Department (under VA auspices) to determine my most likely employment fields. My Wechsler-Bellevue (adult IQ) was 123 (124 verbal, 114 performance) stipulated as “superior”; my law aptitude was 65 percentile (“above average”); my coop. English aptitude was 92 percentile (“superior”); my Bell Adjustment (home, health, social, emotional) was rated “average overall adjustment”; and my Kuder Preference test indicated major fields of interest to be “literary, computational, clerical” – not altogether flattering. Worse than that, a special engineering aptitude test concocted by Chrysler Corporation (and which really comprised three separate tests) was more or less a disaster. The first part was the Ohio State Psychological Test designed to test “comprehension,” and I rated in the 82nd percentile, which was deemed “very excellent.” The third part was a Personality Inventory Test, which allegedly evaluated my “temperament.” The only report I received was that my scores were “on an adult level.” The middle test, the Big One, was a Mechanical Comprehension Test designed to measure mechanical aptitude of prospective engineers. I scored in the 7th percentile! That’s right, folks, the 7th percentile! “Don’t be alarmed,” the summary report admonished, “Many graduate engineers, such as yourself, have done worse than this.” (Well, at the 7th percentile “many” couldn’t have been a helluva lot!) “Almost everyone who takes this test,” the report went on, “makes it much harder than it is.” Well, I think there was something to that. No questions were allowed, of course, all tests being conducted in absolute silence. I recall that almost every question had a simple answer but I was forever asking myself, “Do they mean neglecting wind resistance? or neglecting friction?” and things like that. My problem here, I guess, was a matter of too much education. Still, there it was – as an engineering prospect I ranked in the 7th percentile! Naturally I became an engineer!

So, now back to the job hunt. The headlines heralded the horrors of the Berlin blockade and of atomic bombs, even as the entertainment world proclaimed that “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return,” and the highly publicized Kinsey Report was vividly extolling the sexual habits of the American male. But you can’t live on love, and 15 million job seekers preceded me in my transition from military service to the civilian job market. The Berlin blockade (which led to the almost two-and-one-half-million-ton airlift of food, fuel, and medical supplies between 24 Jun 1948 and 17 May 1949) began on l Apr 1948. The seeming blockade of my job aspirations began on 2 Apr 1948, and continued until 21 Sep 1948 – virtually a half-year of unemployment.

This unhappy plight was complicated by our having to live with my in-laws in the interim – and we already having two small children and soon expecting a third. After all, Washington is essentially a government town, and this was an election year. You can set your calendar by the hiring freeze that traditionally marks election years, as the pols strive mightily to produce quotable reductions in the size of the government for use on the campaign trail.

The Marshall Plan (which was to send some 80 billion dollars to Europe by 1981) began 14 Apr 1948, but it didn’t help me. I actually became a welfare recipient, drawing some stipulated minimum for unemployed veterans, which was guaranteed for some specified period ($52.50 for 52 weeks sticks in my mind). Work was available, to be sure, but meaningful, family-supporting employment with a future was seemingly nonexistent. At the same time, you couldn’t afford to take just any work just to tide you over, because searching out viable employment was a full-time job. It was a real struggle, and it got so I hated to return home at night after another fruitless day. The big problem was that I had no contacts, so I proceeded to try and invent some.

Having left home at 18, I had no personal contact with anyone of significance. In fact, having been literally out of town for twelve years, I no longer even had any local friends, my own father was dead, and my father-in-law was a virtual stranger. So, where to turn for help in opening doors to employment became a matter of top importance. The only possibility that occurred to me was to canvass a few of my late father’s friends for advice. Even here I didn’t have much to go on. Not only did I not know many of them, they were totally unaware of me. More than that, their fields of endeavor were so foreign to any in which I could claim any proficiency that the prospect of unearthing a lead here didn’t seem at all promising. Still, I had no alternative but to seek them out, and this I did via my trusty letter-writing approach.

The first, the then publicity director for Catholic University, whom I’d been led to believe was a real insider buddy of my Pop’s, wouldn’t even grant me an interview. The second, a former District Attorney (under Republican administrations) for the District of Columbia, graciously invited me to his home for an extended interview. He was long on solid advice but short on fruitful contacts. The last, a former Captain in the Chaplain Corps of the Navy (and then head of the Department of Religion at Catholic University) came up with the only actual contact I could garner via this route. He set up an appointment with me to be interviewed at the Washington Post as a potential member of the editorial writing staff. This one really appealed to me, but I blew it. I had prepared a very neat and complete personal résumé package. The Post interviewer reviewed it in my presence in depth, pausing to discuss several items, seeking elaboration. Then he came to the sticker. You cite here that you’re a Roman Catholic. I’d suggest you delete that from your resume. Well, I thereupon thrust my naïveté to the fore, and exclaimed, “Not at all. If that’s a problem for anybody, I’d want it up front. I wouldn’t want to work for such a one.”

Oh, wow! But after all I’d heretofore always found frankness to be a most rewarding virtue. Besides, this interview had been set up by a Monsignor. On the other hand, such a provincial outlook as my remark reflected would hardly be becoming in an editorial writer. Moreover, I didn’t realize until many years later that Katherine Graham (owner-publisher of the Post) is from among the top 25 wealthiest Jewish families in America, and therefore regarded the world through an entirely different face of the prism of philosophy.

Grandpa Kirk ultimately (perhaps out of desperation to get my tribe out of his house – I joke!) provided one of my best leads. He arranged an interview for a job as editor of the monthly publication of a national trade association headquartered in Washington. Now, he not only arranged this interview, he must have done an outstanding selling job on my potential. One after another, I was interviewed by every member of the headquarters staff. I use the word interviewed advisedly, since in fact, rather than attempting to elicit info from me, without exception the staff members were rather trying to sell their trade association to me! This whole process was so new to me that it took me a little while to catch on to what was happening. The scales finally dropped from my eyes when I realized the Treasurer was striving mightily to convince me that the association was financially solid, that I wouldn’t have to worry about security if I hitched the wagon of my career to their star.

The President of the association had proffered all the perks that went with the job and did everything short of handing me my own gold-plated key to the private executive washroom. The whole thing was a gas. I had it made. Naturally, they’d all want to get together and talk it over, and concluded with, “We’ll call you tomorrow.” Actually, they could call me “Stupid”! At the very last minute, as the male secretary to the President let me out the door, he shook my hand goodbye and casually asked, “By the way, how did you come to know Harry Kirk?” Well, you guessed it. I unthinkingly and frankly responded at once, “Oh, He’s my father-in-law.” Sorry about that, folks. I’m still waiting for that promised phone call.

Meanwhile, time was rushing by, and my funds (we had a $6,000 nest egg at separation, a goodly sum in those days) were rapidly diminishing. We had bought a well-used fluid-drive Chrysler V-8, and within a week had to replace the V-8 at $750! Things were getting really desperate, so that I had to forgo trying to land a writing billet and opt on exploiting my engineering background. I soon ended up in a probationary (non-paying) apprentice situation with Sun Auto Co. It specialized in selling diagnostic equipment to auto repair shops, thereby guaranteeing that any ball-peen hammer mechanic could become a miracle-man engine-trouble diagnostician. I traveled in a van over the next several weeks to virtually every auto repair shop in the Washington metro area.

I learned the fine points of setting distributor dwell, timing ignitions, gapping plugs, fine-tuning carburetors for most efficient exhaust mixtures, and even disassembling, repairing and setting voltage regulators (which are now factory sealed and replaced as a unit). The key to doing all of this with maximum efficiency was, of course, Sun Auto Co. equipment. It wasn’t cheap. (I must visit some diagnostic shops someday and see what kind of equipment they’re using now. Surely, it’s now all electronic gear.) But, as I say, the old electro-mechanical diagnostic gear wasn’t cheap. And, Aye! there’s the rub. This turned out to be more a sales than an engineering job, and so we parted company.

Israel won its independence on 14 May 1948, but I was still struggling mightily for mine. At this point I resignedly turned to the Washington metro area’s major employer, the U.S. Government. Day-in and day-out I plied my way all over town by bus and streetcar from one agency to another. I can remember riding a Georgia Avenue streetcar one day and observing all the cheerful people in the car – young, old, short, tall, thin, fat, white, black, male and female – and all I could think was: “Every damn one of them has a job and I don’t.” It was really getting to me. Another day I sat in front of two young black male collegians on a bus. The statement that grabbed my attention was one which summed up their discussion: “That’s it! You’re born, you grow, you mate, you reproduce, and you die. That’s life !”

Now, it may strike the reader as ludicrous, but this little tidbit seemed to put my situation in perspective, and all at once I felt at peace with myself for the first time since I’d gotten out of the service. After all, I was already almost all the way through that cycle. I had already reproduced, and only dying remained. I knew life, therefore, and a job no longer seemed the obsessive focus it had become. Maybe the consequent quasi-serenity that then engulfed me was the key to the soon-to-materialize solution to my job hunting dilemma. In any case, it wasn’t long then until I had signed on to begin work as a Patent Examiner. This, it seemed to me, was a uniquely fitting parlay of my engineering-legal-writing background. I was to report to work at the beginning of the following month – Tuesday, 7 Sep, the day following Labor Day. Labor Day! How appropriate!

Kathleen and I immediately set about house-hunting with a vengeance. Silver Spring was then the really “in” place for upwardly mobile young families, so we concentrated there. This proved fruitless at first, since most of the available housing there was relatively large and expensive pre-WWII stuff. So we had to expand our search westward to new housing developments in a spot on the map called Wheaton, and even to Kensington. Most of this new housing, at least such as we could afford, was pretty much of the match-box variety designed for acquisition via meager Veterans loans. It was what you might call (after today’s raw airline transportation) no-frills housing: no basements, no garages, no landscaping, no appliances, no window shades or screens, etc. More than that, they were all uniformly box-like, small, and densely packed together – your basic wallboard based on cinder block. JC surely made out better at Bethlehem. You can still find rows of them along Viers Mill and Randolph Roads. No matter, we finally found one in Kensington which we thought we could afford, and were about to settle, when suddenly we got really lucky. We somehow stumbled on a mere two-house development in Silver Spring being handled by a young agent operating off of the dining room table in his own equally humble home. This house, at 10104 Dallas Avenue, was a comparative little gem. It had removable, double-sash, aluminum-framed, and fully screened windows; a then-unheard-of structural steel beam center joist; hardwood floors; all copper piping; asbestos (fire-proof, insulating, no maintenance) siding; and real plaster walls! It had 2 bedrooms up, one down, l-and-1/2 baths, a side porch, and a fireplace! Hey! All this and heaven too! They wanted $10,750 for it. We signed up on the spot.

But hold it! Still no light at the end of the tunnel. In almost no time at all our agent was back in touch with the depressing news that my anticipated Patent Office salary was insufficient to support the required mortgage. I just told the agent to hold fast, that I’d get back to him with a new figure. (“Amen! Amen! I haven’t seen such faith in all Israel!”) So it was back to the job-go-round again. But this time I didn’t fool around. I headed straight for the Navy Department. Necessity had at long last overcome pride. The best possible price for my Navy experience just had to be found with the Department of the Navy. I headed directly for Personnel, and there had the good fortune to be interviewed by a Mrs. Dorothy Masters (later to become a very good friend). I may have been desperate, but (forgive me!) I also was personable, and Mrs. Masters seemingly took an instant liking to me and made me her #1 hiring project. She got on the phone to a Mr. George Fonger, Head of the Machinery Design Branch of the Bureau of Ships, and then and there purred (“before my own ears,” so to speak), “George, I found just the man for you we’ve been looking for.” Well, that did it. Quicker than it takes to relate I was all signed up. Not only that, like my first Navy boss, Cdr Slavin, George Fonger turned out to be the best civilian boss I ever had or anyone could ever hope to have! I reported to him in Code 434, at 0800 on 2l Sep 1948 ready to work as a GS10 Marine Engineer at $5,232 per annum. Our civilian career was launched. Our mortgage on 10104 Dallas Avenue was consummated. I sent the Patent Office my regrets. The world went on: Harry Truman upset Dewey in Nov, Alger Hiss was indicted on 15 Dec, Tojo was hanged on 23 Dec.

We were moving on, too. We left 1404 Otis Street and moved into our new home – the first of our very own – on New Year’s Eve 1948. This was also the very year that St. Bernadette’s was established as a parish. What a fitting way to start a new year and mark the start of a new life! Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Tom helped us move, and though our worldly goods were small potatoes, we spent the whole day tripping back and forth between Brookland and Silver Spring. I was only 30 years old, but I can still remember how bone-weary I was at day’s end.

Of course Kathleen wasn’t in on the move. She’d had the foresight to go to Columbia Hospital to give birth to Charlie on 22 Dec. The complications attending this delivery have been recounted earlier but, as a consequence of them, Kathleen left for the hospital from Otis Street, but she returned from the hospital to Dallas Avenue. Not a soul was awake at midnight to cheer in the New Year our first night at 10104 Dallas Avenue. Of course Kathleen and Charlie were awake for 2200 and 0200 feedings, but I slept right through those too. I resolved then and there that I’d never again move things myself – and we never have.

Anyhow, this little gem of a house, which our family too quickly outgrew, cost a smashing $10,750. I don’t remember how much mortgage we carried, but I do remember that we had to borrow $500 from Grandpa Kirk at the last minute to make up our cash deficiency. (This was my first experience with unexpected realtors’ fees for this and that and then some.) We paid him back some years later with full interest up to the last penny. Our house was less than 6 miles from my birthplace, but the Silver Spring area has never replaced Brookland as home in my mind. The fall and spring smells are somehow different. So were the sounds, both natural and man-made. They, too, were strange. For example, shortly after we moved in I was up one night and wildly searching all over the house to locate a weird noise that we were certain signaled an incipient explosion of the furnace at the very least. It seems we were experiencing our first rainfall in our new house, and the noise turned out to be rain water gurgling through the downspout just outside our bedroom window. Live and learn.

I found my new job just about a perfect match for my interests and my talents. More than that, I never worked with a nicer or more talented group of individuals. Beyond that, as indicated earlier, my first civilian boss was truly exceptional. He was a crack naval architect, a graduate of famed Webb Institute, the foremost naval architect factory in the country. He was also a first-rate gentleman in every respect. Had the term gentleman not existed, it would have had to be invented to describe this superb government servant. In appearance he was a gray-haired Ronald Colman, complete with dashing mustache and super-suave manner. (As a token of admiration rather than in jest, I quickly labeled him, which stuck forever after, “Velvet Throat.”)

He could disapprove a leave request or turn down a promotion request with such precise logic, exquisite justice, and overall smoothness that you’d wish you’d never been so outrageous as to have brought up such matters in the first place.

Not only that, he was a master planner (he could predict, almost to the hour of the day, when a set of completed and inked contract plans for, say, a new supercarrier machinery layout, would be ready), and he knew as much about personnel regulations and similar administrative rules and practices as our assigned specialist, Mrs. Masters. I couldn’t have had a better instructor in post-graduate civilian office management. I owe him a tremendous debt for my own subsequent success, and hence must pause right here to salute him: “Well Done! George Fonger, wherever you are!” (I believe his brother had a son in John’s class at Good Counsel.) He was a fine man and (though he might find it hard to believe) a terrific model for me – a great influence!

As to the job itself, I was virtually my own boss, almost in business for myself. My job was in the Machinery Arrangement and Engineering Piping Division of the Design Branch of the Bureau of Ships. Whenever a new design vessel is to be built, if it isn’t built in a Naval Shipyard, it is built under contract with private shipbuilding concerns, like Newport News Shipbuilding and Drydock Corporation at Hampton Roads in Virginia. Part of this contract is a set of so-called contract plans which, together with voluminous detailed specifications, convey the form and substance of the desired ship to the builders. Our Division supplied the arrangement plans for the propulsion machinery plant (together with all requisite supporting auxiliary equipment such as electrical-power-generating and salt-water-evaporating equipment) and associated engineering piping systems (such as main steam, auxiliary steam, auxiliary exhaust, fresh and salt water, and fuel and lube oil systems). We therefore essentially comprised a battery of some one-to-two-dozen draftsmen.

These highly skilled professionals were divided into machinery arrangement and piping sections, each headed by a GS-13 supervisor. These two fellows, plus their boss, a GS-14, worked from conventional desks. To this little cadre I was added as the 4th deskman, starting at GS-10 and working up to GS-12 – which was the vertical ceiling for me there, unless one of the higher-level three died or departed and I could qualify (which was extremely doubtful ) for their job. I say extremely doubtful because my function was totally distinct from everyone else’s in the Division. They were all draftsmen or draftsman supervisors. The draftsman supervisors spent very little time at their desk, always moving about looking over some draftsman’s shoulder with advice or suggestions. In contrast I was virtually the only full-time desk man in the entire bay. Incidentally, because these plans were a long time in the making, remaining thumb-tacked atop long drawing boards through hot and cold, dry and damp seasonal changes, and thus subject to shrinkage and expansion with climatic changes, our bay was then just about the only one (aside from the hull plans design Division) that was air-conditioned in those ancient days. A nice fringe benefit indeed!

So, what precisely was my desk job, you might well ask. Hey! I was going to tell you more than you’ll ever want to know anyway. Well, every new design was exactly that – it was new! The machinery involved was more powerful, heavier, and larger than that which had gone before. There was therefore no precedent with regard to actual size of the various units comprising the plant, and therefore the draftsmen’s most vital need was detailed information on the space and configuration requirements of the various plant elements involved. You couldn’t look up such information in manufacturers’ catalogs because this bigger, faster, NEW equipment hadn’t been built yet. This, then, became my job – to supply machinery arrangement draftsmen with space and configuration details for all the machinery components comprising the entire new ship propulsion plant.

The term “configuration” may warrant a little elaboration. It wasn’t enough to know merely that size and outline of a machinery component, you had to know how each element had to be configured (oriented) with respect to related elements, and how it had to be configured (set apart) from other machinery components and bulkhead and piping to enable access for both operation and repair or maintenance. For example, at one time space had to be left to enable snaking hundreds of long tubes via machinery space access ways in order to re-tube main propulsion turbine steam condensers. We devised the alternative of introducing such replacement tubes via the main condenser cooling water scoop while the vessel was in drydock, thereby cutting down considerably on access space requirements. (More about this scoop later. For now, you need only know that the progress of the vessel through the water scoops circulating sea water, via a lipped hole in the hull, right through the condenser and thence overboard. This scoop is supplemented by a pump when the vessel is at rest or going astern.)

Well, since there was no precedent for my job, I literally had no superior. In a sense, given the overall object, my job then became what I chose to make it. I chose to make the most of it. I spent a great deal of time, between actual new design projects, digging into marine engineering tomes at the Library of Congress, and an equal amount of time contacting and pumping machinery manufacturers (like Babcock & Wilcox, Foster-Wheeler, Combustion Engineering) and ship design firms (like Gibbs & Cox, Whittlesey & Sons, Sparkman & Stevens) for insights into extrapolating machinery design parameters beyond the limits of existing products. I became a genius of the empirical method, and got truly proficient at my task. The congruence of my initial estimates with the ultimately resulting products became a legend. In the process I amassed a compendium of design thumb-rules that was truly unique. I was highly tempted to take it with me when I left, but instead turned it over to a guy I considered the most knowledgeable draftsman. I’ve often wondered how much of its arcane contents others might ever be able to interpret correctly and wonder if it might still be in use to this day. (I learned at a 1985 Design Branch reunion at the Bethesda O-Club that it was!)

My contact with the ship design firms alluded to above led to another aspect of my ever-evolving job. I became the BuShips Machinery and Piping Arrangement liaison with all the ship design firms. That is, new projects were sometimes so numerous that we had to farm out the development of contract plans to private design firms. They submitted all such plans via me for review and mark-up, and all modifications and suggestions for improvements were then funneled to me for correlation, polishing, and transmission back to the design firms. (I always thought that as a consequence of the contacts made here, and the dispatch with which I handled the job, that I might eventually have landed a good job with any of the private ship design firms.)

One of the first and biggest things I learned in this job (and which I found to be true of the computer field when I transitioned to it) is that you really don’t have to know too much about the innards of or theory underlying machinery (or computers) to deal with or utilize them intelligently. I must give Admiral Hyman Rickover as assist for this insight. He addressed us once at P.G. School (he was then a LCdr.), and in response to a question of how could a more-or-less general officer effectively quibble with a private professional specialist about machinery performance details, he replied: “Details, Hell! You don’t quibble about details. You don’t even have to review his proposals. Whatever he presents, you just glance at it and then bellow ‘Double the power and halve the size and weight and then I may give it some consideration!’ – then push him out of your office.”

He was right, of course. Our job was to pack more power at less weight in less space. It was the manufacturers’ job to figure out the details of how this might be done. Design, in the truest sense, must always remain a primitive art. If it is, in fact, design, then it hasn’t been done before – that is precisely the challenge, and the satisfaction. It’s all so primitive. For example, a big space-consumer is the requirement for access. I was amazed to discover that there were absolutely no design parameters or criteria in all of BuShips indicating how many access routes were appropriate for machinery spaces, or of what type they should be, and how they should be oriented with respect to each other. I thereupon developed a design guide for machinery space access provisions. You can look up my article on the subject as published in the Journal of the American Society of Naval Engineers: Accent on Access – the Ins and Outs of Machinery Spaces (May 1953). [Copy available at https://www.wrightstuff.site]

Soon we were winging through 1949. On 18 Mar NATO was founded. In Apr of 1949 my mother sold my childhood home at 4315 13th Street in Brookland, and moved with my sister, Margaret, into an apartment on East-West Highway just around the corner from where Anne and Doug once had an apartment on Red Top Road. Toward the middle of May, the eyes of the world were focused on the end of the Berlin airlift, but my total attention was then claimed by a personal tragedy in my mother’s side of the family. Out of consideration for the feelings of those involved, I shall be brief, and stick to the details concerning only my part in the matter. On 7 May 1949, when Kathleen was nearing term in her pregnancy with Martha [Martha begs to differ, as she was born in July 1950; this must have happened in 1950], a first cousin of mine (the daughter of one of my mother’s brothers) stabbed her husband to death in their apartment. (Let us just say that he was a renowned wife-beater who couldn’t handle one beer without getting vicious, and there was an immediate and well-founded presumption of my cousin acting in self-defense. She and her mother each weighed less than 90 pounds, while the victim was a sturdy ex-Army Sergeant.)

Anyhow, their household at that time also included my cousin’s frail eighty-some-year-old mother and my cousin’s youngest (4-to-5-year-old) daughter. The tragedy occurred early in the evening and the three females remained there huddled together in the dark all night long in the living room of their apartment, with the deceased still sprawled on the kitchen floor. At dawn my cousin finally phoned another cousin for advice, and in no time at all he was on the scene, soon followed by the police. My cousin was in due course trundled off to the DC jail, and I finally got word of these unfortunate developments from my cousin’s only son, a WWII Navy veteran and my first god-child. Shortly thereafter I was contacted by the husband of my cousin’s other and older daughter with a request that I join a family parley to discuss what could and should be done next.

Well, a whole series of late-night parleys followed thereafter. This planning group essentially comprised my cousin’s son, his brother-in-law (at whose house the meetings were held), the brother-in-law of the latter (a railroad detective and quasi-lawyer familiar with police routine), the latter’s wife, and myself. Meanwhile my cousin still languished in the DC jail awaiting a court of inquiry, a hearing held to determine whether or not grounds existed for instituting an indictment for criminal action. Clearly, the first order of business was to secure the services of a good lawyer. It was agreed that I would go to see my father’s friend (whom I had consulted earlier in behalf of my own job hunt), former District Attorney Leo Rover. Mr. Rover was very solicitous and commended us to a young lawyer friend, whom we shall call Mr. Unable, and set him in motion by a phone call then and there.

So, Mr. Unable proceeded to the DC jail, a most depressing place, which I also visited (and I had to make a visit to the morgue as well). To make a long story short, my cousin continued to languish in jail, we became very disenchanted with Mr. Unable’s seeming ineptitude (I felt I knew more law than he did and that perhaps Mr. Rover was incidentally trying to help an understandably unsuccessful friend.). We discharged Mr. Unable and refused his bill for what we felt were non-services. He didn’t press the matter. Our panel thereupon renewed our quest for a good lawyer. We were in session one night around 10 to 11 pm, discussing lawyers, when someone brought up the name of an extremely flamboyant DC lawyer named James J. Laughlin. He was pictured as an extremely successful but somewhat shady shyster, and was then in the headlines as the defender of Axis Sally (Mildred E. Gillars of WWII fame). Suddenly we decided that if we could find him in the phone book we’d just give him a call for advice. He was in the book and so we called. His response: Come right on over, boys. Unbelievable! So we all immediately set out for his Foxall Road villa.

This was a truly fantastic experience. Here we all were sitting around the dining room table of a frontline lawyer at midnight and he didn’t know any of us from Adam. After a brief discussion, he summed matters up, thus: “This is quite ridiculous. Your cousin should have been freed immediately. I’ll drop by the city jail tomorrow and obtain her release, so you’d better make arrangements to pick her up. Also, I’ll expedite the hearing and will be there to represent. Now you all go home and don’t worry about a thing.” Amazing! Well, we did, and he did as he promised. I picked up my cousin the next day (none of her children could then accommodate her) and brought her home to live with us. We gave her the downstairs bedroom on Dallas Avenue. (I neglected to mention that we had taken in her young daughter the day following the tragedy, so mother and daughter were together again at our house. George and Anne then shared one of the upstairs bedrooms, Charlie was still in a crib in the bedroom Kathleen and I shared.)

Meanwhile, the victim was interred at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors. At the same time, Laughlin also made short work of the hearing. In a matter of minutes he secured my cousin’s outright release, free of all charges, and added only this personal admonition to my cousin, “If you don’t want to open a real can of worms I strongly recommend that you never attempt to collect on your late husband’s GI insurance.” With that he was gone, after hand-shakes and goodbyes all around, and we never saw or heard from him again. There was NO bill! This man, now deceased, was no shyster. Somehow, I just can’t picture Edward Bennett Williams (then defending Tokyo Rose) responding as Laughlin did. Laughlin, by the way, did get Axis Sally acquitted of all but one of eight counts of treason.

Before concluding this unusual little episode, two other eerie sidelights should be mentioned. It became my lot (together with the brother-in-law) to tidy up the scene of the tragedy. (It should be emphasized that my cousin’s children weren’t unfeeling, they were simply in a state of lingering shock. They couldn’t bring themselves to go near the place or to even confront their mother at that time. Today the now-divorced son lives alone with his mother.) Anyhow, this little chore was a really unsavory business. After all, the body had lain overnight, bleeding profusely all over the floor, and in the intervening period before we could perform the clean-up the blood had dried rock-hard. There was also a considerable stench. We opened all the windows, drenched the site with Lysol, and had to actually chip up the blood with a putty knife. Following that, we set it afire in a wire-like basket in the backyard. The odor from the fire must have drawn every meowing cat within a mile to the scene, and every window in the neighborhood had dumbfounded people staring out, wondering whatinhell was going on. We really felt conspicuous and decidedly uneasy. We got out of there as quickly as we could and I couldn’t even tolerate the smell of fried chicken for almost a dozen years. I still can’t bring myself to eat it.

The other eerie episode followed Martha’s birth. That’s when we got our first TV, you’ll remember. Hardly a night would go by but Kathleen and I and my cousin would be watching when inevitably there on the screen they’d be depicting a stabbing. We’d all sit there staring straight ahead, silently, unseeing, and our flesh would start to crawl. It got so we were afraid to turn the damn set on when my cousin was around. Fortunately, our visitors departed for a place of their own soon after Martha’s birth. I hope there’s a lesson here somewhere about what it means to be “a good neighbor.”

So, back to the drawing board. Hey! I can really say that. Remember? Drawing boards were what my office was all about – that and new ship design, of course. At about this time, mid-1949, we commenced the first post-WWII design of a new destroyer escort type (DE). This would be the first new design to take into account the new threats posed by atomic weapons. I was appointed Project Director for this design (and my signature will be found as such on all the contract machinery arrangement and engineering piping system plans for this vessel), so my first task became to review and analyze the then-highly-classified reports of the 1946 Bikini Atoll tests of the use of atomic weapons against naval vessels.

Atomic weapons, of course, were a “triple threat” to all targets. In addition to the blast effect they shared with conventional weapons (though atomic blasts are of much greater magnitude), they also presented the dual threats of intense heat and widespread radioactive fallout. All three of these aspects had to be evaluated and considered in the development of our new design. Like the battle damage reports I alluded to earlier, the Bikini reports were voluminous and comprehensive and extremely well done. It’s a shame, really, that they haven’t after all the intervening years become more well publicized. I can’t go into too many specifics here, but suffice it to say that I’m frequently amused by newspaper analyses of potential nuclear warfare scenarios that betray a total ignorance of the most fundamental facts disclosed by the Bikini experience.

It would be laughable were it not for the almost criminal implications and disastrous economic results of some of the erroneous conclusions so frequently drawn. At the same time, I must preface the following remarks with a note of caution. I’m reminded of what Ike referred to as “the only off-color story I know,” which is to the effect that, “There are only two professions in which the amateurs always think they are better than the professionals – military strategy and prostitution.” There is a real danger here. The amateur (such as I) isn’t privy to either the current state of the art or current intelligence with respect to both enemy capabilities and intentions. So, What follows is no more than my amateur, if honest, opinion.

My remarks here will be necessarily confined to published information with respect to the Bikini experience. The following excerpt from Neal Hines’ excellent 1962 book entitled, Proving Ground: An Account of the Radiological Studies in the Pacific, is not only pertinent background here, but is in my opinion of sufficient importance as to warrant further publicizing in its own right, that is, the public should be made more aware! I therefore beg your indulgence and I summon your concentrated attention to the following admittedly lengthy background material anent the 1946 explosion of two atomic bombs at Bikini:

INITIAL REPORT – The military interest was large, because the atomic weapon was recognized as having revolutionized and outmoded earlier concepts of warfare, even those developed by the proliferating technology of WWII.… The tests were conducted under the code name Crossroads, as one appropriately symbolic, presumably, of the dilemma of a world now offered a choice between peace and atomic destruction.… Three explosions originally were projected, two (ABLE & BAKER) finally detonated, the first (at 0900 local) on l Jul 46 (30 Jun in the U.S.) at a height of 518 feet over a fleet of (83) naval vessels anchored within Bikini Atoll, and the second on 25 Jul at a depth of 90 feet beneath the surface of Bikini Lagoon. The devices were of the same type as those used over Japan, yielding the equivalent of 20,000 tons of TNT.…

The second explosion, the underwater detonation, would be accompanied by a phenomenon never observed before (or since).… The airburst (at 518 feet) of l Jul, despite the damage it had inflicted, scarcely had prepared observers for the wrath of sound, light, and volcanic shock (of BAKER) that erupted within the lagoon. At the moment of explosion a giant bubble, brilliantly lighted within by incandescent materials, burst from the surface of the water followed by an opaque cloud which quickly covered about half of the ships of the target fleet. Within seconds the cloud had vanished and a hollow column 2,200 feet in diameter and containing some 10 million tons of water rose from the surface of the lagoon to a height of more than a mile.

The 26,000-ton battleship Arkansas, broadside to the LSM 60 (under and from which BAKER was suspended 90 feet below) but more than 500 feet away, was lifted and upended in the column before she was plunged to the bottom. At the base of the column was a tumult of foam several hundred feet high, and the descent of the water back into the lagoon set up a base surge from which rolled waves 80 to 100 feet high. The waves subsided rapidly as they proceeded outward, and the highest wave recorded at Bikini Island three miles away, was seven feet, not sufficiently high to pass over the island or to cause damage there. The victims of the explosion, beyond the Arkansas, included the Saratoga, which sank after 7-1/2 hours, a landing ship, a landing craft, and an oiler; submerged submarines … and the already damaged battleship Nagato, which went down five days later, the destroyer Hughes and the transport Fallon, seriously crippled and listing, which were beached.

Radioactivity in the waters in the lagoon was intense. The volume after the burst was estimated in the round … to be equivalent to many hundred tons of radium. The target ships were drenched by radioactive substances as the tremendous pillar of water crashed back into the lagoon. As the weight of the column subsided, the target area became a maelstrom of radioactive debris.… The upper levels of the lagoon waters remained highly radioactive for days and large areas were impenetrable.… After 4 days it still was not safe for inspection parties to spend any useful time at the target area or to board surviving ships floating there.

Although lethal results might have been more or less equivalent, the radiological phenomena accompanying the 2 bursts were markedly different. In the case of the airburst of the (nominal) first bomb, it seems certain that the unprotected personnel within 1 mile would have suffered high casualties by intense neutron and gamma radiation as well as by blast and heat. Those surviving immediate effects would not have been menaced by radioactivity persisting after the burst. In the case of the underwater (second) explosion, the airburst wave was far less intense and there was no heat wave of significance.

Moreover, because of the absorption of neutron and gamma rays by the water, the lethal quality of the first flash of radiation was not of high order. But the second bomb threw large masses of highly radioactive water onto the decks and into the hulls of the vessels. These contaminated ships became radioactive stoves, and would have burned all living things aboard them with invisible and painless but deadly radiation. It is too soon to attempt an analysis of all the implications of the Bikini tests, but … the poisoning of large volumes of water … presents … a problem.

ONE YEAR LATER – The Navy reoccupied Bikini Island today (15 Jul 47), just 355 days after the underwater atomic bomb blast sent a mile-high column of radioactive sea water crashing down on the Operation Crossroads target fleet. Geiger counters indicated some radioactivity on the beach. However, [an on-site official] said the amount recorded was not dangerous.…Yet doubt lingered.… No one was prepared to certify Bikini as safe for human habitation.… Definite predictions cannot yet be made as to whether the radioactivity will soon become sufficiently diluted to permit permanent reoccupation of the atoll.

WASHINGTON TIMES 28 Nov 1983: Nearly three decades after the last atomic bomb tests on Bikini Atoll, the Pacific islands are still $100 billion away from being safely habitable, a private group of scientists said yesterday. Fish and rain water is safe on the 26 islands that make up the atoll, the study by five scientists said, but without a $100-billion cleanup any food grown on the islands still would be dangerously contaminated with radioactivity for the next 100 years. [Article in its hidden-away entirety.]

Now I ask you, how familiar were you with this (only one ever) underwater atomic explosion phenomenon before you read the preceding excerpts? I’m willing to bet it was a virtual news flash. Well, I submit that this information is just about the most vitally significant information about the potential dimensions of atomic disaster that can be imagined. And, while we’re still imagining, let’s include an excerpt from an early 1984 Jack Anderson column:

In the novel The Fifth Horseman, Libyan dictator Muammar Qaddafi acquires material to build nuclear weapons, then plays a deadly game of blackmail by hiding a nuclear bomb in New York City. Could such a thing happen in the real world? The answer is yes. The unbelievably lax security at top-secret U.S. nuclear weapons plants makes this work of fiction frighteningly possible. Weapons-grade material is regularly lost or stolen; the factories are protected by sensors and alarm systems that don’t always work; and the guards sometimes behave like Keystone Kops.

Well, let’s take the plot a step further. Let’s suppose old Muammar hides his nuclear bomb below water in New York Harbor. Now, treat your mind’s eye to an instant replay of the report above on the underwater Bikini explosion. Voila! New York harbor would be radioactive for more than 100 years! And then there are Navy yard harbors at Boston, Portsmouth, Philadelphia, Norfolk, Charleston, Puget Sound, San Francisco, and Pearl Harbor, not to mention such industrial cities as New Orleans, Mobile, and Galveston on the Gulf, or Chicago, Cleveland and Detroit on the Great Lakes. Get the picture? Much of our industrial might and military seapower would be neutralized for more than 100 years, while our capability to project any residual military might via shipping would be gone as well! But, you might object, there would be problems with the delivery system the underwater pre-placement of such nuclear devices. Don’t you believe it! What makes you think such bombs might not be in place right this very minute?

The fact is that any dumpy-looking tramp steamer could be easily rigged for depositing such weapons on harbor bottoms in the course of any routine-appearing passage in or out or port. Prior to our longshoremen’s boycott due to the Afghanistan invasion by Russia, Soviet merchant ships were calling regularly at some 60 different ports along the U.S. east, west, and gulf coasts as well as the Great Lakes. They are still operating to well over 125 countries in the world with more than 1,700 ships currently in service. Then again, there are some 375 Soviet submarines. Whatever clandestine drill the Russians were up to in Swedish harbors in early 1984, the very fact of these ventures testifies that their submarines can penetrate some foreign harbors successfully and thus conceivably seed them with latent remote-controlled nuclear explosive devices. And, what good are ships without harbors?

There should be no need to further labor my essential point: the delivery of atomic weapons need not await an outbreak of hostilities or be effected via alarm-ringing military means. They could be pre-positioned well in advance by the most innocuous tramp steamer, not to mention virtually silent and invisible submarines. An obvious corollary to all this is that pure comparisons of raw military statistics don’t begin to portray the limits of current threats to our national security. More imagination in war-gaming is therefore required. Too many military professionals too often base future plans on past experience, and radically new developments have long since markedly outrun our WWII battle experience. It would therefore be foolhardy not to allow for the possibility that supercarriers might be as quickly proven to be obsolete in WWIII as battleships were in WWII, even before the Pearl Harbor disaster.

Now all the foregoing is not such a huge digression as it might seem. After all, what underlies everything being said here concerns the design of combatant vessels, and the latter was my business from 1948 to 1955, when post-WWII warship design got underway. But, you might exclaim, my experience was all some thirty years ago! True, but a quasi-authoritative 1983 publication anent current U.S. naval practice unequivocally confirms that the 1946 Bikini A-bomb tests that I was charged with evaluating in 1948 are “still the basis for the Navy’s protective ship-design practices.”

It is also interesting that a 1978 Senate Report recommended an accent on a multiplicity of smaller military vessels in lieu of the supercarriers evolved since WWII, even as I recommended in 1948! This report worried that even then (in 1978), the Soviets had more than 100 missiles aimed at each of our large ships, “which can only be in one place at one time” with an “all-our-eggs-in-one-basket result.” I predicted in my 1948 report that any nuclear-armed surface vessel would by virtue of that very fact become a prime target of the enemy. “Get the carriers!” will be the initial catch-phrase of WWIII, I then maintained, and I still so maintain today! (It is noteworthy that even in WWII the prime objective of the Pearl Harbor raid was the carriers, and the Japanese were sorely disappointed at their absence.)

I have to pursue this. First, because adapting the lessons learned at Bikini to modern warship propulsion plant design was at that point in time my life. Second, because I firmly believe that Ralph Edwards could well say of us all today anent potential nuclear conflict: “This is YOUR life!” Now, as I write in mid-1984, President Reagan has standing orders for the simultaneous construction of two Nimitz-class supercarriers, at a price tag of 3.6 billion dollars each (plus 2.6 billion dollars for their aircraft, plus billions more for their support ships), thereby opting for the supercarrier option with a real economic vengeance.

Now, we’re talking here about the equivalent of 100 B-1 strategic bombers or 75 MX intercontinental ballistic missiles in their silos. Ah, silos! The Navy contention is that they are fixed in place, whereas carriers can run at 30-plus knots over the 73% of the earth’s surface that is water. Alas! This 73% of the earth’s surface is virtually (at least intermittently) covered by 100% satellite surveillance. As Joe Louis remarked long ago anent his “bum-of-the-month” opponents, “They can run, but they can’t hide!”

Digital Edition Note: An earlier-quoted letter from George discussed his USNA summer cruise aboard a nuclear submarine which was, apparently, quite successfully hiding under water. Moreover, even in 2021, some 35+ years after Jack wrote this, when there are even more and better-equipped satellites monitoring the earth, 100% coverage in no way means that the location of surface warships is well-known at all times. Satellites do a good job of trying to locate such ships. But a satellite “sees” a specific patch of the earth only once each orbit (approximately every 90 minutes) and then for such a short period (no more than 10–15 minutes) that establishing a course/speed for any given ship is nearly impossible. Accurately tracking ship-like objects using such widely spaced (in time) data points is virtually impossible. And accurately and consistently identifying such objects in real time (i.e., determining that a given target is the USS Midway, for example and distinguishing it from the freighter Maersk Alabama) is equally difficult. All of the above is not to dismiss Jack’s reference to “run, but not hide” out of hand, but some moderation is in order.

Further, it is interesting that these expensive supercarrier targets are required (their proponents’ word) to bottle up the Russian fleet (as though a few well-placed underwater atomic bursts couldn’t do the same)! Of course this avowed mission of carrier power-projection toward the USSR would also enable the Russians to concentrate/focus detection/retaliatory resources in the drastically reduced approach area to Warsaw Pact nations. No small advantage that.

As the Navy sees it, the primary threats to its highly mobile carriers come from two sources: enemy air-launched or submarine-launched cruise missiles or torpedoes. Unfortunately, the optimally tight defensive fleet tactical deployment with respect to such conventional assault is completely at odds with the extensive fleet tactical dispersal required for defense against atomic attack, where blast effect ALONE compels a 20-mile separation. The alternatives appear to be the presentation of an attractive nuclear target, or an at least marginally vulnerable protective screen. The admittedly peacetime 21 Mar 1984 “bump in the night” of the carrier Kitty Hawk by a probably multiply-killed Soviet nuclear attack submarine is indicative of this dilemma, as the Russians hardly propose to attack our carriers by ramming.

Of course, who could admit that it might not have been the Kitty Hawk which ran down the Soviet sub? Beyond that, the Navy scenario altogether omits two vital considerations: (1) the enemy attack on our naval forces may well not occur against mobile fleets racing over boundless seas (Remember Pearl Harbor!); and (2) all arguments invoking a claim of unsinkability are moot in the face of a threatened drenching of the fleet by intensely radioactive water, rendering target vessels too hot to board for several days!

It’s a whole new ballgame! We had best forget thinking in terms of conventional WWII sea warfare in an age of high-accuracy supersonic missiles, outer-space reconnaissance systems, and the elusive threat of nuclear-powered, nuclear-weapon-launching submarines – PLUS the enduring threat of unseen life-destroying gamma rays against which there is virtually no defense! Nor is this the end of the problem. High-altitude tests 800 miles from Hawaii caused the failure of street lighting in Honolulu by a phenomenon later termed electromagnetic pulse. This can damage electronic gear sufficiently to compel replacement.

Another problem is the so-called blackout of all signal frequencies within 500 miles of a one-megaton bomb for more than 10 hours! This means that aside from any physical damage incurred, an enemy could totally blind (electronically) our fleet (as well as its own) by the simple expedient of merely violating the nuclear test ban treaty without even contesting our fleets. At the same time, we have no real knowledge of a similar “blue-out” consequent to an underwater nuclear blast which might additionally render our fleet deaf as well as blind.

Of course, in the last analysis all arguments over the validity of strategic propositions (as, for example the questions of many-small vs. fewer-large carriers, or fewer-large carriers vs. multiple B-1s or MXs, or the current emphasis on carriers per se) are futile in the abstract. On the one hand, many experts assure us that the prospect of mutually assured destruction represented by current nuclear stockpiles serves as the ultimate deterrent to atomic warfare. On the other hand, can any battery of experts assure responsible planners that an enemy threatened with crushing defeat wouldn’t resort to nuclear weapons in extremis? It all comes down to the dual questions of means and intent – potency and will – the will to use the means at hand.

Our defeat in Viet Nam is usually characterized as a failure of will, but then names like Hitler, Stalin, Khomeini, and Qaddafi come to mind. No faint hearts there! (Curiously, the name Richard Nixon also comes to mind. He may well turn out to be our most precious national resource, our secret weapon. As Machiavelli has said, “The prince must be a lion, but he must also know how to play the fox.” And they don’t call Nixon “Tricky Dicky” for nothing. Erstwhile honcho Haldeman has characterized Nixon as “crude, rough, … dirty, mean, … coldly calculating, devious, (and) craftily manipulative.” Hey! If it takes one to know one, Nixon will do as our interpreter of an enemy psycho’s intentions.)

But all of this is really beside the point: If nuclear war there is ever to be, the neutralizing of harbors by underwater atomic explosions HAS to be the most economic means for bottling up our naval opposition, and may well also be the most moral! One basic worry then remains: have our American planners taken the prospect of the possible nuclear neutralization of any or all of our vital harbors into account? Fortunately, such strategic considerations never were among my personal responsibilities. I just had to flesh them out here to present the “big picture.”

Well now you can better understand the nature of the problem I was dealing with as long ago as 1948. Things were now radically different. What could and should ship machinery arrangement designers do about it? This was my job! I loved it! For machinery arrangement designs, the threat posed by nuclear weapons reduced itself to consideration of how to safeguard intact machinery spaces and associated personnel from the unconventional effects of nuclear explosions, or more specifically, how to preclude or minimize airborne radioactive residue from contaminating machinery spaces or personnel. This in turn reduced itself to a consideration of the provision of supercharged (compressed) air for boiler fuel oil combustion, and the provision of ventilating (breathing and cooling) air for personnel in otherwise completely buttoned up machinery spaces.

The problem anent combustion air was fairly easily accommodated by a simple redesign of the plenum chambers (from which boiler blowers take their suction) to incorporate airflow-path direction-reversing baffles. It helped that this was a closed-circuit air circulating system to which personnel are unexposed. The problem anent ventilation air became merely another factor in the solution of the problem of air contamination in general, as from the smoke and live steam usually released into conventionally damaged machinery spaces. The solution here was to provide a closed-circuit ventilation system for a fully enclosed central control station within each main machinery space, to which all operating personnel could retreat during battle. Accordingly, the first Main Engine Central Propulsion Control Station in the U.S. Navy (a somewhat similar station existed in Germany’s Prinz Eugen) was incorporated in our first supercarrier, the CVA-59, USS Forrestal.

This was my design baby from start to finish, and my name is on that contract plan. It was so well received that I was then enlisted as an advisor on the control station in our first nuclear sub, then dubbed SSN-565. I’ll never forget the meeting I attended on this, held in the conference room adjoining Admiral Rickover’s office (though he did not attend). The meeting was chaired by one of Rickover’s deputies, and an old PG classmate of mine, the earlier-mentioned Bob Hartwell – a genuine “brain.” Everybody held forth at great length, and the meeting was virtually over before I spoke at last, unable to contain myself any longer. I haven’t the slightest recollection as to the point of contention, (though I do recall that I had consumed every document anent gamma ray shielding in Rickover’s top-secret library in preparation for this meeting.) I also recall my performance as a highly emotional contention that their entire underlying philosophy was wrong, and I then proceeded to tick off point after point of a better approach to whatever the problem was. I concluded as suddenly as I has begun, and the room was deadly silent as Bob, seemingly almost awe-struck, solemnly intoned, “Hatchet [my old USNA and PG nickname], I had no idea you were so smart!” From Bob Hartwell this was no small accolade, indeed. (I sure wish I could remember what it was all about.)

This control station design project was really my cup of tea, and the responsibility was totally mine and involved no supervision and no design precedent or guidance criteria. The whole ball of wax was mine alone, from conception, through development, to completed contract plan. I’ll try not to bore you with too many details (and I can hear your screams – “Too late, already!”) and, in fact, I don’t even remember them. I would, however, like to give some sense of the scope of the project.

The objective was to provide a totally enclosed and self-sufficient control station adequate to sustaining the maximum feasible operating propulsion and electricity-generating plant despite every imaginable battle-damage scenario short of sinking. This meant you needed indicators of status throughout the entire plant, you needed controls through which to react to the whole range of possible indications, and, of course, you had to figure out the nature and extent of requisite communications facilities. It goes without saying that you also needed self-contained closed-circuit ventilation and air-cooling facilities, and that all provisions should be as efficiently arranged as possible and require the fewest operating personnel possible. It was a considerable chore.

I not only determined which phone and intercom circuits were required, but which stations should be connected on the various circuits, and who had best monitor what in the control station. I not only had to determine which gauges would be in the station, but how they could best be oriented with respect to each other, and how each gauge might optimally be mounted. (One of my ideas was that, despite how gauges were normally mounted with name plate data horizontal, they would be better oriented by rotating them prior to mounting so that the normal reading would in each case be a vertically-upward indication. Years later the Navy and others let expensive R & D contracts so esoteric studies could be made on how best to design and mount gauges for optimal ease of interpretation under times of stress. Once again, I was 20 years too soon.)

Finally, precise details of the required remote controls had to be determined. This was one mean (but thoroughly enjoyed) assignment. When completed, there was virtually only one demand leveled by potential operators. Are you ready for this? They insisted on a porthole – a window! This despite the fact that some four to eight engineering spaces might be involved and at best they would have only a very limited view of one space which might well be smoke- or steam-filled! (I was amused to read years later that the original seven astronauts raised the same objection with respect to the Mercury capsule. “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”)

Moving right along (at last!), this was the year of the “Admirals’ Revolt.” It ostensibly began in Jun of 1949 when the Navy leaked a speech blistering the Air Force’s projected B-36 bomber as “a billion-dollar blunder.” This action precipitated a full-blown Congressional investigation extending from Aug through Labor Day recess into late Oct. It was the biggest intra-service hassle since the Billy Mitchell uproar of the 1920s. To further exacerbate the situation, it was during this period, on or about 29 Aug 1949, that Russia exploded its first nuclear weapon. The root cause of this entire affair was the 23 Apr cancellation by then Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson of the Navy’s projected first flush-deck supercarrier, the CVA-58. The unspoken heart of the matter was that this action took the Navy out of the nuclear warfare picture. It was as simple as that.

Without a nuclear weapons capability, the Navy – probably correctly – surmised that it would fast be relegated to a second-rate service role. In his Oct 1949 testimony, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Omar Bradley, stated that we then had about 50 A-bombs, and estimated that 133 targeted on 70 Russian cities would “do in” the USSR, and that we expected to have 400 bombs by 1950, at which time the General estimated Russia might have 10 to 20. At the height of this ruckus, it became necessary to replace the Chief of Naval Operations, Louis Denfield, because he had already lost control of his Admirals and compromised his obligation to the then-new concept of service unification. Denfield was replaced by Admiral Forrest Sherman. Bradley characterizes Sherman as “the most impressive military officer I have ever met in any service. Urbane, intellectual, diplomatic and smart as a whip.…” Well, I couldn’t agree more, and that is the sole point of relevance for my introducing this episode into our story.

Digital Edition Note: Charlie points out that the A-3, which he flew while in the Navy, was designed and fielded in the mid-1950s as a carrier-based nuclear bomber precisely to provide the US Navy with the necessary long-range, strategic nuclear weapons capability. That nuclear role for the A-3 was made obsolete in the early 1960s with the advent of ballistic missiles.

Naturally I had closely followed the public discussion of the issues as a matter of professional interest, the design of new naval vessels then being the source of our family income. I was well aware of the real basis of the controversy as well as the many (some potent) “smoke-screen” contentions on both sides. It was in this vein that I wrote Admiral Sherman a letter of congratulations – and advice – quoting some now unremembered dictum from Reef Points (the USNA’s “plebe bible”) as a proper basis for proceeding. The upshot of all this was that I received an almost immediate phone call at work one day from Admiral Sherman’s Chief of Staff, offering me a job! I have to agree with General Bradley, Sherman was smart as a whip! Fortunately for me, I (having gotten permanent job status on 10 Oct 1949) declined this job offer because, unfortunately for Admiral Sherman, he had less than 2 years to a fatal heart attack. Perhaps even more fateful for me and my entire family at this time was that my sister, Margaret, got married on 26 Nov 1949. This was fateful because it entailed the “breaking up” of my mother’s home with Margaret, and my mother thereupon (on 10 Dec 1949) moved in with my brother Tom and his wife for 74 (“count ‘em”) days! It was just about this time (7 Dec 1949) that Chiang Kai-shek fled to Formosa (now Taiwan) as Mao established the Peoples Republic of China. Perhaps we’d have been well advised to have fled also, because, on 22 Feb 1950, George Washington’s birthday, my mother came to live with us on Dallas Avenue. So! This was what 1950 was to be like!

This was the time of Goodnight, Irene; the declaration of the dogma of the Assumption by the Pope; the first time a TV audience (our own Baltimore’s WMAR-TV) exceeded a radio audience; and the year St. Bernadette’s rectory was completed. It was the time of the two-and-three-quarter-million-dollar Boston Brink’s robbery; the time that Edward (Dr. Strangelove) Teller convinced Harry Truman to build an H-bomb 1,000 times more powerful than the A-bomb; and the time a second trial found alleged communist traitor Alger Hiss guilty of perjury and the judge gave him two years. This contrasts well with the 9 years another judge gave Klaus Fuchs for selling atomic secrets to the Russians only two months later. Well, Hiss and Fuchs weren’t alone, Kathleen and I would be doing our time, too with mother. It wasn’t to be long this first segment but it was no less traumatic for its relative briefness (compared with segments of home-staying-with-mother yet to come).

One example from this period might suffice. During mother’s short sojourn at my brother’s, I one day took George for his first hair-cut. Off went his longish golden locks, leaving almost a crew cut. I thought he looked cute – and all man – so on the way home I dropped in at Tom’s to show him off to my mother. Well! She threw a foot-stomping, arm-flailing, mouth-foaming fit, and launched into a voluminous, venomous, vituperative tirade that was still in process even as George and I beat a hasty retreat to the door. Aunt Mary claims to this day that she has never heard anything like it before or since, in real life, in the movies or on TV. Everyone agrees it was such a livid, lurid lip-lashing that only a Tennessee Williams could possibly recreate it. Her virtuoso one-player performance was a veritable tour de force of Academy Award quality.

I got my first promotion, to GS-11, on 16 Apr 1950, and now I’d be earning the princely sum of $5,600 per year! Hey! The most my well-off father ever earned in his life was $6,000, and I can easily imagine my sons and daughters will well surpass my maximum earnings rate in their lifetime if, indeed, some of them haven’t already. But money couldn’t buy the sense of relief that came with my mother’s vacating of our premises. Looking back now, I realize that my mother must have almost imperceptibly mellowed with the passing of years, but in the early 1950s she was surely at the peak of her powers of castigating criticism. (It frightens me somewhat to realize she would then have been about 62, whereas I’m only 66 as I write this!)

North Korea invaded South Korea for the start of a 3-year war on 25 Jun 1950, but this was nothing like the invasion represented by the presence of my mother in our house. Fortunately for us, Martha put in an appearance on 29 Jul 1950, thereby complicating an already-crowded family situation. Martha would be our first to be born at Georgetown Hospital, and it’s almost laughable, now, to reflect that Kathleen and I actually made a few practice runs from Dallas Avenue to Georgetown, just to be sure we could find it in a hurry at night. When the time finally came around 0300 that Jul morning, naturally we found our car had a flat tire. So it was that we woke up our neighbor, Reuben Sanders, and he had the honor of driving her to Georgetown. So much for careful preparation!

Anyhow, and in addition to the intervention of Martha, God also intervened in Sep of 1950, sending my mother to the hospital with pneumonia, even as MacArthur was wading onto the beaches at Inchon in the last great amphibious landing of modern times. Anyhow, since Mom had originally gone to brother Tom’s house when sister Margaret left on her honeymoon, and Margaret and Jimmy had now had an eight-month shakedown period to square away their married life, it was decided that Mom would return to their East-West Highway apartment rather than to our house upon her release from the hospital. Now all this might seem like no big deal to any readers of this epic tome, but it was a monumental relief to Kathleen and me. At the same time, it is a tremendous tribute to Margaret and Jimmy that the following 10 years of Life with Mother didn’t wreck their marriage. To give one example of what a strain Mom was, whenever Jimmy was at home Mom would take her meals separately rather than join him and Margaret at the dinner table. Also, she’d talk to Margaret as though Jimmy wasn’t there. Some fun!

As 1950 drew to a close, and contrary to MASH’s confusing of the Korean police action with the Viet Nam debacle as an intrusion into their lives, some 200,000 Chinese suddenly intruded themselves across the Yalu River in late Nov, thereby turning an imminent victory into a near catastrophe. At almost the same time, two Puerto Rican would-be assassins tried to intrude into Blair House (where Harry Truman was then in residence while the White House was undergoing repairs), in the process killing two secret service agents. One of them was the father of some of our children’s schoolmates at St. Bernadette’s. Mom might be gone from Dallas Avenue, but there was still plenty of nastiness in the world. For another example, take the Rosenbergs. They were found guilty of treason on 29 Mar 1951, even as Hiss was finally going to jail for perjury. On 11 Apr Harry Truman was finally compelled to relieve MacArthur of his Korean command, and on 15 Apr the government gave me some relief when they promoted me to GS-12, which raised my salary to a monstrous $6,400!

I was getting deeper and deeper into the arcane science of machinery arrangement design, which I found increasingly fascinating. For example, I became (as far as I know) the first and only one ever to analytically reduce the determination of machinery space length to a more or less empirical science. I hear some of you asking, “Whatinhell does that mean?” I hear others of you expostulating (Look it up, if you have to. It’s not a dirty word!), “Who cares!” Well, I did, and that carries a lot of weight with this storyteller. Preliminary hull design turns over a bare hull outline and an overall machinery box length to the machinery design branch. It then became our job to accommodate all requisite propulsion machinery and supporting electromechanical apparatus in this box – appropriately subdivided into a series of machinery spaces by watertight bulkheads. Incredible as it may seem (or should seem to any informed person), the machinery box had heretofore been arbitrarily subdivided into the individual fore and aft spaces by trial and error. I set out to evolve a method for predetermining the number and lengths of these individual spaces on a more rational basis.

In the long run my analyses produced two more articles for the Journal of the American Society of Naval Engineers. One was entitled Longitudinal Stiffness of Naval Thrust Bearing Foundations, and the other was called, Permobility – A New Criterion for Arrangement of Naval Machinery. I could have written two others with titles like: Naval Main Propulsion Reduction Gear Design Constants, and Main Propulsion System Condenser Scoop Design. It is these appurtenances or factors, you see, that I found to be the delimiting parameters of machinery space proportioning. Incidentally, apart from my aforementioned articles, the so-called literature on the subject was virtually nonexistent. I expect the only reason my contributions didn’t get more notoriety is that the fraternity of interest is exceedingly small. In any event, I didn’t do the pieces for notoriety, or even money. The fact is, my evolving understanding or expertise in these matters was part and parcel of my job responsibility. And, as previously indicated, I then loved my work. I don’t want to bore anyone too much, but I do think at least two brief quotes re the “Permobility” piece are warranted to give you some flavor regarding my work, thus:

Warship design is an interesting and highly advanced science, and any good marine library is full of technical literature on the subject. However, a review of this material soon discloses that very little information is available concerning the machinery arrangement aspects of combatant vessel design.… This situation would seem to suggest that naval machinery arrangement is either an extremely simple or a very unimportant subject. However, it is difficult to reconcile either of the foregoing conclusions with current machinery arrangement practice. In the design of major combatant vessels it is customary to detail several dozen alternate machinery arrangements for purposes of comparative evaluation.… The very number of such studies is indicative of the degree of importance accorded machinery arrangements. At the same time, the variety of arrangement solutions and the difficulty experienced in evaluating and selecting the optimum design serve to emphasize a lack of specific machinery arrangement objectives.

Again, the word “permobility” is intended to denote the characteristic of permanent or enduring vessel mobility as a function of the machinery arrangement in the face of always imminent, if not inevitable, war damage. At the same time, the term is intended to connote the battle endurance characteristics of the electrical power generating unit arrangements, in virtue of their vital relation not only to propulsion auxiliaries, but to the offensive weapons and damage control facilities in a ship. With this understanding of the term, it is easy to justify the contention that permobility should be the essential basis for evaluating alternate machinery arrangements. For example, in WWII, two out of every five vessels that were hit suffered propulsion damage, but only one out of every seven vessels suffering such damage was lost. On the other hand, two out of every three vessels that were immobilized were lost. It is thus obvious that permobility is not some abstract objective, but is fundamental to the continued usefulness and very existence of the ship itself. [Copy of Permobility available at https://www.wrightstuff.site]

Lest my meager reading audience O.D. on arcane machinery arrangement minutiae, suffice it to say that my conclusion was to the effect that permobility was the proper basis for machinery space compartmentation. Optimal compartmentation, in turn, became a problem of producing an arrangement that presented the least fore-and-aft length of machinery space per independent and self-sufficient propulsion unit, together with maximum possible separation of propulsion unit spaces within the overall machinery box length allotted by the hull designers. It should be evident, then, that the crucial element in all machinery plant layout design is the minimum possible length of propulsion unit space. My further analysis developed that the length of any given main propulsion unit machinery space was determined by a combination of the main turbine condenser scoop design, and the main propulsion shaft thrust bearing’s longitudinal foundation plate. (I can almost hear the delighted chorus singing out, “Obviously!”)

Hey! Gimme a break! I’m doing the best I can to indicate to you that I was an unsung pioneer in a virgin part of a fairly complex technical area. I’ll try to be brief. First, I found an excellent article on scoop design in an old volume of some now-forgotten marine engineering journal. My main contribution here was twofold. I first of all took the lengthy, complex procedure therein presented and streamlined it into a highly simplified step-by-step procedure that even a non-engineer might follow in order to evolve the critical dimensions and overall outline of the scoop-injected main condenser salt water circulating system. In the second place, and of more significance, it was I who discovered or emphasized that it was precisely this feature of the design that was one of the two critical factors which fixed compartment length. The second factor, of course, was the main thrust bearing’s longitudinal foundation plate. Here, too, I unearthed an article anent the mathematical complexity of determining the height, width, and – most importantly – the length of this plate.

Well, I know I have already lost some readers at this point in my epic (if not already long since!), and that even the survivors are by now extremely restless. Anyhow, here’s the scoop (sorry!) on the foundation plate: You have a propeller in the water. It is developing, say in a WWII light cruiser, a 30,000-horsepower forward thrust – this thrust being what drives the ship forward through the water. Now this propeller thrust has somehow to be transmitted to the hull of the vessel. This transmission of thrust occurs via (surprise!) a thrust bearing! It may help to consider the propeller shaft as having a fixed raised collar on it at some point, and that this collar rides against a similar collar fixed to the full of the ship. The interfacing of these two collars, separated by a highly compressed film of continuously cooled lubricating oil, is in effect the thrust bearing, through which the moving propeller’s thrust is transmitted to the fixed hull. Well, now, 30,000 horsepower of thrust is a lot of thrust. It is therefore imperative that the collar that is fixed to the hull (and which absorbs and transmits all this thrust to the hull) be firmly anchored to the hull, and so anchored as to resist being rotated (or sheared) about a transverse axis by this immense thrust.

Well, this probability of rotation (or shear) is resisted by anchoring the thrust bearing (fixed collar) to a set of very substantial and integral fore-and-aft vertical girders, which are in turn securely anchored to a substantial expanse of the criss-cross, box-like girder construction which constitutes the hull, thereby absorbing or distributing the transmitted thrust over a substantial section of the honeycombed hull structure. The term “integral” as used above is intended to signify that these fore-and-aft foundation plates can’t be cut, filleted, or pierced at any point to facilitate machinery arrangement or associated piping runs. To do their job, they must be solid, integral, uninterrupted girders. For watertight integrity purposes, they shouldn’t penetrate any athwartship bulkhead. Being quite long, they thus become a critical factor in fixing the overall compartment length of a machinery space. OK! So you had a hunch about all this from the start.

Might I at this point inject just a word about reduction gears? (I hear no “No!”) Well, sometime around this period the Navy undertook a highly experimental design project known as DD828, the USS Timmerman. Heretofore (and thereafter) every new ship design was evolved in strict accordance with BuShips’ prepared contract design plans and detailed specifications. In the case of DD828 all specifications were waived on machinery components. Manufacturers were simply directed to pack the most power into the smallest and lightest package to which they would feel comfortable affixing their nameplate! They had to guarantee nothing! They merely had to publicly acknowledge that a particular component was theirs by so tagging it. This was a most revolutionary approach to attempting to squeeze as much as possible out of the then state of the art, free of all the normally stipulated specifications evolved over long years of actual experience.

Well, sizing equipment in advance under these circumstances was a real challenge indeed. A key criterion in the design of reduction gears, for example, is the so-called “K-factor,” a dimensionless coefficient that factors into the sizing of the elements of the reduction gear. Heretofore, many specifications would merely stipulate a smallish allowable range for this K-factor. How to size them, then, when this stipulation was waived? I almost inadvertently hit upon the solution in perusing a copy of the Journal of the Society of Automotive Engineers. An article presented a curve depicting bearing loading vs. transmitted horsepower for various oil viscosities. It was a simple matter for me to convert SAE viscosities into Navy viscosities, and to extrapolate the horsepower range markedly higher. I then refashioned the bearing loading scale to corresponding K-factors known by experience to have been acceptable. I astounded everyone by almost precisely predicting the uncommonly small size of Timmerman’s reduction gears. It was simple using my adjusted curve. What was the basis for my effecting this translation? I simply figured that an oil film wouldn’t know whether it separated teeth on meshing gears or a journal in a bearing shell. Some people might call this “insight.”

OK! So I’ve already said too much! But, somebody has to know this. And think how you can amaze your friends by explaining such things when they come up (as they surely must) in bull sessions at bars or parties. Also, are you ever ready for quiz shows! Be that as it may, this was my life, guys, and that’s what this story is supposed to be about. Still, the world was moving on, thrusting (as it were) into the future. On 10 Jul 1951 negotiations on a Korean armistice began. (They were to continue for two years!) As of 29 Jul 1951 our family numbered four children ranging in age from 7 to 1 year old so there was plenty of incentive for work. On 4 Sep 1951 Harry Truman inaugurated transcontinental TV with his speech to the United Nations Conference then in progress in San Francisco.

On 8 Sep 1951 the US-Japanese peace treaty was finally signed, also in San Francisco. In Nov my last ship, Bremerton, was reactivated for Korean duty. She was to be awarded two battle stars for her efforts. Then came 1952: Presidential Candidate Adlai Stevenson was pictured with a hole in his shoe. Brigitte Bardot’s pictures suggested a hole in the head. Ike defined an intellectual as “a man who takes more words than are necessary to say more than he knows.” Harry Belafonte was busy inventing (he thinks) calypso. One popular song became “On Top of Old Smokey,” but singer Johnny Ray garnered the first one-million-sales record with his hit, “Cry.” On 6 Feb 1952 Queen Elizabeth was crowned, but our efforts of the year were crowned on 24 Aug with the birth of our #3 son, John Joseph.

John didn’t realize it, of course, but his birth was paralleled by such worldly events as the birth of the Mouseketeers and Winky Dink. But even John Wright wasn’t the biggest noise of 1952. That would have been the 1 Nov (31 Oct per EST) explosion off Eniwetok of our first hydrogen bomb. Then we were into 1953. Stalin died 5 Mar 1953, to be succeeded (as premier) by Khrushchev. On 29 May 1953 Edmund Hillary topped Mt. Everest. On 19 Jun the Rosenbergs were finally executed, and the Korean armistice finally was effected on 26 Jul – three days before Martha’s third birthday. As with John’s birthday, Martha’s was soon saluted by an H-bomb explosion, this one unfortunately by the Russians, on 12 Aug 1953. We thus approached 1954 with the Cold War in full force.

Family 26 December 1952 – George 8, JJ 4 months

Many people will remember 1954 as the year Amahl and the Night Visitors made its Christmas Eve TV debut. George was then 9, Anne 6, and Charlie 5. Older folks may remember it as the year “Old Blue Eyes” Sinatra made it big with a song called “Young at Heart,” but John (who was only 2 at the time) should remember it as the year that Blessed Dominic Savio was canonized. John, you see, was to get in really big trouble later on with a St. Bernadette’s nun when he had the bold-as-brass temerity to mark up a holy card of Blessed Dom with a mustache and eyeglasses. Shame, John! But life went on. In Jan we launched our first atomic submarine, Hugh Hefner launched Playboy, Alfred E. Newman popularized Mad Magazine, and McCalls magazine launched a theme of “togetherness.”

This was the period, too, when “in” folks suddenly found it possible to expand their vocabularies effortlessly but enormously by simply appending a mere four letters to their nouns, as in fashion-wise, economy-wise, and sports-wise. The English language still hasn’t recovered. This was also the year that Captain Queeg made his appearance in The Caine Mutiny. It was also the time Mary Bernadette made her appearance on 20 Feb 1954. In view of her affiliation today, it’s interesting to note that the Air Force Academy made its appearance almost concurrently with Mary’s advent, opening its doors (sorry, Mary!) on April Fool’s Day 1954. As the highlight event of the year, Mary’s birth had to compete with such significant happenings as the 2 May French defeat at Dien Bien Phu by Ho Chi Minh (and our eventually consequent disastrous involvement in Viet Nam), and the Supreme Court ordered desegregation of our public schools on 17 May 1954. So much, then for a flavor of the times.

Mary will be heard from – March 1954

The world wasn’t the only thing that was moving right along then. In Jun of 1954 my mother (still living with Aunt Margaret and Uncle Jimmy) began what would become a series of 5 moves over the next 6 years, as they moved from their apartment on East-West Highway to a rental home (around the corner from what would become our future home on Kinross Ave.) on Harding Place. It was at this time that Kathleen and I, not having enough to do with my job or raising six children, entered into a St. Bernadette’s study club comprising us, the Ungers, the Bernards, and several other forgotten couples. This group met weekly during the school season over the next three years, holding meetings from house to house. First we took up a study of the origin and significance of various parts of the mass, then we took up the study of Pope Pius XII’s encyclical Mediator Dei (on the sacred liturgy), and finally we turned to a study of selected saints.

With George at Mayo Beach – June 1954

With Anne at Haines Point – June 1954

For each session we would rotate the chairmanship of the meeting, with that person making a prepared pitch after which a general discussion would ensue. Wouldn’t you know that our mild but naturally intimidating pastor, Fr. Stricker, would choose to monitor a session held at our Dallas Avenue home – and one at which I was to be the pitchman! My subject was St. Thomas Aquinas. As you might imagine, “EVERYTHING you ‘d EVER want to know about St. Thomas was IN THAT PITCH!” I don’t know what Fr. Stricker had expected, but he was surprised. In fact, the next issue of our monthly parish bulletin, The Echo, contained a short item by the pastor testifying to his surprise and enjoyment over participation in a parish study club meeting at which he confessed he learned much. [Copy of The Echo item is available at https://www.wrightstuff.site] I still consider that one of the best tributes I have ever received, for Fr. Stricker was nothing if not an outstanding scholar. (I don’t mean to imply that I was brilliant – a possibility, of course – but merely that I was always fully prepared.)

Lest we be overwhelmed by my strengths, let me hasten to confess that this was also the point at about which a period of weakness first manifested itself. Not much shall be said about all this. As Sergeant Joe Friday might have said, “All names and details shall be omitted to protect the innocent.” Suffice it to say, after all these years I suddenly started to notice other women. Be warned, my dear children, that the middle years can beget strain. Contrasting forces are at work. The husband is essentially job-focused while the wife can understandably become increasingly children-focused, perhaps even to the detriment of the husband. Indeed, in our case, some very trying times would ensue.

Our present happily married state wasn’t achieved without pain and struggle. As one confessor at the time encouraged me, “Take heart in the fact that the Devil is smart and only devotes his time to those he thinks might be his best catches. He therefore particularly targets good husbands and fathers.” Another positive aspect of this much-rued lapse was that it cured me (I hope) of any inclination to or pretense of self-righteous pride. Never again could I look down my nose at others’ apparent weaknesses. Let’s just conclude by saying, “We did make it through this night.” Beyond that, as Plutarch has said, “It is a point of wisdom to be silent when occasion requires.” Frankly, I’d have much rather not even mentioned this, but honesty and fairness to the record compelled it.

The end of 1954 ushered in our eight-passenger DeSoto ex-airport limousine, with the pull-down seats, and ushered out Joe McCarthy by way of Senate censure even as, ironically, Alger Hiss was being released from 3-and-1/2 years in jail for perjury. Meanwhile, on the family front, we had instituted a new Christmas-gift-wrapping tradition. After all, we now had three children at age six or over. Do any of our children remember? I’d take you, one at a time, into a bedroom, and there George would be allowed to wrap Anne’s presents, and then Anne would be allowed to wrap George’s. This was designed to let the children share in the excitement of surprising one another, but I wonder … were you guys really able to keep such secrets from each other?

In any event, our M.O. certainly wasn’t anything fancy. We started off by wrapping the gifts in newspaper, so the nature of the gift couldn’t be read through the Christmas tissue with which we ultimately rewrapped them. However, we soon dispensed with the bother of even adding the more decorative tissue covering. The children didn’t seem to mind, and it sure saved both time and money. To complete the job, we’d merely scrawl the recipient’s name on the package with a bright crayon. No fancy name tags or stickers for us. So, the base of our Christmas tree would be soon lost in an unsightly mound of newspaper-covered blobs of varying sizes. I can almost hear Pat Brady exclaiming as I write, “Oh, No! That’s terrible!” Hey, Pat! It just goes to show: it’s the thought that’s important.

Thus dawned the year 1955. This was to be a pivotal year in many respects. It was the year of the Salk vaccine, the push-button phone, vinyl floors, auto-train, air-conditioned buses, stereo FM, the Supreme Court’s “all deliberate speed” integration order, the Warsaw Pact, the deposing of Juan Peron in Argentina, the merger of the AFL and CIO. It was also the year that a Miss Rosa Parks chose to sit down on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama, and the fateful year that the U.S. agreed to send some advisors to help train Viet Nam forces. For me, it was the year I moved on into a new job, transitioning from the Bureau of Ships’ Machinery Design Division to its Fleet Maintenance Division.

This entailed my elevation to GS-13 at the magnificent salary of $8,360 per annum! I was also now designated a General Engineer in lieu of my previous classification as a Marine Engineer. The change was timely. I loved my work in my old billet, but I had by then virtually exhausted its possibilities. By then I had reduced every aspect of sizing equipment to a science. I had carefully developed and detailed design parameters for turbines, pumps, compressors, valves, motors, generators, condensers, evaporators, tanks, reduction gears, bearings, shafting, piping, boiler, you-name-it. I had literally worked myself out of a job and was starting to get a little bored by lack of challenge. Not only that, there was no upward mobility in my present organization.

Even should one of the three people who outranked me die or transfer out of the section, my experience and qualifications were not a match for the job requirements of their billets, which were more oriented to supervising draftsmen. So, I had to move on, but there was a certain amount of regret. After all, it had been a most pleasant and rewarding seven-year association. In any event, move on I did, transferring from Code 434 (Machinery Arrangements) to Code 518 (Ship Improvements) on 27 Feb 1955. Significantly, this seemingly innocuous switch also marked a dramatic change from a passive off-line planning office to a dynamic on-line real-time office! So ended the first segment of my civilian employment. We then had six children, ranging from 11-year-old George to one-year-old Mary, and Kathleen was already carrying someone who would become known as KT.

XIV. OPERATIONS

The only way to get rid of responsibilities is to discharge them. – Walter S. Robertson

The mid-to-late 1950s was a period of high-anxiety living, a consequence of the so-called Cold War, which was very chilling indeed. Lots of our friends and neighbors were building bomb shelters on their property, and the fire department even designated a fallout-shelter area in what it deemed to be the safest corner of our house. We also laid in a modest stock of emergency rations (which I recall comprised lots of peanut butter, crackers, and chocolate bars among other staples). We also stashed a first aid package that included vitamin C for radiation. Everyone did the best they could, but overall remained rather fatalistic. Mike Todd tried to distract everyone by his lavish fantasy evolved from Jules Verne’s Around The World In Eighty Days. In Mar 1955 the nation (less us, of course) tuned-in the first coast-to-coast color TV program.

This was the period when the all-consuming anguish of the general public quickly made Dear Abby a household name. Those great popular philosophers, the beer salesmen, trumpeted the great tidings that, “Where there’s life, there’s Bud.” (I’ll bet Gary wishes he’d said that!) A short time later they were urging us to “Grab all the gusto you can, because you only go around once in life!” WOW! No! Double WOW! The great symbol of the times was the Frisbee – not yet recognized as an art form worthy of a college major at those really “heavy” institutions of higher learning that seemingly infest only Florida and southern California. In short, there was an awful lot of tension in the air in those days, and the public response was generally one of false bravado compounded by the frantic pursuit of pure escapism. You simply refused to think about nuclear bombs and fallout shelters. Life could still be beautiful, if only you just closed your eyes.

Of course neither Kathleen nor I could afford to close our eyes. We were both much too busy: her with the children, me with mastering the responsibilities and duties of a new job. We really just didn’t have time to sit around wringing our hands over the precarious balance of terror then governing world affairs. Really, it was sort of like a cross between living in a trance and being in “never-never land.” It was all kind of unreal. The times impelled a deepening religious awareness on the part of thinking adults, and our continuing study club involvement testifies to our participation in that general trend. Still, we both had a job to do, so we just kept marching ever forward into a rather threatening future, but relatively serene in our faith.

I reported to the Fleet Maintenance Division of the Bureau of Ships, Code 518,on 27 Feb 1955. My new boss was a “blue and gold” type, a Captain Gaasterland. He was a semi-portly but highly flamboyant figure who affected a cigarette holder á la FDR, with swagger to match. He was, all in all, an above-average naval executive, and worthy of respect. His greatest trait, so far as I was concerned, was his flair for delegating responsibility with matching authority. He simply gave me my head – turned me loose. It’s interesting to note, too, that like my first civilian job in the Design Division, this job was a newly created job that had never before existed. So, once again, I got to plow virgin ground.

What fantastic good fortune! I was bound by no precedents. I could write my own rules, and I did. In the first several weeks I didn’t do anything but analyze my job requirements, thoroughly study and absorb all relevant directives pertaining to it (and there was a substantial and complex literature on the subject area), and then plan precisely how I would go about getting the job done. This will require a little elaboration, so once again I must ask any persevering readers to bear with me. A brief of my job description might run thus:

As a Supervising General Engineer, review on a continuing basis all ship improvement projects as the Senior Administrator of the Ship Alteration Program. Analyze military, mechanical-electrical, and structural aspects of all proposed projects, as well as potential impact on planned programs. Exercise complete authority for funding the $100 million per year program; and for approving, disapproving, or cancelling ship improvement proposals; and for establishing their priority.

This, boys and girls, was one helluva job. To begin with, you can’t imagine the complexity of the ship improvement process as evolved by minions laboring in the Chief of Naval Operations’ “Puzzle Palace” in the Pentagon. First, a ship improvement proposal was passed up the line through the type-commander chain in the Forces Afloat. It then had to be hacked by the various technical branches in the appropriate headquarters bureaus (such as Bu Ships, BuOrd, BuAer, etc.). Every item also had to be evaluated in terms of technical validity, weight, and moment considerations, and habitability (a forerunner, you might say, of the environmental impact statement). If it passed these hurdles, and cost-efficiency analyses, then the item was introduced as an item in the SIG (ship improvement guide). A SIG item then ran the gauntlet of reviews by Bureau Type Desks for consideration in various CIP’s (class improvement plans) for various vessel types. Once an item was approved for inclusion in a CIP, a formal ShipAlt then had to be issued for that improvement in that particular class of vessels.

Next a determination had to be made whether the ShipAlt was a military or an ordinary alteration, as these were distinctly separate listings with different fund sources. So far, so good. This was an already established procedure of much greater complexity than indicated through this brief sketch. Now, this is where I came in – I was to first determine the criteria for determining the priority of competing improvement projects, and then I was to assign the priority for each and every improvement project. That having been done, my office then established the cut-off point for funding the suite of ShipAlts to be accomplished on particular ships as they underwent their periodic shipyard overhauls. Mr. Kim was my funding officer – my bookkeeper, if you will. This, remember, was a $100-million-a-year program – pretty big stuff in the 1950s.

So my very first order of business (and ultimately, I suppose, my major claim to fame) in this job was to evolve a basis for fixing ShipAlt priorities. It was fortunate that at that time I was deep into St. Thomas Aquinas in pursuit of my avocation – a fascination with theology. As I believe I have already mentioned, the theology of St. Thomas is rampant with fine distinctions. His conclusions are generally evolved by a process of elimination, the essence of which is drawing distinctions. (I was always fond of pointing out in my speeches how a simple “S” alone distinguished the cosmic from the comic, and a simple “I” distinguished poise from pose. (Well! It held people’s attention.)

More than that, St. Thomas’s work reflects a hierarchical structure in which things are ordered in terms of a certain inherent precedence arising from ultimate goals. Thus, for example, he proceeds along the line that the world is intelligible only in terms of its relation to man, man is intelligible only in terms of his relation to God, and God is intelligible only in terms of Himself. So, in effect, my absorption in St. Thomas at that time also proved to be a boon to my job-related efforts of devising priority criteria – my mind was fully in gear for analytical exercises. (Can you imagine my trying to explain to my fellow technicians at the Bureau that my priority scheme was evolved after the manner of St. Thomas Aquinas?)

Anyhow, this was the way I proceeded. Thus it was that my first order of priority became those alterations which would directly enhance the immediate safety of the whole ship, that is, the safeguarding of the entire crew – for example, installation of search radar. The next order of priority became those alterations which could directly enhance the immediate safety of an individual human being – for example, a device that would automatically disengage a high-voltage power supply when the cover was removed from some electrical apparatus. Then, of course, military improvements took precedence over ordinary improvements, and offensive military improvements took precedence over defensive improvements. Thus is was that, step by step, I evolved an entire array of priority categories.

So far I was operating completely independently, evolving the priority category list entirely on my own, and it was sufficiently comprehensive that each and every improvement project on the books could easily be slotted into one or another of these categories. The next phase of the process was to actually review all existing ship improvement projects, assign them to the proper category, and then order their relative priority within categories. For this part of the job I was to have what was euphemistically called “help.” Actually, coincident with the establishment of my new billet, the Chief, BuShips, chartered a so-called Fleet Improvement Council (FIC). This was to be an advisory body charged specifically with assigning ShipAlt priorities. The FIC was to be composed of representatives from each of the type desks and certain allied technical desks, specifically: Codes 522 (Carriers), 523A (Battleships), 523B (Cruisers), 523C (Destroyers), 525 (Mine & Amphib Craft), 526 (Submarines ), 527 (Auxiliaries), 529 (Yard & Patrol Craft), 736 (Shipyard Overhaul Scheduling), and 990 (Electronics). My job description provided that I (representing Code 518, Fleet Improvement Programs) would be Chairman of the FIC.

Each Type desk, of course, had direct input from its corresponding Type Commander (afloat). In due course I called for the first meeting of the FIC to set about our formidable task. I immediately ran into deep trouble. I had scarcely opened the meeting when the deputy for Capt. Gaasterland (my boss), a certain Cdr. Hank Kittendorf, a precocious if plodding Prussian if there ever was one, and only an ostensible observer, attempted to take over the meeting to make a policy speech. I called for an immediate halt in the proceedings, admonished the good Commander (also my ostensible boss) that he was merely an observer with no right to speak, and threatened to adjourn the meeting if he opened his mouth again. Well, one didn’t normally and publicly treat one’s boss this way, and the mouth of every attendee was fully agape. The Commander, taken aback, sat down somewhat stunned. We proceeded, but only for a moment. Cdr. Kittendorf started sounding off again. I immediately adjourned the meeting, to the consternation of all present.

This was vitally necessary if ever I was to function as an effective chairman of the FIC, the very function of which was itself charged with an abundance of controversy and competition. Not only that, it turned out that every FIC member out-ranked me in grade, most of them being the head of their respective division. This dynamic initial action of my part, however, clearly established my authority once and for all. At the next meeting I publicly apologized to an absent Cdr. Kittendorf – my concession to Capt.. Gaasterland in exchange for Kittendorf’s future absence. Nobody else on the council ever challenged me.

So the work began at last. We established two lists: a list of military ship improvements, and a list of “ordinary” (non-military) improvements. Then, you might think, some further sub-division might be required. How, for example, should search radar in a carrier rank with respect to search radar in, say, a cruiser. Actually, this type of question didn’t in fact arise, as may become clearer as we proceed. The important (amazing?) thing at this point is that I was able to sell my priority scheme virtually without change both to shore-side military honchos, in both the technical Bureaus and the office of the Chief of Naval Operations, and to the Type Commanders of all the Forces Afloat. Beyond that, our smoothly functioning FIC then generated our two priority listings. It was a job well done. In fact, I was officially commended by the Chief of the Office of Naval Research, Admiral Rawson Bennett, for my “unbiased and objective development of alteration priorities for FY1956.” Then, in Feb 1957 I was commended by the Chief, Bureau of Ships, for “improved administration of the ShipAlt program.” This recital doesn’t begin to indicate the sheer force of confident leadership demanded for this task.

The truly amazing thing about all the foregoing, of course, was that – a dozen years after WWII had ended – this had never been done before. In fact, this had been perhaps the major problem in the Bureau of Ships. The shore-side Admirals there were constantly having their feet held to the fire by the Forces Afloat Type Commanders for the chaotic and inequitable administration of the overall Fleet Improvement Program. It was precisely to rectify this huge problem that I was hired. (Me! It boggles the mind, doesn’t it! Here I was, a fugitive from the “blue and gold” in effect telling the Admirals at sea what to do!)

You have to understand that this was an immensely complex business. For example, electronics was just coming into its own, mushrooming overnight. Worse than that, acquisition funds and installation funds came from two separate appropriations. The former were lumped with continuing new construction funds which were then in good supply. The latter were lumped with annual operational funds which were always relatively on a shoe-string basis. Thus it was that we literally had shipyards with warehouses full of fairly new electronic gear (being pushed by the Chief of Naval Research) for which there simply was a dearth of installation funds. This being peacetime, the Forces Afloat didn’t give a damn about overloading their ships with still highly fragile electronics gear requiring highly skilled maintenance.

So the Type Commanders would lobby the Bureau for more mundane improvements like dishwashers in the galley, more reliable liberty boats, and the like. So the electronic gear stayed on the shelves in the shipyards. Well , my priority ordering put an end to these shore-against-sea-commander squabbles. The “squeaking wheel no longer got all the grease,” – the order of doing business was pre-ordained. And, thanks to my interpreting search radar as a device enhancing overall ship safety, they went to the top of the list and started moving off the shipyard shelves.

Next you have to understand a little about the complexity of the ship overhaul process. Every ship in the navy is overhauled at periodic intervals, the intervals varying for different ship types. Thus, the schedule of overhauls could be extrapolated several years into the future. Thus we could be certain, say 1 Jan, that USS Superboomer would be undergoing overhaul on 1–24 October. More than that, we would know that the overhaul would occur at Podanka Shipyard, because Podanka was the assigned home port of Superboomer. Well, the overhaul comprises two worklists. The repair list is the product of the Type Commander afloat, with input from the ship itself, and it is funded by the Type Commander. The alteration list was the product of the Type Desk in the Bureau, funded by my office (only Mr. Kim could authorize funds) through a cut-off point established my me. This suite of ShipAlts was communicated by the Type Desk, via a funds endorsement by my office, to the overhauling shipyard (with copy to the ship and Type Commander afloat) by the so-called 120-day letter, which indicated that it reached all hands 120 days in advance of the scheduled start of the overhaul.

The complexity doesn’t end here. Each ship also has a designated planning yard which is charged with responsibility for developing and delivering both installation plans and the requisite materials to the installing yard by the date of the overhaul. So the process requires the dovetailing of the arrival of the ship, plans, material, and authorization and funding at the shipyard by the requisite date, concurrent with delivery of the repair list and associated funds from the Type Commander afloat. Well, has a light gone on in your brain yet? One sure went on in mine. After all, all of this complex planning was implemented BY HAND! I found this unbelievable. I knew the Navy had electronic punch-card equipment everywhere, adapting it to inventory control and payroll functions. I knew, too, that the Navy was beginning to invest heavily in newly developing electronic computers. Now! See how my job naturally led me first to look into and then transition into the electronic computer field?

We’re getting ahead of our story though. Getting from here to there wasn’t quite that simple. I was working prodigious hours, sometimes spending entire weekends in the office around budget time, and often working with Mr. Kim until three in the morning, trying to price-out our alteration lists to establish an equitable cut-off point that could be sustained through an entire year. At home we still managed to steal a family day here and there at Mayo Beach. (It got so we could change a fan belt on the Corvair station wagon in less than 15 minutes.) Some children may be able to place this time by noting that in July 1955 Fr. Cieri was replaced by Fr. Bonfiglio at St. Bernadette’s. On 31 Aug False-alarm KT made her last of many appearances in Georgetown Hospital. Uncle Tom drove Kathleen to the hospital, this happening occurring in an afternoon for a change, while I was still at work. My job so absorbed me that before we knew it we were well into 1956. In April my mother moved with Margaret and her family again, this time from Harding Place to Bieber Place. We didn’t quite realize it at first, but they evidently were having problems with the rent. This business was to get worse. In July the Andrea Doria sank off the North Carolina coast, and Egypt seized the Suez Canal. This must have been about the summer we all packed off to a week or so at Rehoboth Beach, with Mr. Kim and my Aunt Ruth along for the fun.

KT at 5 days – 5 September 1955

Our family numbered seven children then, with two-year-old Mary still in playpen limbo, and not quite one-year-old KT still being crib-bait. George was eleven and John was just about four. With that number and the low age-range, we could never have done this without Mr. Kim and Aunt Ruth. This was the time when Kim demonstrated how to surf by merely wetting a mattress cover, running along the beach to billow it full of air, and then securing the open end with string. He would then ride the inflated mattress cover onto the beach like a surfboard. He was a sight to behold. A lifeguard finally made him desist – not because he didn’t know what he was doing, but probably because it might give ideas to youngsters who couldn’t handle it. This was also the time Aunt Ruth taught us to play pinochle, and we adults (Kathleen and I, Kim and Aunt Ruth) would have a big game every evening at the kitchen table after the youngsters were put to bed. Kim, of course, provided an extra family lifeguard at Oceanside, and Aunt Ruth provided a live-in babysitter. A fine time was had by all – a most unique family vacation.

In the fall of 1956 (on 23 Oct), we moved from Dallas to Kinross Avenue. This time we had a real mover, but I have no recollections about the details – other than the three boys and I each taking a leg of our swing set and walking from house to house down the middle of Lanark Way, and Mary sitting on the upper level stairs and crying that she wanted “to go home now” at bedtime. The Hungarian revolt broke out the day we moved and was all over by 4 Nov. This was also the period when I staged my own revolt in the Fleet Maintenance Division of BuShips. I call it my Yamamoto Caper.

I refer to an incident just fifty-one days before Pearl Harbor, when the Chief of Staff of the First Air Fleet, RAdm. Kusaka, contested with Yamamoto, the Commander in Chief, about who would be calling the shots. Kusaka fired off a message: “CinC, did you not assure me that the details of this plan would be placed under my supervision and every possible effort would be made to meet my requirements for the operation?” Yamamoto immediately replied via the Senior Staff Officer, Combined Fleet: “Adm. Yamamoto insists that his plan be adopted. I am authorized to state that if it is not, then the CinC of the Combined Fleet [Yamamoto] can no longer be held responsible for the security of the Empire. In that case he will have no alternative but to resign, and with him his entire staff.”

Believe me, this kind of message gets attention at the highest levels. It was precisely such a ploy that I became involved in at this time. I was in Code 518 under Capt. Gaasterland. His immediate boss was Code 510, Adm. Pete Haas, and his immediate boss was Code 500, VAdm. Jimmy James – the senior BuShips liaison with the Type Commander Admirals Afloat and the bureau’s Type Desks. It seems one Type Commander got hold of Adm. James and persuaded him that a few of his preferred ShipAlts should be jumped up the priority list, and Adm. James passed the word to me to do so.

Well, I didn’t go to Capt. Gaasterland, or even to Adm. Haas. I stomped right down to Adm. James’s office. I’d never even met the man before and had to introduce myself. Not only that, I barged into a staff conference – a room full of gold braid. I was paranoid mad – furious. I bellowed how I’d been hired to do an impossible job, and that by God I’d been doing it, working around the clock and right through weekends, and that I had been promised complete support – no more squeaky wheel getting the grease – and here he was pulling the rug on me. I averred this turn-around would be the hole in the dike that would bring the whole ocean crashing through, and that if that was all the support I was going to get, then, by God, “You have my resignation, now!” I then stomped out of the room.

Have you got the picture? I have a house full of kids, and I’m telling them they can take my job and shove it. It was heart-felt. After all, I firmly believed that to allow the proposed change to pass unchallenged would cause my entire position to unravel, and that my job would then indeed become impossible. So, in effect, I wouldn’t be giving up anything – the job would be finished. I never gave a thought, however, to what I would use for money to pay the bills. In any event, I slumped back to my office, feeling completely drained, totally betrayed. I felt I was already unemployed. I was in shock.

Within 20 minutes, Adm. Pete Haas sent for me. He gave me the old Dutch Uncle treatment: “You shouldn’t get so upset.” He then told me that, as I’d left Adm. James’s office, Adm. James had admitted (of me), “By God, he’s right!” Adm. James then reversed himself. Adm. Haas then pleaded with me to stay on (confirming my feeling that, indeed, I had really separated myself from a job). I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t, I guess, really expected to win. I sort of hedged – what guarantee, after all, would I have that the same thing wouldn’t happen again next week? – and so on. Well, Adm. Has told me to get back to work, not to worry about it. “everyone topside,” he said, “thought I was doing a terrific job – and I’d be getting that in writing.

Good grief! Now, instead of being out of a job, apparently I was going to get a commendation. And, indeed, I did, thus:

Per reapportionment schedule approved by Bureau of the Budget 6 Mar 1956, and Budget Activity Allocation approved by the Navy Comptroller … the Active Fleet Alterations sub-project has been increased 13.7 million dollars as a result of our recent request. Except for the relatively “free money” wartime eras, BuShips has never faired so well in a Bureau of the Budget reapportionment…. It is considered that the aforementioned success is largely attributable to the … recent emphasis on continuous and realistic refinement of … alteration priorities, and the more timely, complete and accurate delineation of program details…. Your able leadership and assiduous application to the chairmanship of the Fleet Improvement Council are recognized as major contributing factors to the success of the alterations program…. WELL DONE! [Sometimes it pays to get mad, but you’d better damn well be right!]

Nevertheless, the pressures of the job continued to grow. I was scarcely ever home. In addition to budget hassles, there were the continuing fusillades from provincially minded Type Commanders at sea. They didn’t like a bunch of goddamn civilians telling them, in effect, what improvements they were going to get in their ships. Never mind that their shore-side representatives in the Bureau’s Type desks were regularly funneling in their input. Finally, there were quarterly merry-go-rounds when the pricing-out of the entire program had to be updated as new alterations were continuously merged into the program listings, ship by ship. These sessions always meant several consecutive all-night work-throughs. I was getting more harried and beat by the moment. I had already proved I could do the job, but I was beginning to wonder if anybody could long keep it up. And I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.

I guess you had to be there to really comprehend the immense, unrelenting pressure of the job. Everyone on the fringe of the job gave it lip-service praise, but they couldn’t really know its toll on my nerves. It’s somewhat like Sir Thomas Browne said in a similar situation: “Pureblind men have discoursed well of sight, and those without issue, excellently of generation.” Kathleen, of course, was largely left to shift for our seven children during all of this pretty much by herself. So, there were growing strains on the home front, as well as the office pressure cooker. This wasn’t the nice, relaxed, and comfortable family situation I had anticipated. Doing well on the job wasn’t all that satisfying, either. Clearly, something had to be done, and yet the next move was the result of an almost casual accident.

I ran into my friend Jack Smith one day at the snack bar coffee break. Jack had been the original representative of the electronic division of BuShips on my Fleet Improvement Council, but had since transferred to the Data Processing Systems Division of the Navy Management Office. We exchanged a few pleasantries, briefly discussed our jobs, and then I suddenly inquired whether there might be any openings for me in the Navy Management Office. This was strictly spur of the moment on my part, because I hadn’t consciously even started to think of a job change until this point.

On Easter Monday, 21 Apr 1957, even as ground was being broken to build St. Bernadette’s Church, I transferred to the Navy Management Office as a Program Analyst, GS-14, at $10,320 per year. This was another step up the grade structure ladder, and provided virtually unlimited opportunity for advancement. Even more significantly, this move marked a transition in my career pattern from the engineering realm to the management realm.

While in the Machinery Design Branch, I had authored an illustrated article anent the challenges and opportunities of government engineers, which I then almost sold to the then very popular Look magazine, the major competitor of Life magazine. (To enhance the potential income, I had even signed each colored illustration with a different name, “Mort Baker.”) The uncommon personalized rejection letter regretted that only the publication of a related-type article some weeks earlier militated against acceptance of my “very fine article.” So it goes.

The reason I mention this is because one of my illustrations (based upon my experience during our post-graduate field trip to the General Electric headquarters) depicted the baggy-suited head research engineer arriving at the office in a Model T, while the sporty V.P. in charge of Sales, complete with golf bag slung over the shoulder, arrived in a block-long Cadillac. The point is clear: Money is to be found on the management side rather than the technical side of business – or government! (The 1984 Engineering Manpower Commission’s annual salary survey showed that “engineering superiors” (management) earn 10-to-15% more than engineers with the same number of years’ experience but without supervisory responsibility.) This particular move, then, was the key one in my march to professional success.

At the same time, this move marked my assumption of a converging course for an inevitable eventual collision with the Peter Principle. This so-called principle is to the effect that any truly persevering professional will eventually progress to a level beyond his competence – and so it was to be, eventually, with me. After all, I was now really leaving my true trade behind.

I have already obliquely alluded to the natural basis for this job switch. It was the data base complexity of my Fleet Maintenance position. This virtually compelled any thinking person to investigate the possibility of harnessing computers to take the drudgery out of the constant and massive data manipulations. For example, new alterations were constantly being inserted into an overall, comprehensive priority list. Yet certain alterations were only accomplished on certain ships, and there was always a fixed funding limit. Hence, there was a constantly recurring need to price out the entire program, ship by ship, alteration by alteration, to revalidate the constantly changing (shrinking) cut-off point. This was a terribly tedious and time-consuming job, and all of it was then being done manually.

So it was that I was led into, first, the punch-card-equipment field, and almost immediately thereafter, into the just emerging computer field. After all, there were also needs to coordinate and collate shipyard schedules, dry-dock schedules, material delivery schedules, installation blueprint delivery schedules, etc. There were also complex, recurring calls for bushels of budget back-up data. If ever there was a fruitful field of endeavor for exploitation by computers, this was it. It was only natural, therefore, that I gravitated to NMO as the Data Processing Systems Division Program Analyst in charge of monitoring the development of computer systems for naval shipyard overhaul management information systems.

You might well ask, “What did you really know about computers?” My answer has always been somewhat evasive. I continue to contend that you don’t really have to know very much per se about computers. You don’t, for example, have to know how a pencil is manufactured in order to write with one. Neither do you have to know anything about the guts of a computer in order to make it “write” for you. Computers, after all, are no more or less than another tool in management’s arsenal – though a very powerful tool, to be sure. Rousseau had an observation that seems apt: “I shall be asked if I am a prince or a legislator to write on politics. I answer that I’m neither, and that is why I do so. If I were a prince or legislator, I should not waste my time in saying what wants doing; I should do it and hold my peace.”

Let the computer specialists therefore develop better computers. As for me, along with other would-be managers, simply set us down at the keyboard and turn us loose. We’re the guys with problems. Only we know the priorities involved and the criteria governing our decisions. No computer can divine any of this. It’s like the old Army Signal Corps motto: “It takes an Act of Congress to make Generals; but only the Signal Corps can make them Commanding Officers.” Computers are nothing more than the manager’s Signal Corps. They enable enhanced management decisions embracing all relevant data on a truly timely basis. Computers make would-be managers managers in fact. As for me, my decision was: it was time to join the management team! So, this ends a short chapter in this book. It was also a short (two years, two months) chapter in my life.

XV. MANAGEMENT

People need to be reminded more often than they need to be instructed. – Samuel Johnson

My transition from a quasi-engineering to a quasi-management billet was a significant one, with many unforeseen ramifications. I use the qualifier “quasi,” since while my FIC function required an engineering background, it was heavily slanted toward the administrative field. Similarly, though my job in NMO was management oriented, I had no “line” responsibility but in fact operated in a staff relationship to real management. (Since we actually managed nothing, but presumed to tell managers how to manage, and since I was one of the very few in my new office that had in fact exercised line management responsibility in a real-time situation, I often felt compelled privately to remind my coworkers that we were in fact parasites.) In all events, while I didn’t know it then, I was entering upon the longest stint of continuous duty in one office that I was to enjoy throughout my entire professional career. I would be with the Navy Management Office for slightly more than eight-and-a-half years – until its disestablishment. This would be, in many ways, my most fruitful or personally rewarding tour, and the one in which (it was to turn out) I’d peak as a professional.

To begin with, I was brought aboard as a Program Manager in charge of monitoring and guiding the harnessing of computers in the service of enhanced shipyard management. Yet, in almost no time a all, I was elevated to the job of Assistant Division Director. This little move leap-frogged me over a half-dozen more senior professionals. As it was with my chairmanship of the FIC (and even earlier as the young Chief Engineer at sea in charge of salty, old-hand, up-from-the-ranks, father-figure, “mustang” commissioned and warrant officers), it was a case of “a little child shall lead them.” It seems that I spent most of my life bossing around older, more experienced people. I must have had some sort of knack for this. This knack, I’m sure, consisted of getting on top of any incipient rebellion at the very outset – letting everyone know who was in charge.

Early on in NMO I provided an almost instant replay of the Cdr. Kittendorf put-down at my first FIC meeting. One loud-mouthed and self-proclaimed know-it-all section head in my division, who had only days before my appointment as Assistant Division Director ranked as my senior, had the temerity publicly to volunteer “straightening me out” – feigning to save me from an assumed ignorance on some point. Well, I thereupon unleashed on him a violent diatribe about possibly “laying him out” if he didn’t quickly realize there had been some changes made, and by God starting immediately he had better realize that he should no longer presume to tell me what to do, I’d tell him! I asked if he had any questions on that score. I’ll never forget his meek, cowering, obsequious confession of undying fealty forevermore. I had no more problems.

I’d been aboard scarcely a month when we added another child to the family, Monica being born on 28 May 1957. Apparently she enjoyed a very pleasant childhood, because more than 25 years later, she still reveled in many fond memories. She remembered how the kids could completely remodel the playroom when they played “dress-up,” moving anything and everything around to make little rooms and houses. She remembers how viruses were passed down the line just like old clothes, and that too often they were countered by what she came to call “Pepto-Dismal,” which usually prompted an immediate bathroom line-up to throw up. She remembers how she really enjoyed listening to Kathleen’s “pretty music,” and how frequently they’d invent ballet dances to go with it, and even sell tickets for their performances.

Other times, they’d be content to listen to Katheen’s “opera singing,” which often accompanied the music. She remembers a great blizzard (1964?), when it was an adventure to walk behind me single-file to the street where she could “finally see again,” the unplowed snow being higher than her head. Then we all walked straight down the middle of University Blvd., because there were no cars on the road. She also recalls a special payment system for good report cards, and she always liked getting her report card because it meant more money. she has an obviously somewhat distorted recollection of me “getting up tight” when about to leave for “great” vacations, and how Kathleen always lightened the trips by passing around fresh fruit and cookies en route.

Another treat she remembers about vacations was that all the kids got special spending money in the morning and some more for dinner in the evening. Perhaps this segment would be entitled “I remember Melvin’s.” Then of course there was the tragedy of the loss of those cute little red-rimmed eyeglasses when she got flattened by a big wave. Even repeated trips to the Coast Guard Station’s lost and found boxes failed to recover them. And who will ever forget watching the kids’ jerking-the-wallet-on-a-string game?

Hey! There will be a quiz! All of this nostalgia isn’t spliced in here for nothing. This is a test of reader fortitude. I want to discover how many people really persisted through all my job recital to this point. Pretty sneaky, huh? Well, if you’ve come this far, it’s only fair that I offer still a little more of Monica’s remembrances.

She recalls how, after going to Ocean City for several summers, she began feeling like a native, since the children always enjoyed great freedom to explore along the boardwalk. She recalls striking up a conversation with a young employee in one of the arcades who was complaining about the tourists and asked if she were one. “Oh, no! I’ve been here a week!” Well, by then O.C. really was her “home away from home.” Actually her enjoyment of vacations was second only to her enjoyment of Christmas. She recalls how breakfast seemed to take forever – but it did make the excitement grow and last, as did opening presents one by one, until almost on cue everyone started opening them together. The she remembered visits to Grandma Kirk, whose summertime specialty seemed to be Fizzies – flavored drink that bubbled like Alka-Seltzer.

Then there was the time Monica held a slumber party, and all the kids went outside to play. The only thing Kathleen demanded was that they stay in the immediate vicinity of the house. Yielding to peer pressure, Monica trooped them off to visit the “haunted house” (then located where the Safeway now stands). When Kathleen couldn’t spot them nearby, she got in the car and went looking for them. She soon found them, thanks to some “chickens” who stood outside rather than venture into the haunted house. Then followed Kathleen’s patented – worse than death – “let’s sit down and talk” routine. All Moni’s friends first got sent down to the playroom. Moni reports, “The talks she gave were a million times worse than a spanking, withdrawal of my allowance or even restrictions could ever have been. she’d tell me how worried she’d been, that she had trusted me and how I’d let her down. It was terrible. I remember thinking – please stop! Just beat me or something! I felt so bad!” (Well, I must say, it’s always nice to learn that I wasn’t the only “heavy” in the house after all.)

In October of 1957, my Mom moved again, with Margaret and Jimmy of course. This time they hopped from Bieber Place to 97000 Colesville Road. On 4 Oct 1957 the Russians sent a chill down the spine of all Americans with the successful launching of Sputnik. This was just about the time, too, that Ford was losing 400 million dollars on the failed Edsel. As we swung into 1958, America finally got into space with Explorer I, Nautilus traversed beneath the North Pole, Alaska was granted statehood, and everybody was singing about some bozo named Tom Dooley. By May everyone was freaking out in a Hula Hoop. By 4 Aug 1958 the British Overseas Airways had initiated the first transatlantic jet service even as the U.S. wasn’t to inaugurate any jet service until late December with a more modest New York to Miami venture. In the interim Pope Pius XII died 9 Oct 1958. (I encountered Uncle Jimmy on the steps of St. Patrick’s Church the next day quoting odds on the identity of the next Pope.)

Good Pope John XXIII was elected on 28 Oct 1958. On 14 Dec St. Bernadette’s new church was finally dedicated, even as I was elevated to GS-15 and the munificent salary of $12,770 as a program analyst. For the uninitiated, GS-15 is the top of the merit civil service system. All supergrades are by executive (political) appointment, and carry the insecurity that goes with political office in general. I was therefore now at the end of my professional line so far as grade structure is concerned. Of course, each grade had ten steps, so I still had some room for salary growth, and indeed I was a GS-15 Step 10 long before I retired. In fact my performance was sufficiently “outstanding” to achieve transition from step one to step ten (which normally stipulated a minimum cumulative time in grade of 18 years) in less than 13-1/2 years!

Of course any thought of retirement in the late 1950s was the furthest thing from my mind. My professional star was still rising. In many ways, NMO was the ideal office for me. There was nothing else like it in the Navy Department. To fully appreciate the import of the last statement, you must first be subjected to at least a capsule crash course in the organizational structure of the Department of the Navy.

The first thing you must understand is that the term “Department of the Navy” embraced the whole shebang: civilians as well as “blue and gold” military, ashore as well as afloat, the whole worldwide shooting match. The term “Navy Department,” on the other hand, comprised the composite civilian-military Navy complex headquartered in Washington, DC. The Navy Department actually comprised a huge military entourage under the leadership of the Chief of Naval Operations and largely quartered in the Pentagon, and a composite civilian-military entourage (scattered throughout town, including in the old Main Navy building formerly on Constitution Avenue between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial) for which the lines of authority trended upward to peak in the office of SecNav himself.

In general the various offices in the composite ranch of the Navy Department were each headed by more-or-less “equal” civilian and military representatives ultimately responsible to SecNav and the CNO, respectively. NMO was unique in this respect. It was the only purely civilian staff directly accountable to the Administrative Assistant to SecNav, who in turn was directly subordinate only to SecNav. In other words, NMO was as near to the top of the Navy hierarchy as you could get, and was virtually free from any and all military domination or influence.

As you might imagine, to me this set-up represented heaven on earth, and like everything on earth it was not to last. (I left NMO, in fact, only when and because it was officially disestablished on 19 Dec 1965 under pressure on SecNav by the CNO!) Meanwhile, life near the top was great, and we were very near the top. In fact, our official designation was NMO-EXOS-Navy Dept-Wash.D.C. – that is, Navy Management Office, Executive office of the Secretary (of the Navy), headquartered in Washington, DC. And I was Assistant Director of one of its two major divisions, and top-of-grade. Literally, I had nowhere to go but down – but that journey of descent was still quite a way off.

The two major divisions of NMO were my Data Processing Systems Division and the Management Analysis Division. The latter was charged with improving management procedures throughout the department, whereas we were charged with harnessing these management tasks to computers, which were (in 1957 through 1965) just coming into the picture. NMO had three other smaller sections which should be mentioned: an Organizational Planning Section, an Industrial Engineering Section, and a Management Sciences Section. Whereas the Management Analysis Division was essentially concerned with office management procedures, the Organizational Planning Section was concerned with office organization, and the Industrial Engineering Section was concerned with industrial procedures (as in ordnance plants and shipyards, etc.). The Management Sciences Section comprised three long-hair mathematicians whose responsibility it was to assure the optimum exploitation of the capabilities of the computers, the introduction of which was facilitated by our division.

These were rather large responsibilities, and our organizational placement assured that we had correspondingly large authority by means of which we might acquit them. This also meant I was now in the “big leagues” – the majors – and all the personnel in NMO were top-of-the-line types, first-class professionals. I’m rather proud to say that I belonged. I always held my own, and then some. In fact, looking back only now, I realize I might well have come across to some (most?) of my peers as somewhat pushy. I can only say that you have to be “pushy” to some extent to succeed at this level., just as a successful entertainer generally must be an egotistical extrovert. Also, any apparent or potential pushiness was, I believe, somewhat ameliorated in my favor by an overriding sense of humor and a demonstrated record of generally being right. It never hurts to be right.

It was in the foregoing context or perspective that I operated from 1957 to 1965 – with virtually the authority, force, and effectiveness of SecNav. Orders, policies, and regulations which I authored in this period, for SecNav signature, effectively directed the entire “blue and gold” Navy what to do – from the lowest Seaman, 2/c, to the CNO. And I authored a lot of other official stuff, like testimony to be presented before the office of the Bureau of the Budget (the forerunner of David Stockman’s OMB enterprise), the General Accounting Office, and various Congressional Committees. It amused me that this civilian also authored occasional pieces under the title The Captain’s Corner in our monthly Navy-wide management review. I also authored input to official speeches by SecDef, SecNav, CNO, and, of course, the Chief of NMO. (The latter recalls once sitting at a sidewalk café at the very foot of the Himalayas, somewhere in India or Pakistan in the late 1970s, and discussing an impending speech he was to make with some native official, when the latter suggested that he “incorporate some of those humorous points you made in that speech Jack Wright wrote for you” in nineteen-fifty-something. You see! My fame is virtually worldwide.)

Navy Management Review – September 1959

Digital Edition Note: The text of the above note reads

Priceless Ingredient – PEOPLE!

Today such phrases as “forms control," "electronic data processing,” and "operations research” are becoming increasingly synonymous with management improvement. There may be good reason for this. Nevertheless, this popular notion serves to obscure a most vital fact, namely—despite modern office equipment and all manner of enlightened organizations and procedures, the really basic ingredient in and concern of management is PEOPLE!

Management relates to people: not things, and not (fundamentally) to ways and means. Management is complex because people are complex. Management will always be subject to improvement because people will always be subject to improvement.

Navy Management Review – March 1964

Digital Edition Note: The text of the above item reads:

The New Breed: Info-Maniacs

Today it is common to behold reports spawned by machines in ten minutes that mere man requires ten hours to read and 10 days to assimilate. This is the hallmark of a new breed: the Info-maniac, and his handy-dandy electronic computer complete with high speed printer. Volume reigns supreme over selectivity and quality in the realm of information.

Perhaps one prerequisite to improvement is a better understanding of the term management information. Basically, it is that information which management wants, needs, and uses. It is directly proportional to the difference between the reasonable expectation of management and the prevailing status of things, and is inversely proportional to management's previously accumulated relevant knowledge.

I personally remember cracking up JFK’s SecNav, his old war buddy Paul “Red” Fay, at the Chief of NMO’s retirement party. I always emceed these affairs, and for this one I had typed up a bunch of actual Western Union telegram forms and was passing them off as the reactions of various celebrities to our Boss’s retirement. Now, you have to understand that this “retirement” was virtually a firing, since our office was being disestablished, and the boss hadn’t (like me, and most others) been reassigned. It also happened that one of the farewell gifts was a full set of golf clubs. So, one of my telegrams was represented as being from Arnold Palmer (then pre-eminent golfer in the world). It read somewhat as follows:

Dear Ed – Sorry to hear you’ll be out of a job – However, this freedom should enable you to better enjoy the clubs I’m sending you – I understand somebody else already got your Balls – signed/Arnold Palmer. [As I said, “Red” Fay damn near fell down laughing.]

On the serious side, my original computer directives came to be regarded as masterpieces. In fact, they were virtually copied (so far as applicable and without attribution, of course) when “mirror” offices (reflecting our function at their level) were set up first in DOD, and later in the Bureau of the Budget. Perhaps the first major directive of this sort was the famous Graybook. This, the original Navy Automatic Data Processing/Management Information Systems bible, went through eight printings, and was endorsed by government and industry alike as “ahead of its time.” It was a 66-page SecNav Instruction first issued on 16 Apr 1959. It was 100% edited and 30% originated by me. The first real update of the Graybook was the Greenbook, issued 26 Feb 1964. It was 75% originated and 100% edited by me. This time I also had 100% responsibility for the directive, and so I was able to cull the instructions down from 66 to 30 pages while preserving all the meat. (As readers well know, I’ve never been prone to prolixity.)

My final effort in the preparation of comprehensive computer program–oriented SecNav directives was the Bluebook, which was 100% edited by me but issued in the late 1960s from the Automatic Data Processing Selection Office some time after the demise of NMO. To the extent that these directives governed the acquisition and use of computers throughout the entire Department of the Navy, I certainly had a major role in guiding the introduction of automatic data processing to Navy management generally. I’m sort of proud of my part in all this.

Moving right along, we now swing into 1959. This was the era of quiz show furors – like when Charles Van Doren became a non-celebrity overnight when it was discovered that he cheated on the TV show Twenty-One. This was also the year that Castro took over Cuba (1 Jan 1959). Pope John XXIII announced his plans for Vatican II (29 Jan 1959 – it would run from 11 Oct 1962 to 8 Dec 1965, and the Church would never again be the same), Hawaii became a state, and Father Stricker became a Monsignor. On 10 Apr the world was finally introduced to our famous first seven astronauts. Can you name them? (CCGGSSS – Carpenter, Cooper, Glenn, Grissom, Shepard, Schirra, Slayton). My mother was on the move, too, once again, this time following along with the Andrews from their home on Colesville Road to the one on the corner of Lanark Way. All of this pales, of course, with the big news of the year: Mo put in an appearance on 3 Aug 1959. And “putting in an appearance” was about all she did. She checked in at about 3-1/2 pounds, and was to languish in an air-conditioned crib at Columbia Hospital long after Kathleen had returned home. Her arrival marked what turned out to be our entire living brood, spanning up to George, then age 14.

Naturally such a miraculous event had to be properly celebrated. This was easily accomplished. Gene Sheehan’s wife gave birth at Columbia Hospital also, either the day before or the day after Kathleen – I don’t know why I can’t remember – so Gene and I spent a lot of hors together at the bar across the street, Melona’s. As everyone knows, Gene (Maureen’s godfather) is my greatest living friend, even though he is Irish to the core! Pat Conroy’s phrase sums him up best: “Each Irishman is a nation unto himself…. They are incapable of self-rule or of accepting the hegemony of their superiors.” Of course Gene would insist he has no superiors. Nevertheless, I was charged with being his in a shared professional world, so our enduring close friendship is introduced as evidence that I could at least get along with somebody – and an Irishman at that. (Of course, this all evolved before I learned that I too was Irish – KELLY! – in the course of researching and writing this epic.)

One of my recollections attending Mo’s birth was how Anne, then age 12, took over the running of the house. She prepared meals and cleaned up (with help, of course) after meals, did laundry, and generally babysat her younger siblings, and she did it all with apparent ease. This was all remarkably demonstrated by a parallel event of that period. As a gesture of friendship and to “help out,” two much more mature maiden ladies from my office generously had us all over one evening for a community pool swim followed by a picnic dinner on the lawn of the home of one of the ladies. Well, we all had a gala frolic in the pool and the adjourned to the lady’s yard. There we enjoyed hot dogs, chips, potato salad, Cokes, etc. – normal and filling picnic fare. Yet it was eye-opening to me to behold the relative anxiety which inundated these two dear friends as they strove frantically to minister to our hyper-active brood. I’m sure when we left that they both collapsed into chairs right where they were and slept the night through. The contrast was highlighted by Steady Eddie Anne’s unflappability in assuming Kathleen’s place during the latter’s hospital internment. (I apologize, Anne, for delaying so long in now publicly rendering this – Well Done!)

The foregoing story reminds me, in turn, of another experience involving my office associates which occurred about this time. I’ve already alluded to the long-hair mathematicians in our small Management Sciences Division. The head of that group was a Jewish genius, Dr. Jacob Emmanuel Isaac Heller, an Austrian refugee from Hitler’s Germany. He wrote a book about his piggy-backing his young crippled daughter and leading his frail wife by the hand to freedom through the Swiss Alps at night, Our Share of Morning (which is, I believe, a phrase from an Emily Dickinson poem). Jay, as we called him, was a real genius, but unlike most geniuses he had a beautiful sense of humor. He had a favorite joke about mathematicians which he liked to tell on himself, by way of demonstrating their tunnel-vision preoccupation with pure numbers.

It seems he was traveling by train one in Europe with a companion who did not have a ticket. His companion said “not to worry,” and just asked Jay to show him his ticket, which he did. At the station, he then followed Jay through the turnstile. When the conductor grabbed him and asked to see his ticket, he merely protested, “I just gave it to you.” To prove his point, he proceeded to recite the number of the ticket. The confused conductor thereupon let him pass. Jay confessed that soon thereafter he himself was caught without a ticket and immediately proceeded to effect the same gambit, glibly reciting the well-memorized same number! (No, it didn’t work.)

This is sort of reminiscent of painter George Roult. Reportedly, he loved his wife very, very much, but as he observed her face as she lay dying he was heard to exclaim, “God! What a beautiful purple!” By the way, and as befitted his mathematical genius, Jay was also the fellow who, at the height of plane sabotaging and hijackings in the 1960s came up with the perfect solution. He averred that if he had to travel by air during that period he’d simply carry his own bomb aboard, remarking that “the odds of two bombs being on the same plane would be astronomical!”

In the immortal words of Roseanne Rosannadanna, “It just goes to show you!” It’s all too easy for all of us to sometimes become so preoccupied with our “specialty” ( a euphemism for “work”) that we lose sight of the point – why it is that we’re working. I’m sure that happened to me. I recognize – NOW – that I must have been almost totally work oriented in the first half of the 1960s. Oh, sure! I still took time out for brief inflictions of “Now we’re gong to have a good time, or else!” threats, but then it was right back to total submergence in office work. My family forays were little more than coming up for air. I really am afraid that I lost touch with my children at this vitally important and exciting stage in their lives. I have no way of estimating what that cost them – or me – but the time just seemed to fly by.

On Washington’s Birthday, my mother moved again, this time to our house on Kinross Avenue! (In an interesting coincidence, she had left Dallas Avenue on Washington’s Birthday precisely ten years before! That decade, the 1950s, was the period of my sister’s purgatory with mother.) In May of 1960 Gary Powers and the U-2 were shot down. In June I joined the Knights of Columbus and thereupon initiated a series of Fourth of July family picnics with friends (and mosquitoes) at the K of C Hall and grounds near the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Soon we were ready for 1961.

JFK ushered in 1961 on the snow-frozen morning of 20 Jan. He also ushered in a new era – that “brief shining moment “ (which, sadly, has tarnished a little with age). This was also the time of Chubby Checkers and the twist, Pete Seeger and This Land Is My Land, the end of coast-to-coast separate facilities for “negroes,” and everyone went into “shake, rattle, and roll.” We were (at last) rid of our much-loved but failing DeSoto. On 15 Feb we hopped into our dazzling white Corvair station wagon (after carefully checking headroom for kids sitting in the back). This was the first new car we had ever bought, and I think it still remains my all-time-favorite car. This was also the time of “Good night, Chet; good night, David,” and Michael was forever rowing his boat ashore. And, oh yes, Uncle Jimmy was in some real financial distress. There are only two points I wish to make about this unhappy development. The first is that it has been my experience that distress can often be a blessing to the extent that it brings people closer together. I have now been a personal witness to this many times. Trouble does tend to engender – or rather, activate – the too-often latent nobility that lurks within family, friends, and neighbors. That’s good!

I don’t wish to labor the second point, but it has (sadly!) also been my universal experience that so-called Catholic charities simply aren’t very charitable. Conversely, it has been my universal experience that the one, old reliable, truly substantive charitable organization in the world is the Salvation Army. I was delighted to discover in William Manchester’s superb personal war memoir, Goodbye Darkness, that he confirms this view. Writing of his WWI-injured father, he says:

He lay there in his blood and corrupt flesh for five days, unattended, his death certificate already signed. Three civilians passed through the tent, representing the Knights of Columbus, the Red Cross, and the Salvation Army. The first, distributing cigarettes and candy, saw the Masonic ring on his left hand and skipped his cot. The Red Cross man tried to sell him – yes, sell him – a pack of cigarettes; Manchester had no money, so he got nothing…. But millions of Americans had contributed to the Red Cross to ease the lot of soldiers, and the conduct of some of its agents in hospitals behind the lines was nothing short of criminal.

It was the Salvation Army man who finally gave the penniless, suffering lance corporal two packs of Lucky Strikes and tried to cheer him up. As long as he lived, Manchester reached for coins when he passed the Salvation Army tambourine. [Amen!]

The Salvation Army took my sister and her children in when nobody else, including Catholic charities, would loan her a dime. (I had a similarly disturbing experience with Catholic Charities during Mary’s period of distress in the early 1970s.) I, too, have ever since regularly contributed every year to the Salvation Army, as I propose to do the rest of my life. At the same time, one is reminded of Bishop Sheen’s explanation of the story of the Good Samaritan, wherein the priest passes the victim by. Bishop Sheen explains and humorously excuses the priest on the grounds that “he first had to go to Catholic charities and fill out several forms in triplicate.”

April of 1961 was bad news for the U.S. on two fronts. On the 12th Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space – a Russian. On the 17th JFK flirted with disaster at the Bay of Pigs. Unlike most of our leaders since then, he immediately took full personal responsibility for the failure! The U.S. did bounce back on the space front on 5 May when Alan Shepard went suborbital, but an even bigger blast-off was to come on 9 May 1961. This was the day when oral contraceptives were declared to be safe, and no virgin has been ever since. But things weren’t just going badly on the frontier of space or the national front. They were suddenly going awry on the home front as well. On 19 May Kathleen was rushed to the hospital by ambulance yet once again. This time, though, things were infinitely more ominous, since she was only seven months pregnant. Weell, Herbie arrived – and departed – on 29 May 1961.

I don’t think the temper of the moment can be better conveyed than by inserting Kathleen’s letter to my mother (and my postscript) dated 26 May 1961, thus:

Dear Grandma – Do you remember saying many times, “What good am I?” Do you need a more dramatic answer than that pure little soul who is with God; or the nine others, big and little, whose mother is coming home to them alive and well. Both of those are spectacular. When I think of all the countless little things you have done every day in the little over a year you have been with us, to help and give comfort and happiness, I know I can never thank you adequately. But at least I do want to say it and now – Thank you and God bless you! s/Kappy.

P.S. Mother – I think Kappy has said it all. I can only add emphasis. I’m sure all of us can thank you for her being alive today. However, whether she had died last week – or at the age of 100 – I’m sure you’ll agree with me that she will have a choice place on heaven. Therefore – even more so do I feel a debt to you for Herbie. He only lived 3 hours – but what a difference! He was born alive – and he was baptized! I think his glorious place in heaven today is especially the result of your presence and your rising to a frightful occasion. So – you’ve always been a wonderful mother – and I already owe you so much – but when will your miracles cease? God bless you – Love! s/Jack.

Well, I’m sure you get the picture. This really was a precarious time for Kathleen. We almost lost her, and then what a different story this would be! At the same time I can almost hear someone shouting, “Hey! You just said something nice about your own mother!” Well … yes! A sort of lifelong metamorphosis has been in progress, you see, and it hasn’t been adequately reflected in this book – certainly not in the gradual manner in which it actually occurred. Had I the requisite skill, I would have traced – through the recounting of demonstrative dramatic examples, rather than mere recital – a progression in my feelings vis-à-vis my mother: insecurity, humiliation, resentment, disgust, indifference, bitterness, fury at her, fury at myself, questioning, doubt, suspicion, realization, testing, remorse, false generosity, re-evaluation, real generosity, sacrifice, love, commitment, and – finally – contentment.

Perhaps at this point I was only up to “false generosity” – I meant well, but my heart wasn’t really in it yet. It was sort of a feeling of “duty performed.” The final resolution of the mother vs. son (and vice versa) saga is, of course, one of the essential parts of this story, and revelation of the ultimate reconciliation at this point would be decidedly premature. We’ll elaborate the conclusion of this process in due course.

So, life went on – the Russians startled the world with the overnight erection of the Berlin Wall in August of 1961, and they topped that off with the 16–28 Oct Missile Crisis – a fitting end to a really bad year. John Glenn soon lifted our spirits on 20 Feb 1962 when he lifted off for three successful earth orbits, right on the heels of the 10 Feb Soviet freeing of U-2–incident victim Gary Powers.

Between these two events I enjoyed the rare distinction of being (along with Thomas Aquinas) quoted by no less than Edward R. Murrow! That came about this way. The government then featured an annual Arthur S. Flemming luncheon and awards ceremony to honor the ten most outstanding young men (sic!) in the federal government. Edward R. Murrow, then director of the U.S. Information Agency, was selected to be guest speaker and make the awards presentation.

As it turned out, I was the one who wrote the citation for one of the ten recipients of the awards. Murrow noted that the selection board had “canvassed 87 Cabinet, Executive, and independent agencies, ranging from the Administrative Office of the United States Courts to the Washington Botanical Gardens. A decision was made to recognize half administrative and half technical persons. Sixty-seven nominees resulted. The final selection of these 10 recipients was made from a screening process narrowing the field to 21 nominees – 10 administrative, 10 technical. The 21st finalist was some poor chap described to me as an odd leftover ‘technical administrator.’ I do not know, but I hope he won.” Jack Smith did, and who do you suppose came up with the notion of designating him as a hybrid “technical administrator”? That even got Ed Murrow’s attention.

Murrow had an introductory story that also merits attention, thus:

Performance and work, especially when it is well done, often goes unnoticed. I well recall an episode involving a colleague of mine several months back who found under the windshield of his automobile this notice: “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, from the boys at the garage.” My friend was touched. He made a mental note to leave a gift of several dollars for the boys at the garage. But his mental note was erased from his slate of memory. Several weeks passed, and two days before the holiday my friend found another note on his windshield: “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, from the boys at the garage. Second notice.”

It’s true! People too often go unremarked for their virtues. So let me pause to inject this long overdue paean right here:

Let the word go forth from this tome and place, we not only love all of our children dearly, we are also extremely PROUD of each and every one of them! They have taught us much for which we are in their debt. AMEN!

Case in point: Sunday, 10 Jun 1962 – George was one of the 22 honorees of the Seventeenth Annual Commencement of the Priory School. Naturally his W-R-I-G-H-T placed him at the end of the graduation list, but he was that day at the very top of our esteem. I can still recall the thrill of hearing him cited as a claimant to a scholarship at Fordham University and an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy. I remember, too, how I cited him with a solid handshake at the conclusion of the ceremony as I exclaimed, “May I never be less proud of you than I am today!” Certainly I haven’t been – so far. Similar thoughts and feelings attended similar celebrations of like events with all our children.

Nevertheless, when we allude to our pride in our offspring, we’re essentially referring to who they are – and to who they are (so long as they live) becoming. We’re proud of their character! After all, it wasn’t easy growing up in our house, as Moni can attest. She remembers the day Kathleen took her hand (for safety’s sake, of course) and promptly walked her right into a telephone pole. Hey! There’s more. Who can forget the day Kathleen injected Moni’s nose with Clorox nose drops? (It seems George had adapted an empty nose-drop bottle for ink-eradicating purposes.) Kathleen remembers the reaction of the responder to her call to the Emergency Poison Hotline: “Hey, Gus, I’ve got some clown on the phone who’s just put Clorox up her kid’s nose!” No, growing up in our clan was never easy, and having to do it in the 1960s didn’t make it easier.

Moving into the fall of 1962, Pope John opened his long promised Council on 11 Oct. Meanwhile, I was involved in a council of my own, serving on special assignment to a so-called Materiel Management Study Group under the direction of Adm. R. E. M. Ward. The latter, a WWII submarine skipper-hero, was one tough cookie. (I usually got along great with these types – providing they were competent, of course, seeing it as just another plebe-year challenge.) I still recall his calling me over to his house after work one night and working with me right straight through to sun-up. At that point he simply barked, “Go home, take a shower, grab a bite to eat, and I’ll see you at the office in an hour!” (I was there! He wasn’t.)

I was in his office on another occasion when his son (a Navy Lt.) phoned to complain and implicitly seek his help after the son’s request for a slight delay in change of duty station to attend a wife on the verge of her first delivery had been snarled in red tape. Old Ward simply asked, “Have you got your orders?” The son apparently replied, “Yes, sir,” to which Ward barked, “Carry them out!” and smashed down the phone. This guy even looked like a bulldog, and he sure had a snarling manner and temper to match. As I said, my kind of guy. Really! I got along with him fine since I was one of the few who would stand up to him. I had his respect as he had mine.

In the foregoing perspective, perhaps you can now better appreciate why I’m especially proud of the following commendation bestowed by Adm. Ward on the completion of this special assignment (21 Nov 1962):

During the past several months, Mr. John H. Wright has been on loan to this Materiel Management Study Group…. Upon completion of this complex and important study, I should like to express … my sincere appreciation for … the valuable contribution which he has made. Mr. Wright was one of the first to join the Group so that he was involved in the formation and structure of the Group, the development of a Group study plan, and the generation of guidelines for subsequent study efforts. He continued throughout the study as a member of my personal planning staff, as well as a member of the team which I assigned to study ships and support materiel management and a second team studying inventory control and supply management. Further, Mr. Wright assisted materially in the development of our report, including the drafting of our initial problem identification paper and the pulling together of certain parts of the final report itself. Mr. Wright displays a great deal of initiative, works very well with others in a joint team effort, and assumes responsibility readily. [Well, you’d have to say he was a man of keen insight and knew me very well.]

The year 1962 concluded with 16 inches of snow in December. On one occasion I walked home (the buses simply quit running) from Main Navy to Kinross, leaving Constitution Avenue about 1700, barely making it up steep Meridian Hill, and then falling in the door utterly exhausted about 2200. Then, before you knew it, we were into 1963, and Winston tasted “good like a cigarette should,” people were singing Blowing in the Wind, and movie-goers were being charmed by Lilies of the Field, amused by Dr. Strangelove – or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb, and thrilled by The Great Escape.” Everybody relaxed a little, too, as the Atomic Test Ban Treaty was concluded. In June Good Pope John was succeeded by long-suffering Pope Paul, and Valentina Tereshkova became the first woman in space – thereby fulfilling every woman’s ultimate dream, weightlessness.

This was about the time, too, when Anne and Doug, high school juniors, ran slightly afoul of the law. It seems they were bent on a late-evening group picnic to Brighton Dam. The crowd had plenty of beer but was slightly under age. Then suddenly the police struck and bedlam ensued. Doug, I think, was almost immediately caught, but Anne took off in the dark, running for her life through the woods, frightened out of her wits. I can well believe she must have been terrified, and I have no recollection of how she finally made her way home. Needless to say, her escape was all in vain, as everyone was tracked down via the ones who were caught. So it was that I paid the first of what was to be several trips to the police station on behalf of one or the other of our children. (Earlier on, Kathleen had marched George back to a Four Corners emporium to return a little car he had just happened to pick up.

Later I had to visit the Silver Spring station to free Moni from being held for sleeping in a car when she was supposed to be spending the night at Dorene Garvin’s house. Still later, I had to free Mo from the Wheaton Ward’s security police when she was apprehended for lifting a 45-rpm record. You might say she was made to “face the music.” I won’t. In a somewhat similar vein, there was the time a young Johnny stumbled home almost dead drunk from “true-proofing” – sampling every jug – in the Shines’ bar. Anne’s escape forced me to visit the Bethesda police station to witness her dressing-down by a plainclothesman. In the same room at a nearby table, Doug and his Dad were enacting a similar tableau. I didn’t realize it then, but that was the only time I was ever even to see Doug’s Dad. He died soon after of a heart attack. It’s a wonder these antics didn’t do me in, but in fact I think all our culprits would concede that they never saw me more cool or sympathetic – so chalk up a few points for good old Dad.

While Anne had been skipping through the fields at Brighton Dam, George was bouncing over the ocean waves on “youngster” cruise. Thanks to a letter to us (but retained by Grandma Kirk), we can let him describe it:

Youngster cruise is fun. The weather and the sea have been terrifically calm. I’m working in the Electricians’ Shack now, and standing four-on, eight-off watches in the after engine room. This is an air-conditioned control booth with remote controls. Not like the old salt-tablet Navy, eh Dad? [Hey, son! Now you know who designed the first such control booth!] The firerooms are hotter, about 120 degrees, but one can usually stay in the control booth there or stand under an 8-inch air-conditioning duct when one is forced to go out of the booth.

The sea is so pretty! The water is such a pure, deep blue, so clean and clear. I went up on the fantail, and this is why I’m really writing. The sunset was…. No! I’m not going to describe that, it was just glaring, actually. The prettier picture was seen with my back to the sunset. I was standing against the port lifeline. The water was absolutely smooth – so calm, but smoothly billowing. A slight hiss from the white foam boiling up from the bow knifing through the water was the only sound. The water next to the ship’s hull was that clear blue, even more striking in contrast with the eddying, hissing white bubbles. The color of the water changed as I looked farther out from the ship toward the horizon. The blue gave way to a pink with touches of the lightest green. The pink surface was slashed with blue ribbons where the ripples were more steep. The pinkness extended further and further until it melted into a purple haze which suggested a horizon.

The purple haze lightened into a white which gradually turned blue as you raised your eyes. But there were two final touches that really made the picture. Off to the left there was an ivory-gray mysterious invasion on the scene, a submarine riding awash quietly. What a contrast! But the final touch, the thing that made the whole visual image seem like a surrealist collaboration between Claude Monet and some other French surrealist whose name I can’t remember, was three small crates just heaved over the side. They were blackish blocks bobbing in the pinkness, growing smaller and bobbing, bobbing. (Sigh!) – Until my next soulful experience, musingly yours, s/George. [Well, Zane Grey never described a scene better. Makes you almost want to go to sea, doesn’t it?]

Now we’re into the terrible fall of 1963. Suddenly, JFK goes to Dallas, and then, even more suddenly, JFK is … gone! Blown away by a nobody named Oswald, who was the next day blown away by a nobody named Ruby. But there’s hardly any need to elaborate this tragic period. Everybody remembers where they were that day! Mercifully we were soon into a new year – 1964. The Berkeley campus in California was launching a youth totally disdainful of careers, clothes, politics, and religion – the whole civilized shtick! Congress enacted a Civil Rights Act, Khrushchev was deposed, Viet Nam was escalating, and the Beatles made their first visit to DC.

For me, this was one of my more prolific writing periods. I was already cranking out articles for an assortment of management and data processing magazines with such groovy titles as Management Information System Distinctions; The Space/Time Analogy to Organization and Methods; To Digress on Progress: How Navy Saves Time; EDP solves a Problem; Navy Management and Electronic Computers: Economy Through Effectiveness; Integrated Information Systems and Management; and Who Really Has the Helm.

I’ve included brief excerpts from two of my favorites as exhibits in this magnum opus, one about personal responsibility (which I wish all current and future government servants would subscribe to), and one entitled A New Breed: Info-maniacs. I was surprised when the latter term didn’t catch on. I thought it was so-o-o clever. On the whole, though, I confess that all this writing was pretty prosaic stuff. Dull! It did help pay the bills, though.

The year 1965 saw Martin Luther King launch his march to black freedom via Selma, even as LBJ launched his Great Society, and we launched ours: introducing air conditioning into our home in June, and installing our first color TV in October, while I now treated myself to lunch “out” almost every workday. I remember being alone at lunch one day at a now unremembered café next to the old Warner Theatre on 13th Street in downtown Washington. In such circumstances, and fancying myself as a potential author, it was my habit to eavesdrop – with often fascinating results. I was shocked this particular day to realize suddenly that a group of men behind me were discussing my area of professional endeavor and with particularly deprecating references to “higher-ups” whom I knew. I sat there enthralled as they downgraded every top Pentagon executive associated with the DOD computer program.

Little by little, I was able to piece things together so that I was finally able to identify the leading apostle of vilification. He had to be – let’s call him Cal Benson – the DOD civilian official directly above our office in the organizational chain, a guy I had often spoken to on the phone and frequently exchanged correspondence with, but whom I had never met. As I rose to leave, I shuffled with my chair long enough to note that I knew no one at that table and vice versa. Thereupon I went directly to the head hatchet-man and said, “You must be Cal Benson.” He confessed. “Well,” I continued, “I just want you to know I sure have enjoyed your conversation. Very interesting.” He went into a sort of state of shock. “Who did you say you were?” he asked. “I didn’t say,” I replied and left. I just couldn’t resist it. Sorry, Cal.

On 2 May 1965 Monica made her first communion. I don’t remember this. Monica does. She recalls that afterward Kathleen and I took her out to breakfast at the Hot Shoppe that used to be near the Silver Theatre on Colesville Road near Georgia Avenue. But even more than the special breakfast, Moni remembers how she treasured a little silver rosary that came packed in a little white Bible-like box with a golden clasp. She thought it was just about the most precious thing she had ever owned in her entire life up to that point. I must sadly confess that I have absolutely no recollection of my own first communion. I’m sure I detested all the practicing and standing in line which it must have entailed. And ever since I heard about it, I’ve always felt jealous of Napoleon, who reportedly claimed that, rather than any battlefield victory, the day he made his first communion was the greatest day in his life. Like I said, I don’t even remember mine. On the other hand,, I’ll never have to look up Bob Wright’s. How can anybody forget a date like 5-6-78?

At last, 1965 gradually crawled to a close. The war in Viet Nam continued to escalate, George was already in the service but considerably removed from imminent deployment, but Charlie and John were just 17 and 13 years old, respectively. No need to sweat – yet. On 9–10 Oct a massive electric power failure blacked out most of the northeastern U.S. and parts of two Canadian provinces. The lights started going off at 5:15 pm – the height of the evening rush hour, and by 5:27 pm New York City was totally dark. Approximately 80,000 square miles with a population of 30 million were affected. In New York City, 800,000 were trapped in subways for hours. Thousands of others were trapped in elevators. Several comedies and at least one horror show have since been derived from this incident – all of which was caused by an incorrect setting of a small relay in 1963!

Somehow, this whole tragic comedy seems so symptomatic of the times. It provided a fitting symbolism to mark the close of what had been a very black year indeed. But, as is so often the case, even as a large part of the nation was bathed in darkness, a ray of light was emerging. Once again, perhaps, the Phoenix would rise from the ashes. Across the mighty Atlantic on 8 Dec, Pope Paul brought Vatican II to a solemn close with the promise of an invigorating fresh breeze sweeping through the Church. It is only fitting, I think, that I marked this new beginning by changing jobs on 19 Dec. Well, I didn’t change jobs, exactly. My old office was disestablished and I was reassigned – a euphemism for “You ain’t got no vote, boy!”

So, once again my career course changed with no input from me – no hand on the tiller. Now I would be in the Pentagon in the Office of Management Information, reporting directly to the Special Assistant to the Secretary of the Navy (SASN, pronounced “sass-in,” though before very long an office wit would embellish it to “as-sass-in” for reasons that will be elaborated in the following chapter.) In any case, I would now labor as a Supervising Performance Analyst at $19,415. This, however, doesn’t begin to tell the significance of this turn of events. For one thing, though there was no immediate hint of it at the time, this change marked the apex of my career. Henceforth, I’d be on the downward slope of the professional mountain. Worse than that, I would no longer cavort in a purely civilian milieu. Henceforth my ultimate superior would be swathed in blue and gold. I was back under the military thumb. Stay tuned!

XVI. BRASS

Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything. – George Bernard Shaw

The most frustrating aspect of the so-called military mind for me has always been its intractability. It’s really quite fitting that the mule, renowned for its stubbornness, is the mascot/symbol of the Army. Believe me, the generals and admirals have to be the most obstinate people in the world. They make imperviousness to the powers of logical persuasion into a private religion. At the Naval Academy, we were penalized for saying, “I don’t know, sir!” Little wonder, then, that we were soon transformed into know-it-alls.

The Irish cherish the questionable notion that to apologize is a sign of weakness. In like manner, the military brass seemingly pays unswerving homage to the notion that to change one’s mind – even in the face of overwhelmingly valid reasons for doing so (remember my last Skipper?) – is a sign of indecisiveness, which is perceived (and is, in certain circumstances) a fatal military weakness. It is the generals and admirals who have undoubtedly given birth to the cliché: “Don’t confuse me with facts, my mind is made up!” Well, by now you get the point: It’s damn difficult for any reasonably intelligent civilian to work in a militarily dominated milieu, but such was to be my lot, and the proof of the preceding thesis was to be almost immediately forthcoming.

My new boss was an admiral of Dutch stock whom we shall for charitable purposes dub Admiral Mallon. He had to be the original model for the stereotypical stubborn Dutchman, and, he was … DENSE. At least once a week the Special Assistant to the SecNav (SASN) would call a staff conference of the Admiral and the latter’s division heads and their assistants. As one of the latter I was in regular attendance. Well, the SASN himself was a “debacle waiting to happen,” being a stereotype of the crass, brash, crude, rude, loud-mouth, Hollywood-type mogul transplanted to a government executive-level setting only a little less formal and stylish than a Victorian-era British tea party. He stood out as conspicuously as an obscene word shouted in the midst of a baptismal ceremony. Worse than that, he thought he was a real man and a “mover and shaker” rushing to the rescue of a decaying and degenerating governmental process. He’d get us all “off our ass” soon enough. He’d “get the show on the road.” He reminded me of the old mess-cook cry aboard ship: “Hot stuff coming through!”

The SASN was both too obsequious to those up the line, like his superiors in OSD, and too contemptuous of those down the line, which certainly included me, but especially included dumb old Adm. Mallon. I remember trying to shrink out of sight one day when the SASN entertained a visit from an OSD superior in his office. At one point the SASN, in indecorous shirtsleeves, actually got up from his desk, bounced over to the settee on which his OSD guest was seated, fell to his knees groveling, and pleaded wildly, “Just tell us what you want, Al, old boy, and we’ll get it for you. Just tell us what you need, Al!” Ugh.

What an unsightly contrast to our former top boss, the Administrative Assistant to SecNav (AASN), the suave, poised, dignified John H. Dillon. Mr. Dillon had served five presidents, through two changes of administration from one party to the other. He began his service as a Marine Major on the staff of FDR’s WWII SecNav, Frank Knox. He was the one who provided the “pass-down-the-line” continuity from one SecNav to another, the one unchanging pillar of administrative savvy and wisdom. He was a soft-spoken gentleman of highly incisive mind, and he dealt with his OSD peers in a spirit of equality and decorum. He oozed class. What a contrast! The old boss made you feel proud to be associated with him. The new boss left you embarrassed and dismayed.

The way the SASN dealt with Adm. Mallon was almost obscene. He seemed to have a sadistic streak not unlike that too often encountered in young nuns, who seemingly relished ridiculing and demeaning their charges into helpless, insecure wretches. Whenever Mallon misspoke – which was virtually every time he opened his mouth – the SASN would be on him like a dog with a new bone, and he couldn’t any more let go than a member of the press with a weeping witness. He’d just keep attacking. We’d all have to sit there squirming as he verbally undressed our new boss before our very eyes. This went on week after week, and the admiral himself would only exacerbate the situation. The SASN would ask a question. The admiral would give the wrong answer. Then the SASN would repeatedly give broader and broader hints at the correct answer and repeat the question. Through all this, the stupid admiral would persist in the same wrong answer!

It was incredible. You couldn’t do a thing. You just had to sit there. Of course, too, you realized that every demeaning of the admiral also diminished you. Indeed, I was clearly now on the toboggan on the downhill side of the career curve. The most stark aspect of this unhappy turn of events was that I myself had absolutely no voice, vote or veto with respect to my own fate – beyond quitting, of course. It’s all reminiscent of my old NMO boss, Henry Hill’s characterization of life: It’s like we’re all a bunch of ants on this log that’s shooting down the rapids and we’re arguing over who’s steering.” I must admit that my own life’s course has often seemed to parallel that depiction.

This, then, was the situation in which I found myself as we began 1966. You’ve now got a good idea of the bad atmosphere in which I was to operate. You must further realize that the cavalier treatment of the admiral by the SASN just made the admiral that much more intractable in his dealings with us. It should be evident that when there is absolutely no chance of changing someone’s mind, then you have been totally stripped of any executive effectiveness, and become little more than an administrative eunuch. Such was to increasingly become my fate over the next few years – the final years of my public service. I was converted from aspiring and perspiring to conniving and surviving. I was just another pebble in that great brick-house of bureaucracy that was the Pentagon.

Of course, I did have a few perks. One was that I had all solid oak and completely upholstered furniture rather than the ugly modern metal stuff. Another was that I had reserved parking in the closest possible proximity to my office. This was especially good, since removal to the Pentagon displaced me from the many luncheon restaurants in ready walking distance from Main Navy. Now I had to drive to lunch (and could make it to St. Dominic’s noon Mass on Holy Days and during Lent), but that meant another set of restaurants, and Ryan’s Bar and Grill (now L’Enfant Plaza) became a favorite. So, all was not yet lost. One could still ride away from it all – for a time.

Ah, 1966! Bouffants, Black Power, Black Panthers, Black is Beautiful, and Ban the Bra! These were the “in” things. Current bumper stickers included “Warning! Your Local Police Are Armed and Dangerous,” “I’ve Gone to Pot,” “Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out,” “Get Your Act Together,” and “God Is Dead.” This was the time of Timothy Leary and LSD, the Weathermen, urban riots, Charlie Brown, and Hare Krishna. John MacDonald has the right idea about the latter: “I’m turned off by humorless fanaticism, whether it’s revolutionary mumbo-jumbo by a young one, or loud lessons from the Scripture by an old one.” Race riots even came to DC, and we’d had 43 nationally by year’s end. Andy Warhol was blurring all art by portraying a can of Campbell’s soup. NOW was founded to promote the era of the Feminine Mystique. All in all, it didn’t seem like the most propitious time to be raising a large family.

SOLIDARITY DAY – June 19, 1966

By now, of course, it was too late for us – not that we’d have had it any other way – we were committed. In this perilous period of the last half of the 1960s, our nine children ranged in age from 21 to six, and all of them were in school, from elementary through college. During this period, we always had four teenagers in the house. We were confronting this most troubling of times head-on. It was worrisome, to say the least.

Not the least of it was George’s bittersweet graduation from the Naval Academy that June. It would not be appropriate to this autobiography to elaborate George’s personal frustrations (a foundering engagement) even if they were fully known – which they’re not. Let’s just say that the spirit of what could and should have been a most happy time was considerably dampened. Truly, things were then going sour all over. Of course, in the light of since revealed more joyful developments, all of this is much easier to take in retrospect. Still, for the entire family, as well as George, it was a most poignant period in our life story. To jump slightly ahead in our story for a moment, a short note from George (then in Meridian, Mississippi) dated 10 Jan 1967 will give you the flavor of the times:

This is a rather strange kind of multi-purpose letter. It’s mainly a letter of thanks. Tom and I surely did enjoy the time we spent at home. I wish we could have spent more time there, and I hope you don’t feel that ignored or slighted the family. It’s just that the last one was about the loneliest Christmas I ever had, and going off to buy a new bike was about the only thing that kept me from a state of constant self-pity. Right now I’m trying (unsuccessfully as yet) to get back into the swing of flying. It seems I’ve lost all my acquired skill and that another uphill struggle is in order. And, on top of it all, I was turning left at an intersection and the VW was struck on the side by a car that was passing a van behind me! s/Your plumbing son, George. P.S. – a plumber is someone who is as skilled and at home in the cockpit as, say, a plumber.

On 1 July, France withdrew from NATO and LBJ crowned his Great Society by inaugurating Medicare. On the office front we were both conducting studies and the object of studies. You must realize that “study” is a euphemism for “boondoggle.” The purposes of any “study” that ever was or ever will be (at least in government) are twofold: (1) to justify what is already being done, and (2) to substantiate a case for raising selected salaries. The first question of any self-respecting authority reviewing or approving studies should be: “Who gets the raises?”

This reminds me of a purportedly true story told to me by a now dead office associate who once labored in the very top echelon of IBM. At that time IBM had its top dog and he had two vice presidential “special assistants.” This was then the structure of the apex of the management pyramid. Well, the head honcho one day called in his two veeps and said something to the effect that he thought the organization could be more streamlined for improved efficiency, and the two veeps were thereupon commissioned to come up with proposed organization charts. It seems that in due course each veep would come up in turn with a proposed organization, but invariably the chief would look at it briefly and dismiss it out of hand with a “That’s not it!” At long last one of the veeps came up with a chart that omitted the other veep. The chief immediately seized his hand in a congratulatory shake, exclaiming, “That’s it! That’s it!” But the punch line of this true story was still to come: “and that’s why to this day you never see an organization chart for IBM. Nobody has the guts to risk making one.”

As we moved into the fall of 1966, we acquired a new beige-colored Corvair sedan from the now long-gone Tom’s Chevrolet in Wheaton, but the thoughts of Kathleen and I suddenly turned rather to highways in the sky. We reasoned that George would soon be coming home on Christmas leave from flight school in Pensacola. We just knew he would be deluging us with flight jargon, and so we thought it behooved us to get knowledgeable on the subject – well, at least semi-literate. So, we proceeded to read every book in the library about flight training. Then, almost before we knew it, we were enrolled in ground school! Well, this was a totally new field for us, and a very exciting one. Our excitement was heightened by the fact that this was all to be a surprise for George. We hoped to be able to talk to him on his own terms. of course, another aspect of this effort was that it ushered in a whole series of extracurricular efforts upon which Kathleen and I would embark – TOGETHER!

This is no small thing. So many spouses seem to pursue their separate avocations, and in the process unwittingly drift apart. All of our forays afield from home were mutual affairs, joint ventures. We attended ground school together. We initiated flight training together. We took our FAA exams together (progressing through private, commercial, and instrument exams – all passed). Thereafter we attended a course in sailing together, religious education course together, golf lessons together, German lessons together, a course in CPR together. This didn’t mean we didn’t at the same time retain some measure of “our own space.” we each had some separate interests, too, but all the big things we did together. We commend this approach to our married progeny.

We were suddenly into 1967. Everyone should remember that year, since, as John Mosedale has said, “Sex was invented in 1967 or thereabouts.” It was also the time of the tragic death of three Apollo Program astronauts on the pad at Cape Kennedy in a flash fire. This was also the year of the first heart transplant by Dr. Christiaan Barnard, and the time of riots in all our big industrial cities. Kids everywhere were singing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” In Nov 1966 Edmund Brooke (Massachusetts) had become the first black senator in 85 years, and in Oct 1967 Thurgood Marshall became the first black Supreme Court Justice, ever, while in Nov 1967 blacks gained their first mayors in major U.S. cities with Stokes in Cleveland and Hatcher in Gary, Indiana. The middle of the year was punctuated by the Arab-Israeli Six-Day War, in which Israel gained a territory four times its original size. At the height of this short war, the Israelis sank the U.S. communications ship Liberty, resulting in 34 American deaths and 75 wounded. They subsequently “apologized” for the “accident.” (Can you imagine the hullabaloo over a similar accident “in reverse”?)

On the home front, I completed 30 years of government service on 28 Jan 1967. I got a “pin,” which I promptly lost. So it goes, but it still wasn’t going too well with George. A letter dated 22 May 1967 is indicative:

First I want to ask what Dad meant when he wrote that he “practiced” Dutch rolls. From what I learned, a Dutch roll is a characteristic of aircraft that have an excess stability, not an acrobatic maneuver. Was this little gem a “test”? [Well, not exactly. It was my instructor’s sarcastic comment on my propensity to over-control. I never could tell a joke. George then launched into a lengthy description of a dive on a wreck off Pensacola (which turned up less loot than they finally found in the Andrea Doria’s safe), and how they were organized to harpoon stingrays – and I wonder whatever happened to his stingray-barb letter opener? More to the point, and speaking of possible “leave” between Pensacola and Corpus Christi, George then continued.]

The story goes that not long ago some people requested extra leave between here and Corpus to get married, 22 people in fact. And when they got to Corpus they found the C.O. had invited them to a reception for all the newlyweds. The rub came when only three (count ’em!) couples showed up. Since this sad occasion, other people are a little more cautious in claiming marriage as a reason for extra leave. [You see, Watergate morality was already underway.]

Things have been rather tense around the squadron for the past few days. Last Thursday it all started when the X.O. went home for lunch and hung himself instead in the garage. This would seem to me to indicate clearly that all was not well with the X.O. and/or his family. With this in mind, it seemed rather strange that there appeared a recommendation that all students attend a full-scale memorial service with service dress white and everything. That was today. I didn’t go, because I don’t think I could stand listening to the minister’s eulogy. I rather regret not going now, because I think the eulogy probably would have been a masterpiece of “tact,” i.e., speaking for a long time without really saying anything definite. Maybe I do the minister a disservice by judging a sermon I never heard. But the idea of trying to deliver a eulogy on a suicide in the context of an it’s-strongly-recommended-that-all-students-attend memorial service seems to me the type of thing I would shun if I were an honest minister.

Of course, nothing is ever all bad. In between downers George did enjoy an occasional upper, like his foray with Tom in February to the New Orleans Mardi Gras. Let’s let George tell about it:

Just got back from the most all-time show ever seen by this reporter, namely, Mardi Gras weekend in New Orleans. And it was for less than ten dollars! Tom and I left (from Meridian) late Friday night on our bikes and pulled into Fontainebleau State Park four hours later. Establishing ourselves by about 2300, we lay in our bags in Tom’s new tent passing a flask back and forth until we fell asleep. As we straightened up next morning prior to motoring 20 miles into New Orleans, a fellow a little younger than we came over wearing a sailor’s peacoat and French sailor’s hat. He and his buddy were in N.O. on a last fling prior to going into Army boot camp. The tales he told and the suggestions he gave had us ready to start on an interesting Saturday. [Why do I start suspecting at this point that this letter from George is reminiscent of my previously elaborated “Bermuda letter”?] Then a man about your age came over and allowed as how he used to bike before he broke his hip (whether on a bike or not he didn’t say). As the weather report he’d seen on his trailer’s TV had predicted a cold Friday night, he figured we could use some coffee to warm us up. He and his wife, down from N.Y. on a trip to California, saved us time and money for breakfast as well as providing some interesting conversation.

We next motored down to the N.O. scene just as the twelve o’clock whistle blew. Parking the bikes on a parking lot, we stored our helmets and about two layers of insulation in a bus terminal locker, for the temperature was warming as the afternoon wore on. First order of business was to recharge the flasks, of course, as we had already had breakfast. It would be impossible to describe everything. We went to see the French helicopter-carrier ASW vessel, Jean D’Arc. As we wandered back into town, the day’s first parade was coming by. Tom and I managed to catch enough souvenir necklaces to keep us in stock for a long time. After the parade things really began to get good. We went down to the Square and flopped out on the grass and just stared.

Such a collection you wouldn’t believe. Take a look at the Lovin’ Spoonful and Rolling Stones albums and imagine a whole block full of that kind of people sitting, sprawling, meandering almost arm-in-arm with matrons in sequined gowns and high heels with their tuxedoed husbands. We sat and watched an old “nigra” fellow about 60, I guess, who was playing guitar, Mississippi-John-Hurt style. He was drinking something out of a “Genuine Dixie Beer” bottle which, from its effects, wasn’t Genuine Dixie Beer. I hope my pictures come out!

The night was just unbelievable. The streets were impassable to traffic for all the people. The gutters were ankle deep in beer cans The streets were full of drinking American sailors and drinking French sailors. An almost cliché-seeming scene was commonplace: a French sailor would come strolling down the street with a bottle in his left hand, his arm around a girl, and a French-English dictionary clutched in his right hand. After we got our fill of talking to well-lubricated people and watching the day’s second parade, we headed back and got to bed even earlier than Friday. We returned to Meridian early Sunday morning. So, I had an all-time weekend on little money, without even losing sleep, and I even had Sunday left over. It’s too bad you’ll have to settle for only a written description of it. Adios. s/George. [This was the last written letter we ever got from George. No! He didn’t disappear from the face of the earth. He bought a typewriter. Where’s your sense of humor?]

Meanwhile, Kathleen and I were off and flying – literally. We obtained our student pilot licenses on 28 Feb 1967 and began our flight instruction on 4 Apr 1967. We financed this venture by the simple expedient of cashing in expensive-to-maintain life insurance policies. I “borrowed” the time from the office for lessons by scheduling them before work on weekday mornings and doubling up on weekends. It was a most joyous and exciting spring. Here we were on the verge of fifty, reaching for the sky. Wonderful! I had the same instructor throughout my training. Kathleen had a different but equally excellent one for her first few lessons, and then she shifted to my instructor when hers suddenly took off for Indiana. (We like to think it wasn’t to get away from Kathleen’s controlled-crash landings, but whyinhell would anyone ever want to go to Indiana?)

Anyhow, our main man was Ron Barnhart, a native of Mt. Airy. Even as he trained us he was qualifying in multi-engines for an eventual airline pilot job with Allegheny, now USAir. He was good. He gave me several “goodies” omitted from Kathleen’s curriculum: like having me land on the grass at Montgomery Airpark beyond the end of the runway; releasing me from under the “hood” (which prevents seeing out of the cockpit when practicing instrument flight) either in a small cloud or over the threshold; and putting me (illegally, since we weren’t wearing chutes) into a tailspin. I was amazed by the déjà vu aspect of the latter. It seems we had had that eye-view so often before via the medium of the movies and TV that we’d surely done it before. Yes, boys and girls, it’s just like in the movies – only you have to get out of it. Fun, fun, fun! (Rally!) Ron also gave George his first check-ride as a civilian after his crash. He was highly amused when George asked, “Where is the G-meter?”

Anyhow, Kathleen and I took out first flights on 4 Apr 1967. By 21 Apr (as we didn’t fly every day, of course!) we were doing power-on and power-off stalls and steep 720-degree turns. Now, there’s a thrill-and-a-half, and quite near enough to acrobatics for me. On 22 May came George’s last letter from Meridian as he was already looking forward to Texas:

They don’t waste much time down here. I’m three-quarters through my form transition hops. I’ll start gunnery probably late next week. Ten gunnery hops and eleven carrier hops later (assuming I can convince my instructor I’m proficient enough throughout) and I’ll be on my way to Texas…. If I were to hit things right I could end up with seventeen days free … and I’ll be able to make it home sometime … between here and Texas. Of course by the time I get home you’ll both be big time aviators. And this means you’ll take me up for a ride. Will you be allowed to take up passengers with the type of license you will have? I hope so, because I sure would like to go up once without worrying about fulfilling a syllabus. I would imagine it would be a bit easier to relax and enjoy the entire deal if you knew you weren’t being graded on everything you were doing from pre-flight to final shutdown. Another thing about the planes I’m flying now, I’m always up so high that there’s no real sense of motion, no real sense of doing anything but influencing the readings on the instruments by adjustment of nose attitude. Back in the good old days at Saufley, we would cruise around low enough to distinguish things on the ground.

I honestly think if there hadn’t been so much competition and social pressure to go to Meridian and be hot jet jocks I would have gone to helicopters. (Then how different Chapter XVII. CRASH of this opus might have been! Who knows?) The only trouble with Navy helicopters though is that all they seem to do is hover off the quarter of a carrier to pick up all the hot jet jocks that crash on take-off or landing. The nice thing is that every limb has a control to manipulate. Much more motor skill is involved. [Well, Gary ought to like that!] Ah, perhaps I’ll end up in choppers anyway. There seems to be a shortage of them now, chopper pilots, that is, not choppers…. Until next time, remember: the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. Typographically, s/George.

Meridian MI, Macho-man – December 6, 1966

Well you get the general idea here – at this point in time the lives of Kathleen, and I, and George were all closely interwoven through the shared interest and concentration on flying. We couldn’t know it then, of course, but in viewing all this in retrospect, mindful of the near-tragic conclusion of George’s professional flying career, this peculiar preoccupation on our part would seem most providential. Elaboration of this point can be deferred to a later chapter, however, and it now remains only to detail our further progress through 1967. We never got as high as George, of course, but the very prospect of great heights had a salutary effect on my life.

Early on in ground school we had a lecture on hypoxia (acute oxygen deficiency, a possible consequence of high-altitude flight). The word was that you had to use supplementary oxygen above 14,000 feet and it was recommended even above 10,000 feet. It was also pointed out that with supplementary oxygen in the cockpit you had an extremely dangerous fire hazard. Smoking under such conditions was taboo. It was also emphasized that hypoxia struck heavy smokers at even lower altitudes. Well, I forthwith gave up smoking – for all time – on 29 Jan 1967! I wasn’t fully to realize the good fortune of that move until recovering from my heart surgery in 1981, about which more later.

On 10 Jun 1967 I completed my first solo after 18 hours of instruction. This was to be the most unparalleled thrill of my entire life. How does one describe the indescribable? All I can say is that you haven’t really felt exhilaration until you suddenly for the first time find yourself in the sky – totally alone – floating there above the ground, master of all you survey. The catalyst of this exhilaration is the realization that you and you alone are the one who has to safely manage a smooth reunion with the rather solid earth. Nobody else can help you. NOBODY! It’s the ultimate satisfaction of the old plaint, “Please, mother, I’d rather do it myself.” For once in your life, you’re master of your own destiny – provided, of course, the engine doesn’t quit, or the weather suddenly go haywire. Anyhow, my instructor and the resident FAA check-rider celebrated with me by sharing beers in their private room at the airport. I confess I felt every solo flight an adventure. I may as well have been on my way to the moon. My spirits were!

Kathleen felt this same exhilaration on 22 Jul 1967 after 27 hours of instruction. Don’t forget, she had no previous technical education such as I had enjoyed. I’ve always thought our accomplishments in this area at our age were equally remarkable, and we weren’t through yet. On 4 Aug I enjoyed my first solo cross-country flight from Gaithersburg to Easton, across the bay. On 2 Sep I grabbed an hour of dual out of Washington National (the guy had me practice stall recoveries), and so got to take off and land at DCA! On 4 Sep I got my Private Pilot’s license. On the 14th – our 25th wedding anniversary – I took up my first passenger, Kathleen. We then celebrated the dual event with martinis at the Washingtonian Motel en route home. The bill including tip was a mere $4.50, but you couldn’t buy the joy in our hearts on that occasion at any price! Kathleen cross-country soloed on 23 Sep and had her Private Pilot’s license by 31 Oct. Now we were ready for the world. Katie and John were our first passengers (23 Sep 1967), then Charlie (3 Oct), Mary and Monica (4 Oct), and Katie and John again (21 Oct). Gary and Martha waited until 27 Apr 1968, and Mo (with Moni again) made it aloft on 14 Jun 1968. Chicken Anne only flew with George.

Digital Edition Note: Jack and Kathleen’s flight logs have been transcribed into a spreadsheet available at https://www.wrightstuff.site.

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (1 of 3)

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (2 of 3)

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (3 of 3)

Author over Bay Bridge – April 13, 1968

Welcome, 1968! William Manchester calls it “the year that everything went wrong.” Others refer to it broadly as “the cataclysm of the sixties.” It was the time of Hair, Tiny Tim, and the Hong Kong flu. Katie Hepburn starred in The Lion in Winter, Mia divorced Old Blue Eyes, Julie married David, and the Smothers Brothers TV show was censored when TV execs blipped out an anti-war song by Pete Seeger. On 29 Feb the Koerner Commission concluded that white racism was the cause of black riots – this a mere five weeks before the assassination of Dr. King on 2 Apr. A popular bumper sticker implored, “Little Orphan Annie, Call Your Eye Bank!” The U.S, population hit the two billion mark. Another bumper sticker exclaimed, “George Wallace, Your Sheets Are Ready.” The U.S, submarine Scorpion foundered with the loss of 99 lives. There were 21 major campus riots. There would be 221 major demonstrations between I Jan and 15 Jun against war and/or racism. Things got so bad that on 31 Mar, LBJ commandeered TV to proclaim, “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president.” And this wasn’t even the worst of it.

On 23 Jan the North Koreans seized the USS Pueblo, which was under the command of Boystown product Cdr. Lloyd Bucher. I have read every book, pro and con, on this subject that I could lay my hands on, and I must confess that Bucher still strikes an ambivalent chord in my consciousness. Hero or scapegoat or coward? I wouldn’t even hazard a guess. A classmate of mine was a member of his Court Martial board. This would be Adm. Al Bergner, born in Kankakee, IL, football captain and All-American at USNA, and now a resident of Onancock, VA, on the Eastern Shore. I knew Al a little better than I knew the vast majority of my classmates, having once been on his sailboat crew at the Academy. From such close observation I concluded that he was no phony-baloney, and not a knee-jerk flag-waver, either. I carefully audited all of his reported remarks after the trial. They struck me as very measured, cautious, reserved. I got the impression he shared my ambivalence.

There’s no doubt Bucher could have become an all-time hero of the first rank had he chosen to put up a foredoomed fight. It would have been more in the Navy’s tradition, but I doubt there would have been any American survivors. On the other hand, there is no doubt that American prestige in the world was dealt an extremely costly blow. Worse than that, it seems to me that Bucher’s motives were less than altruistic. Again, on the other hand, he was poorly served by his subordinates, peers, and superiors both before and after the incident. On balance, I’d have to say the jury is still out on this one. In any event, he and his men were freed on 22 Dec 1968.

Precisely a week after the Pueblo incident hit the headlines, the Tet offensive hit our forces in Viet Nam. As our fighting men struggled on the ground and in the air and on the sea there, our diplomats struggled in the U.N. It seems, however, that LBJ took a dim view of the U.N. He remarked at the time, “It couldn’t pour piss out of boot if the instructions were written on the heel.” No diplomat, LBJ. But even this wasn’t the end of our troubles this miserable year in U.S. history. On 4 Apr Martin Luther King was shot. This set off riots in 125 American cities in 29 states, often necessitating the calling out of the National Guard to augment the police. Our own Washington, DC, was hit the worst, logging 711 fires! I can remember being in a bus slowly working its way up 16th Street at this time, staring in shock at the 14th Street skyline, pierced by billowing black smoke punctuated by leaping tongues of fire darting well above the two- and three-story buildings that intervened between the two parallel streets. You prayed that your bus wouldn’t stop, that it would get through, you mentally contemplated a footrace to the relative safety of the suburbs. You actually wondered if you were going to make it. It was scary. And when next we ventured back into town to go to work, it was really eerie – seeing fully outfitted and armed National Guardsmen posted on just about every street corner, and all sorts of military vehicles dashing madly up and down through the traffic. For our beloved country, believe me, it was almost unreal.

Still, through it all, life went on. So did work. It might change, but it never ceased, and mine did change. On 19 May 1968, I was once again reassigned. Forthwith I was transferred from that virtual citadel, the Pentagon, to the center of our “sacked city” at 16th and L Streets. Way to go. My job designation was changed, too, from Performance Analyst to Program Analyst. Don’t ask me what’s the difference. I never could figure it out. At a then princely $21,469 annual salary I didn’t really care. Meanwhile, as though I wasn’t yet near enough to the heart of the DC disaster area, we moved a little farther east a few months later to 15th and L Streets. At this latter spot I at least got a parking spot, even if it did entail shoehorning into a Lilliputian alley alcove. You really hated to have to go to your car after dark in this neighborhood, especially in an unlighted spot like this. Suddenly, I wasn’t working so late, so often, anymore.

The only other redeeming feature of this neighborhood was my discovery of really hot chili at the nearby New York Lounge. I don’t remember how long we stayed there, or when we finally made our move to a brand new building in mushrooming Crystal City across the Potomac in Virginia, just west of National Airport. There I had my plushest quarters yet – floor-to-ceiling curtained windows on two sides, an oversized desk – the works. It has since been quartered into four offices! One thing for sure, I was damn glad to get out of DC. Henceforth I’d groove to and from work via the GW Memorial Parkway and the Beltway. It was eight miles longer than driving through town, but the driving time was the same – and a helluva lot easier on the nerves. So ends this short but hectic chapter of my life.

XVII. CRASH

God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains. – C. S. Lewis

It was raining. The time was about 1513 on a fairly balmy fall afternoon in Washington, DC. The date was 3 Oct 1968 – then celebrated as the feast of St. Therese, the Little Flower. I responded to an ostensibly routine phone ring in my office. A gentleman identified himself as Cdr. William Parrish, Executive Officer of Fighter Squadron 124 (VF-124), then based at Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA. He very much regretted to have to inform me that our son, George, had sustained an air crash at Approximately 0740 that morning in the desert about 26 miles east of NAF El Centro, CA (which is about 40 miles west of Yuma, AZ, and 15 miles north of the Mexican border), while a member of a four-plane Mk-76 (20# practice bomb) strafe practice mission. These were designed to increase the proficiency and accuracy of squadron pilots in an air-to-ground delivery environment then so germane to our activities in Viet Nam. He further advised that George had been evacuated to Balboa Naval Hospital, San Diego, where his condition was “guarded,” which he interpreted as being very serious. Further information would be provided as it became available.

Déjà vu! I had been this route before. Way back on the beautiful spring afternoon, 12 Apr 1945, I had similarly responded to a seemingly innocuous ring of the phone via the shore-connected phone line to the USS Amsterdam, then docked for post-shakedown overhaul in Norfolk, VA. Uncle Bernie regretted to inform me that my father had died suddenly that morning of a heart attack. For my part, I must confess that an eerie serenity engulfs one at such moments. Time is suddenly suspended. One drifts off into a sort of dream. The profound mystery of life seizes the consciousness. Mental concentration as well as the possibility of physical movement are briefly paralyzed. A weird kind of panorama unfolds before the eyes. Meanwhile we stand suspended and stricken in solitary grief as an unseeing world seems to hurl itself onward through space, passing in quiet review. John D. MacDonald captures the mood precisely in A Deadly Shade of Gold:

The stars … look down on a world where thousands of 4-H kids are raising prize cattle or sheep. The Green Bay Packers, of their own volition, join in the Lord’s Prayer before a game. Many good and gentle people have fallen in love this night. At this moment, thousands of women are in labor with the fruit of a good marriage. Thousands of kids sleep the deep sleep that comes after the long practice hours for competitive swimming and tennis. Good men have died today, leaving hearts sick with loss. In quiet rooms young girls are writing poems. People are laughing together, in safe places.

This spell, which seems to persist for minutes, probably subsides in seconds, but it is a deeply mystical moment – such as can be shared only by lovers in a reverent silence sanctioned and sealed with a clasp of hands. Just as suddenly, it is all over, the veil lifts, and one (especially a military-trained individual) reverts to practiced methodology. I discover Kathleen has already been somewhat alerted by someone who has called from California to get my office phone number. I ask if Charlie is at home. He is. I request that he also get on the phone. After all, I’m not sure how Kathleen might react to he devastating shock of the news, so I want someone else present there to know what’s going on. We really don’t say much. We don’t know much. But we know enough, and there’s just not very much to say. Charlie is to drive down and pick me up at the office – then at 15th and L Streets in Washington. He’s there in 20 minutes. I’m standing out front, waiting in the rain. It doesn’t matter. I had to retreat from the small talk of the office. I’ve done all I can for the moment, and I’m back in dreamland. We drive home in silence. We both steal sidelong glances at each other. I seem to remember a tear or two valiantly straining the corners of our eyes despite our best efforts. I’m certain we were both praying.

We had last heard from George on 18 Sep, a mere 15 days ago. He reported that due to a recently announced release of reserves there was a “hole” in VF-111, a fixed-wing fighter squadron – the Sundowners. It was to be filled by those F-8 Crusader pilots who had (as he had) just qualified in the USS Ranger. They were to begin the following week of 23 Sep a series of 40 flight hours of practice sessions operating out of Miramar. On 18 Nov they were to deploy to Fallon Field, about 50 miles east of Reno, NV, for one-and-a-half weeks of simulated air strikes. Then they were to deploy aboard USS Ticonderoga from 10 to 20 Dec for refresher qualifications. Finally, he suspected to be “free” from 21 Dec to 1 Jan, before reporting back aboard Ticonderoga on 3 Jan 1969 for expected deployment to the far Pacific and Viet Nam. As it turned out, he was to be back home in Washington at 7:22 pm on 1 Dec – in Ward T-14 at the Naval Hospital, Bethesda, MD.

How this change in plans came about is part and parcel of the F-8 Crusader legend. This was the plane that was to be known as the “MIG Master.” While it didn’t shoot down the most MIGs, it had by far the best kill rate, prevailing at a ratio of 6.3:1, compared to the overall U.S. kill rate of a mere 2:1! This plane was really something else. The first pilot to put 1000 hours in type was Congressional Medal of Honor winner Cdr. (now VAdm.) James B Stockdale, who spent 7-1/2 years in the Hoa Lo POW camp. As a former Landing Signal Officer he avers that the Crusader was “as demanding an airplane in the groove as any the Navy ever put aboard carriers,” and maybe “the first for which pre-selection of pilots on the basis of their reflexes … was advisable.“ This plane required such a delicate trimming touch that the stick was provided with two little right-angled potentiometer wheels enabling the ultimate in fine-tuning. One pilot described flying the Crusader as “the most fun I ever had with my clothes on,” while another decried that it “took a mere 10 years to screw it up with an air-to-ground mission.”

It became a popular cry in that fleet that “When you’re out of Crusaders, you’re out of fighters.” There were many, however, who modified this tribute in recognition of Crusader’s championship accident rate (2–3 times that of the F-4 Phantom; one every 78 hours at sea) to “When you’re out of Crusaders, you’re out of trouble.” This plane was no pussycat. It was a real mean tiger – the first production plane to exceed 1000 mph in level flight, the first shipboard plane to exceed Mach 1 (it was rated Mach 1.7 but was often pushed to almost Mach 2). Astronaut John Glenn set the cross-country speed record in it on 16 Jul 1957 at slightly above Mach 1 (725 mph). It took eight bending Gs to permanently deform it, and it could climb from brakes off to 40,000 feet in 2-1/2 minutes. She approached at 170 mph – the same as the space shuttle! The VF-111 Sundowners concluded the MIG-a-month record of the summer of 1968 with its Sidewinder (an air-intercept missile of the heat-seeking variety) kill of 19 Sep 1968. This was its 160th shootdown, and the last Crusader MIG kill – on the 111th mission of VF-111 from CV-11. Here was a squadron of destiny, one of the few with kills in WWII, Korea, and ’Nam. This Navy fighter had the most hours from 1960–66, and 53% of the total Navy kills from 1965 to the LBJ bombing shutdown of 1968.

Our particular story, however, concerns only one Crusader, and it really begins on Tuesday, 1 Oct 1968. That is when Lt. Hugh J. Risseeuw, USN, the Weapons Training Officer of VF-111, conducted a Practice Weapons Delivery “brief” to all squadron members. This session covered (a) pattern altitudes and airspeeds; (b) weapons release and firing attitudes, including altimeter lag data and a discussion of scan techniques; and (c) minimum pull-out altitudes, etc., with special stress and warnings on pressing too close, “target fixation,” and “hosing.” These items were all taken from the F-8 Technical Manual, the emphasis being upon 20-mm strafing, Mk76 practice bombing, and the dive recovery charts. At the conclusion of this presentation, kneeboard cards containing all of the procedures covered were provided to each pilot. George was present at this session.

The pertinent flight schedule for the following Thursday, 3 Oct 1968, lists George for two sorties, with take-offs at 0700 and 1500. The briefing for his first scheduled flight was conducted at 0600 (45 minutes before sunrise) by flight leader Lt.(jg) Thomas L. Garrett, USNR. Other members of the flight were Lt. Risseeuw, Lt.(jg) Laughter, and George. The expected duration of the bomb and strafe exercise was 1-1/2 hours. Only the strafing exercise is germane to this story. Roll-in was to commence at 5000 AGL at 350–400 KIAS with a 20-degree strafing dive. Firing was to commence at 1000 AGL with pull-out at 200–300 feet – with due diligence for 100–200-foot altimeter lag. This translates into a 500-mph dive actually programmed to terminate only 90–100 feet above the ground! That’s not too much margin for error! This is really sticky stuff.

More than that, an early-morning flight over the 6500-foot mountain range between Miramar and El Centro might well (as Cdr. Parrish explained to Kathleen and me on our first meeting with him later in the squadron hangar at Miramar) be expected to entail an additional but unmeasured altimeter error. This sandbagging situation was further aggravated in George’s case by the Target Controller requesting an additional “dummy” pass by George with the result that he would then have only two rather than the three customarily allotted passes to “shoot out.” This means that if he was to expend all of his ammo (which is desirable so that armorers working in the desert sun know that their work has not been in vain), he would really have to concentrate on his aiming, thereby having less time to monitor his instruments. He would also have to fire longer, which would contribute to a lower pull-out. This situation was a real psychological set-up, and George subsequently confirmed a desire to “fire out,” initiating his burst at 1500 instead of 1000 feet. (The investigators concluded that, because of that, altimeter lag, and incorrect altimeter setting, and possible failure of the pilot to take 100-foot elevation of the target into consideration, George was probably some 470 feet lower than he thought and compounded this by slightly extending his burst.)

In any event, take-off proceeded according to plan about 0705. George was in Alpha Hotel 107, Bureau Number 148631, a single-engine, swept-wing jet aircraft which had been accepted to the squadron on 18 Sep, the very day of his last call home. It was deemed to be in excellent shape by the squadron’s Assistant Maintenance Officer, Lt. Carl G. Stattin, USNR, a new engine having been installed on 19 Aug. The Mark F-5A Ejection Seat – which was to save George’s life – was installed on 16 May 1968. At this time George had 477 flight hours and had completed the FITRON 124 training syllabus in F-8 type aircraft. He had also flown seven precious air-to-ground weapon delivery flights in F-8 type aircraft, the last one being flown with FITRON 111 only two days earlier on 1 Oct. He was to complete only three more such passes.

On the way to the air-to-ground target complex in Restricted Area R-2512, Lt. Garrett passed the lead to Lt. Laughter due to a long-range radio deficiency. This placed Lt. Garrett directly behind George in the pattern. There were no clouds present at pattern altitude or any unusual wind conditions which might adversely affect the attack runs. The first run was a “dummy” run as briefed. (George’s second pass was also a “dummy” run due to a misalignment on the target.) Glen A. Wellman, ABF3, was Petty Officer in Charge at Target 68 and had a three-man crew. Two men were left in Rake #1 to spot strafing hits. The other man accompanied Wellman to the Butler hut to help with target operations. Upon entering the hut Wellman donned a phone to the Rake shack in order to relay hits to the radio operator. At this point one of the men in Rake #1 mentioned that all of the aircraft were low on their pull-ups.

George was “right on target” with a 20-mm burst on his third pass. On his fourth pass, his second firing pass, George rolled into a 23-degree dive at 5800 feet, squeezed the trigger at 1500 feet, and began his pull-out as he passed 1100 feet. He remembers pulling some positive G on the aircraft and looking left to check interval on his flight leader. Suddenly he realized that the desert sagebrush was zooming past the canopy much too fast and much too close. Lt. Garrett realized that George was going to hit the ground an instant before impact. It must have been at this instant that Wellman reports that, before he even had time to notice the reported low pull-ups, he hears a pilot on the UHF say, “Oh my God!” He continues, “There was a flash of fire and an explosion. The aircraft which had just made a hot run had crashed.” Garrett reports only that “by the time I keyed my mike he had hit and skidded along the desert floor and exploded. I heard no radio transmission from Lt. Wright prior to or after his impact with the ground.” Significantly, neither Garrett nor Wellman reported any evidence of George escaping the plane, despite the semi-deployment of his chute.

The aircraft first impacted approximately 535 feet beyond the strafing target in a flat, wings-level, nose-up attitude with a very small rate of descent. It skidded about 200 feet along the sand – like a smooth pebble skimming a pond – becoming airborne again while traversing a shallow ravine (another miracle – that ravine!), and then impacted in a totally disintegrating explosion some 465 feet farther along the flight path. At about a mere 120 feet before the final exploding impact of the plane and the ground, George initiated an ejection by pulling the face curtain. Right here we confront the very crux of George’s survival. He had been expecting an 8,262-mile trip west to Saigon. In a veritable flash he opted for a 2,100-mile trip east to Silver Spring. In between he was a mere 1-3/4 tenths of a second from a trip to … eternity! The simple cold fact is the ejection gun had propelled the seat only 16 inches up the rails before the tubes were bent and frozen by the progressing damage. So, George left the cockpit in a fairly flat trajectory at a forward speed in excess of 345 miles per hour! In effect, George became a human projectile, traveling the length of two football fields per second! His drogue chute deployed, and his personal parachute was ripped and torn, suggesting that he was partially decelerated and pulled from his seat as his chute caught in ground vegetation. George struck the ground hard, leading with the seat pan and right foot. His right sole was sheared back-to-front by either rudder or torn-free engine. The seat pan absorbed much of the force which otherwise would have caused major spinal injuries. George was found, but not easily, about 900 feet beyond the point of the explosion, and the seat was found another 300 feet along the path of his trajectory. Debris from the initial point of aircraft impact was found along a line extending about 4200 feet to where the engine came to rest. Needless to say, the plane was a total loss, and George nearly so. Garrett estimated that the crash occurred about 0740, and the Flight Surgeon confirmed that by virtue of El Centro monitoring radio traffic between Target 68 and Target Operations, it had notice of the crash at 0743. Garrett released Risseeuw to Miramar, sent Laughter up to line-of-sight radio contact with the NAS, and swung low seeking George, advising El Centro of the crash by 0748. However, there was still no word concerning George, with both air and ground personnel remaining oblivious to any possibility of his survival. How like the resurrection! Nobody witnessed that, either – merely the empty tomb!

Jack’s hand-drawn schematic of George’s crash

Digital Editor Note: Sadly, much of the detail provided in the above drawing is lost on small screens provided by most eReaders.

Remote rescue operations were initiated at El Centro at 0750 with the dispatch of a Flight Surgeon and ambulance. This was followed at 0800 by a 6511th Test Group (Parachute) U.S. Air Force rescue helicopter launch from El Centro, complete with Flight Air Safety Officer and two photographers. This was the unit, airborne within 17 minutes of the crash, which was to eventually effect George’s removal to El Centro. Five miles out of El Centro, however, they had a 14-minute letdown to repair an oil leak, which triggered the 0808 launch of another helo by the 6511th Test Group. Finally, and it wasn’t until 0812, approximately 32 minutes after the crash, a report was received that “the pilot was alive and needed medical attention badly.” Meanwhile, at 0813 an H-34 rescue helicopter departed the Marine Corps Air Station, Yuma, AZ, some 40 miles distant. The El Centro Flight Surgeon’s helo, finally, after the 14-minute oil leak letdown, landed alongside George at 0833. At this point the three helicopters and the earlier dispatched ambulance all had each other in sight as they converged on the scene. George lay battered but fully conscious in a slight breeze in the desert for 53 minutes but felt pain only if he tried to sit.

The helo-borne Flight Surgeon was not, however, the first man actually on the spot. That was Apprentice Airman R. F. Daniels from the target crew. His arrival and the belated discovery of George’s miraculous escape is detailed in the post-crash report of Petty Officer Wellman:

I then proceeded to go through crash procedures. I left … with one man and picked up two CO2’s … and went to Rake #1 to get another man. We proceeded in the general direction of the crash until the truck started to sink in the sand. I stopped the truck and we got out the CO2’s and started to put out the fire…. We left the wing section burning (it was too fuel saturated to extinguish) and started over the hill in the direction of more fire. After reaching the top of the hill I saw the pilot and his chute. I saw the pilot move his head and look our way. [Welcome back, Lazarus!]

We went to his aid to see if we could give him any first aid. There was no serious bleeding so I sent one man back to make sure medical help was on the way. We talked to the pilot until the helo from Yuma [and El Centro] arrived and the doctors took over.

Lt. Garrett had meanwhile remained over the crash site until the arrival of the helos. He then diverted to El Centro. On arrival there he noted a C-130 Marine Corps Air Evac 689 shooting touch-and-go’s and had the brilliant presence of mind to recommend that the tower land it and hold it to evacuate George to Miramar, instead of flying him all the way there by the infinitely slower helicopter.

The Flight Surgeon from El Centro, Lt. (MC) J. J. Beck, USNR, who insisted on accompanying George all the way to Miramar, found George lying supine with his helmet, torso harness, G-suit, and boots still fastened in place. (One can only hope that these items helped to stifle bleeding to his ultimate benefit.) The doctor reports, “His skin was an ashen gray color, his eyes were open and staring his mouth was open and his teeth were dry and covered with blood, his pulse was barely perceptible. Part of his ruptured metal seat pan was wrapped around his right thigh. The sole and heel of his right boot were missing. The pilot complained of pain in his right ankle, left hip, and left hand. There was evidence of only moderate blood loss from his right heel.” The seat pan and helmet were removed and his torso harness and G-suit were opened to release constriction.

Victim and doctors then departed the scene by helo at 0846 – one hour and six minutes after the crash. A single unsuccessful attempt to start intravenous infusion was made aboard the helo. Other ministrations are recorded thus: “The pilot was reassured and was given water on a gauze sponge to moisten his mouth.” It was also reported that George, who had sustained major injuries, “very nearly expired en route.” Following this 17-minute helicopter flight to El Centro, George was transferred to the C-130 transport. After a flight of about 20 minutes to Miramar, he was transferred to an ambulance for the 14.5-mile, 23-minute dash to Balboa Naval Hospital. There he was finally thoroughly examined and given the first genuine medical attention. At this point of admission, George was “in shock” and his “pulse was not obtainable.”

Dr. Beck relates that aboard Marine Evac 689, he’d asked the pilot about the accident and that this is the story that George (who was in shock) related: “We had three runs on the target. [Actually, of course, it was four runs.] The first one was to be a dummy run, and I think I made a second run, and I think that was a dummy run too. [It was.] So I had two runs to go, I think. [he did.] My third run I think was a strafing run. [It was and he was right on target. He then continues to discuss what he calls his third run, but he is from here actually discussing his fourth and final run.] I started strafing at 1500 feet. [That is correct, and he purposely began 500 feet high to enable a longer burst, in order, he hoped, to “shoot out.”] At 1000 feet I started pulling back on the stick, but I guess I didn’t pull back hard enough…. I think I remember an impact. [He probably did, and this no doubt prompted a training reflex – pulling the face curtain to initiate the life-saving ejection a bare instant before the second and explosive impact!] Then I was dreaming and woke up and saw some black smoke.”

Dr. Beck then specifically asked George if he remembered initiating an ejection, and he said he didn’t think he had but he couldn’t remember. “He wasn’t questioned further at this time, and a few minutes later expressed some concern that he felt he was going to pass out.” [This was hardly a time for George to really concentrate on any recollections!] He was reassured that it was all right for him to close his eyes and to not worry if he did pass out. “He had been conscious all the time,” Dr. Beck reports, “from my arrival at the scene. his pulse was taken several times aboard Air Evac 689 and was generally about 120 and quite weak. He received no medication prior to landing at Naval Air Station, Miramar. His eyes were closed for only a short time aboard Air Evac 689 and he was fully conscious on landing at Naval Air Station, Miramar.” And so it was George returned to his 0705 take-off point at about 0926.he then continued on by ambulance to finally arrive at Balboa Naval Hospital, in downtown San Diego, at about 0952 – for his first genuine medical attention. This was by now some two hours and 12 minutes since his near-fatal crash in the desert.

It was about 1252 Washington time that George arrived at the hospital in San Diego. Some two hours and 23 minutes later, at 1515 Washington time, his loved ones at home had the news. We were assured that he was getting the best possible care, that there was no need for us to depart for San Diego, and that we would be kept informed. We knew nothing of the miraculous nature of his escape, the violence of his accident, or the extreme seriousness of his condition. In fact we had no specifics on his condition. Actually, this state of affairs nevertheless reflects excellent communications. After all, they couldn’t have told us much more then in any event, because even they didn’t know his status until completion of approximately six hours of exploratory and (largely orthopedic) remedial surgery. Specific immediate treatment comprised the intravenous introduction of fluids (glucose in the neck) and blood, administration of oxygen (nose-trachea tube), comprehensive x-rays (including a dye-injected bladder x-ray that proved negative on damage), a skull check-out, and an exploratory laparotomy (top-to-bottom slit down chest and belly to explore all internal organs, during which a large laceration of the liver was closed and accumulated blood was evacuated from the stomach cavity). He was also given the Last Rites of the Roman Catholic Church by the hospital chaplain, Father Edward Murray. Even these minimal details became known to us only much later.

Meanwhile our home was infected with the eerie quiet common to funeral parlor waiting rooms. KT recalls the first phone call – some idiot annoying Kathleen with a request for my office phone number. Then the second call – which she didn’t know was me – in which older children present were told to get on the phone with Kathleen. It must really be something exciting, she thought. Then, after the second call, the aforementioned strange, somber quiet descended over the entire household like a sudden, chilling, early spring shower. She recalls that even Grandma, “who really got knocked into action during emergencies” (like when Mom had to rush to the hospital to have a baby) was pale, quiet, and very still. She recalls that nobody could look at anybody else when Kathleen said, “George has been in a bad plane accident and is in the hospital in California.” That was all! She recalls asking Charlie for details and him saying only, “I’ve got to go get Dad, but it sure doesn’t look good!” And he left. Suddenly she realized it was all very, very serious.

KT next remembers when I got home. Kathleen and I embraced at the door, cried silently, and said nothing. Later, she recalls, I was sitting in the kitchen in a white shirt, with slackened tie, flushed face vivid against the white shirt, silently sipping bourbon. Then I suddenly jumped up from the table and bolted for the door, exclaiming that I was walking to church, and started off coatless and hatless through a light misting rain. KT then went into the backyard and found Moni sobbing under the overhang. She tried to comfort her like “Big Sister.” Moni became enraged, advised her that she could cry if she wanted to, and KT felt sort of “dumb” and went off to cry by herself on the kitchen steps. This was interrupted by irreverent one-liners from Johnny (until he digested the news) as he eventually showed up, as usual, just in time for dinner.

Church was strange. There was quite a crowd, because they happened to be hearing confessions for First Friday, the next day. I remember going into Father Hartel’s box – real calm, firm, and poised. I said, “I don’t want to go to confession, Father. I would just like to ask for announcements at tomorrow’s Masses asking for prayers … for … my … son…. He’s in a hospital … from a bad airplane crash….” I then broke down completely. I was totally wasted. I just sobbed like a fool. Father Hartel was merely great. I soon left church thoroughly recharged, and then set about trying to organize our family efforts, pulling things together, and getting on with some sensible plan of how to proceed. The very first thing, of course, would be to get the promised further report from Cdr. Parrish, who was to follow up with the findings of the hospital examination.

So, we sat down to a dinner that couldn’t have been more unreal had it taken place on the moon. Every little clink of silver on plate sounded like the explosion of a 500-pound bomb. Everyone was intent on examining the contents of their plates. Nobody could engage anyone else’s eyes. Finally the phone rang. Every ear then focused on my non-committal, seemingly endless series of yes … yes … yeses. At last, according to KT, I returned to the table with a relieved smile, said, “Here’s the deal!” and started reciting a list of injuries from a paper on which I’d made notes. She recalls that it sounded like George had broken every bone in his body, but that all that stuck in her mind was “He’s alive,” and that after I finished, it was sort of like everybody felt kind of like applauding. Here is a summary of my notes: Lucky SOB – should be dead – hit at 500 mph – got out on his own – just before second bounce – fantastic – both heels – right ankle, knee, and tibia – sipping water and ice – watching right foot – might have to come off – but still has some circulation – euphoric – repeats ‘Fly Navy’ – no need to come – will keep in touch.”

We had three other calls during dinner that evening. One was from Chaplain Murray. I’d been able to leave a request for him to call earlier that afternoon. I’d gotten his name and number via my secretary Doris’s husband Paul, who happened to be an active CPO on duty in Washington. He had also gotten me the Balboa Hospital’s Duty Officer phone number via his official Navy contacts. The chaplain could report only generally on George’s condition, the fact of the “precautionary” Last Rites, and his hope to be able to give George Holy Communion by the following Sunday. The second call was to read a subsequently delivered crash-confirming telegram from the squadron commander. The third and final call was from the local Red Cross. They advised that if I needed money to travel to San Diego that they would make it available. I expressed my amazed appreciation, but told them that the hospital officials there had advised that such a trip didn’t seem indicated at the time. All in all we went to bed that night somewhat relieved. The thought of any possibility of death no longer even entered our minds. Our prayers now were mainly centered on continuing circulation to save that right leg and foot.

As we proceeded into the weekend – the crash occurred on a Thursday morning – very little additional info was forthcoming. Nobody contacted us, so we frantically tried every possible angle we could think of to get news of further developments, especially regarding the right foot. All gleanings were the same: everything was about the same, still some circulation in the right foot, no need to come, etc. There was one exception. Squadron mate Chuck Scott called late Sunday night and expressed a categoric imperative that we, Kathleen and I, should get there as soon as possible. It was quite clear to him that George wanted us, expected us, and was wondering when we’d get there. We then immediately began preparations to go as soon as possible. I called my boss to get permission to leave. No problem there. I called Red Cross to follow up on arranging the offered free transportation. Imagine our shock on being told, “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. That would be out of the question. Such arrangements are possible only in case of an actual or imminent death, and then we contact you automatically!” Well, of course, they had done just that – on Thursday evening – and the belatedly understood implication of that call now sent a damp chill racing through our bodies. Damn hospital jargon, anyway! Now we knew what “condition guarded” really meant.

We were finally able to get a noon flight out of Dulles on Tuesday, 8 October. Mrs. Bryce drove Kathleen and me to the Silver Spring Sheraton, where we caught an airport limousine. Anne, Charlie, and Martha took over our house and family. The only thing I remember about the flight out was the then-popular song they kept playing over the American Airlines tape system – By the Time I Get to Phoenix – to which I’d invariably and silently add, “He may be dying.” (I still can’t ever hear that song without getting the creeps, and strangely enough we made our only en route stop in Phoenix.) Anyhow, Chuck Scott met us about 2030 in the San Diego Airport at Lindbergh Field. He had assured us on his Sunday night phone call that he and wife Sally could put us up indefinitely in their spare bedroom. It was by then too late for a hospital visit, so first Chuck drove us to the Miramar BOQ, where we picked up George’s VW (with the traditionally reluctant/exciting VW brakes) so as to have transportation during our stay. Then we followed him, Kathleen at the wheel, me checking the routing via our maps, to his house at 5219 Winthrop Street. There we were further greeted by his wife Sally and daughter Catherine. The latter (whom I recall as somewhere between 1 and 2 years old) had a hip cast from some corrective surgery for a congenital deformity and could scoot all over the house by bellying on a sort of early skateboard. These were A-1 folks indeed!

Kathleen and I visited George for the first time about 1000 on Wednesday, 9 Oct, six days after the accident. He was simply delighted to see us. Thanks only to Chuck Scott, we had certainly done the right thing at long last, and I really ought to digress here for a moment to recount a very vital lesson learned. I had always envied only the vocations of priest and doctor. These two, alone so I always thought, were the only ones who could really do anything meaningful when a human being was really in trouble. All the rest of us, I thought, became merely useless bystanders. Not so! Nothing – absolutely nothing! – is so therapeutically valuable and vital as the friendly face and touch of a loved one! I’ve seen this confirmed many times since, but this is where I learned it. Our presence there, even for the mere few minutes allowed in an Intensive Care Unit, was a critical element, I’m confident, in George’s survival. We actually saw the dynamic spark of love and life suddenly transform his deep, dark, suffering eyes as he looked up and recognized us at this first visit. He insisted on repeated kisses, on the mouth, and wouldn’t let go of our hands. It was an unforgettable and tremendously moving moment in all of our lives, even though George was pretty much whacked on pain-killing drugs most of the time.

Still, there is no way else to put it, George was a shocking sight. Indeed, God does shout to us in our pains. (To whom else can we go?) Six tubes for supplying vital fluids or providing equally vital drainage seemed to project from every corner of his body and stations in between. A rough cross-stitched scar extended down the front of his body from the bottom of his sternum to below his navel, and the rest of his body was a patch quilt of blood stained bandages, except for which he’d have been utterly naked. His immediate concerns were threefold: (1) a dire need for ice chips (bootlegged at intervals by an attentive Corpsman, Ron Sellers), (2) a plea that we stay around, and visit him as often and as long as permitted, and (3) an anxiety as to whether he had in his word “coped.” He was concerned with a burning compulsion to gather every shred of testimony as to whether he had performed professionally, as trained, or to use my phrase whether he had somehow “goofed off.” The response then, as now even more clearly confirmed by subsequent evidence, was and is fully thumbs-up! (He ejected! There simply are no impact or otherwise automatic self-ejection features built into the Martin-Baker ejection seat, and the very possibility of even an accidental impact-initiated ejection is ruled out by the delay between initial impact and ejection!)

Thereafter our days assumed a sort of military-like methodicalness. Kathleen and I stayed pretty much within the closed confines of our assigned bedroom at the Scotts to minimize encroaching on their privacy. Chuck would be gone before we’d rise, and Sally would be house-working and over-seeing Catherine while Kathleen would make us toast and coffee in the morning. Then Kathleen and I would be off in the trusty VW for a day spent in the hospital environs, from about 0900 to 2100. We were allowed a five minute visit in the ICU at 1000–1400-2000 daily. To assure against missing a visit, you’d be on hand 20–30 minutes early, especially as you always hoped to intercept a doctor for questioning. We therefore became quite familiar with all the other similarly spaced out habitués of the ICU waiting room. I especially remember an older lady whose husband was terminally sick and who died while we were there; a young mother whose baby daughter had some serious congenital affliction; and the relatives of a young sailor who had suffered a violent Saturday-night motorcycle accident. Such details are remarkable here precisely as they underscore how shared pain draws suffering humanity together for mutual support. Before our shared ordeals were over, we knew all these folks like family. Time spent in an ICU waiting room is only somewhat less memorable, I’d guess, than time spent in the ICU itself.

As often as not Kathleen and I would grab our only food at the hospital staff snack bar in the building immediately across the street from the ICU. Apart from the fleeting actual moments with George, the highlight of each day became Holy Communion at the noon mass in the hospital Chapel. There was never any question in our minds that this daily mass was our main contribution to George’s well-being each day, and we gave it everything we had. One especially dramatic aspect of these masses was the all-male chorus of lusty young sailors booming out “Sons of God, Eat His Body, Drink His Blood” as they almost marched to Communion each day! I can still hear them, and we were certain that the Lord was hearing us all.

Yet another daily highlight was our 1500 phone call home each day, to both report on George and to check out how things were going in Silver Spring. Here, so far as I can recall, let me proclaim the first and long overdue resounding tribute to the Silver Spring contingent for making our San Diego stay so worry-free from their standpoint! Anne, Charlie, and Martha must truly have been outstanding as SOPAs (Senior Official Parents Aboard). Their one highlight was the evening Art Feenan, Doris and Sharon showed up from my office to cook them a great real steak dinner.

Kathleen and I enjoyed a few more breaks than that in our routine. The hardest time to fill was between our 1500 call home and the 2000 hospital visit. Usually we’d just sit reading quietly in the sun on the front hill of the hospital which overlooked the city of San Diego – sort of to the southwest and the falling sun. Twice we guiltily snuck off to a movie – The Graduate and Shirley MacLaine’s Woman Times Seven. (We had to leave early both times.) Once we went to a terrific dinner at Squadron mate George Melnyk’s home. There we met wife Pat and son, George, Jr. George is a sort of a cross between Leo Gorcy (of the Dead End Kids) and Barretta – a no-nonsense, tough-talking, cigar-chomping blusterer, but really all-around nice guy. Wife Pat made the best spaghetti west of the Pugliese tribe, and was a truly fine gal. I remember my telling Kathleen then that I wished our George could find a Pat like that, not dreaming then that so soon he would (though her specialty is lasagna). Then, too, this was the time and place where Kathleen and I discovered martinis. (See, George, you drove us to it!) We got in the habit of driving down the hill to the Grant Hotel where we could sip something in the bar till we made our 1500 phone call. We started with our customary bourbon on the rocks, but soon found that you only get a thimble this way at a full drink price. So, we soon learned to substitute the equally potent but much bigger and same-priced martini for the teenie-bopper bourbon.

There were several unusual aspects of the overall proceedings in San Diego. First, Anne and Margie Pflaum had paid a recent visit, and George was soon to receive a life-size blowup print of a picture Anne took of him standing in front of a small mountain of aircraft wrecks at the base airplane dump. That’s certainly a little bizarre in retrospect. Second, there was a general queasiness throughout his squadron over the fact that the very evening before the crash George had had several members witness his Last Will and Testament. Recalling that brought lumps to many throats, I can assure you. Then there is the matter of George’s survival itself. Without exception, everyone agreed that his excellent physical condition – he had been working out like a monk every day – and the fact of his paratrooper training proficiency (he was a 1964 class Honor Graduate) undoubtedly stood him in good stead. (George considers it critical to survival that this training prompted his searching out a harness so tight that it was hard to walk upright, which probably held his seat pan in place and his torso together.

Then there was the fact of the Marine C-130 Air Evac and the unrewarded (so far as I know) role that Lt. Garrett played in its emergency redeployment . You may recall that Garrett reported that the C-130 just happened to be shooting touch-and-go’s at El Centro on his arrival there from the crash scene. This medically equipped plane (George remembers the stenciled inscription on the bulkhead at his elbow which read “Cadavers must be stacked aft of frame XX”) also just happened to have a cruising speed slightly more than 5 times faster than the replaced helicopter. This fact, and Lt. Garrett’s insistence on its being pressed into service for the rescue transfer, saved at least 45 minutes on George’s mad dash to the hospital, and surely everyone is familiar with how critical even seconds became in President Reagan’s 1981 post-assassination trip to George Washington Hospital! And, you may recall, even so George very nearly expired en route. So, praise be Lt. Garrett wherever he is! Incidentally, the Navy now provides an air rescue facility at El Centro during target operations. As for Tom Garrett, we know only that he joined the airlines just in time to be furloughed by a pilot glut and economy moves. He then worked for a time as a golf course greenskeeper, but he is probably ready to be a first officer by now. Happy landings, Tom!

The final bizarre aspect of the San Diego experience was that the Balboa Hospital’s ICU was on the top floor of a hilltop building just 300–400 feet directly below the commercial airline jet pattern in and out of Lindbergh Field. Every passing plane created a hellish din and shook the entire building. It sounded for all the world like the plane was shooting a landing on the roof or was even trying to get in bed with you. Needless to say, George didn’t find this situation too thrilling. At first his whole body would noticeably tense up and a somewhat haunted expression would flicker across his eyes as every plane passed overhead. Gradually all of this merged into the unconsciousness of customary background noise and you grew oblivious to it. Funny thing, too, they still had Quiet Zone signs up on the surrounding streets. I guess the pilots couldn’t read these signs from the air. Anyhow, the worst was yet to come.

We had arrived on the 8th and were due to depart on Sunday the 13th, so I could return to work the following Monday. We would have by then had a good extended visit with George, and he seemed to be progressing satisfactorily, and even circulation in the right foot was showing improvement (although I should make clear his orthopedic surgeon said from the very first that it wasn’t going to heal and the sooner it came off the better). We had, at last, actually managed to get an interview with one of the doctors (who always seemed to be out during visiting hours). The orthopedics expert, Dr. DeWaal, gave us his prognosis. (George also had been attended by the chest cutter, Dr. Oury, and an internal medicine specialist, Dr. Anderson.)

Dr. DeWaal indicated that George had evidently landed somewhat on the right side (as well as seat and heels), and that his helmet evidently prevented any serious head or facial injury. He emphasized that the right foot had suffered complete destruction (fragmentation) and in his opinion wasn’t worth saving and would impede overall recovery. He categorically maintained that it would never again become functional. The left foot was fused and would have limited flexibility, and, he said, a plate and several metal screws or pins had been used in restructuring the left knee. (The removal of these would put George back on crutches the following Sep. ) The doctor anticipated George would have a permanent limp. Still, he felt that all in all things were going very well. George should be out of the hospital by the end of Dec (though he might not be able to put any weight on his right foot for an additional three months), and then he might very well be permitted to relocate to DC at his own expense. Further, he’d be allowed to exercise the left knee as soon as the kidneys stabilized.

Well, before the kidneys were to stabilize George went into complete renal failure. His temperature suddenly soared, and a radical skin rash reaction to some medication infected his entire body. He became a wild-eyed instant raging mess. He literally went out of his mind and had to be totally restrained by huge leather straps lest he rip out his intravenous feeders and drains. One time his eyes riveted on my left hand. “Hey!” he said, “That’s a Naval Academy ring! Did you graduate from there?” “Yes,” I said. “Damn,” he said, “So did I!” He didn’t even recognize me or Kathleen. We had simply returned for the customary late evening visit one day after a completely normal afternoon visit and there it was: Jekyll had become Hyde!

The shock was incredible. You simply cannot imagine how it is to behold your own beloved flesh and blood in a stark raving fit of delirium! (I’m reminded in retrospect of some of the more gross episodes from the Exorcist.) It is totally frightening! How tenuous is the thread of our sanity! Moreover, you don’t know if there’s to be any coming back! (The official report merely states regarding all this that “the patient’s post-operative course was stormy”!) Things became stormy indeed, and this put an entirely new complexion on the whole situation. Only that morning we had told the Scotts we’d be leaving Sunday, but we happened to encounter Chuck on the hospital parking lot that evening and told him of the startling change in things. We apologized and asked it we might, after all, extend our visit. Of course we could. He couldn’t understand our hurry in the first place, we were no trouble, we could stay as long as we liked. They were glad to be able to help. Talk about friends.…

Yes, we did indeed find many friends. Starting with Mrs. Bryce, then the Scotts, then my boss, and finally my old shipmate Ace Foster from the USS Amsterdam. As for my boss, Kathleen and I arrived at Lindbergh Field more than an hour early for our homeward flight. We had no sooner gotten all checked in than I was paged on the airport phone which then told me to call my office in Washington collect. I did, and my boss said if I could get out to the Naval Electronics Laboratory on Point Loma, and sign in and out there before my flight departure, then he could and would issue a set of travel orders which might fully reimburse me for my emergency trip expenses. The round trip to NEL from Lindbergh Field is almost 14 miles, and I had already checked in for the flight. Nevertheless, Kathleen and I flew out there in a wild record-breaking taxi dash, and then just made it up the ramp for last call at Lindbergh Field. My orders to check the progress on ADPESO Project 004-67 provided reimbursement for $460. Our plane tickets totaled $430.50, with our rent being free. Friends!

As for Ace, he and his wife, Bernice, had been the ones who had some 20 years before met Kathleen and George at the airport in California when I had to unexpectedly chaperon the Sentimental Journey of USS Amsterdam from Long Beach Naval Shipyard to Pearl Harbor for our over-Christmas overhaul. The entire ship’s company had relocated their families from the east to west coast for the holidays, and we had barely put half of the officers and crew (including Ace, then my Assistant) on leave before the rest of us had to execute the change of orders for an overhaul in Pearl instead of in the States. Anyhow, Kathleen and I had driven through Escondido on the 1500–2000 break one day and I remembered that Ace had always said that was where he was going to retire. So we stopped and looked them up in the phone book. They were listed all right, but in Chula Vista, which is on the opposite side of San Diego. So, we just had time to later drop them a line about George’s condition and whereabouts. Good old Ace thereafter made several extended visits to George, long after we had returned to DC, and he faithfully phoned us on his condition. Friends! Kathleen and I paid them a happy reunion and thank-you visit over lunch in Borrego Springs, CA, on the San Diego-Tucson leg of our 1979 cross-country auto trip.

Now, to return to our story, just as suddenly as George went into the shock of renal failure, his condition reversed once again just as dramatically a couple of days later, such that we were able to leave San Diego on Thursday, 17 Oct, just two weeks after the accident. George came off the critical list the following Monday, 21 Oct. He was back in Washington on 1 Dec, at the Bethesda Naval Hospital Center and not at his own expense. I was idly thumbing through the OSD phone book one day for something, and I suddenly got the idea of looking for some Bureau of Medicine and Surgery office to contact about the possibility of patient relocation by the Navy. I soon stumbled upon an entry labeled Patient’s Family Affairs Liaison or some such. I simply called the listed Commander and asked him why George couldn’t be transferred for convalescence where we could visit him. He said he’d look into it and I never heard from him again. Instead, I got a good-humoredly threatening call from Balboa questioning why I didn’t like their service, asking why I was raising so much hell in Washington, and concluding with, “Your son will be arriving in Bethesda on 1 Dec via Scott AFB, Illinois.”

But our little phone book roulette is not the whole story on this. KT remembers walking alone in the backyard after dinner and wishing on the stars, wishing George could come home. Not more than 5 minutes later, she swears (and, of course, you have to allow for the speed of light reaching the stars), Kathleen called her to tell her about the phone call saying George was coming home. Who are you going to believe?

You will recall that George had been scheduled for Jan 1969 deployment to offshore Viet Nam operations – so-called Yankee Station Special Operations. After operational readiness exercises in the second week of Jan (during which one A-7 Corsair pilot was lost at sea), the USS Ticonderoga (CV14) in fact departed San Diego on 1 Feb 1969, the first CV to make five such deployments. She then made stops in Pearl Harbor; Yokosuka, Japan; and Subic Bay, RPI. The first potential combat deployment then followed on 4–19 Mar, with Lt.(jg) B.G. Hahn of VF-111 making the 123,000th arrested landing aboard Ticonderoga on 18 Mar 1969. Following a week’s respite, the second combat deployment occurred 30 Mar–16 Apr. Then followed 10 days of contingency operations in the Sea of Japan occasioned by a North Korean aircraft’s shoot-down of a U.S. Navy EC-121 reconnaissance aircraft [which Charlie notes was from VQ-1, the same squadron that he would join on Guam in late 1972]. During the latter period our dear friend and benefactor, Lt. Tom Garrett executed the 125,000th arrested landing aboard Ticonderoga. Another respite in Subic Bay followed, during which Ticonderoga celebrated her 25th anniversary, marking her as the oldest attack aircraft carrier on active service.

Two more Yankee Station deployments followed on 10 May–4 Jun, and 26 Jun–1 Aug, with the latter 37-day exercise being the longest deployment on station during that cruise. An R&R visit to exotic Hong Kong intervened between these two deployments, which also included two successful F-8 ejections, successful A-4 and A-7 ejections, and the loss of an A-4 pilot who flew into the sea on launch of a combat strike. This, plus the loss of the Air Wing Commander, Cdr. Charles Cates, in his A-7 on Okinawa, testify to the dangers attending such deployments even apart from combat itself. VF-111 flew off Ticonderoga for extended stateside R&R in San Diego on 17 Sep, thus completing a relatively uneventful 254-day cruise embracing 97 days on Yankee Station. During the cruise Ticonderoga was visited on 22 May by then VAdm. Bill Bringle, a former and junior head of department shipmate of mine in USS Bremerton, who was then Commander 7th Fleet; and on 2–3 Jul by RAdm. Dan Gallery, then researching material for a new book.

But George was not meant to be a part of all this. Instead, he returned to Washington on 1 Dec 1968. After the failure of a skin graft from his right thigh to close a bone-exposing suppurating wound in his right heel, George’s right leg was amputated just below the knee on 13 Feb 1969. (No! it was not a Friday the Thirteenth, merely a Thursday.) The pins were removed from his left knee in Sep 1969. But in between these two events in Feb and Sep George experienced yet another accident.

He had this date with a Navy nurse. He escorted Lt.(jg) Pat Brady on 30 Mar to see and hear Judy Collins in Concert at Constitution Hall. A proposal soon followed, coincident with a visit to the MacArthur theatre for The Lion in Winter. Finally, George slipped a ring on Pat’s finger in the Bethesda Chapel on 28 May 1969. The current prognosis for this happy accident is still highly favorable despite the interim traumas of Bob, Mike, Matt, and Phil. All of this therefore doesn’t say so much about near death as it does about life. All life is a re-enactment of the paradox which St. Paul terms “the folly of the cross.” You cannot have hills without valleys, birth without labor, happiness without pain, a resurrection without a crucifixion. Indeed, God draws closest to us when we hurt. Pain is His megaphone! So, remember, the rainbow always follows the storm, and even though Graham Greene is right when he says “Suffering is always something which will be provided when it is required,” accept it as the herald of the Good News! God guarantees keepers-of-the-faith a happy ending!

It now remains only to give George’s maternal Grandpa his customary last word written only two days after George’s accident:

How George survived instant death in such a terrible crash is a miracle. Only a few months hence he would likely have been flying a jet plane off a Navy aircraft carrier and over Viet Nam. Who can say he might not have been shot down without a trace? This will mean a radical change in George’s career. He faces a major re-adjustment in his life, a real crisis. Even after recovery the resulting physical disability will most likely mean his separation from the Navy. (And in mid-Jun 1969 he was indeed found unfit for further military service.) He will need to be comforted and consoled and given the benefit of the fervent prayers of many folks. Helping him to bear this great cross manfully and generously will mean that what God has permitted to be taken away, He will replace with something better, heaped up and overflowing.

AMEN! How often my own father (and now my own experience) has verified this fundamental Christian truth: Unless the grain of wheat falls to earth and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat. But if it does die, it produces much fruit. And, so we say again, AMEN! And here’s to George’s #1 Nurse, and to Lt. Garrett, and to the Scotts, wherever they may be!

As for Grandpa Kirk, with a wife and six daughters in the home he never really had the last word, and so we can’t let him get away with it here. Let’s let George have the last word on this key event in his life. His comments amply testify to the fulfillment of Grandpa’s expressed hope that he might bear his cross manfully and generously, thus:

It’s not really a great cross. En route from Balboa to Bethesda, I had to stay a few nights in the Scott AFB temporary dispensary, a waiting room for the non-ambulatory awaiting flights to various points in CONUS. Here were people with great crosses: 18-year-olds, no education, no arms, no legs (or maybe just paralyzed arms and legs), no eyes, and one suspects not very much hope for the future, either. (This is to say nothing of burn cases too sick to transport.) These are the folks that need comfort and consolation. I think about these people when I hear about the veterans on hunger strike for more investigation of agent orange and delayed stress syndrome. What a crock! That’s what comes of turning minor inconveniences into great crosses!

Right on, George!

XVIII. PROFESSIONAL

Some great men owe most of their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for their tools the exact quality that matters for their work. – Joseph Conrad

I left home for good on 10 Aug 1936. I was almost eighteen-and-a-half years old. I hadn’t the slightest idea what lay ahead. I only knew that I had a life objective and that my journey had begun. I had no fear and no regrets. It was all to be a great adventure. So, I set out for the Naval Academy, my father driving me to Annapolis, just as I was to drive our son, George, some 26 years later.

So, where are we? Actually, we jumped a little ahead in our continuity in order to present George’s desert saga all in one piece. That episode spanned the period of the Oct crash to his May engagement, but a lot more was going on in the wild and wooly last half of 1968. You may remember that on 4 Jun RFK was shot. He died, thank God – his wounds were mentally terminal the next day. The national spirit was really sagging now. Comes good Pope Paul to the rescue, zapping one and all with a solid-lead life-preserver: Humanae Vitae. This was just about the time some luckily nameless fool coined the soon-to-be cliché: “Have a nice day!” Well, the same to you, fella! But what, really, would be our present verdict on Humanae Vitae? Good question” hard to answer. In situations of this kind we’ve always found it prudent to revert to certain basic principles, which we have found in our experience to be reliable. Thus: (1) It is generally wise not to accept as definitive in a Pilgrim Church any single trend of ecclesiastical tradition or theology; (2) Life holds many mysteries to which there are no final answers in this world – “How deep are the riches and the wisdom and the knowledge of God! How inscrutable his judgments, how unsearchable his ways”; (3) Cultivate a healthy skepticism of anyone who would presume to know “God’s design” in any matter not clearly revealed through the gospels wherein we alone meet Christ – for “Who has known the mind of the Lord?” – no member of the hierarchy has a monopoly on a hot-line to the Holy Spirit, and, when all is said and done the private, personal (informed!) conscience remains inviolable.

We should elaborate that final point before going further. Human inquiry is unwise which would ignore the cumulative scholarship of specialists and the continuum of collective historical experience. In the realm of moral theology, the Church is uniquely qualified as a depository of ever-evolving wisdom. It would be foolhardy for each individual to undertake the re-invention of the wheel by sheer dint of his or her own meager education and expertise in the face of each and every moral dilemma. At the same time, too many promoters of responsible parenthood seemingly forget to whom it is that they are ultimately responsible. It behooves us to be familiar with the distilled but still crystallizing conclusions of mankind with respect to all important questions. However, it would be ridiculous to eschew such guidance on the grounds, for example, that “professional unmarrieds” can or should have anything to teach “marrieds” about marriage. After all, an expert medical diagnostician doesn’t have to have suffered every disease in the book in order to write a prescription for a cure. All of this, of course, is just a long way around of saying: proceed with caution, don’t think you know it all.

Now we can finally get on with it. The real “nub” of Humanae Vitae comes in section 11, thus: “Each and every marriage act must remain open to the transmission of life.” (It might be well to note that it is not the adoption of the products and techniques wrought by science but the distortion of the significance of a human act which is deemed contrary to the personal moral nature of humankind. At the same time, there can clearly be no contravention nor abrogation of such moral nature involved where a couple chooses the healthy self-discipline of abstention from intercourse during periods of probable fruitfulness.) Well, at least there is no ambiguity in proposition 11, no equivocation. It’s quite clear enough. Really? Think again! What, precisely, constitutes the transmission of uniquely human life? There is a purely biological aspect, to be sure. But the human entity, per se, compels the infusion of a soul. Surely we wouldn’t contend that the latter is transmitted with the seed. It seems equally clear that a soul can’t, in fact, be infused until a new biological entity exists, no matter how embryonic it might be. Hence, transmission of seed, and its effective matriculation with the ovum must have occurred prior to infusion of the soul. It therefore follows, it seems to me, that any materially “sterilizing” intervention which precludes the aforesaid matriculation can be said prima facie to reflect an action antecedent to any potential materialization of a new human being. (This line of reasoning, it also seems to me, even more so obscures any definitive determination of whether the ingestion of some substance – say, a pill hours before intercourse – would constitute an “intervention.”) I could go on, but I think you get my point: Indeed, God’s ways are mysterious, we can’t really know, and ultimately we can only rely on our best conscience. What is our conscience in the matter, you might well ask. Well, it’s academic now, of course, but we never had any problems with section eleven.

“Good grief!” (I can almost hear the exclamations.) “What a digression!” No, not really. This entire exercise has been an attempt to show you (and me!) how I became whatever it is that I am, and what it is that I represent and most firmly believe and hold sacred and dear. I would hope that the foregoing might be a representative indication. It now remains only to remark on three peripheral points before proceeding. First, you may be amazed (as I was) to note that Humanae Vitae’s opening and closing salutations address “Venerable brothers and beloved sons”! This seems strange indeed, for a subject so intimately involving women. Second, I’m always put off somewhat by ecclesiastical documents which are not derived in large measure from the gospels. As I’ve noted, that is the only place we meet Jesus. It turns out that Christ is mentioned only twice in Humanae Vitae. In fact the gospels number only seven out of a total of 41 citations.

Jesus, of course, didn’t have anything to say about birth control. Hold it! To those of you who might cry out “IUD’s hadn’t been invented yet!” let me just note JC also had nothing to say about homosexuals, and the Bible is otherwise replete with references to them. Third, I’m frequently taken aback by the too-often half-baked non-sequiturs crammed into encyclicals in the clear expectation that shear weight may serve to substantiate relatively questionable propositions. There are several instances of such speciousness when Humanae Vitae goes on to elaborate additional problems with artificial birth-control, such as the potential for: increasing marital infidelity, lowering standards of morality, easy corruption of youth, and loss of respect for women. One should learn to quit when they’re ahead, and so I too had best quit right now!

What else was happening in the latter half of 1968? Well, it was estimated that 89 million Americans watched the Chicago police on TV as they clubbed protesters at the late summer Democratic convention. (“Have a nice day!”) In August Warsaw pact armor crushed a Czech uprising, while American youth staged its own uprising at fabled Woodstock. Jackie announced plans to marry Ari. (There’s a thrill and a half.) On 14 Sep our children presented us with a freezer for our 25th wedding anniversary, but the opulent Jackie-Ari wedding almost immediately upstaged us. Walter Schirra took our first Apollo capsule into space, even as our entire family spaced out over “that phone call” from Miramar – the news of George’s near-fatal and totally unplanned desert plowing expedition. As you already know, we were to spend 8 to 17 Oct in San Diego visiting his bedside. Suffice it to say, neither George nor we were having “a nice day” very often then, but we did have a great one when he came off the critical list on 21 Oct and even more so when he returned to the area (Bethesda Hospital) on l Dec 1968. Tricky had been elected on 4 Nov, and Noel McCormick still remembers his delight when I said on hearing the news, ”There goes the country!” and proceeded appropriately if inadvertently to turn off the TV when I hurled a pillow at it in frustration.

At about this time Kathleen was taking her frustrations out in a Piper 140. In Jun we had shifted from Montgomery Airpark and its Cessnas to Friendship (now Baltimore-Washington International) and its Pipers. This gave us the advantage and practice of operating in and out of a control tower airport, a slightly faster plane, and a better rental rate. In short, it was “an offer we couldn’t refuse.” So it was that she flew us to Skybryce in the nearby Virginia mountains to have lunch at the ski lodge there. Well, the 1,262-foot airport elevation proved to be a little startling to us sea-level pilots. Kathleen proceeded to have to perform two go-arounds as she came in too hot the first two passes. She was really thrilled at lunch when the waiter asked her if she’d seen “that crazy fool dive-bombing the runway in that blue Piper.” (Hold that tip!)

Still, we were making progress. I passed 100 hours on 22 Oct 68, and Kathleen logged her first 100 hours on 20 Jan 69. In any event, we finally closed out this most eventful year as Borman read from the opening lines of Genesis as he circled the moon in Apollo 8 on Christmas Eve, and Anne was figuratively flying to the moon only a few days later as she and Doug were wed on 28 Dec 1968. I’ll never forget the heart-warming sight of all of our beautiful little daughters dressed in green velvet, and the low-key yet fancy family reception at the nearby Stonehouse Inn, and the joyous presence of newly-home George even though he was in a wheelchair. Sadly, both the Inn and the marriage are now “gone with the wind,” but George happily keeps imitating Old Man River.

So, we usher in 1969, the close of what perhaps was in many ways the most turbulent decade in all our lives. And for Johnny, it wasn’t over yet. On 1 Jan Joe Namath’s Jets upset his beloved Colts 16-7, and he was devastated. So came John Wayne with the prescription: True Grit. People were singing What the World Needs Now is Love, Sweet Love, Simon and Garfunkel were pushing The Sounds of Silence, and youngsters were parroting “Don’t trust anyone over 30!” (You wonder what those youngsters now well over 30 are parroting today!) Other “in” phrases were: “Make love, not war!” “God is on a trip!” and “Sorry about that!” Woody Allen contributed, “Not only is God dead, but have you ever tried to get a plumber on Sunday?” The book of the year was Portnoy’s Complaint. Clearly, the sixties were going out “on a roll.”

Not so, George. On 13 Feb he said goodbye to his right leg below the knee. By 28 Apr DeGaulle was “out” in France and the U.S. had its “tops” of 543,400 men in Viet Nam. By 18 Jul Teddy Kennedy had taken his never-to-be-forgotten swim at Chappaquiddick, and on the 20th (a Sunday) Neil Armstrong became the first human to set foot on the moon at precisely 2226 EDT. Now, does anyone remember who the second person on the moon was, or who was the last? Of course not! Well, the answers are Buzz Aldrin and Gene Cernan. The first landing was from Apollo 11, the last (the 6th, in Dec 1972) was from Apollo 17. Now, nobody can say they didn’t learn something in reading this book!

A major delight of the new year of 1969 was a surprise invitation from my Uncle El and Aunt Agnes for an “all-expenses” visit to Ormond Beach. It was essentially a relief mission for Kathleen and I from the trauma of George’s recent accident and the constant pressure of my mother’s demanding presence. This was sorely needed, and no surprise has ever come at a more timely moment. These “fairy god-parents” provided pre-paid flight arrangements, met us at and delivered us to the airport in Florida, and in between provided rent-free ocean-front motel accommodations which were within walking distance of their apartment but yet afforded us much-needed private time alone together. Not only that, they provided continuous entertainment throughout our week-long visit: a car ride up unbelievably wide and flat Daytona Beach (original site of the still famous Daytona auto races); a side trip to Sea World (or was it Marineland?); a trip to the shrimp boat dock for the purchase of fresh-caught shrimp for a fabulous cocktail-hour canapé; several dinners out at fancy restaurants and country clubs – the whole works! They incidentally introduced us to the practice of a daily bourbon allotment of two miniatures apiece – a really cute touch at their age. A fine time was had by all (for which we still remain so grateful), and this was the cementing of a really warm family relationship that continues to this day via my monthly letter to my surviving but now invalided Aunt. Uncle El died of heart failure (!) in 1974.

Time just flew by in 1969. Yes, folks, Kathleen and I once again took to the air with a vengeance. In May we shifted our base of operations from Friendship (now BWI) to Dulles (IAD). Whereas we had left Montgomery for Baltimore to get a cheaper rental rate, we shifted from BWI to IAD to get a slightly bigger and faster plane, the 4-seater Cessna 172 in lieu of a 2- seat Piper 140. We also got a much nicer airport – perhaps the best in the world. It is so big we were once instructed to land on a taxiway (to keep the runways clear). One of the big events of this period was our 16 Jul foray aloft with George and Pat as passengers. Aside from his trip back to D.C., I think this may well have been George’s first venture aloft since his Oct ‘68 crash.

We flew out of Dulles to Montgomery and thence to College Park, the oldest airport in the United States. My log shows that I performed three no-flap landings, one 20-degree-flap landing, and two full-flap (40-degree) landings. Kathleen executed one go-around (too high) and two full-flap landings. It’s a wonder Pat didn’t get sick. It is true that she never asked for a second flight. We spent one-and-a-half hours aloft, and little College Park with 4 passengers on a hot July day was really pushing our little airplane. We must have looked like Lindbergh’s take-off for Paris as we just cleared the phone and power lines that bordered the ends of the College Park runways.

Kathleen approaching Dulles runway 1R for touch-and-go, April 13, 1968

Kathleen and the Author as seen by George and JJ enroute to Harper’s Ferry – December 02, 1967

We had a similarly extended flying adventure with Charlie on 31 Jul. We circled from Dulles to Front Royal, to Sky Bryce, to Orange County Airport, to Dulles. We had quite a time threading our way through the mountains beneath low clouds on the Sky Bryce to Orange County leg, and then had a little turbulence en route Orange County to Dulles. Charlie didn’t feel too good on that last leg, but it was probably mostly our fault. We never did get too accomplished at keeping the little ball centered for smooth flight – still “practicing Dutch rolls.” Kathleen and I followed this jaunt up with a quick flying trip to Ocean City where Gary and Martha were then spending a few days. Then in October, we took one of our bigger ventures, a trip to Northampton, Mass., to visit Anne and Doug. Anne picked us up at La Fleur airport, and that night she and Doug took us into town for a fabulous atmosphere dinner in an old-style cellar restaurant. I still remember the smell of apples that permeated the stairwell to Anne and Doug’s cute little upstairs apartment. KT and Mo also visited this cozy little place in the summer of 69. Judging by a letter from KT, a fine time was had by all. They visited a flea market, a leather factory outlet, and the world’s largest basket store. That fall KT skied-out upon being accepted for Regina High School’s cheerleading team, and Anne embarked on a course in American Radicalism and the New Left at the University of Massachusetts. To each his own.

Two other major events occurred that summer of 1969. On 20 Jul George accompanied me on a flight from Montgomery Airpark to Frederick airport where I wanted to practice landings. Once there, I executed four no-flap, power-off landings. This is an exercise to improve your proficiency at getting down safely if your engine should quit on you. (Of course it helps not be over a city or a forest, and it’s even better if you just happen to be almost on top of an airfield. Still, it’s a lot of fun. Well, George is in the right seat through all this, and at the end of my 4th landing he suddenly spoke up: “Do you mind if I try a landing?” Well …, “Not at all.” And so he did, and the contrast couldn’t have been more stark from power-off glides to power drag-ins and slap-downs that would have done any carrier pilot proud. I was sort of proud, too, to be privileged to witness George recapturing his wings!

The other big deal of the summer of 1969 was our first big family venture to Ocean City. Does anyone remember our 3 rooms at the Shoreham Hotel at 9th and the Boardwalk? The boys had a room on the north side, as did the girls, while Kathleen and I had an ocean-front room, complete with private balcony. Individual spending money (intended for meals and recreation, spent at their discretion) was parceled out daily before evening meals. It was their responsibility to manage it so as to be able to get breakfast and lunch the next day as well. Also, when we went out for meals, Kathleen and I always had our own separate table, and the children had theirs. After all, we were on vacation, too. The boys and the two oldest girls alternated days being in charge of the four little girls. I mean we were organized. I think perhaps this was one of the happiest times ever away from home. It certainly was as a relatively “young” family. Everyone contributed magnificently.

Meanwhile, George kept pretty busy, too. In Sep he had the pins removed from the knee of his left leg. Then, over the 15th of Nov we all ventured by several autos all the way to Boston for his wedding. We had several rooms in the Holiday Inn in Somerville, and held our wedding party rehearsal dinner there the night before the wedding. Several of George’s squadron buddies flew in from Miramar for the festivities – Chuck Scott, George Melnyk, and Steve Risseeuw. They all slept on the floor in one of our rooms, but when I tried to pay for them the girl at the desk (who had already made up the bill) said it would be too much trouble – “Let’s just forget it!” Hey! No strain.

A night with the Bradys – Howard Johnson’s Wheaton motel – October 1969

It was there and then we also learned that what I thought was the drinking vs. flying rule of “24 hours from bottle to throttle” really was “24 steps from bottle to throttle” (I’m only kidding, of course!). Anyhow, a great time was had by all. The weather was a perfect early fall day; the food, drink, and camaraderie were outstanding, concluding with a “night-cap” party for Kathleen and I with other family friends at the Brady house the night of the wedding. A police officer friend of Bob Brady’s insisted (for some reason) on driving Kathleen and I back to our Holiday Inn. All in all, everything worked out perfectly. Charlie drove our car back to Silver Spring, and kept turning off the dash light so I couldn’t monitor his speed. John recounted how they had helped Mr. Brady lug in liquor, because his back had “started to hurt.” Fortunately for the mood of that great day, we then didn’t realize this presaged his passing away a mere two months later on 16 Jan 1970. May he rest in peace!

So, now we’re into the decade of the seventies, the decade that was to give us Amtrak, rampant inflation, Watergate, Senator Erwin, Peter Rodino, Skylab, the Yom Kippur “October War,” and the resignations of Vice President Agnew and President Nixon, the energy crisis, Gerald Ford (“If Lincoln were alive today, he’d be spinning in his grave!”), Nixon’s pardon, and finally Jimmy Carter. Nixon would go to China. Big deal! Kathleen and I would go to Taipei, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Manila, and Guam. The country would start hearing from the so-called “Silent Majority.” A neat trick, that.

Janis Joplin would die in 1970, and Vince Lombardi, and Charles de Gaulle, and Abdul Nasser. Kathleen and I would greet our first grandchild, Robert Joseph Wright. George Allen would come to the Redskins and proclaim, “The future is now!” We would try the Shoreham in Ocean City one more time, and Chicago would feature the trial of the famous “seven.” The movie of the year would be Patton, but everybody would be humming Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. (Was all this so long ago!?!) Yes! John graduated from Good Counsel high school, and Mary turned sweet sixteen. Our children already ranged from 11 to 26, and Herbie would have been 9 that spring. On the 4th of May four students died at Kent State, and the country was really in trouble.

Also in May of 1970 John finally broke the 15-foot barrier in the pole vault, and Kathleen broke into print with an article in the magazine Air Facts. It was an account of how she got into flying and her impressions of it entitled: Fly a Little – Live a Lot! (Kathleen really had a way with words.) Funny thing! I could never get anything on the subject of aviation published under my own name, but here was this article of mine under Kathleen’s name, and later I published an account of George’s first solo under his name in Private Pilot. Kathleen’s little gem was a six-pager, and I can’t remember whether she even shared the check with me or not. Still, you deserve to share in her (our?) experience:

You’re alone in the sky! There’s nothing else in the world like it. And today almost anyone can fly. I think I’ve proved that. I don’t own a college degree. Physics and I are complete strangers. And I’ll never be confused with a well-trained athlete. As a matter of fact, I’ll never see fifty again, and ten children have called me “Mother.”

Like most mothers, I guess, I’ve always been a bundle of worry, fearful for my children’s safety. You may imagine my chagrin therefore, when my oldest son began flight training. And, of course, he just had to be a jet fighter pilot! Now, flying (in itself) might be safe enough. I was sure it was. But flying for the Navy, on and off those bounding little aircraft carriers, out there where there’s nothing but water in all directions, and perhaps even over Viet Nam? Well!

In any event, my son’s letters home soon looked like secret messages written in code. I mean, they were full of mysterious letters, numbers, and symbols which were utterly meaningless to me. They might as well have been written in a foreign language, except that one impression came through loud and clear. He was having the time of his life! The evident thrill of it all was unmistakable. I simply had to find out what it was all about.

And so she did. On 17 May Thor Heyerdahl set out in a papyrus barge, Ra II, from Morocco to a landfall in Barbados on 12 Jul, thereby proving the feasibility of such a voyage in ancient times. That was just about the time Kathleen and I set out on one of our more ambitious flights, from Dulles for a week’s stay in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. “We left on the 9th of May, but returned early on the 12th when faced with threatening weather forecasts presaging an end to the visual flight rules (VFR) forays to which our talents were limited. As a matter of fact, we landed at Dulles and caught one of those imported British double-decker buses serving the nearby Marriott (where we proposed to spend the remainder of our planned week away) when a sudden and vicious thunderstorm hit us while still en route to the motel. As Maxwell Smart might have said, “Mis s s ed us, by tha a a t much!”

Anyhow, as far as we were concerned, our little adventure ranked right up there with Thor Heyerdahl’s. We didn’t know it then, but Kathleen was to make her last flight on 9 Oct 1970. Before too long we would be grounded as a twosome when my heart medicine (yes, folks, way back in early 1971, 10 years before my operation) precluded my passing the requisite FAA flight physical. (Actually I passed the test, but my affirmative answer to a routine question re medication since my last examination ended my career as an eagle.) Anyhow, Kathleen got in 3 good landings at Montgomery Airpark and then executed a smooth radar vector approach and landing at Dulles. Well, it was all great fun while it lasted.

Skyline drive – September 1970

By now you might wonder if I did any work at all during the year 1970. Indeed I did. As the title proclaims, this was the period in which I claim to have become recognized as a professional. What is a professional? It is the one person in the office to whom everyone else in the office has at one crisis time or another said, “Let’s go and ask so-and-so!” In short, the professional is the one who knows where to find all the answers. The professional need not know every answer personally, but the professional always knows where to look for them. The professional rises to any and all occasions, knows how to handle all kinds of situations, is the one to whom everybody turns in an emergency. It is a thankless task, though. Really! And there is no so-called upward mobility. It’s a dead end. Such a person ends up as a jack of all trades and master of none. Once having risen to this seemingly lofty status, I had nowhere to go but down.

Two other characteristics of professionals are worth remarking. One is that the professional has a secret weapon, in a sense. The professional has few truly personal burdens because it is a mark of the professional to have the responsibility and the talent to pick the proper tools. I always relished being able to pick my own helpers. (As I was transferred about, I re-hired both Hunter Jones and Bob Jeske twice. You could assign them a task and then plain forget it.)

It might be instructive to pursue this. It was my experience that subject-matter specialists were not necessarily or even often the best helpers. This is true because, unless you are dealing with a material product, the main work objective is to get something done by others! This usually means that the essence of office work is to communicate! Hence I always placed the highest premium on an ability to express one’s self, both orally and in writing. Damn few people can write a creditable letter, and good letter-writers are the office manager’s most basic need.

Second to an ability to communicate, I place initiative. I never wanted to be surrounded with people who constantly waited around to be pushed. I wanted to feel the work would always go ahead whether I was there to call the signals or not. Finally, I sought dependability – people I knew I could count on, who would be there whenever they were needed. Of course, it goes without saying that I wanted honest people. The devious worker is about as welcome as a shark in a trout pond. Still, the first thing I would seek in my staff was the ability to communicate. It doesn’t make any difference how much a person knows, how brilliant they are, if they can’t communicate their wisdom.

The final characteristic of the professional, as I see it, is less easy to define. It comprises elements of cooperation, congeniality, adaptability, patience, and good humor. It also involves a disposition not to take one’s self too seriously, but to always take others seriously. It entails listening a lot, and never offending another’s sense of dignity. Overall, it’s an attitude or disposition that creates a climate which “makes things work,” keeps people speaking to each other, and is generally conducive to maximizing each contributor’s personal satisfaction as everyone works together to get the job done.

This is not a frequently encountered quality, and is difficult to sustain. Cultivating and maintaining such an office demeanor is damn difficult. It can wear you out. Perhaps the best way I can convey the notion of what I’m talking about is to repeat what I’ve always considered one of the highest compliments any boss ever paid me. A top-level IBM exec who had worked with virtually everybody in my office but me on one project or another once asked my boss, “But, Jack, what does he do?” My boss simply replied, “Oh, Jack? Well, he’s the glue that holds the whole thing together.” This, I feel, is the mark of a true professional. Was I really professional? Hey! You don’t have to take my word for it. The following is a verbatim 30 Sep 1970 letter from the Secretary of the Navy to the Director of our office, the Automatic Data Processing Equipment Selection office:

Please convey my personal gratitude for an outstanding job performed by the personnel of your Office while serving on my staff from Jun 1967 to Oct 1970. They have consistently met the cumulative objectives for which the Office was established. This has been possible through each individual’s excellent performance of duty, technical competence, personal dedication, and sacrifice.

The outstanding contributions of your Office as the single, central ADPE selection and acquisition activity serving the entire Department can hardly be overemphasized. Your people can be proud of the fact that their long and tedious hours of operations did not go unnoticed, as evidenced by the many commendatory comments received from the Office of Management and Budget, General Services Administration, Chief of Naval Operations, Commandant of the Marine Corps, and the ADPE industry.

ADPESO’s excellent demonstration of professionalism coupled with the enthusiastic and cooperative spirit displayed by your office during the past three years has been a credit to the Department of the Navy and to the country. I take pleasure in commending you and your employees for their personal contribution in making their assignment on the Secretarial staff such a rewarding and highly successful endeavor. WELL DONE!

Well, you might say, but that’s addressed to your entire office. True. So, now you must read the personal endorsement my boss added to my copy of the above, thus:

I am convinced that much of our success noted in the SecNav letter accrues to the team spirit that prevails in the office. This I am sure, is due in some degree to apparently mundane but really important personal considerations such as office quarters and their arrangement (and ours are the envy of all visitors), personnel training and promotion opportunities (and our turnover has been minimal), and smooth-flowing supporting services (and few offices enjoy such harmonious relationships in this area). In addition, I recognize the role you have played within the office in format and finalization of internal directives and in multiplicity of documents, the quality of which contribute toward the enviable image projected by our office. Beyond that, I am keenly aware of the unique continuity of experience you bring to the office in the realm of our ADP Program policy directives, as through your editorship of the Graybook, Greenbook, and Bluebook, which were models in the field. I am therefore most pleased to add my personal “WELL DONE!”

Could 1971 top 1970? Time would tell…. This would be the year of The French Connection and the conviction of Charles Manson. The seeding of the seabed with nukes beyond the 12- mile coastal limit would be outlawed by international treaty. (Remember Bikini test Baker!?!) The 25th amendment would give 18-year-olds the vote. In March Lt. Calley would be convicted of killing 22 civilians at My Lai. June would witness the publication of the Pentagon Papers. (How did General Maxwell Taylor’s reputation survive?) In September, 28 convicts would die at Attica. In Oct Red China would finally gain admission to the U.N. We would acquire our first Nova from Lustine in Feb and our first and only Pinto in Dec. Also on the home front, Charlie would graduate from Maryland in Feb, and we celebrated with a combo-Wright-Haber family dinner at the Royal Palm Restaurant in Prince George’s Plaza. Martha, who would turn 21 in Jul was married on 30 Nov in the BVM Chapel at St. Bernadette’s with a nifty “reception to follow” at Kinross Avenue. KT turned sweet sixteen in Aug, and Moni graduated from grade school that summer. Also that would be the summer we would duck around Mr. Steinmetz at Ocean City. Lots of living was going on.

On 22 Mar 1971 I took my final flight before being permanently grounded by the FAA. This time it was a familiarization flight out of Tipton AFB at Fort Meade where I had just joined their Aero Club. In the course of our brief four-year flying career, Kathleen and I acquired 272 hours of flying time (split just about evenly between us), landed at 29 airports (including the big-3 locals of DCA, BWI, and IAD), got every one of our kids into the air (though Anne opted for George as her pilot), and flew as far north and east as Northampton, Mass., and as far west as Sky Bryce, and as far south as Myrtle Beach. It was a great experience, but not without its stupidities.

We did multiple go-arounds trying to set down at Sky Bryce’s higher elevation, raised a query from the Dulles tower as to whether we were all right after bouncing down the runway there [Digital Editor Note: Charlie was passenger on that flight. It was Sky Bryce tower that raised the query, not Dulles tower,] almost flipped over when our wheels struck the snow bank at the plowed end of the Frederick runway, illegally got above solid cloud cover over BWI en route from Montgomery to Ocean City, and raised a plea from the Harrisburg tower to set down on “any runway you want, just get it down” (after missing the assigned runway), landed downwind at Easton, and into on-coming traffic at Orange County, VA. Oh well, we were insured and our wills were made out, but we sure were lucky. The doctors ruled we were too unhealthy to fly, but we’d concede that flying was too unhealthy for us. We really enjoyed it while it lasted, though. Meanwhile, proving the old axiom that another springs up to replace the one that goes down, Charlie had left in Jul for Pensacola. He was the second of our sons whom we had delivered up to Uncle Sam. This time, instead of going to Annapolis, we simply took Charlie to DCA. I must confess that such events were always heartrending ones for me. I’ve always loathed goodbyes right up to and including the boarding of Jesse and Laurie at BWI the summer of 1984 following our wonderful togetherness at Ocean City. At least we never had to see John off to the service, but Mary made up for that. Hell! I guess we ought to count our blessings that we’ve so far not lost one in battle. Many of our contemporaries have. So, thanks be to God.

Blue and Gold, Baron and Spouse – Pre-flight at Ocean City, MD

Pre-flight at Ocean City, MD

Kathleen over Susquehanna enroute to Harrisburg

Illegal IFR flight

Digital Edition Note: Caption in the book includes the following conversation between Jack and Kathleen: “No, Dear, that isn’t snow. You mean we’re illegally IFR? Slightly, as in slightly pregnant. Whatever shall we tell the FAA? They’ve got to find us first!”

Still, the goodbyes were tough enough for me. I remember I gave Charlie a copy of a letter appropriate to such occasions, even as I was later to give a copy to Mary when her turn came. It was written by a judge to his son on the latter’s departing Concord for the Civil War on 15 Dec 1862, but it is timeless. For those of you who never experienced the surrender of your freedom in the service of our beloved country, I include it here. Why? I think it expresses some noble sentiments. So, here’s to our home-departing soldiers, sailors, and air-persons:

I did not have the opportunity I had hoped to talk with you last evening, and therefore take this opportunity to give you a few last words of affectionate counsel from home.

One of your first duties as a soldier will be to take all the care you can of your health. The firmer that it is, the better you will be able to do any service or undergo any fatigue required of you. To preserve you health, you must try to lead as regular and temperate a life as possible. I hope you will not try to avoid your full share of labor or danger of exposure where either is necessary or called for. Take every proper occasion for bathing your whole body and scrupulously regard your personal cleanliness, no matter how much trouble it may give you. Have nothing to do with spiritous liquors of any kind. Take your food regularly as you can get it, and neither eat immoderately nor go a long time without food, if you can avoid it. Especially be careful not to eat in excess after long fasting. I hope you will never disgrace yourself by any profanity or obscenity, and will avoid all conversations and companions where they are practiced or allowed.

Try to preserve a cheerful and contented spirit and encourage it in others. Bear hardships without grumbling and always try to do more, rather than less, than your duty. You will have occasion to be patient much oftener than to be brave. The duty of a soldier is unquestioning obedience, but, beyond this, I hope you will cultivate a kind, respectful and considerate temper toward your enlisted personnel.

I hope you are going with a love for your country and your cause, and with determination to be faithful to every duty to be undertaken. My child, you bear the name of one who, to the end of his honored life, never shrunk from a duty, however painful, nor from a danger to which duty called him. Be sure that you do no discredit to it! Neither by cowardice, by falsehood, by impurities, by levity nor by selfishness.

Remember always your home and your friends – those who will welcome your return with pride and joy if you shall come back in virtue and honor; who will cherish your memory if, faithful and true, you have given up your life, but to whom your disgrace would cause a pang sharper than death. Remember your obligations to duty and to God. And may these thoughts keep you from temptation and encourage and strengthen you in danger or sickness.

And now, my dear child, I commend you to God and to the power of His grace. May God bless and keep you. Think of your Heavenly Father in health and in sickness, in joy and in sorrow. Go to Him for strength and guidance. You are very dear to our hearts and your absence leaves a great place vacant in our home. If it be according to His will, may you come back to us in safety and honor, but whatever is before us, may His mercy and love be ever with you and His grace be sufficient for you. With deep affection, s/Father.

In addition to Martha’s wedding, the other big event of 1971 was Charlie’s commissioning at Pensacola. Kathleen and I, George, Pat and Bobby went down. Our reserved independent motel’s air-conditioning was down, so we relocated to what turned out to be a much nicer Rodeway chain motel. Pat and George attended a special dinner celebration with Charlie the night before commissioning while Kathleen and I babysat, enjoying martinis and club sandwiches in our room.

The ceremonies the following day constitute one glorious memory. Charlie was one of 27 commissioned that day, and a proudly uniformed George got to present him with his commission and pin on his Ensign bars. Charlie’s graduation from TraRon 10 followed in Jan. Not only was Charlie one of 4 honor men, he was the honor man! He was also designated “Outstanding Flight Student.” WELL DONE, Charlie!

Charlie’s commissioning – October 01, 1971

But even with all this, you haven’t heard the most amazing thing about this happening: for once the Wrights didn’t end the listing of participants! Two guys whose names began with “Z” came after Charlie: Zavaglia and Zutkis. Thanks, fellows! But then came the problem of orders. Charlie was planning to be married (on 18 Mar 72 as it turned out), but this little deal had to be integrated with his presence in DC and he was still awaiting orders. It turns out that “some friend” in Washington applied so much phone pressure in DC that Charlie was the sole person in his group to receive any orders throughout the entire month following graduation. Of course the orders turned out to be for Guam (where’s Guam?) rather than for the expected exotica of Rota, Spain. With friends like Charlie had in DC (I shall remain nameless), who needs enemies?

Even as Charlie was proving to be so “outstanding” in Florida, I was receiving another outstanding performance rating back in old DC. These accolades, which entailed a substantial “step” pay-raise, were predicated on successfully performing at an outstanding level from 3 different aspects: quantity, quality, and adaptability. I shall only inject one item representative of each of these 3 categories at this point:

Exceptional performance is reflected in the completely revised arrangement and initial drafting of, and the correlating and assimilating departmental component comments thereon (through four revisions), of the soon-to-be-issued SECNAVINST l0462.13A, which exceeds 100 pages. This highly complex quasi-technical/quasi-legal document integrates and codifies all presently prevailing policy pronouncements from extra-Navy ADPE authorities (OSD, GSA and OMB) re the department-wide ADPE evaluation/selection/acquisition.

Budget operations have consistently been conducted in a manner exceeding normal requirements. First of all, the justification and backup provided with original budget submissions is of such quality that the initial reviewing authority has thus far never had to request additional information nor reduce the initial level of the funds requested. Further, this period was characterized by a smooth conversion from a staff to a field-office status, with substantially different budget submission and accounting forms, policies, and procedures, which were additionally complicated by split-year funding under the two systems.

Completed the preparation of (and then immediately had to thoroughly revise) an office operating manual exceeding 150 pages, and comprising more than 50 appendices, to translate the full gamut of standard working procedures to the new field-office operating environment.

You may have noted that we have already edged well into 1972. This was to be another big family year. Charlie was married at St. John’s Church on New Hampshire Avenue, and we all then celebrated at an expansive reception at the Bethesda Officers’ Club. Great Day! Martha graduated from college, but skipped the graduation exercise. Mary turned 18, but thanks to her knack for skipping grades she had already graduated from high school at 17. I remember her evening graduation exercise at the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, a clear but sultry summer night.

Meanwhile, Mike was being born on Martha’s birthday. But even as people were being born in our family, many world figures were dying. This was the year Harry Truman died, and the Duke of Windsor – a real doer and a real do-nothing! We were also rid at last of J. Edgar Hoover.

The Godfather was holding forth on the silver screen, a guy named Toth (no relative, thank God!) defaced the Pieta, and Clifford Irving defaced himself over the Howard Hughes biography fraud. The Senate sent ERA to the states for ratification. Nixon went to China. Unfortunately, he came back. Kathleen and I took a weekend trip to the Eastern Shore, and I came back a changed man – literally! I was coming up on age 55 now, and was beginning to look forward to retirement in 1973. Our visit to the Eastern Shore was actually to scout out a possible retirement home in Talbot (Easton area) County. It was over the second weekend following Easter, and that Sunday we attended mass in Easton, and the young preacher – one of those really good preachers you meet so rarely in life – preached on the psalm (#16): “Oh Lord, You will show me the path of life!” And, indeed, He did! This event marks not merely the end of this chapter, it signaled a radical change in my life – the end of an era. Read on!

ERA rally @ Capitol – July 09, 1978

XIX. GROWTH

The secret of life and development is … to fall in with the forces at work to do every moment’s duty aright. – George MacDonald

My “Damascus experience” occurred at Mass on a Sunday morning in Easton, MD, on 16 Apr 1962. Unlike Paul, rather than being blinded, my eyes were opened. As I approached retirement, I was increasingly wondering what I would do to continue to feel useful once I terminated formal employment. That morning lightning struck. I had a sudden sense that anything and everything I’d done so far was mere prologue, that my most important work might yet lie ahead of me. Now I knew what I must do. As I saw it, heretofore I’d pretty much just been in business for myself and our family. I had been tightly focused on earning a living and raising our children. Henceforth I would focus on working for others – the less fortunate.

Now, there are people who seemingly can pursue both courses simultaneously, but I’d certainly never be confused with these heroic figures. I could admire them, but I could never emulate them. I could never concentrate on more than one thing at a time, with any reasonable hope for success. More often than not, one thing at a time would prove to be too much for me to handle. In all events, I felt I was now at a point in our lives where I could safely afford to redirect my efforts and reorder my priorities. In fact, I sensed a very definite call to do just that. So it was that I investigated, applied for, and was accepted into the Archdiocesan Permanent Deacon Program.

I moved with my customary dispatch and thoroughness. My records show that I completed my first reading of the Bishops’ Committee publication, Permanent Deacons in the U.S. Guidelines on Their Formation and Ministry, on 21 Apr 1972. This, you will note, was a mere five days after I first experienced the call. Clearly I was moving right along. Actually, this program was both comprehensive and complex, and my problem at this point will be to refrain from recounting more about the office of deacon than you would ever want to know. I shall endeavor, therefore, to deal only with those aspects of the program which most specifically impacted me. Beyond that, a word of caution is in order at the outset: I am probably not a fair judge of the objectives or worth of the permanent diaconate.

While I personally profited from my participation in the program enormously, I never did actually become a deacon, and in fact I came to believe that as presently conceived and implemented in the U.S. it is about as useful as a fifth wheel. So, you would be well advised to discount somewhat any negative comments anent this program. My disaffection arose basically from three considerations: (1) I came to believe that I had not received a call after all (due to an accumulation of worrisome personal insights, such as my seeming failure within my own family at that time, i.e., Mary’s situation); (2) I became frustrated at the lack of an underlying theology for validly substantiating the modern (post–Vatican II) reinstatement of the office; and (3) I intuitively balked at a permanent commitment to the Archbishop.

You should know that the most vital qualification for becoming a permanent deacon is that one received a call from God. Christ is, as St. John has said, “The true light that enlightens all men,” but when it comes to Holy Orders (which embrace bishops, priests and deacons), Christ said, “It was not you who chose me, it was I who chose you.” This is what is meant by call, and such is certainly what I felt I had heard that Apr Sunday of 1972 in Easton, MD. Now, we can’t be sure, but it is fairly commonly thought that the institution of the diaconate may well have occurred as recounted in Acts of the Apostles when the twelve soon found that they needed help. Thereupon they reportedly said to the assembled community, “It is not right for us to neglect the Word of God, in order to wait on tables.” So seven men were designated for that task. So it is that service is the essence of the deacon’s task.

The word comes from the Greek, dyackonos; that is, servant – especially one who serves at tables. Whether this particular figure is merely symbolic, there can be no doubt that the essential surviving function of the deacon is to respond to the more-or-less non-sacramental needs of the community, and thereby free the priest to concentrate on preaching and administering the sacraments, especially hearing confessions and confecting the Holy Eucharist. That community service is the proper function of the deacon is confirmed by the historical fact that the initial decline of the office was precipitated by an absorption with administering Church property (in lieu of serving community needs), and preoccupation with liturgy (duplicating priestly functions, as it were).

Now it is important that you understand that the immediately foregoing personal stipulations as to the proper diaconal mission is a clearer statement of the theology of the diaconate than I was ever favored to hear or read. What does it mean? Essentially it means that the deacon’s work is formally (in the name of the Church) to perform the corporal and spiritual works of mercy: feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned, shelter the homeless, visit the sick, bury the dead; and admonish the sinner, instruct the ignorant, counsel the doubtful, comfort the sorrowful, bear wrongs patiently, forgive all injuries, and pray for the living and the dead. “Well,” you might exclaim, “Isn’t that the proper business of all Christians?” Of course it is, but this is the deacon’s paramount function and number-one duty, and he does it as a ordained minister of the Church, which brings to bear the special grace, charisms, and power with which Holy Orders reinforce one. This, it then seemed to me, would be a super way of expending my diminishing energies in my declining years in retirement. I therefore embraced the program with my traditional all-out gusto.

First, I became a weekly volunteer to the University Nursing Home where I showed movies (from the County library system) every Friday for ambulatory patients for the next eleven years – being cited in 1978 as the Maryland Hospital Association’s Volunteer of the Year. Next (after I had actually retired) I additionally became a one-day-a-week volunteer assistant to County Probation officers, in which I made out court-required reports, tracked down nonpayers of child support and alimony, visited homes of parolees to assure compliance to terms of parole, etc. Next, I became a one-day-a-week trainee for the role of both district and circuit court parole officer. This interesting billet required attendance at court as assigned by the district attorney, and then (when appropriate) conducting pre-sentencing investigations of convicted defendants, explaining the terms of parole to them (and the guardians or parents of minors). This was a fascinating experience. Additionally, I became an ex officio member of the St. Bernadette’s parish council, where I monitored (and on request gave opinions re) all matters and issues under discussion. I also became a regular lector.

All the foregoing was in addition to attending two-hour training sessions two nights a week and one full Saturday per month at the old Josephite Seminary at 13th and Varnum streets in Washington, diagonally situated from the home in which I was raised from age 6 to 17. Finally, I became the administrator of Fr. Burke’s Word of God Institute, which in time became such an all-consuming effort that I one-by-one had to suspend all the aforementioned efforts except the Nursing Home business. I was totally absorbed in one effort or another 8-to-12 hours a day, seven days a week. I was busier than when I had been a full-time government employee. The parole and probation efforts, and in a somewhat different way the Nursing Home effort, all proved one thing to me. There are a hell of lot of people around us every day who really are hurting – and we remain largely oblivious to them.

I would hope that the foregoing recital provides ample testimony of the powerful thrust of the Permanent Deacon Program as a factor in what I consider a major transformation in my life. After all, heretofore I was almost a “professional” nonparticipant, a totally self-centered loner. Suddenly, I’m out every evening and throughout every weekend, working in the service of my fellow man in one way of another. Moreover, I didn’t have to be pushed. I was completely swept up in the whole program. Nor was I an “average” participant in the program. Despite my being in what might be considered the “freshman” class, it was I who volunteered and single-handedly conceived, designed and developed the script and all the slides for a recruitment presentation anent the program in our Archdiocese. I determined upon and then took all the pictures required for slides, had them developed, and then mounted them all at personal expense, for which I never received promised reimbursement. (Priests operate that way.) My original script was reviewed by the priest-staff conducting the program and left virtually unchanged. I even cued in and provided musical fanfare intro, accompaniment, and a smash coda. The presentation was an outstanding success, and may (as far as I know) still be in use.

In similar fashion, when I learned that the late Monsignor Corbett (then at St. Gabriel’s) was fingered by the Archbishop to be in charge of the planned periodic Archbishop’s review of all his parishes, I visited him to volunteer to assemble all the individual reports, summarize each one, and collate strengths and weaknesses, etc., to be presented to the Archbishop for action and for dissemination to all clergy for their guidance. I was so assigned. I then designed several statistical forms and a master summary chart and provided Monsignor Corbett with regular weekly summary reports: one for the Archbishop, one for dissemination to all clergy. (This is what might be called “leap-frogging” to the very top. It seems I really did like to take charge. And, speaking of “charge,” contrary to promises this effort also entailed unrecompensed expenses!)

In this manner I learned the big picture about the entire diocese better than anybody in the diocese – including even Msgr. Corbett or the Archbishop – since they personally received only what I chose to summarize for them. My master summary chart provided a fascinating and comprehensive analysis of diocesan management and mismanagement. I kept it for years, being reluctant to toss out such a treasure trove of inside information, but I finally did trash it. One amusing aside in this experience was my summary sheet regarding St. Bernadette’s and the summary Msgr. Stricker presented from the pulpit shortly after the St. Bernadette’s review. Suffice it to say that the good Monsignor must have acquired his rose-colored glasses from Ronald Reagan’s optometrist.

The program comprised two years of formal training, followed by ordination and a year of supervised internship. To qualify for acceptance into the program it was held that “a man must be respected and involved in his community and have a firm intention of permanent commitment to a life of service in the Church.” Admission to the program began with submittal of a hand-written letter from the applicant outlining his reasons for interest in the program. This is followed by intensive interviews of the applicant and his wife. Naturally I had no difficulty with the latter part. Kathleen was simply a marvelous asset. Beyond that, I must have really generated a snow-job of blizzard proportions, because up to that time I had had a zero involvement with my community. As for the permanent commitment aspect, I’m certain that at that time I did indeed feel so committed in mind and body.

In any event, the foregoing recital of efforts in which I soon became totally involved certainly sufficed to meet the involvement requirement. The commitment requirement was something else, but the way it evolved was strange. The fact is, I was sailing merrily along, completely absorbed in the program, fully dedicated – until the final session of the first year (about Nov 1973). There was a midpoint in that evening’s program at which we took a break. The priest-director thereupon announced that when we reassembled he would have the forms for us to sign pledging life-long allegiance in the service of the Archbishop. I thought somberly about this as I went to the head, and then turned, went out to my car and drove off never to return. I simply knew then and there, for the first time, that I just couldn’t sign any such pledge. Strange! There had not been a hint of the slightest doubt as to where I was heading, right up to that very point. Strange, indeed.

I would hope my withdrawal might at least say something about the seriousness with which I make personal commitments. I’m certainly satisfied that it does. Of course, I immediately wrote long letters to the Archbishop, the program director, and to Msgr. Corbett. The only distressed party was Msgr. Corbett, who was extremely worried about the confidential information to which I’d had access as a imminent “insider” who was now a rank “outsider.” I assured him not to worry, and to the best of my recollection this constitutes my first and only reference to the entire operation. As for the priest-director, he was clearly upset at losing his most productive prospect. In fact, shortly after I left the program he invited me to a private session in which he outlined his plans to erect a Senior Citizens Home on the land immediately abutting the rear of the Josephite Seminary. He was positive that I was precisely the dynamic type of individual who could take it over, head it up, and get the job done. Well, hey, I know my limits (some of them, anyway), so I said “Thanks, but no thanks!” But in the immortal words of Rosanne Rosannadanna, “It just goes to show you!” Clearly, I had made an impression.

The question, though, really ought to be what kind of impression the program had made on me. Well, everything said about it up to this juncture totally misses the point! All the foregoing concerns externals – window dressing. It doesn’t go to the heart of the matter – how I had changed, how I had grown, how I had assimilated a totally new perspective on life, on the Church, and on myself. This, I believe, is the crucial importance of the program to me, and I’d have to say that this personal impact was simply tremendous – a 180-degree turn. Let me explain. Vatican II began in Oct of 1962 and concluded in Dec 1965, but I didn’t really become aware of its full import until my participation in the diaconate program beginning in Sep of 1972. I was a mere seven years late getting the news. (But, at least I did get it. A lot of people haven’t gotten it to this day!)

The fact is that until this program I was a full-fledged, 100-percent, card-carrying Catholic of the pre-Vatican II mold. I was doctrinaire, tunnel-visioned, and accepted and did everything by rote. Now, doing things by rote is not necessarily bad, but it is important that one not lose sight of the underlying reasons for and meanings of things that one comes to do quite perfunctorily. It is important that we remember the root of the matter. It is also important that one look beyond the surface of Vatican II, and I had never done that. Like a lot of other people, I was totally preoccupied by relative superficialities such as the Mass being said in English, the priest facing the congregation, and the relaxation of fasting and abstinence regulations and the like. I remained totally oblivious to the real achievements of Vatican II.

Well, the diaconate experience was like a lifting of scales from my eyes, and I gradually became aware that something really tremendous had occurred. The Church had formally gotten on the record that it had shifted its focus from the medieval dark ages to the 20th century. The emphasis was shifted from doctrinal questions (such as permeated Trent and Vatican I) to pastoral affairs (a genuine concern for administering to the faithful). Still, I concur with theologian Eduard Shillebeeckx that the pastoral character of Vatican II is nothing more than the expression of a new sensitivity to dogmatic truths. In this perspective the Council is seen as a creative force in Catholic thought and not as merely an authoritative sanction of already existing trends.

The Council not only consolidated the past, it also gave a new impetus to the present. It can therefore be expected to be a source of continuing renewal far into the future. For this reason, it was about this time that I presented each then married child of ours with a copy of The Documents of Vatican II, which I had found to be a fantastic gold mine of dynamic new insights evolved from seemingly dormant old theological propositions. Foremost among these exciting new formulations were: the Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation, the Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions, and the Declaration on Religious Liberty. Citing these three documents is in no way intended to denigrate the force and importance of others, but merely to underscore their outstanding significance. For example, Shillebeeckx refers to the Constitution on Revelation as “in many ways the Council’s crown jewels.”

I am certain that Vatican II will in time to come be seen as a watershed reformation in the life of the Church, and not because of the superficialities alluded to earlier, but because of the innovative substance of the key documents noted. I don’t wish to convert this alleged autobiography into a religious polemic (if it isn’t already too late!), so I won’t pursue this further, except to exclaim that it behooves sincerely conscientious Catholics to familiarize themselves with the documents of Vatican II. I earnestly exhort this of my children. Should they wish to turn their backs on their Christian heritage, that is their right, but they should at least endeavor to know what it is they are rejecting.

As my father did before me, we always sought to keep good religious literature readily at hand. So it is that I have farmed out books to my progeny from time to time. In addition to the Vatican II book, I similarly distributed copies of Merton’s Confessions of a Guilty Bystander, C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity, and James Burtchael’s Philemon’s Problem. I do hope somebody out there profited from them. I sure did. The only feedback I ever got was that Kathy once commented that of the books I’d sent them she greatly preferred Mere Christianity. Thanks, Kathy!

One of the best fruits of my deacon venture was totally unexpected on my part. I soon came to realize that it wasn’t an exclusively personal experience after all. Our whole family got swept up into it to varying degrees. This was guaranteed to some extent by the staff. The program was designed to involve the spouse as fully as possible. Specific sessions were held for the wives, both with and without the deacon candidates themselves present. So it was that to this day Kathleen is still a Nursing Home volunteer, and a regular volunteer with Silver Spring HELP, a community organization dedicated to providing emergency food, funds, shelter, transportation, and other services to the needy. Mary, too, became especially involved, taking a job with Fr. Burke’s Word of God Institute, where she began working daily at the end of her school day at Maryland University. Maureen became a “Candy Striper” volunteer helper at the Nursing Home. Actually all the family participated one way or another. E.g., John helped with the slide picture-taking, and others supported me in various ways on my many service projects. Then, too, there were regular picnics that brought all the deacon families together at the Seminary, and these usually included a parallel religious ceremony as well. All of this, though, was merely a sort of window-dressing for the real impact of the program on our family as a more loving, more spiritually motivated unit dedicated to charitable service to our neighbor. A wholesome sense of doing for others was generated and spread throughout our household.

Well, I guess I’ve about shot my wad re the deacon venture, and that brings us back to the thread of our story, where we note that George Wallace was shot while campaigning in nearby Laurel on 15 May 1972. He was then rushed to even nearer Holy Cross Hospital, and so dominated local headlines for the balance of the year. Our country took a double beating that Jun of 72. On the 17th a fairly famous “third-rate burglary” occurred at Watergate. On the 19th the watergates swung open with a vengeance as hurricane Agnes lashed the Atlantic coastal region, including our beloved Ocean City, wreaking an all-time-worst three-billion-dollars’ worth of damage. Meanwhile, I was continuing my outstanding ways, racking up another commendation from my boss for superior performance, thus:

In addition to ongoing routine tasks, which were uniformly accommodated ahead of schedule with no degradation of customary outstanding quality, and notwithstanding such protracted special efforts as elaborated elsewhere, Mr. Wright also handled urgent, cumbersome, and exceedingly delicate special tasks of an unprecedented nature as typified by his successfully serving as DeptNav focal point for providing the Dept. of Justice complete record/file data as essential to comply with court orders anent the IBM anti-trust case.

Representative of the quality and variety of “special papers” are preparation and “as is” acceptance of: a citation for CNO signature and presentation of a Legion of Merit award; and the swift and fully accepted reclama (a rare item indeed) of a Navy-wide ad hoc personnel reduction caveat via a thorough and incontestable delineation of the full dimensions of intolerable potential impact.

The latter accomplishment was an unparalleled achievement in the face of the universally prevailing accent on austerity which resulted in arbitrary reductions (virtually across-the-board cuts) within the DeptNav. Budget operations have continued to be conducted in a manner exceeding normal requirements. Further, this period was characterized by almost 100% absorption of substantial (government-wide) pay raises, and an unprecedented mid-year voluntary surrender of a portion of previously allocated funds (perhaps an unparalleled event in all government annals!); all in a climate wherein most activities/offices were requesting fund augmentations. Further, where most activities/offices necessarily had to freeze promotions, ADPESO’s promotion actions could continue to be accommodated as merited.

As we moved into July of 1972 the good news was that Mike was born on Martha’s birthday, the 29th. This was also about the time Martha graduated from Maryland University. Otherwise things began falling apart. Tom Eagleton, McGovern’s choice for Veep, confessed that he had indeed undergone electric shock treatment for mental disorders on several occasions, and had to withdraw after only two weeks into the campaign. On the home front we also experienced an electrifying shock – we learned that our eighteen-year-old Mary was “expecting.” Well, this would have been enough fireworks for our 4th of July that year, but there were more. The day following Mary’s news flash I received a call from the Silver Spring police early in the morning advising that they were holding our fifteen-year-old Monica. This was definitely not to be one of our better weeks.

It was inevitable that at precisely this point in my diaconate training program the subject under discussion would be Paul’s discourse (1 Tim: 8-13): “Deacons … must be men who manage their children and families well,” and so forth. To say that I was suddenly overwhelmed with doubts and a sense of failure would be to put it mildly, but I am not the point at this juncture. Our real concern at this point naturally became Mary. In a way, it’s too bad that the full gamut of detailed recollections can’t be set forth here, but such an invasion of privacy (Mary’s and Laurie’s) would be unforgivable. As Plutarch has already been observed to say: “It is a part of wisdom to be silent when occasion demands.” Accordingly, one shouldn’t be confused into thinking that a necessarily superficial and almost casual reference to this real-life drama in any way reflects our attitude or deep concern with respect to it.

We rallied from our initial shock and unspoken “how could you” disbelief almost immediately, and became 100% supportive of Mary’s desires. You have to be a realist in such situations. You have to deal with matters “as they exist and not as you wish,” and do your best to figure out “where do we go from here.” I confess my initial questioning in this affair might have seemed harsh, but I was dealing with what the courts refer to as “a hostile witness,” that is, information upon which to base decisions wasn’t readily forthcoming. On the other hand, I recall concluding this distressing interview by kissing Mary on the forehead and making the sign of the cross on her only slightly blossoming tummy. Then I sprang into action with my customary all-out energy.

I had to break the news to Kathleen’s parents and to my mother. The latter amazed me with a rare deluge of compassion. The Kirks were fully supportive as well, and didn’t venture the slightest judgmental observation. Next I consulted with our pastor, Msgr. Stricker; then with the Director of Catholic Charities; and then our lawyer-friend, Bob Carey. I was bent upon guaranteeing Mary every possible legal protection and every possible ecclesiastical benefit (such as assistance from various institutions operated by the Church for assistance to people in Mary’s position).

With one exception (Blue Cross support) all my intercessions turned out to be unnecessary, as Mary intended and proved to be fully capable of taking care of herself. Beyond being unnecessary, however, some of these actions boomeranged. For example, the Catholic Charities director, who had seemed so supportive and helpful in a private interview, resorted to an “us against you” harangue on morality and family betrayal and the like once Mary was ushered onto the scene. I was so taken aback by this Jekyll and Hyde role-reversal that I felt physically ill. This incident totally shattered my already minimal respect for so-called Catholic charity.

It was the same on the legal front. Mary had no desire to enforce any rights with respect to the putative father. This was natural, since willful love on her part was involved here. Taking note of this, I eventually (after Laurie was born) cosigned to enable Mary to secure her own apartment, thereby endeavoring to facilitate a continuing liaison if such was her desire, and concurrently serve to facilitate paternal support. Again, the old boomerang. I learned only years later that this was interpreted as being expelled from home. The lesson here is clear: Why don’t we communicate instead of playing word games and merely trying to divine each other’s feelings?

Well, no matter, the advent of Laurie in due course was and remains a great blessing for all concerned: A Deo Datus – gift of God! Life always goes on and in the process we all grow, spiritually as well as mentally and physically. So it was that KT left home that summer for a camp counseling job in Florida. In fact all of us left home briefly that August for the Seacrest in Ocean City. Remember the lack of air-conditioning on those steamy nights? Remember the all-night noise from the adjoining Irish Pub? Remember the nightly lynching of Johnny’s vulture? (Or was that our second summer at the Seacrest the following year?)

Anyhow the year trundled into fall. On 5 Sep came the Munich Olympian Massacre, and the death of 5 terrorists and 9 Hebrew athletes. By then I was fully immersed in the deacon program and that Nov I began my eleven years as a University Nursing Home volunteer. I also began working as time permitted at the Word of God Institute for Father Burke. On 26 Oct Charlie and Kathy headed west from Oakland for faraway Guam. What were Charlie and Kathy doing in Oakland, you might ask. Well, after Charlie got his wings at Brunswick, Georgia on 10 Mar 72, he got married in DC on 18 Mar. Immediately thereafter he and Kathy cross-countried honeymoon-wise for temporary duty in Oakland. In Dec Life magazine folded after 39 years of publication. On the 7th of Dec Gene Cernan became the last man on the moon as Apollo 17 concluded our 6th lunar expedition. All in all, 1972 was a very full year, but one could hope 1973 might be better.

The start was not an auspicious one: Miami 14-Redskins 7, and George Allen’s caution had lost us the Super Bowl. On 22 Jan the Supreme Court released its infamous abortion ruling. (It should be interjected here that an objective reading of the relevant documentation – and John and I have read it all – reveals that from a strictly legal standpoint the Court had no constitutional alternative to what it did. It therefore seems to me that the only “general” remedy available is in fact to amend the Constitution, which I don’t foresee.) On 27 Jan the draft ended. John turned 21 that Aug and Herbie would have been 12 in May, so our boys were now out of danger – short of war, of course. This was the year of The Sting, and the year when LBJ, Picasso, and Edward G . Robinson died.

Now for the good news: Terri and Laurie were born on 21 Jan 1973, in that order and only several hours but 6,650 miles apart (Laurie at Georgetown and Terri on Guam). We now had four grandchildren; first two boys and now two girls. Laurie gave us a momentary initial scare due to a swelling on her head which soon subsided. On the other hand, we weren’t even to see Terri until a month after her second birthday.

Digital Edition Note: Charlie says: Not true! Terri and Katie did return to Maryland from Guam in February of 1975 – one month after Terri’s second birthday. But Jack and Kathleen had previously visited Guam (among other places) and met Terri there in November of 1974 when she was 20 months old – four monthe before her second birthday. Their Pacific trip is recounted some half-dozen pages later in this chapter.

Anne served as Mary’s guardian angel at this point. Mary lived with Anne and Doug at their house in Takoma Park for the last few months of her pregnancy, and Anne drove her to the hospital. As hinted at earlier, one of the neatest things of all that my research of Mary’s situation had revealed was that my Blue Cross would pay all of Mary’s hospital bills, since by their rules she was still a qualified dependent of mine. So, all was not in vain, as this was a substantial bonus.

Slowly the year 1973 wended its way into March. On the 23rd, McCord started talking about Watergate, and the country hasn’t stopped talking about it since. On the 31st, at one week past age 55, I retired after 38 years (including a substantial allowance for unused sick leave) of government service. A small pro forma retirement party was held. I believe this was at the old Washington Navy Yard O-Club. Kathleen attended, as did Anne. (In fact, shortly after this, Anne held some special celebration at her Takoma Park home where she and the rest of the children put on a “Jack Wright – This is Your Life!” [based on a popular television program of the era] presentation. Thanks, Anne, that was a really nice surprise.) Frankly, I don’t remember much about my retirement party. I do remember making a small speech to which my sincerely stated conclusion was: “Today, more than ever before, I can truthfully say I gave everything my best shot, and I envy no man. I’m just grateful for all the blessings I’ve enjoyed along the way.”

I received no special award on this occasion. (No wonder! I’m the guy that always wrote up the awards for earlier retirees.) Neither do I recall any great emceeing job, as was customary for such celebrations. (Again, I wasn’t working that day.) Nevertheless my relief and joy was boundless. Now I could spend all day, every day, with Kathleen. This is what I’d been working toward for 38 years (since our engagement on 29 Jul 1935 to my retirement on 31 Mar 1973). It should also be remembered that I worked only a three-day week my entire last year, as I used up accumulated annual leave so as not to lose most of an alternative lump sum payment to an inflated income tax rate. I also used up every hour of sick leave which couldn’t be credited toward longevity for pension calculation purposes (and I was “really” sick – of work!).

So at last my professional career came to an end. I had no regrets. I was satisfied that I had squeezed every possible advantage out of my limited talents. Much of my work had been very rewarding personally. I was ready to move on. However, before doing that, I think the short speech summarizing my efforts, offered by my boss at my retirement party, should be incorporated at this point, thus:

On 31 Mar 1973 after thirty-eight years of faithful “MUSTERING,” you are about to “abandon” the ship for that long-awaited permanent shore duty. From the year 1936 when you entered the Naval Academy until the year 1973, you have worked conscientiously and diligently for the betterment of the Navy, and now, at last, you are about to enjoy a status we all, I think, look forward to reaching. It is in this context, Jack, that proper and due respect shall be paid to you, truly an outstanding member of the Navy team for so long a period.

Your career has been one of progressive advancement and continued effectiveness. This is reflected in having received at least three Outstanding Performance Ratings, two Sustained Superior Performance Citations, a Superior Achievement Award, and numerous commendations. The statistics are impressive, but they really tell only a small part of the total story.

The Navy’s ADPE acquisition program bears your stamp of personal dedication. Serving at a time when automatic data processing equipment was being developed and proliferated, you, perhaps more than any other man, were responsible in formulating Navy policy for governing its acquisition, usage, and control. These labors, it should be noted, culminated in the Navy’s ADPE policy being followed by other DOD components and other Government agencies. While you may be retiring, your keen foresight will keep the Navy in the ADPE leadership role for many years to come and serve as a legacy for the benefit of those who remain. In short, Jack Wright’s input, both technically and editorially, will long be noticed.

Among your many attributes is one that is distinctly superior – the ability to express yourself through the written medium. True professionalism was always brought to bear when your assignment called for the written word; your superiors, colleagues and subordinates have all admired this extraordinary ability. In retrospect, your civilian career has included working for the Bureau of Ships, the Navy Management Office, the Office of Management Information, and the Automatic Data Processing Equipment Selection Office. Apparently you found the Navy challenging; obviously the Navy was fortunate for having the use of your talents for so long. It has been a good match.

I commend you for valued service and endless contributions. Please accept my sincere congratulations on this occasion, and for all who have known and served with you, we wish you many years of happy retirement. You have earned it.

I wasn’t the only one “retiring” at about this time. Two other journeymen government workers tossing in the towel were named Ehrlichman and Haldeman. I suspect that neither of them could make my statement about no regrets and envying no man. They exited the government on 30 Apr, and by then it was clear Nixon was in the soup. The Watergate affair really took off. On 11 May charges of theft against Daniel Ellsberg over the Pentagon papers were dismissed. On 17 Apr the Ervin Senate Committee hearings began. By 25 Jun John Dean was on the stand. Meanwhile, George had “rejoined” the Navy even as I had been leaving it, having started work with the Office of Naval Comptroller as an Operations Research Analyst on 12 Jun. This was also just about the time KT was graduating from high school.

By then I was working around the clock for the Parole and Probation Office of the state of Maryland, and for Fr. Burke’s Word of God Institute. Mary, too, had joined us at WGI at about that time. It was Jul of 1973 that was “bombshell” month. On 16 Jul Schlesinger revealed the Cambodian bombing outrage. That same day Alexander Butterfield revealed the existence of the Nixon tapes. On the home front, Maureen provided our family bombshell of the month, being picked up at Wheaton’s Wards for shoplifting a 45-rpm record. It helped when I flashed my official Parole Officer ID card on the security guard at Wards. (Later my eleven years volunteer service at the Nursing Home gained my Mom same-day entrance when nobody else could get in without a long wait. Who says that bread cast upon the waters doesn’t come back to you?) And, so to the Seacrest for another Ocean City summer respite.

Now we were into the fall of 1973. Martha and Gary were off to the Philippines for three long years. On 21 Sep “Henry the K” took over the State Department. October gave us the Yom Kippur war. That was the bad news. The good news was that on the 10th Spiro resigned his vice presidency for income tax evasion. On the 20th Tricky gave us the thrill of “the Saturday Night Massacre.” Then OPEC gave us the oil embargo and the resulting long gasoline line-up. Hey! I said it was good news AND bad news. Leon Jaworski’s arrival brought some relief on 1 Nov, while the four Watergate burglars were sentenced on 9 Nov. On the home front, this was about the time I opted out of the deacon program, but continued in my various service ministries. It was during this period, too, that I read a translation of the Koran from cover to cover (something I’ve never been able to do yet with the Bible). I was surprised at the respect and honor it paid to both Jesus and Mary, but overall was shocked with its lack of spiritual depth in comparison with the New Testament. Anyway, by December Ford was our new Veep, and Matt was our new (#5) grandchild.

The year 1974 opened with Godfather II, and ironically a lot of VIP’s died that year: Chief Justice Earl Warren, columnist Walter Lippmann, Lindbergh, Chet Huntley, Duke Ellington, Ed Sullivan, and Jack Benny. My father’s brother, my Uncle El, also died. It all seems so long ago already. I once read (in an issue of Jehovah’s Witnesses’ Awake that our conception of the passing of time is a function of the time we have lived. Thus, for a l0-year-old, one year is one-tenth of a lifetime, and it seems to pass rather slowly. For a fellow of 55, a year is one-55th of a lifetime, and really seems to whiz by. Time was whizzing by for me now – and would seem to pass faster and faster. Surely all children become aware of how Christmases seem to come closer and closer together as they grow older.

Events moved swiftly in 1974 also. Impeachment proceedings began on 6 Feb. An event of some family significance also transpired on 20 Feb 74. Forever after we would never again simultaneously have 4 teenagers in the family, which we had had since 29 Jul 63. Imagine! living with four teenagers for more than 10 years! And I’ve got the gray hair to show for it. It was worth every damn one of them. Anyhow, the formal impeachment hearing opened on 4 May, even as the dratted oil embargo finally ended, along with the gas lines. Eureka! We also celebrated Jesse’s birthday on 15 May 1974. Soon John was graduating from college, entering the job market, and that’s sort of an epic in itself.

First of all, there were John’s eclectic high school and college curriculums. Two of the hardest things I ever had to do in my life were to keep my mouth shut about long hair on boys, and be supportive when John initially opted for Phys-Ed. Somehow I (and John) survived both. First John shifted into journalism (and thereby gained a writing skill which has served him so well professionally). Later, as he advanced through college, he inclined gradually into political science with a special emphasis on Russian culture and history. As it turned out, all of this set him up perfectly for a career in intelligence. This pay-off had a curious aspect as well. He mailed job applications to some 35 government agencies. He had one stamped envelope left over. Naturally, he then sent it to the one place which ended up tendering him a firm job offer! Providence?

On 1 Jul 74 Juan Peron died. Ho hum. On the 12th John Ehrlichman was found guilty of conspiracy to violate the civil rights of Daniel Ellsberg. Now, that was good news. There was more. On 24 to 26 Jul the House Judiciary Committee brought 3 articles of impeachment against the Tricky One. Still, the highlight of Jul 74 was the enjoyment of our first Quality Inn summer at Ocean City, with George and Pat’s family (then numbering only three boys) sharing an adjoining apartment. This is as good a time as any to mention that all previous references to Ocean City summers should be set back 3 years – that is, my 1973 report really describes the 1970 Ocean City event. Also, two of those summers were spent at the Stowaway. (I could say that I introduce these little discrepancies now and then to test my family reader’s memories, and even more so to give them the delight of screaming, “Hey! here’s another screw-up by the Old Man!” I could say that, but who would believe it?)

Anyhow, before you knew it, it was August, and John Dean was being sentenced for a conspiracy to obstruct justice, and Jerry Ford has replaced the Trickster as our president. And, Jerry was so right: “I’m a Ford, not a Lincoln.” He proved it on 8 Sep, the real date that should “live in infamy,” when he pardoned old Milhaus the Louse. He atoned for this to some degree later by granting a conditional amnesty for some ’Nam evaders. About this same time the Lt. Calley conviction was overturned by an appeals court.

That fall (1974, or was it 1973 – how quickly we forget), I was by virtue of my association with the deacon program and Monica’s intercession, a guest speaker to her Regina religion class. I don’t know, really, how it panned out, but I was never invited back. I remember this as one of my most nervous podium experiences ever. I mean, what possible interest could a group of militant young feminists have in an all-male program! Another school involvement about this time was my interest in a college course KT was then enjoying about the interaction of the age, sex, and number of siblings as a factor in one’s individual development and maturation. This was an entirely new area of formal study to me, and I found it fascinating, both generally and personally.

I had not yet started this book (though by now it seems I’ve been working on it for a least 20 years), but it startled me to reflect and discover that, indeed, I felt a major formative influence on my own evolution was my interaction with an “only granddaughter” sister, and a “sickly baby” brother. For the first time I had some clue to my seemingly inherent hostility as a youngster. Apparently I had recognized mine as being somewhat of a no-win position. I’m now convinced that parents can understand their own children infinitely better, if only they try and consider the inter-relationships of their siblings from the standpoint of the individual siblings.

We closed out the year 1974 with a real bang – a 19,306 mile trip to southeast Asia (SEA) that included stops at Chicago, Anchorage, Tokyo, Taipei, Hong Kong, Manila, Guam, Honolulu, and San Francisco. We found that United was the best airline, Hong Kong was our favorite city, and the President (in Taipei) our favorite hotel. We discovered that Honolulu was a disappointing rip-off, that we didn’t like calamari (squid) at San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf, and that Montezuma’s revenge was alive and flourishing in RPI. En route we had delightful visits with St. Anselm’s Fr. Urban in Taipei, the Carmelite nuns in Hong Kong, Gary and Martha in RPI, and Charlie, Kathy and Terri in Guam.

Our trip extended from 31 Oct to 21 Nov and was a personally customized first-class experience all the way. We encountered an airline strike in Tokyo (with an unplanned five-hour layover), the dynamiting of a mountain landslide in Taipei’s Tarako Gorge (the “Grand Canyon of the Orient”) which cost us a mountain-top luncheon, and a typhoon (Gloria) in RPI. We were especially impressed by the serenity and unhurried pace of the always smiling Chinese people, and their obvious family togetherness and mutual support and respect (as, for example, little children playing while carrying littler children in a backpack). Our most Hollywood movie–like event was a sunset cruise around Hong Kong, sipping gin and tonics. What nostalgia of early Navy days, and late-returning liberty boats … the sights … the sounds … and the smells. It was sort of a reincarnation of another lifetime, a long time ago. We simply loved the little we saw of China.

Grand Hotel – Taipei, Taiwan – November 1974

Hilton roof – Hong Kong – November 1974

Enroute Kowloon – Red China border – November 1974

Digital Edition Note: In the book caption, Jack noted that this was his “first brewhaha with San Miguel (beer.)”

The Philippines were another story. Our first and last impression was the same – poverty! The evident contentment of the Orient was also missing. Another lasting mental picture of a towering Martha waving hello and goodbye from the airport roof, thereby underscoring the shortness of the RPI male. The RPI women, on the other hand, were striking for their natural beauty. RPI also ushered in the family-fun leg of our trip, renewing acquaintances with the Toths in Carmenville, and with Charlie and Kathy’s family on Guam. One unusual sidelight on Clark Air Force Base (the world’s largest) was the picnic groups stopping by the morgue for ice – this same morgue (in a huge hangar) being the grim stop-over setting for returning victims from Viet Nam. Somehow this didn’t strike me as a very cheerful way to start out on a picnic – “Don’t forget to stop by the morgue!”

Clark Air Base, Philippines in front of HFDF antenna

Our first view of Guam was at night. The road from the airport to Charlie’s house wound up a mini-mountain, and we stopped at an overlook to view Agana – a beautiful, sparkling, jewel-like sight. Charlie and Kathy saw to it that we circled the whole island, doing the southern circuit one day and the northern circuit the next. On the southern circuit we passed another Carmelite Convent (those cloistered folks do get around). In fact, we saw more surfers just off-shore from their cliff house than we were later to see at fabled Waikiki – could the surfers have been the nuns? Surely not. I wonder! We also passed by my old hang-out, the “Top of the Mar” O Club, but I didn’t stop for stingers this time.

Digital Edition Note: In the middle of Chapter XII. PEACE, Jack recounted his first visit to the Top of the Mar and his introduction to stingers.

A unique sidelight on Guam was all the houses with reinforcing rods extending upward a foot or two through the roof – which technically conveyed intent to add a second floor later, thereby qualifying for a greatly reduced “unfinished/unimproved” tax rate. Now, that is clever! A highlight of our stay on Guam was an afternoon at beautiful Tarague Beach, which rivaled anything I had ever seen throughout the entire Caribbean. The water was sparkling crystal blue and foamy white, and perfectly clear below the surface. Excellent snorkeling! All too soon we were off to Hawaii. Now, get this! We left Guam at 1905 Saturday evening, and arrived at Hawaii (3,800 miles to the east, all over water!) at 0620 Saturday morning! You’ve got to admit that is really moving fast! (The international date line, you know. We had two Saturdays.)

Tarague Beach, Guam

It seemed kind of strange to be passing through customs in Hawaii. The fact was, you see, we were indeed re-entering the United States. Unfortunately, going through customs wasn’t our only hint of being stateside. Gone was the laid-back pace of the far Pacific. Even after only a few weeks in the far east, the dizzying, frantic, and incredibly noisy “American” atmosphere was a sickening culture shock. As usual, perhaps John MacDonald captures the idea best when he says, “Upon return to this country from any quiet corner of a foreign land, the most immediate impression is that of noise – continuous, oppressive, meaningless noise.” What a frightening shock our shores must present to the first-time visiting foreigner!

I also rather imagine that Hawaii might better be enjoyed by approaching it from California than from the far Pacific. On the other hand, despite the enjoyment of the exotic and delectable seafood fare of the Orient, it was good to once again sink your teeth into a MacDonald’s quarter-pounder. Not only that, but what should show up on early Sunday morning TV our first full day in Hawaii but the Redskins vs. Dallas – LIVE! Indeed, we were “home.” Our most unique memory of Hawaii was the surprise of the flood of Nip tourists. Edging through the Japanese-crowded Honolulu streets, you might easily think that Japan had won WWII after all. All in all, though, we found Hawaii to be rush – rip-off – rush.

Two gems at Waikiki, Hawaii

Fortunately Hawaii was immediately followed by San Francisco, where (like Tony Bennett) I’d long ago left my heart. It remains my favorite city to this day. Neither Washington nor New Orleans comes close. (My second favorite city would be a toss-up between Hong Kong and Paris!) Hey! I’ve just become aware of my using the word “I”! The fact is, from the very start this trip was conceived as Kathleen’s and my belated honeymoon trip, which was first precluded by WWII and then deferred due to multiple new family arrivals. So the word “I” should be freely translated “we” throughout the foregoing account. Certainly, I’m reasonably sure Kathleen fully concurs in the recital of favorite cities. We couldn’t imagine a better city than San Francisco in which to conclude the honeymoon trip of a lifetime.

In fact, the relatively unhurried pace in San Francisco was reminiscent of our Orient experience. We even took a bus from the airport to a downtown terminal, and then personally lugged our mere 55 pounds of luggage on the 4-1/2 block walk to the hotel. I assure you, we didn’t hurry. Yes, friends, San Francisco is in spirit closer to the far east than to the east coast. It has charm, contentment, casualness, and beauty. It also offers truly outstanding Mexican food. Hot stuff! But never – NEVER – order calamari. That’s squid, folks, and we didn’t like it.

Then it was back to Dulles, to be met by Anne, Jesse, Mary and Laurie, and Grandpa Kirk. (How thoughtful of Anne and Mary to think of him. No wonder we’re so proud of our children!) As if that wasn’t enough, they then treated us to Leone’s pizza, AND – Breyers chocolate ice cream! Try to tell us that we don’t have truly thoughtful, caring children. Try! Anyhow we were indeed home at last, after 20,000 air miles and more than 43 air hours. So ended a most glorious honeymoon trip. It was sort of strange, though, watching slide shows on Guam of a previously unseen granddaughter. This was a delightful two-night mini-series affair, after which we felt we’d known Terri all her life.

It helped in regard to missing Laurie, too. It had been the same at RPI, evenings spent thumbing through the family picture albums, thereby getting brought up to date on the Toth family epic. These picture sessions were a real highlight feature of our honeymoon trip. Still, as I say, looking at pictures of your children, and even grandchildren – on a so-called honeymoon trip is – well, sort of unnerving. It was, however, a beautiful and fitting conclusion to an otherwise “nationally” depressing year. In fact, it was a terrific trip which we shall never forget.

So we come to 1975, halfway through the 1970s. This was the year of the sensational Cincinnati triumph over Boston in a fantastic seven-game World Series. It was the year Chaing Kai-shek died, and Ari Onassis. Meanwhile, Jack Nicholson was “flying over the cuckoo’s nest.” Mitchell and Haldeman were found guilty and sentenced to jail. Patti Hearst was kidnapped. Charlie’s Katie was born. (Strange! Our number-seven daughter and our number-seven grandchild both named “Katie”!) The really first big family happening of the year, though, was the return of Charlie, Kathy, Terri, and Katie from Guam. This occurred on 20 Feb 1975 – Mary’s 21st birthday! We all welcomed them, and then Fr. Burke celebrated Mass for the entire Wright-Haber families in our “wreck” room. So another happy homecoming!

But, almost before we knew it, Charlie and tribe were resettled in March to Pensacola, Florida. Well, at least that gave us another excuse to travel. Speaking of travelling, on 30 Apr the U.S. bugged-out of Viet Nam and South Viet Nam surrendered. Karen Quinlan celebrated by going comatose (she was to die 10 years later). On 22 May President Ford ordered the assault on the Mayaguez “pirates” with the resulting deaths of 15 Cambodians and 23 Americans – not really the best odds. On the 25th we celebrated the birth of Philip. This would really be the first year we summered at Ocean City with George and Pat’s family in the connecting adjoining apartment. This was the same summer that Moni graduated from high school, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared, and the Soyuz and Apollo linked up in space. But the really big news of that summer was that Mo turned 16 and took over the Red Pinto. Oh, woe is me!

Now, anybody can make a mistake, and in this regard I can hold my own with anybody. I omitted to mention that in May 1975 we began a study group series under Fr. Weber, a member of my old deacon program faculty. Fr. Weber is a prolific author of religious education books, particularly for children – a truly dynamic pedagogue. He was anxious for a diversified group (both age- and sex-wise) on which to test out some teaching techniques. As I remember, the group comprised Kathleen and I, George and Pat, Anne and Mary, Jane Conway (a friend of Fr. Weber), Larry and Dorothy Noel, and Callista and Hilbert Unger. We met once a week in our “wreck” room, after which we enjoyed a wine and cheese snack.

These sessions were a real riot. One technique Fr. Weber mentioned but didn’t use was a gambit where he proposed to pass out sealed notes to each participant and then just await reactions. The note was to read: “I think it might be best for the group if you just quietly drop out after tonight’s session.” Well, we all applauded his decision not to use it. Pat confessed she would have just gotten up then and there and left without a word. I imagine she wouldn’t have been alone. Anyhow, this should serve to indicate how “unusual” some of the gambits he tried were. Never a dull moment. And, in fact, Anne did drop out of the group – all the way to San Diego. Now our family was once again spreading to the four winds. This pattern has never been reversed since.

The fall of 1975 was soon upon us. Franco was dying. Calley’s conviction was reinstated by a higher appellate court. Mother Seton was canonized as the first U.S.-born saint. Patti Hearst was caught. Moni escaped from home to the University of West Virginia in Morgantown. She was to spend her first year-and-a-half of college there. Franco finally died on 20 Nov., and on 27 Dec Johnny shed his freedom through marriage to Patti Ford. Suddenly it was 1976. The world’s population reached the 4 billion mark, but the count was no longer to include Mayor Daley of Chicago, Mao, Chou En-lai, Nelson Rockefeller, or Monsignor Stricker.

At the same time the Word of God Institute was to no longer include me. I terminated my services there with the filing of the financial statement and tax return for the year 1974 in early Jan 1975. It was like jumping off a treadmill. The job had become a burdensome full-time chore, with one frantic deadline quickly following another, and no respite in sight. I had to get out for my health’s sake. I had never really intended such an around-the-clock commitment. After all, I was retired and merely a volunteer. I meant only to perform some service to the Church, if only to feel useful. I never really had any desire to be merely a country club daily golfer and card player. But this had just gotten to be too much, so I tidied up all the books and reports and bailed out.

There was also, to be sure, a philosophical basis for my pulling out of WGI at that time. We had a fundamental disagreement regarding how best to fulfill the WGI mission, which was to somehow generate better Catholic preaching. Fr. Burke sort of followed what I’d call the Billy Graham school – trying to mesmerize a multitude. I inclined to a one-on-one concept of preaching. Perhaps I can best summarize my point of view (to which I still adhere) by quoting from a 1982 Christmas Day letter of mine to Fr. Burke, thus:

Preaching is at root a form of selling, and selling/buying is an intensely personal and singular sort of thing. Nobody ever sells an audience on anything. Things, including theological propositions, are only sold to individuals. Consider Arthur Godfrey, one of the first and perhaps the greatest hucksters ever produced by modern radio/TV communications. His unique stock in trade was his uncommon ability to convey the notion to each and every listener/viewer that he was speaking confidentially to that listener/viewer alone.

In his little gem of a book, The Gospel to Every Creature, Cardinal Suenens makes the point that conversion is invariably a one-on-one process. (Too often advice to preachers focuses on the preacher when, to be successful, it should focus on the listener/viewer. You don’t love humanity, you love a human being. So it is with communication – it is always with one person. Every crowd is made up of individuals. You’ve got to reach the individual.

Well, you get the idea. Fr. Burke wasn’t buying. (By the way, preaching hasn’t shown much improvement either.) Again, this all seems so long ago, but that is beside the point. We are speaking of Feb 1976, and as of then I was 58 years old, and finally I was really retired! What I really mean, of course, is that I was retired from formal public service. One never retires from being a parent – or a concerned Christian. Nevertheless, a word of praise is in order re formal public VOLUNTEERS. We read and hear every day of all the crooks, phonies, dead-beats, and rip-off artists roaming the world, but scarcely ever a word about all the fabulously good people “out there” – doing things freely for others, with no thought of any recognition or recompense. They are legion, and they are truly exceptional people. You meet them in hospitals, nursing homes, and in every phase of community service. God bless ’em all! Nevertheless, I couldn’t any longer keep up with these good folks who put me to shame in every way. I had given it my best shot, but now I simply had to withdraw from the arena. At last I could feel truly free. It was a great feeling. It’s still a great feeling as I write this in Oct 1984, but I’d hardly say I still wasn’t fully busy around the clock. I am, and I now know that is probably the way it will always be – health permitting. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Volunteer, Sullivan, and Gates – May 1983

Digital Edition Note: The identities of Sullivan and Gates in the above caption are not mentioned in this book?

XX. FREEDOM

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m free at last! – Martin Luther King, Jr.

So, this is 1976, and I’m finally unemployed, and Kathleen and I did take up golf. We began 13 Apr 1976, and through 22 Oct 1984 we played 108 rounds of nine holes each. (And I bet you thought I hadn’t recorded all this. Shame!) We played a high of 23 rounds in 1976, and a low of zero in 1981, the year of my heart operation. We played on Sligo’s little par-35 layout, and to date our best scores are Kathleen-52, and me-42. Clearly, we’re no threat to Nancy Lopez or the Golden Bear. (No! I’m NOT going to tell you who the latter is!) But, it’s fun. Even more importantly, it’s good walking exercise for us both. Beyond that, it is one of the few games equally suited to both men and women, and suitable to any age. More than that, it’s the only so-called sport that is genuinely a sport. That is, courtesy, proper conduct, mutual respect and honesty uniformly prevail. You won’t find a bratty nerd like John McEnroe or a dirt-kicking jerk like Billy Martin on the golf links.

Golf was the single exception even in the so-called “golden age of sports” back in the 1920s. These were the days of Dempsey in boxing, Tilden in tennis, Ruth in baseball, and Bobby Jones in golf. Dempsey was a draft dodger, Tilden was a homo, and Ruth a boozer and womanizer. Only Jones was a proper gentleman and fit subject for youthful emulation – a genuine hero. Two examples of his class may suffice. His was the day of wooden-shafted clubs, separately acquired. Whereas today you can readily pick up a set of precision matched steel-shafted clubs, in those days you were at the mercy of nature’s less-than-uniform wooden shafts. Well, it happened that Jones always had a little trouble with one of his “irons.” When modern testing methods finally made the scene (years after his retirement), it was found that all of his hand-picked clubs were precisely matched in weight and balance – except for the troubling club, which was “off” in weight by some microscopic amount. That should testify to his high degree of professionalism.

As to his heroic stature, he was struck by a crippling disease while still a very young man. A sports writer once (and only once) asked him, “Bobby, tell me about this disease, how bad is it?” Medical experts have since testified he was constantly in severe pain, but all Bobby said was, “Let’s just say it can only get worse. Now, let’s never bring that up again.” You’ll never hear of such class in any other sport. So, OK, for all these reasons we highly recommend it. And it need not cost a country-club fortune. As senior citizens on a public course, virtually in walking distance from our house, it costs us only $3.50 per person per round. That’s cheaper than a movie and a lot better for you. Fore!

Speaking of sports, 1976 was the year we all enjoyed the Montreal Olympics from Ocean City. This was despite the fact that they were “won” by the USSR. Our women didn’t win a single track and field gold medal. Our men won only the long jump, the 400 -and 1600-meter relays, and the discus, plus the biggie – Bruce Jenner’s triumph in the Decathlon. On the other hand, our men virtually swept the swimming events, losing only in platform diving. At the same time, our women finally scored in the 400-meter freestyle relay and springboard diving. Beyond Bruce Jenner, though, the only names you’re likely to remember are those of our gold medal boxers: flyweight Leo Randolph, lightweight Howard Davis, light welterweight “Sugar Ray” Leonard, middleweight Michael Spinks, and light heavyweight Leon Spinks – who would later dethrone Muhammad Ali. So we did have our moments to cheer, and it made for popcorn-party evening TV enjoyment at Ocean City that summer.

That September the Toths returned from three years exile in RPI to settle at Fort Walton Beach, Florida. At least they were within easy driving distance of Charlie and Kathy at Pensacola. The only other family event of note that year was KT marking her 21st birthday. So life went on and the world continued to spin – time whizzing by ever faster and faster. In March Patti Hearst was convicted of armed robbery, and the Quinlans got permission to pull the plug on Karen (who, as mentioned earlier, proceeded to “vegetate” on for nine years). In April Howard Hughes died, largely unlamented, especially by greedy heirs.

In May the Concorde whisked across the Atlantic on her maiden flight from London to Dulles, and Liz Ray effectively whisked Congressman Wayne Hays back to Ohio for keeps. Our own KT spent the summer in Florida as a camp counselor. We celebrated a glorious Centennial 4th of July, but then came the Legionnaire’s disease scare in Philly. We landed a Viking spacecraft on Mars, and the Israelis landed on the Ugandans at Entebbe. In September we landed another Viking on Mars, and we landed a shiny new blue Chevette for 10106 Kinross Ave. How time flies.

You know you’re getting old when you start marking time by noting who dies as each new year passes. The year 1977 saw the passing of the ebullient Hubert Humphrey, comedian Charlie Chaplin in Geneva, Bing Crosby on a golf course, Elvis in his cups, and poor Groucho Marx – then on Fantasy Island. Meanwhile Leilah was born on 17 Mar. Kathleen and I made a 10-day flying trip to Florida in May to visit Charlie and Kathy’s family in Pensacola and Gary and Martha’s family in Fort Walton Beach. From Charlie’s we enjoyed an auto side-trip to the Mobile, Alabama, Navy display, which included a tour of the battleship USS Alabama and a photo opportunity with a prototype Flying Tiger aircraft. We also had a photo opportunity at Pensacola’s Air Museum, where Kathleen and I posed with Charlie’s old plane type. At Fort Walton Beach we were introduced to the Toth’s new baby, and enjoyed nice dinners out in an old fashioned RR car restaurant and at Navarre Beach’s Holiday Inn (then housing cast and crew at work on JAWS II). A fine time was had by all.

The Chief aboard USS Alabama

Once again KT summered in a Florida camp (or was one year spent in North Carolina?), then on 10 Oct, she set out to try and strike gold in California, travelling across country in her old tan VW van. They both made it. We had a really great Thanksgiving that year, with George and Pat’s and Charlie and Kathy’s clans joining us at Kinross for one of Kathleen’s superb turkey banquets, complete with home movies via the borrowed Nursing Home projector and county library system films. Charlie and Kathy had just relocated from Pensacola to Lexington Park. We even overnighted with them once while they were temporarily ensconced in Kathy’s Grandma’s place on Pax River. This was about the time, too, when Mo relocated from Kinross to Frostburg State College. So we lost both KT and Mo that fall. Their moves were easily understandable. KT had graduated Cum Laude from college that summer, and Mo from high school – which sort of brings us to the subject of education.

My own two most often repeated remarks about education are: “When you stop learning you know you’re dead – or you might as well be,” and “I’ve never met a Jew who wasn’t highly educated.” You might say “Education is their shtick.” This was the thing that always made me chary of Admiral Rickover. To him education was God. It was the only thing he really believed in – more so than his nuclear specialty, which he immediately repudiated upon his finally forced “retirement.” His devotion to education, though (it seemed to me) was hollow and humorless, totally without balance and slanted disturbingly toward the pragmatic – devoid of principles or ideals (a prescient statement if ever there was one, considering his subsequent censure for clear but unrepented graft). This scared me, or at least put me off. His notion of education had a certain “true or false” rigidity about it – no shades of gray – that was foreign and offensive to my more catholic taste and penchant for the flexibility afforded by imagination, initiative, and intuition. He was, if you will, “digital,” while I was “analog.” (The distinction is often explained as depicting a beautifully bodied woman as “36-26-36” as opposed to whistling while demonstrating her outline by describing an hour-glass figure with your hands.) To elaborate my notion a bit further, I find the concept of education POSTulated by newspaper columnist Edwin Yoder (he writes for the Post) both more appealing and much more accurate, thus:

The purpose of an education … should be to awaken the student to the value of his own mind, to instill in him intellectual courage. As a first step the schools might give up the idea of “the educated citizen.” To the best of my knowledge, I have never met such a person. I can conceive of a self-educated citizen, and I have had the good fortune to meet a number of people to be so described. Without exception they possess the value of their acknowledged ignorance, conceiving of education neither as a blessed state of being (comparable to membership on the Council on Foreign Relations) nor as a commodity sold in a store, but rather as a ceaseless process of learning and relearning. If in 16 years they have spent 10,000 hours in a classroom (roughly the equivalent of 13 months) they expect to spend another 50 years revising what they thought they had learned at school, turning what they know toward the future, not the past. [My emphasis added.]

Hooray and amen! I’ll drink to that. Rickover’s philosophy of “fact absorption,” on the other hand, seemed to me to encourage a robot mentality (which I should judge is exactly what he wanted in his minions – sort of intellectual eunuchs). In this overall connection, one of my favorite tributes came to me some seven years after retirement from a former female employee, a young black girl, who wrote me a beautiful thank-you note for having once encouraged her never to stop studying if she wanted to keep on growing. I really appreciated that.

While on the subject of tributes, we got another nice one that year, an 8 Sep 77 letter from a young neighbor named Jeff who lived with the Garvins, thus:

Hello – I just wanted to write to thank you all for the birthday cards that you sent, they really made all things lighter, and in here [the Montgomery County Detention Center] that means the world. This place tends to take away a lot of the real outside world that you love and miss, and it’s people that show they care, like you all, that bring that world back into focus. I am fine and getting better as time gets shorter and shorter. Just one month to go, and believe me, it won’t end too soon for me. So, give KT and Monica my love and thanks for the cards. And thank you for just being you, it means a lot to me to know a lot of people still care! My love always, s/Jeff.

Now that also was very nice. All I had done was contact a few of my old probation office friends to see what I could do if anything to ease his situation, and their consequent efforts tipped him off to this. Essentially, I was trying to clear his record so as to facilitate future employment opportunities. I hope he’s doing OK somewhere!

Now, I have to confess I’ve been holding out on you. The year 1977 really was unique, and I’m not referring to Woody Allen’s success with Annie Hall, or TV’s success with Roots. Also, I’m not referring to 25 Jun 1977 being the 100th anniversary of Custer’s Last Stand. (I warned you there would be a quiz!) I’m not even referring to the fact that Herbie would have been 16 that summer – and that would have made our car insurance exciting again. No, dear friends, I’m referring to our 14 Jan to 13 Apr three-month visit by Sister Teresa from the Philadelphia Carmelite Monastery. So another unique invitee was added to our list of unusual house guests.

At this point, a paraphrase of a remark by Christopher Derrick in That Strange Divine Sea (his reflections on being a Catholic) seems appropriate: “You may find this account electrifying in the scope and scale of its omissions.” So it goes. Anyhow, it all began with a long-distance phone call on a snowy January morning in 1977. It was Kathleen’s youngest sister calling from Philadelphia with a plea that we take her into our home. No problem. No questions. We thereupon made arrangements to meet her at Union Station. She got there even before we did (with a lay-woman traveling companion), and the three of us, Kathleen, Sister, and I drove home together through a light snow falling on already snow-covered streets. And thus this little adventure began. Perhaps we’d best let Sister present her recollection of this unusual period in all our lives:

During the renewal years of the ’60s and ’70s, I was failing to cope with community tensions – whether through sinfulness or lack of maturity or both, only God knows. Two periods of hospitalization for mental illness failed to bring about any lasting improvement, so I asked for and was given permission by our vicar for religious to spend three months with my family to relax and get my bearings. As my parents were both at Carroll Manor, there was no possibility of staying with them. My brother-in-law, Jack Wright, and my sister Kathleen kindly agreed to allow me to come to their home for this period of time. They arranged private quarters for me in their finished downstairs recreation room, curtaining off a space which included my bed (a long home-made sofa), and even an organ as well as a typewriter. They gave me freedom to come and go as I pleased.

Walking some blocks to church, or shopping or going to the post office by myself was for me as thrilling as traveling around the world. (Sister had then been cloistered for 30 years!) I met my own friends and went to various gatherings of my own choosing, mostly charismatic of one kind or another, both Protestant and Catholic. I met at St. Bernadette’s Church a girl who had recently been four or five years in Danvers Carmel, Pat Blasius, and who was teaching school and living nearby with a friend of Grandma Wright’s, Mrs. Frances Parkhill. Pat was very kind to me. We went places together, such as attending a course on religion and mental health at C.U. given by Fr. Michael Griffen, O.C.D. She even gave me a valuable pair of walking shoes which served those three months as well as after my return to Carmel.

I also attended with Pat a course on Prayer at Georgetown U. given jointly by Fr. Thomas Kilduff, O.C.D., and Constance Fitzgerald, O.C.D., of Baltimore Carmel. We were driven by Xaverian Brothers (living in a house a block from the Wrights) who were attending the same course and had befriended us. My own father had signed me up for and paid for this course and attended himself, driven by my Benedictine brother, Fr. Dan Kirk.… A Xaverian Brother, on his way to visit relatives, also drove me and my parents to Baltimore Carmel to attend the profession of Sr. Barbara Jean, O.C.D., who had transferred to Baltimore Carmel from Phila. Carmel. While there, I spent a most delightful week-end with a married niece, Cele (Meehan) Daub. She and her husband were very active in the Lamb of God charismatic community there. I also spent periods of time at the homes of my other two married sisters in Washington – the Noels and the Meehans. Those are the highlights.

As you can see, the Lord was very merciful, seemed to provide me with many treats, preserve me from harm of which I was oblivious, and remove all anxiety, in spite of the fact that I was actually taking a “fling” and doing my own will in everything. My sister Kathleen even wrote to me later, for my good, that I was the most self-willed person she had ever met. I pray I will now be like the woman in this week’s Profile column of our Standard, Peggy O’Neil, who is doing all kinds of good things, yet boasts of having successfully played hooky 83 days while at Sacred Heart Academy. May the Lord bring everything right, lead us mutually to salvation in His own way, and reward all those who bore my burdens for me during those three months, especially my own parents and principally Kathleen and Jack.

Sister then characteristically adds an extended postscript:

In coming to your home I was, as far as I know, simply looking for a place of freedom to catch my breath. I must have known by instinct that I would find it there. Sure enough! Not even a locked front door! (It’s locked now – nothing personal, a sign of the times.) Because I was looking out only for myself, I was not doing what was best either for myself or others, but it took me a long time to find that out. Nevertheless, the freedom to think and do for myself was still a favor, and I am grateful to all of you for bearing with me.

As I had known both you (your author) and your Dad almost from childhood, and Kathleen was my oldest married sister, it was natural to ask hospitality of you. Though Sr. Kathleen, O.C.D., was my oldest sister by age, I would never have been allowed a stay at Baltimore Carmel, nor would it have freed me from specifically Carmelite tensions. So there I was in my cozy quarters in your recreation room, not at all concerned about “mutual interaction, influence or impact” on anyone until you yourself pointed out to me, in time, what a difficult thing it is to make the necessary adjustments to admit an outsider into a household. It seems that was my main difficulty – being too withdrawn. I give much more attention now to personal relationships in community. Thank you for awakening me to their importance.

Thanks to little Laurie, too, for taking the initiative to come and visit me and be my official “guardian angel.” I appreciated the initiative you (your author) took also in advising and admonishing me, writing many long letters and taking me to Sr. Mary Peace (an archdiocesan counselor to religious) I don’t know how many times. In the long run, however, simple remarks may have done the most good and had the greatest impact. Remarks like: “What’s the use of having brains if you don’t use them?” and “Don’t take yourself so seriously,” etc. So you see, it was not such an “awesome responsibility” for which you needed “special qualifications,” as you mentioned in your letter to me last month. You had a concern for me and ordinary powers of observation. Nothing more was needed or wanted at that time. [Editor’s note: a lot of special graces must have been flooding down!]

I’m conscious of having made a fool of myself and tried everyone’s patience. You yourself seemed particularly exasperated on taking me to the train station when it was time to leave. Consequently I was quite relieved when Kathleen said – briefly, sincerely, emphatically – “I enjoyed it.” Especially as my own mother’s words were still ringing in my ears: “Can Kathleen hold up?” (With me on her back, that is!) I hope Kathleen meant that, as I did enjoy it myself.

A little incident occurred when you were driving me to Port Tobacco that threw a quick light on my situation. There was a bumper sticker on a passing car that read: “God loves you.” Underneath were smaller words that I could not make out in time. Not long afterwards, another car passed us with the same bumper sticker and this time I could make out the smaller print. It said: “Whether you like it or not.” That gave me a good laugh which I shared with you, though I won’t be surprised if you don’t remember as it seemed to be a special message for me, not you. The extraordinary part is that I never again saw that sticker either before returning or on any of my trips out since coming back. I think I must have said at the time, subconsciously if not actually: “O.K. God, you win!” You can take credit for being a part of that turning point. [So ends Sister’s summary. I can only add that she is in some respects a little too hard on herself, and that we all learned a lot!]

Would you believe we’re now already into 1978 – almost at the end of the decade? It was literally the end for Golda Meir, and Karl Wallenda took his famous dive from the highwire to the unforgiving street – “live” on TV – really gruesome! Film-goers rewarded Jane Fonda for “Coming Home.” I’d always felt it would be a cold day when I started this book, and indeed a 30-inch blizzard hit Silver Spring that January as this thrilling prose epic began. (Well, OK, so I really didn’t officially start it until 17 May 78. It took that long to thaw out.) With all the snow we suffered that winter, it was only natural that the Toths would relocate from balmy Florida to the arctic wasteland that was Detroit. On 24 Mar I hit the sixty-years-old barrier, and my ransom with the Lord immediately shrank from 50 to a cut-rate 15 shekels (See Lv 27:7).

To mark this being “let out to pasture,” I undertook my first vegetable garden. I followed the Ruth Stout method of throwing in the seeds, layering it all over with hay, and then just sitting back and letting the Lord do the work. Considering this rather lofty sponsorship, it was only a moderate success. We did have some fairly good fresh corn that first year, a few other minor veggies and a bumper crop of delicious tomatoes. Eventually we dropped one or another item, until now we only have four tomato plants each year. Our main problem was and is the lack of sufficient sun due to all the trees in or surrounding our yard. It was fun, though, and as usual I read just about every book on the market about vegetable growing. I’m satisfied, however, that I don’t have a “green thumb.”

In April the Senate approved the shift of control of the Panama Canal from the U.S. to Panama – an insufficiently applauded act of national wisdom and courage. In May, Patti Hearst finally went to jail, Mo cried as she picked up the keys to her brand new Pontiac Sunbird, and I picked up our Malibu to keep up with Mo. Also our first grandchild, Bobby, made his first communion. There is no excuse for anyone ever forgetting the date: 5-6-78! In June Howard Jarvis’ Proposition Thirteen cut California property taxes a whopping 57% – and it has seemed to work out OK. On 4 Jul the whole family celebrated with a picnic in Sligo Creek Park. A memory that sticks in my mind is, as I’ve already mentioned, that this was my first recognition of young Bobby Wright’s (How old was he then – seven?) uncommon poise and good judgment incident to Terri somehow hurting herself.

Bob was to give us yet another example like this on the occasion of Philip’s first communion in May 83. After the ceremony at their home on Scottsdale Court, we all set out for a restaurant brunch celebration in three separate cars. We hadn’t been long established in the restaurant when someone noted that Philip, the guest of honor, was missing. George thereupon immediately set out to retrace his path and pick up Philip. The rest of us adults all sat around clucking over how could this ever happen and how awful it was. Only Bobby, again, had the presence of mind to simply say, “I’ll phone home to let him know Dad’s coming for him, because he’ll be worried.” Right on, Bob, we’re proud of you! Which reminds me – Bob was over one summer day for a golf outing with Kathleen and me. While waiting for his Dad to pick him up for the homeward journey, he happened to ask if by any chance I had a Baltimore catechism he might see. Now, I ask you, who else could reply, “Which one do you want to see, #1, #2, or #3?

Later this same year we enjoyed Ocean City with all our then living (nine, through Leilah) grandchildren. “Having a wonderful time!” By August of ’78 Charlie and Kathy were established in their own new home in Lexington Park, and good Pope Paul VI was established in history, having died on the 6th. By the 26th – Habemus Papum – John Paul I was in charge. He was, by God’s will, to become little more than a bookmark in the pages of Vatican history, reigning for only 33 days – a mere month! It’s fascinating to note that St. Malachy’s prophetic motto for describing him is: demedietate lunae – from a half-moon. Now, what is more closely related with a “month” in the universe than the moon! Of course these prophecies of St. Malachy, who in essence predicts there will only be two more Popes after John Paul II, are said to be apocryphal, but…!

You might be interested to know JP II’s motto is: de labore solis – from the toil of the sun. You figure it out! (My interpretation: he’ll follow the sun – the apostle of the road – world traveler!) OK, in response to popular demand I’ll include the “final” (?) two prophecies: the next Pope – “the glory of the olive”; the “last” (?) Pope – “Roman Peter.” My interpretation? You’ve got to be kidding, but here goes: “olive” suggests “tree,” suggests “baum” (tree in German), suggests Cardinal William Baum, the former Archbishop of Washington. (He would be a worthy successor of JP II, since his prose is equally incomprehensible!) Another possibility – Cardinal Bernard Gantin of Benin, Africa. Born 8 May 22, he holds licentiates from Rome in theology and canon law, spoke for all African bishops at Vatican II, and – like Baum – has served in Rome. His name means “Tree of Iron.” Remember folks, you read it here first! I’ll leave you to figure out the “last” Pope. I mean, I don’t like to press my luck.

Digital Edition Note: In Jack’s personal copy of the book, this sentence was highlighted in yellow with a note in the margin indicating: “Written in Aug ’78.” Apparently, he wanted to document the date on which he had predicted the next Pope. Additionally, there was a clipping of an Associated Press article from an unidentifiable newspaper dated June 26, 1993, with the headline: Pope Approves West African For Church Post – Move Said to Reflect ‘Internationalization.’ The text of the article indicated that “Pope John Paul II has approved the nomination of Cardinal Bernardin Gantin from the West African Country of Benin as Dean of the College of Cardinals, the body that elects the Pope.” If he got the actual nominee wrong, he was right about the “German” part, as Pope Benedict XVI had even been a Hitler Youth!

Before going on, let us pause a moment to reflect on Popes Paul VI and John Paul I. (Hey! It’s my book and I can digress anytime I want. More seriously, I obviously think such reflections might have value worthy of your consideration.) So, what about Paul VI and JP I? Well, let’s take the latter first. JP I was only Pope for 33 days, yet he changed the manner of installing a pope for all time – dispensing with the unbecoming pomp of triple tiara, coronation and throne. No small contribution that!

Paul VI was something else again, with a reign upward of 15 years embracing most of the tumultuous 1960s. It is my opinion that he was the most significant Pope of my lifetime, including the present Pope JP II. I have every expectation that he will come to be labeled Pope Paul “the Great”! – if only because of Vatican II. Pius XII may have first conceived it, John XXIII may have initially convened it, but it was Paul who reconvened it upon John’s death (and the death of a Pope terminates a Council in progress). Without Paul’s action Vatican II would have produced little more than John’s opening speech, because no decrees issued from the first session. So, Vatican II has to be considered Paul’s monument, and what a monument it is! It is tragically unfortunate that too many people will recall Paul negatively in terms of Humanae Vitae, forgetting in the process that it was Paul’s Vatican II that highlighted the ultimate primacy of the free conscience in terms of which that (and any other) encyclical could be and has been interpreted. More than that, I fully subscribe to the ideal he set forth in the encyclical. Our bodies are indeed temples of the Holy Spirit, and not to be exploited in “selfish and purely pleasurable pursuits.” Well, that’s this man’s opinion.

Digital Edition Note: In 2014, for the second edition Martha wrote: Jack might be disappointed in the way things stand in the Church now. John Paul II was canonized (declared a saint) along with John XXIII in 2014, while Paul VI is still just “Blessed”; this beatification is the third of four steps toward sainthood.

As the third edition is being prepared, it should be noted that Paul VI was canonized on October 14, 2018.

So John Paul I died on 28 Sep 1978, and John Paul II succeeded him on 16 Oct. As though presaging John Paul II’s “Apostleship of the Road,” Kathleen and I embarked on our first really extended trip in the US of A from 9–23 Oct 1978. This was something I had always wanted to do – canvass all the beaches on the Atlantic coast between New Smyrna, FL, and Ocean City, NJ. This expanse offers quite a variety of delights, and I was eager to discover which might be the best. This little venture covered 2,009 miles, in 38.5 road hours, at an average speed of 52.2 mph. (Since then, we have always estimated our auto travel time in terms of an average speed of 52.5 mph, with excellent results.)

We left Washington and spent the first night of our trip south at the Village Motor Lodge in Fayetteville, N.C. This set us back $16.85. That was in 1978, folks! Next we spent three nights in an efficiency cottage at Crafts Ocean Court, on the beach at Sea Island, Georgia. At every beach we actually checked out the beach, the surf, the churches, stores, motels, libraries, and local TV and FM radio reception. Obviously, we were still consciously or otherwise seeking out an end-of-our-days final retreat. Our next stop was Ormond Beach, FL, from which we spent a day checking out greater Daytona and New Smyrna beaches. Then we turned around and headed north, strictly up the coastal route.

Our first stop turned out to be our favorite discovery of the entire trip – Atlantic Beach, which is really the beach off Jacksonville, FL. We spent three delightful days there, even checking out the availability of private beach-front homes. We fell in love with a compact, modern little oceanside home which incorporated a fully glass-enclosed swimming pool for year-round enjoyment. More than that, there was a Catholic church almost within walking distance. Beyond that, it provided access to Jacksonville’s 24-hour good music FM station, the only one south of a Savannah, GA–Austin, TX line. It seemed to be the most nearly perfect spot, but we still had “miles to go ere we slept.”

Now it should be mentioned that, while I elaborate only about the places we remained overnight, we actually visited and disembarked to investigate every beach along the way. Thus, proceeding north from New Smyrna, we checked out Daytona, Ormond, Flagler, St. Augustine, Ponte Vedra, Jacksonville, Neptune, Atlantic, and Fernandina beaches – all in Florida; Jekyll Island and Sea Island in Georgia, Hilton Head, Myrtle, Windy Hill, and North Myrtle Beach (a three-day stop) – all in South Carolina (Myrtle Beach, which then placed second in our hit parade, has long since depreciated in our estimation); Wrightsville (better named “pebble” beach) and Nags Head (really primitively wild by comparison with others) in North Carolina; Virginia Beach (overnight) and Chincoteague (second only to Nags Head for mosquitoes) in Virginia; Ocean City in Maryland (where we spent a night each at Fenwick Inn and the Sheraton to compare their indoor pools with our old standby Quality Inn; Bethany and Rehoboth in Delaware; and Ocean City, NJ.

s

Myrtle Beach – July 09, 1978

I only enumerate this to tell you that you don’t have to reinvent the wheel in this respect. The trip has been made. We cased the coast. Our conclusion: you have to go a damn long way to beat the convenience and delights of our own Ocean city, MD! Nice places to visit (but you wouldn’t want to live there) are Virginia Beach, Jekyll Island in Georgia, and Ormond Beach in Florida. Hilton Head in South Carolina and Sea Island in Georgia are fine, but are really Rolls-Royce communities. Overall, if we were going to settle in, we still think Atlantic Beach, FL, (the Turtle Inn) has the most to offer, and it would remain our number one choice – EXCEPT for the convenience and the closer family orientation of dear old Ocean City, MD. Really, kids, you can’t beat it. Nor can you beat the location, style, and price of 17th and the Boardwalk – that’s Quality!

Monica had turned 21 in May and was a senior at the University of Maryland in the fall of 1978. As with KT and her course on the psychological interaction of siblings on one another according to their age and sex, Moni that year introduced me to another fascinating study: groupthink! (She also introduced me to the deluge of literature on the feminist movement, being, I think, perhaps the one among all our children most caught up in that new wave – a child of her times. I read most of her books in that area, too.) I found groupthink a more arcane subject, and most provocative. Groupthink might best be thought of as a branch of group-psychology that deals with those situations wherein an important decision-making process is governed more by a concern for the mutual approval of fellow participants than an incisive and impartial evaluation of the pertinent factors involved. Comfort and security is gained through concurrence-seeking behavior, which engenders the solidarity that comes with a “we feeling” fostered by shared illusions and misjudgments.

The leading proponent of this “school” may be said to be Irving L. Janis, author of Victims of Groupthink. Janis lists six characteristics of this defective process: (1) limiting discussion to only a few alternatives, (2) failing to re-examine the course initially favored by the majority, (3) neglecting alternatives initially rejected without adequate evaluation, (4) failing to elicit the testimony of experts, (5) opting selectively for only supporting facts, and (6) failing to consider potential obstacles to anticipated success. I commend this litany to any of my progeny still operating as a decision-maker in the market place of life. Janis’s book demonstrates the weakness of the process through the dissecting of four national fiascoes: the Bay of Pigs, the Korean and Viet Nam wars, and the disaster at Pearl Harbor. Fascinating! He then explicates the other (heads-up) side of the coin through a review of the Cuban Missile Crisis and the making of the Marshall Plan. Thanks for the education, Monica.

Thus we come, but not quite, to the end of 1978. Mary was then living on nearby Dallas Avenue with Bill and Laurie, and had initiated two annual highlights: an Easter Brunch, and a Christmas Eve party complete with door-to-door caroling. (We sure miss those happy traditions, Mary!) Along with the glad there is always some sad. On 13 December my mother left Kinross Avenue for good for the University Nursing Home for four days short of three years, until her death at Holy Cross on 9 December 1981.

Of course Mom’s leaving Kinross at this time was a Godsend to Kathleen. Mom had never been easy to live with. As I may have already mentioned, my sister literally moved to Baltimore largely to escape her. My brother’s wife, Mary, rarely had her into her home and never once visited her in her declining years. No impugning intended, just facts. These ladies had their reasons, as did Kathleen. After all, my devoted spouse had by now raised nine full-grown children, and yet was a virtual captive in our own house. She couldn’t go to the corner store even for a moment without first having provided for my very demanding mother. Mother’s trip to the hospital was providential for me as well. I could both see and sense Kathleen’s disintegration under mother’s pressure before my very eyes, and yet I seemed powerless to come up with a solution. Thanks be to God – He solved our problem, and not a moment too soon.

I found myself in a really bizarre situation at this time. On the one hand, my first allegiance was to my long-suffering spouse, who had really not yet – at this late date – truly had a home of her own, to which she was clearly entitled. Now her health was suffering, to boot. Then there was my helpless, aging mother. I was by then sufficiently into this autobiography to have recognized that, despite a long enduring childhood illusion to the contrary, I was my mother’s child rather than my father’s. I had long since come to realize, as I traced my evolution through these pages, that everything about my character that I prized, that had helped me achieve whatever successes in life I had enjoyed, were most directly attributable to my mother.

At the same time, I had come to realize equally well that I did not possess some of the traits I had always most admired in my father. I did not share his intellectual acuity, but rather was a plodder like my mother. I did not share his gregarious people-loving good nature, but was a reclusive “loner” in my mother’s image. I never shared my father’s unshakeable self-confidence so much as I suffered mother’s insecurity. I did not share my father’s heroic patience, but indeed reflected my mother’s vicious temper. On every count my character bore the imprint of my mother. Of course, there was (I hope I may properly claim this) one significant difference. One learns from negatives as well as (if not more so) from positives. When I saw a negative like my mother’s fierce anger in action, I resolved (no matter how often I failed, and still fail) to not be like that. I consciously tried to put these negatives to work for me, to channel them into constructive action.

I can’t with any degree of sustained modesty pursue the latter point further, but it is critical that the reader understand that I think this is perhaps the key point in trying to understand and know who I am! I’ve tried to convert anger into perseverance. I’ve tried to overcome my insecurity (as my mother likewise did) by prudent preparation. The latter effort overflowed into trying likewise to compensate for lack of intellectual dexterity by painstaking preparation to the most minute detail. I’ve tried to overcome my naturally reclusive nature by focusing on making the other person feel good rather than worrying about myself. An amusing discovery in this respect is that whenever we venture out to meet new folks, we invariably come home knowing virtually everything about these folks (where they were from, where they went to school, where they work, all about their families, etc.) while they remain totally uninformed about us.

Again, realizing my lack of patience, I alone of my parent’s progeny never even attempted to take up a teaching career. To complete the tapestry of my character, I must at least admit to three rather vital characteristics I did inherit from my father: a lively sense of humor, an open mind, and an unquenchable love for little children. Finally, from both of my parents I inherited a deep-rooted love for Christ AND for His Church. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for all of this, and of course we thank God! Nevertheless, the drives that really made me tick on the stage of life, if I may mix a bit of metaphorical potpourri (and why not?), were a redirection of what a purely objective viewer might have termed her worst traits. To be sure, God’s grace must have been central to the whole process.

Well, by now I’m certain everyone has lost the thread of the point I initially set out to make: I was then between a rock and a hard place – trying to reconcile the love and justice due my worn-out wife on the one hand, and the respect and debt I owed my ailing, aging mother. To make it worse, I never was a juggler. It took all my alleged talent to keep one ball in the air at any given time. It suffices to reiterate that God, at last, rescued us from this seemingly insoluble situation. There is, however, yet one other point to be made before moving on with our story. You may recall that just three weeks before my father died, I had “closed the circuit” by exclaiming on his last birthday, “Pop, I love you!” I had then kissed him resoundingly on his bald head. I’ve already mentioned how good I felt about having done that, at long last, when the shocking news of his sudden death reached me soon after in Norfolk, Virginia. Well, something very similar had transpired, on my initiative, between my mother and me just before she went to the hospital, never again to return to our home, spending the last three years of her life in the University Nursing Home.

It is one of the remarkable fruits of this book-effort that, in discovering my own identity, I at the same time came to discover and appreciate, for the first time, the major debt I owed to my mother. It was at some point in the very writing of this book that I deliberately set aside my pen, walked into her room and sat down at her bedside, where she was resting at that particular moment. I slowly and completely narrated my evolving adventure of self-discovery and my emerging recognition of her leading role in my formation. She listened most attentively, and I thought lovingly – tears finally sneaking from the corners of her eyes. I concluded by saying something like, “I just wanted you to know that I know all that, that I’m most heartily sorry for any and all grief I may have ever caused you, I thank you with all my heart for everything you’ve done for me, and above all, I want you to know I love you very much.” I grabbed her hand and leaned over and fondly kissed her on the forehead. She said, “I love you too, and I’ve always been very proud of you.” Well, I’m glad I “closed the circuit” there, too!

Speaking of closing circuits, we’d now pulled the switch on 1978 and were into 1979. Nelson Rockefeller was to die while being entertained by one of his female employees in a fancy NYC townhouse which he had provided for her. Poor Meeghan, I wonder what ever happened to her? Arthur Fiedler died that year, too, after 50 years with the Boston Pops. And John “the Duke” Wayne, after too many years of masquerading as a macho male hero. Congress even struck a special gold medal for him. Good grief, Lucy! Meanwhile, on the then-current silver screen it was Kramer vs. Kramer. We had our famous 36" snow that February, the one in which Laurie built an actual igloo in our backyard, in and out of which she could actually crawl. Mo now had her own pad in Rockville, and had Kathleen and I to dinner during the New Year weekend. Mary threw another of her fabulous Dallas Avenue Easter brunches. We celebrated Moni’s 22nd birthday with a chocolate cake at Kinross, with KT, Mo and Laurie.

That summer we visited the Toths with Mo along, at Westland, Michigan, and Moni graduated from U. of Maryland. Earlier in the year Kathleen and I had ventured out one evening to our first movie in ages – The China Syndrome, with Michael Douglas, Jack Lemmon and Jane Fonda. It was about the terrible potential of a highly probable nuclear power plant disaster. Lo and behold! Within 10 days (on 28 March 79) the same drama was played out in real life at Three Mile Island in nearby Pennsylvania. It was eerie. The on-scene “talking heads” were mouthing off, just like in the movie, about how there was nothing to fear and how it would be back on line in a few days to a week or so. That was five years ago, folks, and now it’s clear that the damaged reactor will never be back on line (even as restart of the undamaged one is still highly doubtful). So much for the reliability of governmental “talking heads.”

Almost as earth-shaking in excitement as TMI, and just five days earlier (on 23 March 79) George had been dubbed Doctor George M. Wright by the George Washington University in Washington, DC. His degree was as a Doctor of Business Administration. His dissertation was entitled: “Evaluating Management information Systems through Optimal Control Theory.” Way to go, son! Interestingly enough, the latter such evaluations were more or less the business of the office from which I retired after 38 years of government service. I can assure you, however, that his insights passed several light years over my head. I say this even though much of it was so elementary or straight forward – dealing with “cybernetic or closed-loop control, involving the Kalman filter and Kalman-Koepeke optimal controller,” and disclosing situations wherein “a business environment is … so stochastic … that control objectives cannot be met.” Well, of course! And, wouldn’t my father, our family’s first “Doctor Wright,” have been proud. I know my mother was. (She celebrated her 92nd birthday at the Nursing Home that October. Kathleen and I, Mary, KT, and Laurie gave her a small birthday party there, complete with candled cupcake and Coke.)

This is the way it went the last few years of my mother’s life. Both Kathleen and I visited her, separately, twice a week, and my brother Tom visited her once a week, and my sister Margaret came over from Baltimore about every two weeks. In addition Mary and Laurie were frequent visitors, as were Charlie, Kathy and their two girls, and our KT. So Mom might have seemed tucked away, out of sight and out of mind, but she really wasn’t. She had plenty of visitors. Not only that, we celebrated all her favorite holidays and anniversaries with her, making up little family parties. We also tried to cater to her special desires. Kathleen would now and then take her some fried oysters, which she love but rarely got. I’d always take her something, like sour pickles, carefully cut to small bite size, which she truly relished, or her #1 delight, a home-made chocolate soda. Her glee was evident and as high key as a small child’s on Christmas morning.

Beyond that, when the weather was good, and the outdoors was especially beautiful, as in spring or fall, I’d get a wheelchair, take her to my car parked at the front door of the Nursing Home, and then take her for a long drive in the country, trying to hit areas that she used to love on similar trips with my Pop in much earlier days. She would always express delight at familiar old favorite spots, like Olney, for example. Interestingly enough, she didn’t even recognize areas that should have been even more familiar through more recent association – our house on Kinross, for instance. I drove her slowly by it one spring when the azaleas were in bloom, specifically pointed out 10106 Kinross, but she flashed no recognition whatsoever, despite it having been her home, too, for so many recent years. She especially enjoyed those trips when the azaleas were in bloom, and when the leaves were turning in the fall. Sometimes we’d even stop, and I’d buy her an ice cream cone. She would be tickled pink, and she was always so appreciative.

Thus is was that we had no regrets, when she died, about “what might have been.” We felt we did everything we could think of to make her last days as pleasant as possible. Several times, while at the Nursing Home, Mom had to be relocated to Holy Cross Hospital because of heart flutter. They would call us, and I would then go over to the hospital and sit at her side, holding her hand, until things stabilized. We had some great talks during times like this, and became very close. Some of these times, however, it would become clear in the course of our discussion that she thought she was talking to her husband, my father. I had no course but to go along with it. One of the most tender memories in this regard was the day she looked up to me with twinkling eyes, squeezed my hand and said (thinking she was talking to my Pop), “We had a really nice romance, didn’t we?” I was deeply moved. And of course, I always had hoped I might be at her bedside when she died, still mindful of how she had stayed at mine during my crisis convulsions at age two. I didn’t want her to die alone. This wasn’t to be, however, but she didn’t die alone. Christ was there, I’m sure. In all events, I’ve always – since “closing the circuit” – been at complete peace with respect to both my parents, feeling confident that both knew that I fully recognized my great debt to and deep love for them.

Meanwhile, Kathleen’s mother, Grandma Kirk, had died somewhat suddenly on 21 August 1979. I’m happy to say I had made my peace with her as well. Kathleen visited her folks at Carroll Manor about weekly. I rarely went along, but did make a point to go now and then, even though we would have them to dinner occasionally, as on their birthdays, or encounter them at similar functions at the Meehans or the Noels. So it happened that I visited Carroll Manor just a week or two before Grandma Kirk died. Kathleen and Grandpa Kirk were having an animated discussion about something or other, and Grandma and I were having our own little chat on another nearby bench outside. My deepest memory of our talk was that we were discussing death, and she was so ready for it, but always added – “But, God’s will be done!” I indicated how much I admired her, and confessed my shame at taking so long to acknowledge my love for her. Once again, the “circuit was closed”! Requiescat in pacem!

At the Naval Academy, at least in my day, at the end of your sophomore (Youngster) year, you celebrated “no more math.” Of course you still would have many highly technical courses involving lots of advanced mathematics, but you had no more pure math courses after that. In much the same way, Kathleen and I had a special celebration of our own on 3 August 1979 – NO MORE TEENS! With Maureen’s 20th birthday, our home was forevermore free of the dreaded teenager. We had made it, at last. As though in anticipation of this great event, we had more or less celebrated in advance, with a long-hoped-for cross country automobile trip, from 22 April to 22 May 1979. [A copy of Jack’s letter describing this trip is posted at https://www.wrightstuff.site]

First we visited Gary and Martha’s family in Detroit. From the revolving restaurant atop the Renaissance Center, we looked into Windsor, Canada. Later, at Anne’s in San Diego, we had dinner in a restaurant overlooking the Pacific. Even later at El Paso, Texas, we stood atop a hill and looked into Jaurez, Mexico. Thus we touched three of the four borders of the USA on this trip. Too bad we didn’t conclude the trip at Ocean City and make the trip a real all-four-borders home run.

Anyhow, from Detroit, we went to Chicago and visited Sheriff Woods’s home; then through the Arch, “Gateway to the West,” at St. Louis; thence Tulsa, Amarillo, Albuquerque, the Petrified Forest, and Winslow; on to Meteor Crater (with an interesting exhibit indicating that, with our current techniques, any Martians would conclude that there is no life on earth!); then the Painted Desert, Grand Canyon, Kingman, Hoover Dam, and Las Vegas (where the only money spent was at MacDonald’s); and finally via Barstow to Anne’s home at San Diego. En route back we stopped at Borrego Springs, California, to visit my old shipmate friend, Ace Foster, whom I hadn’t seen in 31 years! This is the same guy who welcomed Kathleen and George to California back during the war (when my ship’s overhaul was suddenly shifted from Terminal Island, CA, to Pearl Harbor, HI), and, as mentioned earlier, was later to visit George often in Balboa Naval Hospital.

Hitting the road again, we visited Mary’s friend and our old Word of God Institute secretary, Ellen Gerrity, at Yuma, AZ (for a delicious meal in a Greek restaurant – something new!); then to El Paso; then on to lovely downtown Ozona, TX, next Houston (the world’s dirtiest and noisiest city – making Norfolk VA, worthy of a “House Beautiful” spread by comparison); Lafayette, LA (and please accent the second syllable); New Orleans; grand old Slidell, AL; Tuscaloosa; Chattanooga; Bristol, VA; New Market; and finally old faithful Silver Spring. Surprisingly, we found our own Shenandoah Valley to be as beautiful a spot as any seen elsewhere in the entire USA.

This was a 30-day jaunt, with 23 driving days, 21 motels, 18 states, 6,620 miles (Well, okay, so it was 6,621.8 miles), 297 gallons of gas, and – most fondly – visits to the Toths, the Woods, Anne and Jesse, the Fosters, and Ellen Gerrity. This was, remember, at the height of the gas crisis, but apart from a half-hour line departing San Diego, we had absolutely no problems. This had been something I had always wanted to do, but I had never really expected to do it. We approached this trip as we have approached every other trip, including our already reported trip to Southeast Asia, and our subsequent trip down the Rhine via London, Paris, and Amsterdam. (And as, even as I write in Nov 84, we are planning a trip to Venice, Florence, Rome, Lucerne, London, and Paris for the spring or fall of ’85.) What is this M.O.? We simply proceed, step by step, as though we’re actually going to take this make-believe trip, and – so far – suddenly it just happens. Let’s hope we can be so lucky with our dreams for 1985. (We weren’t.)

So we ring down the curtain on 1979, the year that: Charlie’s family joined us briefly at Ocean City, Monica (then a bartender) became an “instant” nun for Halloween, Johnny held a Labor Day bash at Jug Bay, George and Pat were safely ensconced in Lutherville, and some folks named George Hernandez and Bill Koerner showed up in Christmas Party pictures. It all seems so long ago. Yes, folks, this is the same old year that brought us the Chrysler guarantee (1 Nov), the Iranian Hostages (3 Nov), the visit of JP II to the US (1–6 Oct), and the death of Fr. Charles Coughlin (27 Oct). You may well ask, “Fr. Charles Who?” More popular than Bishop Sheen on TV in the 1950s, Fr. Coughlin was known as “The Radio Priest,” “The Lion of the Airways,” and the man of the “mighty Wurlitzer voice” (the Wurlitzer being the powerful hi-fi juke box of that era).

He could purr, roar, or drip honey, as the occasion demanded. It was estimated that as many as 40 million people heard his weekly broadcasts, and for a time he was one of the most powerful political and social forces in the country. He was ahead of his time in denouncing international bankers and pleading for a just, living family wage. He was ordered by the Bishop of Detroit in 1926 to establish a parish in its Royal Oak suburb. He thus started the Shrine of the Little Flower with a mere 30 families. In an effort to raise funds he resorted to local radio preaching (getting thousands across the land to recite in unison, “Little Flower, in this hour, show your power”), graduated to network status, and at his peak enrolled nine million members in his National Union for Social Justice. The latter was seriously discredited when it failed in its attempt to unseat FDR in 1936, and Fr. Coughlin’s decline was then almost as rapid as his rise, though he still maintained a lusty radio voice until 1940.

The whole point of this recital is to salute his priestly commitment to obedience, for at that point (due to his increasingly vitriolic and purely political tirades against the government, with strongly anti-semitic overtones) his Bishop censured him to silence and ordered his full-time devotion to strictly parish duties. Fr. Coughlin, who was then receiving 40,000 pieces of mail a week, forthwith ceased and desisted his radio endeavors. The only such sacrifice to come even close to this in my lifetime was when Fr. Drinan stepped down from a Congressional career at the behest of JP II. I admire both Coughlin and Drinan. On the occasion of the former’s 50th anniversary of his priesthood, the late Cardinal Cushing of Boston observed, “He was decades ahead of his time … the giant of his generation among committed priests … (and long before) clergy marched for the disenfranchised and dispossessed … his voice was heard throughout the land.” Such a man should be remarked, especially as my Aunt Lucy gave me a volume of his earliest sermons for one of my birthdays.

Digital Edition Note: Charlie cannot help but comment that it is interesting that Jack admires in these two men for the same trait of obedience to authority which he himself, repeatedly throughout this book, has personally and vehemently rejected in favor of individuality. Charlie makes this comment, not as a criticism, but to point out that perhaps none of us is as fully self-consistent as we think we are.

Suddenly (did I hear someone say, “At last!”), we’re in the 1980s! In 1980 Bo Derek braided her blond hair, Mary Tyler Moore professed to be Ordinary People, Richard Chamberlain thrilled us all in “Shogun” (was it “Ka nee she wah?”), JR was shot in Dallas, and Carter killed the Summer Olympics in Moscow. This didn’t stop Eric Heiden from grabbing four gold medals in the earlier Winter Olympics, or John Anderson from running with Olympic vigor in the presidential sweepstakes. Mary Cunningham was mounting the organizational ladder at Bendix even as would-be marathoner Rosie Ruiz was sitting down in the NY subway, while our own Monica was shifting her nest to Tallahassee and FSU for graduate work. Among those relocating to fairer climes marked by eternity were: the Shah of Iran, Alfred Hitchcock, Tito, Steve McQueen, Jesse Owens, Peter Sellers, and Jimmy Durante. The old guard was now rapidly falling away much like spent booster rockets shed by a skyward accelerating space ship.

Author at Daytona – January 1980

The world was moving on, but not our hostages in Iran. The rescue mission desert tragedy occurred on 24 Apr, leaving eight Americans dead and another five wounded. Then Mt. St. Helens blew its top. Kathleen and I decided it was time for our first retreat as a married couple, so we weekended in May at the Loyola retreat house on the Potomac at Faulkner, MD, recharging our spiritual batteries. Nice! Mo turned 21 in Aug, and our child-raising days were over – but not our parenthood. Moni then upstaged Mo by marrying Jerry McGinn on 12 Sep 1980, with two receptions to follow. You can’t top the Irish! It was a beautiful wedding on a beautiful day, much like the one on which Kathleen and I were married back on 14 Sep 1942. I especially appreciated being asked to do one of the readings – a piece about “hanging on to a bit of your own space” even in wedlock, from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. This affair had to be the highlight of 1980.

There were other happenings of note that year, though. In Oct JP II issued what I still consider to be his greatest encyclical to date on God’s mercy. Large sections of it are actually comprehensible. More than that, they are beautiful. His distinction of justice from mercy, I think, breaks new ground and is sufficient in itself to warrant study by all serious Catholics, BUT – in his torrent of words it has already fallen by the wayside and goes unremarked. Too bad. To go from the sublime to the ridiculous, on 4 Nov we voted Jimmy Carter out of the White House. That was the good news. The bad news was that on that same day we voted Ronald Reagan into the White House. If you don’t think that was bad news, just keep your eye on that national deficit. Last night (as I write on 8 Nov 1984) we just voted Reagan four more years. I sure hope he lasts. God forbid that we should be saddled with that chameleon called George Bush whom Gary Trudeau (Doonesbury) says “has placed his manhood in a blind trust.” More than this, I hope we don’t all live to regret this so-called second mandate for “The Great Communicator.” Since he’s the only president we have – God speed!

Even as Ron was initially voted into the White House, Mary was moving into the Air Force. We drove her to her drop-off at BWI, amid a strange confusion of pride and sense of loss. May her career and her path through life be CAVU all the way. (That’s “ceilings and visibility unlimited” for you earth people.) Once again Johnny sprang for a fabulous family farewell party at Jug Bay. We’re really going to miss that beautiful picnic spot now that Johnny owns his own house nearer to Chesapeake Beach, but the family sure got its money’s worth there. And so we come to the end of 1980. On 8 Dec John Lennon was shot, and Washington got a 30" snow job. Then, almost before we knew it, we were greeting Mary for Christmas leave at BWI, and Mo threw us all a fantastic holiday brunch at her apartment in Rockville. All in all, for us it was a very nice year, but time now seemed to Kathleen and I to really be whizzing by – much like the Voyager had zipped by Saturn in late Nov. Everything seemed to be speeding up.

The year 1981 began well. Our hostages were freed by Iran on 20 Jan after 444 days of hell. The year also ended well. My mother, as already noted, passed into heaven on 9 Dec. In between there was one bummer – somebody got a quadruple heart by-pass job when they were unable to perform the planned quintuple by-pass due to inadequate connecting tissue at the heart itself – but that’s another chapter in itself, and this one will stop just short of the detailing of that unique experience by an almost eye-witness. Eyeing the silver screen at that time one might have seen Chariots of Fire. Eyeing the TV, one might have seen Reagan being shot on 20 Mar, and JP II being shot on 13 May. Clearly it was not a good year for leaders in the public eye. Fortunately, both intended victims made remarkable recoveries. In between these two shootings, NASA on 12 Apr featured a more spectacular “space” shot, sending our first space shuttle Columbia into orbit.

Meanwhile we were enjoying some equally explosive events on the family front. Just as Moni and Jerry had celebrated at two wedding receptions, Laurie celebrated (is this really possible?) two first communions. First, Msgr. Foley held a special first communion at a Mass at Kinross, especially arranged in Mar to coincide with Mary’s brief Air Force leave at home. Msgr. used the wooden chalice we had acquired in RPI, and then stayed for a “Spaghetti alla Pugliese” dinner. Later in May of 1981, as requested by Msgr. Foley, Laurie would join all her peers from St. Bernadette’s in the regular parish first communion celebration. After this one (for which Mary was not present), we all went to Sir Walter Raleigh’s for a swordfish steak dinner.

Mary was the center of attention for two very special events in early 1981. We’ll take up the less fortunate one first – her beautiful wedding with Bill Koerner on a gorgeous May day in George and Pat’s back yard. It was a beautiful family-style affair, complete with white-clad flower girl (Laurie) and cake and champagne. The service and very nice sermon were provide by a young Presbyterian minister of Mary and Bill’s acquaintance. During the ceremony we all chanted several choruses of Amazing Grace. I don’t know about Mary and Bill, but I thought it was perfect. Unfortunately, this alliance wasn’t so perfect in the long run, lasting just a little over two years. But that’s another story. The other still pleasantly lingering memory of that period was the family descent upon Mary at San Antonio for her commissioning in the Air Force in Feb of 1981. Now, that was a ball!

Mary’s commissioning – February 1981

It was a “surprise” affair and took considerable logistical genius to pull off. Anne left from San Diego, and Ellen joined her fight at Tucson. George left from BWI at 2025 on 26 Feb. Moni left from Tampa the next morning. Strangely, I have no note indicating how Kathleen and I traveled or precisely when. In any event, Mary was expecting only Ellen, Bill, Laurie, and George (who was to swear her in). Nevertheless, the whole family (except for Charlie) plus Ellen and Bill managed to converge on Mary precisely in front of the O Club, just in time for the special pre-commissioning (swearing-in would come the next morning) cocktail party under cover of fast fading twilight. It was quite remarkable and tremendously exciting. The only sad note: John’s camera was stolen on the plane. It was a proud couple of days for Mary and a great adventure for the family. Who will ever forget dinner at the San Francisco Steak House with its giant red guest-riding overhead swing? Or, the walk along the river? Or the hotel bull sessions? I can’t imagine a better way to end this chapter than on this high note. Yet it all seems so very, very long ago.

San Antonio surprise – February 1981

XXI. HEART

All men are ordinary men, the extraordinary men are those who know it. – G. K. Chesterton

Now we come, literally, to the heart of the matter, and it had been a long time coming – at least 10 years! Back when I was still working (I had retired 31 Mar 73) and driving to work in the little red Pinto, I often had to pull off of 16th Street in the morning onto a side street. Then I’d get out of the car, and sheepishly stand with my hands fully extended overhead (like “This is a stick-up!”) – until severe chest pains abated. (I can still remember my description – “It feels so good when it stops!”) Then I’d get back into the car and continue on into the office. So far as I know, nobody knew about this. I don’t recall ever telling anybody about it. Eventually (circa mid-1970), I went to a doctor for a check up, and he diagnosed angina and prescribed Isordil and Hydropres. The former is a so-called anti-anginal for the prevention and relief of chest pains due to an insufficiency of the oxygen supply to the heart. The second is an anti-hypertension diuretic for the treatment of high blood pressure. The problem was then seemingly solved – until Nov 1979.

Fighting for my life – August 1972

I finally gave in – January 1980

To begin more or less at the beginning, on 19 Feb 71 I underwent my regular biannual third-class (for non-commercial private pilots) flight physical, which is required by the FAA to continue flying. In fact, my last flight was 22 Mar 71, just nine days before my old medical certificate expired. You see, I had passed the new physical OK, but the special medication (which I had to report using) required validation by the FAA’s Surgeon General. Well, the same was not forthcoming, and I was permanently grounded. So, all right! I had no real medical problems, and flying was getting too expensive anyway. Thereafter, all continued to go well, as mentioned above, until Nov 79. In Mar 79 I underwent my self-imposed biannual physical exam (a practice since discontinued) by Dr. Fitzgerald. I remarked that I’d been taking Isordil and Hydropres since 1970 and hadn’t had a chest pain or any problem in eight years, so how about knocking that off. He said O.K., so I quit the medication. My heart specialist later said that this had nothing to do with what subsequently happened, and I have no reason to doubt him … BUT … I almost died of heart failure eight months later. You can’t help wondering about the seeming wisdom of that old cliché: if something is working O.K. don’t mess with it – “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it!”

A radical decline had been hinting its presence beginning in mid-summer of 1979, and its progress was rapid. I had had to give up mowing the lawn before summer was out, and by November I couldn’t struggle from my bed to the bathroom without getting increasingly severe chest pains. In fact, the real problem had now become how to get to the doctor. Somehow Kathleen helped me struggle down the basement steps into Fitz’s office, and I really had to wonder if I was ever going to be able to get back up those stairs. The doctor listened to my heart, thumped my back and chest, and asked a thousand questions. Then he called his female office honcho in and told her to set up a session with a cardiologist. In a moment she was back to report that such a session had been set up for three days hence. The doctor exclaimed, “Oh no, no, I meant to set it up for right now!” Let me talk to the doctor.”

And so it was done, and Kathleen proceeded to drag me directly to the cardiologist’s office. Thank God it was on the ground floor! It was located in the medical building at Forest Glen and Georgia Avenue, where Kathleen could drive me right to the office door. And so began my since enduring affair with the ECG (EKG per the German origination) machine. After a most thorough examination, the doctor had Kathleen join us in his office and proceeded with a grave and very detailed report, complete with a disassembling model heart. It was a scene all of us have now seen on TV many times. The prognosis wasn’t good. We would try to bring things under control with an array of medications – we were dealing with very low pressure, extremely erratic rhythms, and virtually no blood throughput from the heart’s pumping action. The best we could hope for from medication alone was a short-term stabilizing of rhythm and an improved level of pressure. If and when that was achieved, then we’d have to undergo further tests to discover the real root of the difficulties and what might be done about them. I was to report back to him two days later for a further check on my condition. Meanwhile, I was not to exert myself in any way. Well, no danger of that. And so Kathleen and I limped back home and to bed, on the way initiating our since continuing drug store subsidization (now nearly $100 a month). The cardiologist’s medication program brought immediate and astounding relief which, unfortunately, was to prove to be short term precisely as predicted. Still, I was able to start moving again and was eventually able to resume a more or less normal life routine even as my condition again began gradually to deteriorate.

I got through all of 1980 without notable incapacitation, but 1981 heralded trouble almost from the outset. Early on the return of recurring chest discomfort compelled a so-called stress test. Actually, it’s an ECG taken over the course of accelerated exercise rather than at rest. In effect, it shows how the heart reacts to physical loading to the point of overload. One can have a perfectly normal ECG at rest while the machine may reveal that the heart really goes bonkers whenever a load is applied. The test is especially useful in pinpointing the nature and degree of deficiencies with respect to blocked coronary arteries, the heart muscle itself, or the rhythm of the heartbeat.

In my case, I had to walk on a treadmill the speed and “uphill” inclination of which are gradually increased until your heart has reached a level judged to be 80% of its maximum effort. To figure your “target” heart rate: T=80%x(220-age). For me this involved working to increase my normal rate of 60 to 126. The test had to be suspended due to my exhaustion before I reached the target rate. I reached a point where I could barely get my breath. In my sickly condition this was really scary. (It might be appropriate to mention here that in a stress test in mid-1984 – before my relapse which began around Thanksgiving of that year – I got the rate up to 205 and still felt like I could deliver a finishing kick!) So it was that my failed stress test begot another test. This time it was an echocardiography, an exercise sort of comparable to sonar readings in marine language. In fact, the product is called a sonogram. This test provides more definitive results than the stress test, for example: the size of the heart chambers, the thickness of the heart walls, how the heart valves function, the presence of fluid in the sac surrounding the heart, etc. Guess what? This test revealed such a degenerative condition that yet another test was then indicated. However, the sonogram also marked the end of the fun-and-games noninvasive tests. From now on my body would be under attack.

We were now into the delightful realm of cardiac catheterization and angiography. This truly invasive test compels two nights in the hospital one before, one after. “EVERYTHING you’d ever want to know about your heart,” to paraphrase the exuberant Ed McMahon, “is revealed by THIS test!” In addition to verifying the sonogram with greater specificity, this process provides indications of pressures within the heart and blood vessels, electrical activity within the heart, effectiveness of the heart valves, and the presence of any abnormal openings between chambers, plus it enables blood sampling from the recesses of the heart that can be analyzed for oxygen content. The physician can also deliver small electrical impulses to the heart and so control heart rate. He also gets a virtual blueprint for guiding any necessarily ensuing coronary artery bypass operation.

Anyhow, the actual process takes about one-and-a-half hours, and the best thing that can be said about it is that it hardly entails any pain. What they did was to insert a 1/10th-inch-diameter 42"-long plastic catheter in a vein at the front crease of where my right leg hinges from my belly, and then snake it through the vein right into the chambers of the heart itself. This is not only done with a local, you can (as I did) watch the whole process on TV. Fantastic! Not only that, they then inject a dye through the catheter and simultaneously record the heart action on videotape (complete with instant replay!) and on film for detailed study at the doctor’s later leisure. At this point a further word is in order about that dye injection. WOW! Instant “hot flash”! There’s an overwhelming surge of intense but pleasant heat throughout your entire body. You get a flushed feeling and have the sensation that warm fluid is oozing from EVERY aperture in your body. Somehow I rather imagined it was something like Christ might have experienced at the resurrection. It’s a sensational high, I guarantee you that.

Well, it turns out that there are essentially three pipes at the heart (they call them vessels), and I was found to have so-called 3-vessel disease, which is a worst-case situation. The medical team wondered how I’d been getting by at all, and warned me not to do ANYTHING until they could operate. That was easy, because I hadn’t tried to do anything for weeks. I was further told that I’d need FIVE bypasses among the three vessels. One was blocked off 100%, but the affected area was being fed from an outgrowth of another vessel, which was itself 90% blocked off. They had the pictures to prove it all. Incredible detail! So, there you have it.

All in all, the process was more scary (fear-of-the-unknown syndrome) than painful. It cost $2000 for what the bill termed a “Coronary Cine-angiogram.” I’d finally made it in the movies and had been on live TV, but thank God for Blue Cross!

May was an awfully long month in 1981. I found out I desperately needed a bypass operation on the anniversary of V-J Day, the 8th of May, but they couldn’t schedule me for surgery until 3 June! That’s a 27-day wait, and I confess it was sort of like being on death row. I was almost afraid to move. There was absolutely no fear of the operation. The big fear was that I might not make it that far. Needless to say, I spent much of that period getting my personal affairs in order, and turning all property management affairs, including bill-paying and income tax reports, over to Kathleen. We went over insurance, survivor benefits, funeral arrangements – the whole Woody Woodpecker “That’s all, folks!” bit.

I even selected memorial Mass scripture readings and wrote my own obituary. (Might as well get it right, right?) The memorial Mass was indicated since my body was to be gifted to Johns Hopkins for donor purposes and medical research. (It still is.)

Digital Edition Note: If his body went to Johns Hopkins, it was indirectly. In the event, both Jack’s and Kathleen’s remains were donated to the Maryland Anatomy Board as Jack notes in Chapter XXIII. FULFILLMENT. Both were eventually cremated by the Anatomy Board and their ashes interred in respectful ceremonies at the grave site on the grounds of Springfield Hospital Center, Sykesville, MD, which has a nice memorial stone and space for quiet reflection. Several related pictures and news clippings are available at https://www.wrightstuff.site. See especially a copy of an article in the Baltimore Sun regarding the service conducted when Kathleen was interred, complete with a picture of George.

The most unexpected aspect of all these preparations was the great spiritual serenity that engulfed me once I thought everything possible had been done to ease Kathleen’s continuing alone. I felt at the time I was as ready to go as I ever might hope to be. I even had a sort of feeling that the sooner, the better – before I could muck it up, so to speak.And so we come, at last, to Operation Bypass. What follows next is a slightly edited version of my original Dear All letter report of 11 Jun 81.

Prototype “Dear All” letter

Digital Edition Note: The above is Jack’s marked-up copy of a letter from his own father, dated January 21, 1930, on which he clearly based his subsequent series of “Dear All” letters (to his own children. Text of the above letter reads:

Dear “All”:

Life aboard ship is apt to be somewhat monotonous. The ship plods on, hour after hour, day after day, without apparently arriving anywhere. Nothing but water, no matter in which direction you look, and plenty of it. Only a few times did we pass other ships, that is, near enough for the landsman to see. Of course, we may have passed a number during the night or during a fog or at mealtime.”

The remainder of the content of the letter is not included. Copies of Jack’s Dear All Letters from 1972, ‘73, ‘75, ‘76, ‘77, ‘79, ‘81, and ‘87 are available at https://www.wrightstuff.site.

1 Jun: Entered Washington Hospital Center alone at 1300. Left my watch with Kathleen for safe-keeping. Never got it back. Very efficient immediate admission, followed by urine test, 3 blood tests, ECG, x-ray, and in room by 1330. Visited immediately by nurse practitioner member of Op-Team, who detailed what would be happening leading up to operation and advised of pre-op education session for me and all interested family members that was scheduled for 1300 next day. Complete physical in room at 2000 by resident intern, Dr. MacKenzie, a proficient young black, who volunteered, “You should have no trouble.”

2 Jun: Visited at 1000 by Mended Hearts rep who answered all questions, dispelling any and all fears, doubts, or surprises. Left a thorough booklet detailing outline of disease, operation, and post-op do’s/don’t’s. Excellent. Briefing session at 1300 attended by me, Kathleen, Pat, and Mo. Covered everything in as much detail as desired, including any and all questions, and a tour of the ICU where the most recent “victims” were on display. No need thereafter to expect any surprises – very comforting, excellent preparation. Met fellow victims for my op day. At 1400 visited by female Indian anesthetist. She explained process, tubes, etc., and solicited requisite technical data from me. At 1500 visited by pulmonary team rep who conducted breathing and coughing practice as extremely important to learning to breathe on own after having been fully on a breathing machine during operation, and as required for expelling potential lung-infecting material after op. At 2200 shaved from Adam’s apple to ankles by 22-year-old black Jehovah’s Witness from Trinidad who got into heated, razor-gesturing biblical debate – while doing my genital area – with my Presbyterian minister roommate (simultaneously being shaved by 25-year-old Catholic black veteran). Very unnerving! I pointed out to highly excited, razor-wielding youngster that I was not arguing with him. All sorts of unreal scriptural exchanges amidst razor-flailing arm-waving. The shave was followed by a shower with a special antiseptic soap. At 2200 was impacted with pre-op bowel-cleaning suppository. It did its job.

3 Jun: (“0” day): All food, water and medication ceased at 0000. Roommate departed at 0900. He preceded me with same op-team. I was simply scheduled “TF” – to follow. At 1130 I received antibiotic and morphine shots, and Kathleen and Charlie began to gradually recede from my consciousness. I was wheeled into the Op-room at 1200. I dimly recall being fitted in the neck and both arms for intravenous needles. I also recall KT’s Regina High School classmate and now Op-room nurse, Mary Driscoll, holding my hand and providing running banter on what was going on and what would happen next, and the camaraderie and jibes among technicians doing the ECG and like monitoring, and wiring hook-ups around my chest area. Finally I recall being moved from the holding or set-up area onto a bed of ice (literally, and they also chill your blood 9 degrees lower in the perfusion machine) under a battery of eight huge lamps and asking, “Is dis de place?” And everybody laughingly replying in unison, “Dis is de place!” At no time during any of the foregoing did I feel ANYTHING, thanks to the morphine and other stuff they were then able to tube into me. My last re collection was the anesthetist saying, “Now we’re going to begin.”

I told you I had a heart – June 03, 1981

Naturally, there was no recollection of the introduction of the nose and trachea tubes, or insertion of the bladder catheter. In fact, the next thing I recall was striving mightily to focus my eyes on a down-peering and smiling Kathleen and Charlie in the ICU room, as Kathleen said, “It’s all over, Dad,” and Charlie chimed in, “We all love you, Dad!” It was a glorious moment. THANKS BE TO GOD! They tell me it was then 1700. The family had had a flash of me earlier (1550) as I was wheeled from the Op-room to the ICU, when (as they told me later) I was “ice cold – looked like a real zombie – now I know what a blank stare really is!” (Thanks, fellows, I really needed that!) They visited me again later, during normal ICU visiting hours of 1915–1945. I recall seeing both Kathy and Mo at these ICU visits too. It was hard to focus and, with the trachea tubes in place, impossible to talk. Charlie says I somehow formed the words, “What time is it,” and he replied “7:30 pm.” He also says I fought to free his hand-holding so I could flash the old three-finger OK signal in response to their questions. It was frustrating, but it sure was great to see them and hear them. Charlie also recalls that I was still wild-eyed and jerky in my head movements, but had warmed up considerably and seemed markedly improved. There was no pain whatsoever. My trachea tubes were removed at 2330, at which time I’d managed to re establish breathing on my own. (Of course, my heart had been stopped during the operation also, from between 45 minutes to an hour.) I was then able to manage a whisper to the superb one-on-one attending nurse.

This seems the proper time to introduce Mo’s post operation recollections as recorded that very day:

I went to the hospital the afternoon of the operation and just missed you being rolled down to the ICU. When I finally saw you in the ICU about an hour later, you looked a lot slimmer than I had imagined you being. You had no covers on, and were dressed in only a short hospital gown. You also had a big white diaper-like thing wrapped around you. The first thing I thought of was how embarrassed you’d be if you knew I’d seen you with that on. I had to leave the room shortly after because I got all choked up. You looked so flustered and frustrated. You looked so poor and helpless, but I couldn’t stop thinking how amazing it was to see you looking so well. I guess I had expected the worst. At first I thought you were in a lot of pain. That breathing machine looked like it was hurting you. Your eyes seemed really glassy and just seemed to be floating around sort of aimlessly.

I guess I mistook frustration for hurt when I first came in. I felt as helpless as you to a point, because I couldn’t do anything but hold your hand. But then you seemed to change after I got there. I couldn’t say anything because I knew you couldn’t reply, and I thought that would make you even more frustrated. You kept trying to look at me. I don’t think you could place who I was, especially as I didn’t speak up. But it did feel good to have you grasp my hand (even though your grasp really wasn’t much). I’d move my hand and you’d try to twitch yours. It may have just been the drugs wearing off. You felt so cold, but I knew that was to be expected. You felt so cold and yet so warm – like for the first time you needed me instead of me needing you. The main thing I remember, though, was your frustrated glances at everyone. The second time we visited (about two hours later) you seemed so much more alert, I couldn’t believe it. That time you really took hold of my hand and wouldn’t let go. I think it meant as much to me as it probably did to you. I’m just glad it all went so well and that I could come and be there with you. [THANKS, Mo, for that tender recollection.]

My best medicine pulling me through

4 Jun: It turned out that they (the hospital staff) needed a bed in the cardiac ICU at 0950, and so I was removed to a general ICU as “the most improved/ stabilized.” Well, that was their story. I’d been given a fluid breakfast which I devoured (heretofore having had only two small servings of George’s favorite ICU staple of ice chips), and enjoyed a regular menu lunch even though it was fried chicken (no favorite of mine) and “real” coffee. The whole day sped by like one at a country club. I was painless and spent most of the day fast asleep, with virtually no recollection of new visitors that day except for George and Pat. Aside from the visitors and meal times, I think I was just plain “out of it”! I do remember that by crooking my neck and looking over my left shoulder I could see a door that opened directly onto a roof-top helipad. I couldn’t help thinking what a neat ringside view I’d have of any poor soul they might have to wing into the hospital. It never occurred to me that I might be in the Trauma Unit, even though I was the only patient in the room and was continually attended by both an intern and a nurse. As I said, I wasn’t too alert that day.

5 Jun: Early in the morning the storm finally broke. I went into violent 200-cycle atrial fibrillation from 0414–0715 (not continuous, of course, just wildly erratic). The young black intern and a superb older Danish nurse then on duty applied beaucoup units of various things via the Heparin connection in my right wrist (this being a sort of valved inlet/outlet needled into an artery precisely to introduce or remove fluids in an emergency without having to zap you with new needles each time). Heparin, of course, is an anticoagulant derived from animal livers. They also gave me a shot of something in the right shoulder. And I had to drink three huge potassium cocktails (not tasty, but with apple juice it came out something like a cherry coke), in an effort, in effect, to restore a proper electrolytic balance in my heart’s “battery.”

The doctor and nurse really worked over me frantically in those early morning hours, and I kept drifting in and out of consciousness, on the whole feeling comfortably euphoric. There was one dramatic period when I had a feeling of being outside of or completely removed from my body. I was sort of looking down, totally detached, on my own semi-slumbering self, and I couldn’t figure out why that guy and gal were struggling over me so excitedly. I was somewhat concerned though, as I recall striving furiously to get their attention, in order to suggest that perhaps they might want to call in some more experienced specialist. But they never would look up to wherever I was hovering on the upper wall or ceiling. I guess you just, as the saying goes, had to be there. At length things just seemed to settle down and my next recollection was waking for breakfast. (I’m sure that whenever I die I’m certain to wake for breakfast that very next morning!) It was at that point that the now weary young intern (now off duty) returned to check up on me. He asked if there was anything he could do for me. I replied that he already had done plenty. He smiled broadly and then gratefully seized my hand and squeezed it. That was nice. I realized then that we had really shared a crisis together. Anyhow, by 1300 I was sufficiently recovered and stabilized to be removed to the regular cardiac ward. Once there, I did automatically touch off two “beeper” warnings of fibrillation via my chest monitor, at 1530 and 1800. That really brought people flying to my bedside, but they finally determined I had a defective plug-in and replaced it. Instant cure. My biggest problems from there on turned out to be stomach gas and a loud- mouthed, red-neck, good-old-boy roommate. Maybe there’s some sort of redundancy in that last statement.

Digital Edition Note: In Jack’s personal copy of the book, at this point, there was a small piece of note paper inserted. Below is an image of that note:

6-7-8 Jun: The Chaplain provided Holy Communion on the 7th. KT provided an Egg McMuffin and a Quarter-pounder on the 6th and 8th, I think it was. This, of course, is verboten heart-patient food, but I devoured it. This was also the period during which I became permanently attached to my second pillow. You have to cough a lot after surgery, to expel potentially infectious phlegm. Yet, every cough almost tears your now tender heart out. So, they issue a small pillow which you clutch tightly to your chest whenever you cough – or sneeze. But God forbid, you don’t dare sneeze. You sense it would really explode your chest. (In fact, I didn’t dare risk my first post-surgery sneeze until 12 Aug – some seventy days after surgery!) Anyhow, by now I was obviously well on the road to recovery, walking up and down the hall as often as possible to improve cardiovascular activity, and sniffing oxygen continuously when abed on the basis that it was free and couldn’t hurt. Escape from my loud-mouthed roommate was all the incentive I needed to get back out into the hall and walk. I was ready to go home.

9 Jun et seq: I was released at 8 am on 9 Jun (6 days after the surgery). My exit instructions, courtesy of a pretty and very young nurse: Work up to walking at least a mile/day, following body signals. Avoid all lifting and arm pressure, like auto driving for 4–6 weeks. Assume only a passive position for sex. (It was all I could do to refrain from asking this very serious young lady, “Could you elaborate a little on what you mean by that?”) It’s OK to take short car rides as a passenger (which was a lucky thing, considering Greg was standing by even then to drive me home). Any diet was OK, but “watch” fats and salt (and I glance at them faithfully every time I see them on my plate until this very day). Keep practicing my deep breathing and coughing daily. That was it! I didn’t even have to pass the cashier on the way out. Blue Cross covered the whole $13,388.03 (of which the surgeon’s fee – covering all his assistants – was $3,750) – a real bargain! And so, I was home with a beer for lunch by 1030. One interesting footnote of this period might be that on 15–16 Jun I bottomed out at a mere 203 pounds, before beginning a gradual return to my more customary 225 level. At 1345 on the 10th, a nun from St. Bernadette’s brought me communion. Hilbert Unger visited later in the day. On 11 Jun Kathleen and I went to St. B’s for a thanksgiving mass.

You may have noted that throughout the entire ordeal I was aware of no real pain. I neither asked for nor received any oral pain or sleep medicine at any time, though the same was always on constant offer. Of course I don’t really know how much pain killer was introduced by needle, other than the initial morphine shot and some op-room shots prior to my big blackout. My chest scar was a precise surgical cut, extending from just below the throat to just above the navel, and never caused any trouble. I’ll confess only to some slight but ever present chest tightness in those early convalescent days, which compelled be to constantly resist nodding forward, and kept me forcing my head up and shoulders back with chest thrust outward. After all, they had sawed through my breastbone, ratcheted the halves 10" apart, and then had to muscle them back together by two men standing on opposite sides of me heaving mightily on stainless steel binding wires.

They drive these wires through the breastbone with a regular shoemaker’s awl, and use an ordinary cafeteria spoon on the other side to preclude it piercing any adjoining tissue. When the doctors asked how I was feeling during one of my post-op visits, I told them about my chest discomfort. When they persisted, “How does it feel?” I replied, “It feels like somebody might have left a teaspoon inside.” They damn near died laughing, and wanted know how I knew about the teaspoon bit. (I had read it in a hospital newsletter in the waiting room.) Anyhow, an x-ray of my chest now discloses a sort of wire birdcage, plus four “wedding rings” that were slipped onto the bypasses to mark the mouths of the grafts at the aorta.

My leg scar was something else. I presume that everybody knows that they remove a substantial length of leg vein to use as the heart bypass veins. My 20" leg scar extends from just inside the right leg crotch crease to halfway down the inside of the right calf. It is ugly and jagged, like the seam you get when you pull a long horizontally sprouting tree root up from the ground. Initially, it didn’t bother me at all, either, until some 11 days after the operation – some five days after I had been released from the hospital. What happened was that I went to Sunday Mass on 14 Jun, and on getting out of the car at home I was surprised to find my right pants leg soaking wet. I presumed amidst much embarrassment that I had unknowingly simply wet my pants. Examination proved otherwise. A hole about the diameter of a nickel, and one-quarter-inch deep (near the upper end of my leg scar) was suppurating a clear odorless liquid in rather copious quantities. This was a matter of some alarm only in that it was totally unexpected.

A call to the doctor revealed that this was not unusual, was nothing to worry about, and that it would in time heal of itself quite naturally. (Note that this was the ONLY omission in my otherwise outstanding pre-briefing.) Meanwhile, I was to keep compresses on it (and in fact I had to pin several thicknesses of heavy bath towel around it, and replace the towels frequently), and visit the doctor at least weekly until it stopped. Well, it ain’t easy to get pants on over a towel, folks, and I made at least two office visits (“Hmm … it’s still leaking.…”) before it finally closed on 18 Jul, just in time for our 20–30 Jul stint at Ocean City – where I was able to swim (47 days after the operation), but dared not dive. I had tried to expedite leg- healing by exposing the whole area to sunshine every afternoon in our backyard. It might not have helped much, but it sure felt good.

Post-op Ocean City therapy – July 1981

Well, you might suppose that this would mark the end of the saga of the heart. WRONG! Now we would have to undergo another test to find out just how successful the bypass operation had been. Let’s see now, what test have we not tried yet? Oh! There’s as so-called thallium stress test. Why don’t we try that one? And, of course we did. Now we’ve made it into nuclear medicine, folks. For this one I spent a morning (5 Aug 81) in Holy Cross Hospital. For this drill, a small amount of the radioactive isotope thallium 201 is injected into an arm vein via our old friend, the Heparin fitting, at the very end of a treadmill test (two minutes beyond the time you yell that you can’t go on!) In the immortal words of Gilda Radner, “I THOUGHT ah wuz GONna DIE!” Areas of the heart penetrated by the thallium become radioactive and can be visually projected on a CRT and also recorded by scintillation (gamma) camera photographs, and then repeated 3 hours later (with longer exposure due to dissipation of the “dye”). This process reveals whether “blackout” areas persist (indicating enduring scars) or have disappeared (indicating narrowed coronary arteries), and all manner of heart deficiencies or abnormal blood flow. The test is noninvasive, painless, quick, involves less radioactivity than a normal x-ray, and it as expensive as the devil. My heart rate went from 53 to 101 to a recovery at 41. They said this was terrific.

By now I was beginning to feel somewhat like a guinea pig. The professionals would simply say, “Do this!” and you’d do it, but you never could find out what they thought was wrong, what they expected to find out, or what the alternatives or even the implications were. (Much of the detail presented here is the result of private post-op research.) So, naturally, I penned a diatribe of sorts by way of venting my spleen. It seems appropriate to include it as this point:

Everyone knows the story about the donkey who could be made to do almost any chore, but first you had to bash it over the head with a two-by-four to get its attention. I suspect that even the most able physicians rank just below donkeys in this respect. As a group, the general competence and integrity of doctors must equal if not excel that of virtually all other professionals. Still, as articulators of their admitted expertise they fall right in there with good Pope John Paul II, who, while proficient in several dozen languages, can apparently communicate in none.

The doctors, of course, might plead that for them to waste time trying to explain the intricacies of various debilities to mere laymen would be tantamount to having Einstein explain the finer points of quantum physics to an English kindergarten – in German. There are, in other words, the dual difficulties of an arcane art and violently varying vocabularies to be considered. In fact, this ploy is little more than a cop-out. Few patients are interested in the nitty-gritty of, say, histoplasmosis or sporotrichosis, or being coached in do-it-yourself surgery.

What they do want to know in advance is what they will be feeling and seeing, what they will and won’t be able to do, what the range of probable outcomes might be, what alternatives there may be, and, most of all, what they can do themselves to mitigate the deficiency, facilitate the convalescence, and preclude recurrences or further deterioration. After all, the bodies concerned are their own, and they’re the ones who have to live (or die) with them – and they abhor avoidable surprises!

Perhaps nowhere is the divergence between the supply and demand of relevant information greater than in the post-operative period following coronary bypass surgery. The latter is a very popular (with surgeons) procedure in which a section of a vein from a limb of the body is removed and then regrafted around a blocked stretch of a coronary artery. (Did I neglect to mention that this entails the chest being slit and the breastbone being sawed through and then pried some 10" apart, and that in the process your heart is actually stopped? Details, details! Not to worry. This, too, shall pass.) Generally everything goes well, and almost before you can say “Blue Cross” you’re feeling pretty good and are back on the job.

Of course you have to monitor your life-style fairly closely after this, and you visit your cardiologist periodically. Then, one day it suddenly dawns on you that that is all your cardiologist is doing too – monitoring. You get feeling good over the fact that your quarterly check-ups confirm that everything is A-OK, but then you realize that the whole business, from start to never-quite-finished, is merely a palliative process. The situation has been eased, but no cure has been initiated. Think about it. A vein has been taken from your leg (which was never tops on your blood circulation list), and has been installed to improve the blood flow to your heart. And the same process that has always been at work clogging up your original coronary veins is now just as merrily “doing its thing” on the already “used” replacement vein!

Maybe we haven’t started to worry yet, but we do start to think and that soon leads us to seek further information. It is precisely here that we confront the heart (pun intended) of the problem. By and large our extremely competent physicians meet our serious queries with a benign pabulum the like of which teaching nuns customarily used to feed the parents of young Catholic school children. Let’s label this the “tut-tut, my dear” syndrome (TTMD).

Now I submit that any layman might reasonable conclude that the adaption of a bypass “pipe” clearly concedes that the bypassed pipe was blocked to some unacceptable degree. (Of course it could rather have been leaking, but not in the case here posited.) Now, the original pipe (prescinding from the possibility of congenital abnormality) was not always blocked. So, the question arises as to whence the blockage. This unhappy little process is termed atherosclerosis, and has to do with the adhesion of soft fatty deposits on the inside walls of our veins that begin with birth. If anyone knows the root cause of this process, they’re not talking. In fact, when you get to asking what causes it, can you prevent it, slow it down, or reverse it, resort is readily had to medical jargon which is supposed to convey the notion that the answer is beyond our ken (TTMD). Such representations might more legitimately be translated as, “We don’t know,” but don’t ever expect to hear that from your doctor.

Well, that’s perfectly all right! There are lots of things we don’t know, but our American tradition has always been “Let’s find out!” That’s what research is all about. This approach suggests a vast array of new questions. The first one might be: What elements of input (food and drink) are factors in the generation of these unwanted fatty deposits? Surely the accretion of deposits must in some manner stem from the new material ingested into our bodies. Can we not identify, isolate, and avoid these injurious elements or the deadly combination of several elements which interact with such dangerous effect? “If our biochemist can develop Tang to sustain us en route to the moon, then why can’t we…?

Analogies that come to mind are the diabetic’s strictures against sugar and the heart patient’s strictures against salt. Who is doing what in this area with respect to the dietary elements generating these unwelcome fatty deposits? To the extent doctors deign to address diet at all, it is largely directed at denigrating diet “cures.”

Again, what’s being done to test the feasibility of “coating” veins early on in life with a protective shield that might resist the adherence of these fatty deposits which too soon clog up our veins? Analogies that spring to mind range from Fluoride to Teflon. To be sure, such a development and testing program would take years to conduct and evaluate. The question remains: is any such project even underway?

Finally, if we can’t beat the problem by avoiding ingestion of the damaging agent(s) nor preclude adherence of unwanted substances by pre-coating the insides of our precious pipes, then why can’t we develop a solution for periodically flushing out our system? The analogy of Drano for the kitchen sink drain comes to mind, or the way salt-to-fresh-water evaporator tubes are periodically flushed free of scale by muriatic acid in sea-going ships.

Now I confess that I’m not yet quite ready to inhale a muriatic acid cocktail, but I have personally experienced the effectiveness of downing multiple potassium cocktails to restore a proper electrolytic balance following open heart surgery. I mean, that general approach has possibilities. Certainly there must be some element or compound in our chemical arsenal which can safely dissolve and flush out these fatty deposits. Only recently some ingested medicine solution for dissolving gallstones has been introduced. What allied effort is now underway for solving atherosclerosis?

I suspect that the answer to all the foregoing questions might well be that significant efforts are underway in all the areas cited, and more, but that vastly extended periods of trial and verification must be endured before any favorable development might safely be prescribed for general public use. If so, then we encounter a double standard here. After all, the first successful coronary bypass was accomplished as recently as 1962, and only about 2500 had been done world wide by 1970. Yet, by 1980 fifty-to-seventy thousand were being done per year in this county alone. But as recently as 1980 a joint Public Health Service/National Institutes of Health publication admitted that “clinical investigations are now trying to determine whether bypass surgery improves or impairs heart function, and whether it increases a patient’s life expectancy.” Get that! In the immortal words of Laurence Welk, “Wonerful!”

It would seem that the surgeons didn’t hesitate to push the coronary bypass operation long before its value was clearly established. Why, then, the big delay in implementing any promising-looking developments with regard to less traumatic alternatives? Why don’t the medical professionals at least give those in a “bypass situation” some hint of what might be expected in the reasonably near future, and what these folks might be doing in the interim to help themselves? Most of us would prefer to hear the doctors say, “We don’t know,” or “Nothing,” rather than persisting in the dignity-affronting TTMD. All right! I know, I know. That would invite even more of those frivolous negligence suits which have already blasted medical costs into orbit. Just understand that heart patients, above all others, must simply get such things (sorry about that!) off their chests.

Actually, of course, I don’t really have anything much to complain about. All my luck has been uniformly good – especially on all the important things in life: when and where I was born, my race, my parents, my faith, my educational opportunities, my surviving The Big War, my securing a superb wife, our welcoming nine whole-bodied, wholesome-minded children and one tiny saint, my professional success, and for upwards of three score years, really – my good health. This brings to mind columnist William Rusher who recently published this medical rule of thumb: “In your 30’s nothing will happen; in your 40’s nothing should happen; in your 50’s something may happen; in your 60’s something will happen!” Well, that’s been just about my experience. The bypass bit came at age 63. Rusher, however, then elaborates further insights with which I totally agree:

Sixty years of largely exuberant health is all anyone has a reason to expect … [and] if this account of what Winston Churchill called “the surly advance of decrepitude” has sounded a little gloomy up to now, let me give you the good news. With age, and only with age, come several good things. Perspective, for one. A person of 30 or 40 simply hasn’t been around long enough to see how events repeat themselves, how lines that seemed parallel gradually converge, how time heals.

At the same time, a person over 60 has a new (and healthy) awareness of his own mortality that alters his attitude toward many things. For example, the old saying that “you can’t take it with you,” which has been familiar to the point of banality all of one’s life, now suddenly becomes a fresh and piercingly accurate insight into certain important limitations on the nature of money, and indeed of all property.… Values, in one’s later years, are quite likely therefore to change spectacularly – and usually for the better.

Even courage to face life’s disasters becomes a bit easier. If a tyrant were to threaten me with execution (let alone “life imprisonment”), I think I could defy him more bravely now than I might have been able to do 30 or 40 years ago. The ability of others to do me harm is severely limited these days, and to that extent age has actually increased my freedom.

Rusher is so right! Already I have come to appreciate that property – any property – is a stern warden which grievously circumscribes one’s freedom. You have to stay with it, watch over it, protect it, insure it, maintain it, and worry about it. Property makes one a prisoner. As for personal safety or security, I rather imagine that I might well react to any threat on my life with Clint Eastwood’s great movie line, “Go ahead! Make my day!” There gradually comes a recognition that you’ve been everywhere and done just about everything you would ever reasonably hope to do, or that you’ve now lost the physical energy or mental inclination to even undertake whatever remains on your “wish list.” You realize that you’re ready – the good Lord willing, of course – to move on. There’s simply not as much gusto the second or third time around. The party’s over, it’s time to get on with the cleaning up – readying the soul to meet God.

Speaking of cleaning up, it’s high time we cleaned up this heart-rending (literally) saga. No doubt I’ve rambled on overlong on this heart business, telling one and all much more than they ever cared to know. I propose two excuses: (1) it is a major event in my life, and (2) it could be of major interest to any of my progeny unfortunate enough eventually to confront a similar congenital affliction. Accordingly, I shall persist (as briefly as possible, I promise) in the documentation of this case history to date. Only three incidents remain to be reported. The first occurred on 17 Feb 84, two years and eight months after the eminently successful bypass job. I can’t cover it better (or easier) than by incorporating a 14 Mar 84 letter to Sr. Kathleen:

HEALTH UPDATE: The good news is that it’s pretty damn good. The bad news was, that we just found this out Friday after a spell of real worry. It all began on 17 Feb. I was quietly working at my computer that morning when I suddenly was blasted by a rather good (that is, BAD) chest pain. This was the first I’d had since my bypass, and I’d forgotten how bad they could be. Worse than that, it persisted longer than I had ever had one before. I finally subdued it after 2 nitro pills. (If you take a 3rd, which is permissible, and it still persists, then you’re supposed to rush to the nearest hospital. Naturally, I’ve always resisted a 3rd pill, so far!)

Well, the worst thing about it all was the TERRIBLE depression that ensued. You see, you go along thinking you’ve got it licked, and all of a sudden you find yourself back where you started, and you didn’t even get to pass go and collect $200! Then the payoff came on 8 Mar, when I reported to my cardiologist for my regular quarterly check-up. All was going well until I told him about the foregoing experience. That immediately triggered an ECG (which showed unexpected serious deterioration since the previous one), and a series of chest x-rays (where for the first time I got to see the 4 “wedding rings” installed by the surgeon to mark my bypasses, and the birdcage of wires used to strap my chestbone back together after they had sawed it apart to get to my heart.) Really neat! But, believe me, it’s often felt just like it looked – like a birdcage had been stuffed inside my chest before they sewed me back up. These checks led him to schedule me for a stress test on the following day, Friday, 9 Mar.

Well, this was the start of “The Big Non-Sleep!” Nobody had to tell me that if I failed that, then I’d be scheduled for another angiogram (where they squirrel that 1/10" tube up through a vein inside your thigh right into your heart, inject dye, and then photograph the blood flow through the heart). It’s just not a fun thing, you know. And, of course, failing could mean more by pass surgery. Really! They do do “instant replays.” I definitely didn’t think that would be a fun thing! You can’t believe how I agonized through that Thursday night!

But back to the good news. I demolished that “bugger” test! In fact, when the doctor told me I had a minute to go, I actually turned on a finishing kick like track stars do. I mean, I was really going all out to beat that stress business. To make a long story longer, my pressure started at 130/80 (which is great, of course, but don’t forget I’ve been being highly medicated for high blood pressure for years), worked it up to 205/90, and it settled back down to 130/60 (60 is unbelievably great!) within one minute – indicating great recovery capacity. In short, I passed. I was so relieved – I HAVEN’T FELT THAT GREAT IN 20 YEARS!

The hardest strain on me during the test was the strain in the knees – NOT the chest, and luckily for the past 3–4 months, I’ve been going up and down 100 stairs to build up my cardiovascular system before each of my three meals per day. I’m certain in retrospect that my knees would never have made it without that conditioning. It was Kathleen’s idea, and I adopted it because I found it got my pulse up to the desired exercise level much more quickly than riding the exercise bike.

So, the doctor said I must have experienced some kind of a “quirk”! (How’s that for a truly professional opinion, folks?) He added that while my ECG showed definite deterioration since the immediately preceding one, that the effects of the change were evidently minor, and I didn’t appear to be in any near term risk of a heart attack … (S-L-U-M-P-!) … Anyhow, I’m to just continue what I’m doing.

How bad was it all? It was seven hundred and seventeen dollars worth of bad – the stress test being performed while under simultaneous and continuous nuclear scan. The latter entailed three shots, to set up the radioactive isotope dye. The girl took three punctures to find the vein the first time, and five punctures for the second shot. She hit it the first time on the third shot, compelling me to remark, “You see, practice does make perfect!” Well, I sure can’t find any fault with the overall results. Thanks be to God.

Now I was on Easy Street, right? WRONG! It was only eight months later that I was suddenly stricken again. At least this time I had some excuse – Mo was getting married. I thought everything was under control. I thought I was Mr. Cool, but on a necessary special visit to my cardiologist he said, “Well, your heart is telling you you’re not!” He went on to explain that the heart can’t tell the difference between excitement and exercise and went on to prescribe some additional medication. Apparently, I was very excited. I had had to start taking an occasional nitro pill the week preceding the wedding of 25 Nov 84, but as the late Ed Sullivan might have put it, “The really, really BIG show” hit me on 6–10 Dec. I even missed Mass on the feast of the Immaculate Conception on 8 Dec.

In fact, I almost missed 8 Dec itself – and all days beyond! It actually started precisely at 2000 on Thursday evening, 6 Dec 84. I know, because when you start taking nitro pills, old Navy types start keeping a log. This was my first angina attack since my medication had been changed and increased, and it struck in a period of rest without any apparent provoking cause. Worse yet, the attacks recurred whenever I tried to lie down. Solution: I spent the night sitting in one of those adjustable lounge chairs. I also continued occasional nitros through the night and during the forenoon of Friday. With (as always seems to be the case) a doctor-less weekend in prospect (and my doctor being a totally orthodox Jew), I gave my cardiologist a call. Once again, he in creased my medication (now 400%´ greater than the original dosage!) and the afternoon went smoothly. The Sabbath officially starts for the orthodox at sunset on Friday evening. This turns out to be at 1638 on 7 Dec at our latitude and longitude. My first biggie struck at 1700 on 7 Dec (truly, the day that will live in infamy). My doctor was inaccessible. Sure, there are standbys, but they don’t have my records and don’t know my history. Also, they not only aren’t as interested in my welfare as my doctor, they actually seem afraid to say or do anything beyond stall you with less than reassuring platitudes. I know! I’d been that route before. I knew the only resource I had available beyond self-help was the Emergency Room at Holy Cross Hospital – not a happy prospect at all! And so the nitro parade (like none I’d ever had before) began: 1700; 1824 and 1829; 1921 (retiring for another l o n g night in the lounge chair); 2021; 2200 (cutting back slightly on one of my medicines, figuring the increase sure hadn’t helped); 2225; 0013 (now into Saturday, 8 Dec, and it didn’t slip my mind that my Mom had died on a 9 Dec); 0130; 0245 and 0251. Hey! This was getting really scary. I’d never had to take more than two or, at most (without at least an hour gap), over any extended series of attacks, and I was totally unable to lie down even for a second. What to do? I had to think – think – think!

The usual and generally effective engineering approach is: what has been changed since all was going well? The answer: medication. I had added one new medicine, which I had already cut back on at 2200. I had also switched the form of another medicine and then had it doubled. I analyzed the nature of this switch. It was from 20-mg pills four times a day to a 160 mg of a so-called “long-acting” capsule once a day, an apparent doubling of the dosage. Increasing the dosage made sense to me. I began questioning the effectiveness of the long-acting aspect, and a general warning label re the medicine came back to me: “In patients with angina pectoris, there have been reports of exacerbation of angina and, in some cases, myocardial infarction (heart attack) following abrupt discontinuance of Inderal therapy. Therefore … dosage should be gradually reduced and the patient carefully monitored.” Two things then occurred to me: maybe the relative strengths of the pills and the capsules were not a one-to-one proposition, and perhaps the capsules weren’t as “long-acting” as supposed!

My conclusion was that the impact of the capsules was neither as strong nor as enduring as represented, and that I was effectively suffering from too abrupt a withdrawal from the medication. I was in a position to test this, as I still had some 20-mg pills, and my last capsule had been taken the previous 10 am, and another wasn’t due until the following 10 am. It was then 0335, and I opted to take two “supplementary” 20-mg pills. At 0345 I had to take another nitro. At 0400 a dose of my other medication, Cardizem, a calcium blocker, was due. This is the one I had earlier cut back on, and I decided to split the difference between the original dose and the amount to which I had cut back. This was when I really was almost laid low, if not away.

From 0400 to 0410 I was stricken with the worst pain ever (one necessarily learns to time these attacks, because duration is ONE of the ways to distinguish angina from heart attack). At the same time other goodies were added: I started to sweat profusely, and (according to Kathleen) turned deathly white. As for me, I thought I was also going to throw up, and was seized with a sense of impending doom. I struggled to dress for a trip to the Emergency Room. Then, there was a sudden complete subsidence of all the adverse symptoms described above – my most complete relief in 24 hours – and I lapsed into sleep for the first time that night, for TWO hours – LYING DOWN! On awaking, still feeling relieved, I began my mental post-mortem. I concluded I had been on the very verge of a heart attack. I also calculated that the 0410 relief coincided with just about the time the 0335 Inderal supplement would be “peaking.” I truly feel (and nobody will ever convince me differently) that I had in effect saved my own life by timely and correct medicinal adjustments. In fact, I stayed on the pills thereafter until I got to see the doctor early Monday morning (taking only three additional well scattered nitros over the 51 hour interim). The doctor hardly responded to my abbreviated recital of the foregoing. (How could he without unnecessary risk?) After the customary ECG and chest listening and thumping he merely said, “Stay with your current medication, it seems to be working.”

This was the program of pills I had worked out, but I objected: “I’ve got a whole bottle of those super-expensive new capsules!” So he said, “OK. Then take two of them a day instead of one.” I stood vindicated on my not-so-long-acting suspicion. “But,” I objected, “I’d then be taking 320 mg per day vs. my old 80 per day. That would be a 400% increase!” Then, and only then, he told me that the pill and capsule strengths were NOT on a one-to-one basis (the capsule being 60–65% the strength of the equivalent mg pill!). Vindicated again! I elaborate all this to emphasize that you can’t depend on the doctors to tell you all you should know about the medicines they prescribe, and we wouldn’t even know the right questions to ask. It behooves the patients to read all they can about their medicines! It may save their lives! At the same time, the doctor must learn all he can about his patient. We both knew something had happened, but we really didn’t know what. He would have to find out, so … once again I was scheduled for an angiogram, this time at the Adventist Hospital in Takoma Park. This was accomplished 6–8 Jan 85. Needless to say, I didn’t exert myself too much over the period of 10 Dec to 6 Jan.

The test went smoothly, but the efficiency of the Adventist Hospital can’t compare with the Washington Hospital Center for ease of admission and discharge. In fact, I strongly believe that every doctor and nurse should be made to go through these in/out procedures once a year. You can bet they would streamline them in a hurry. Yet another interesting aspect of this sojourn was the fact of a Catholic being operated on by a Jew in a Seventh Day Adventist hospital – a truly ecumenical event. In any case, all went well, and the prognosis was as favorable as anyone could have reasonably hoped. The lower right corner of my heart (to which they had been unable to apply the planned fifth bypass in 1981) was now totally deteriorated – effectively dead. If they couldn’t help it in 1981, they sure couldn’t do anything for it now. Second, there was some occlusion of the anterior coronary artery which was not susceptible to angioplasty (the use of a catheter-introduced balloon to expand the occluded passage). In short, no further surgery was indicated. What I’d have to do is adjust my life-style to an even less active regimen (if such were indeed possible). What they’d try to do is deal with the situation through the adjusted medication. Well, all of this was fine with me. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m wearing out, and I never did want to live to be 100, or 90, or even 80. I’ve done and said about everything I could hope to do or want to say. (Certainly you’d have to agree that this book leaves very little unsaid.)

Let me just inject one postscript before moving on, for the benefit of any family members who might follow after me. Here is the bypass situation as of a 19 Jan 85 report in the St. Petersburg Times of an American Heart Association conference in Clearwater Beach, FL:

The National Center for Health Statistics reports that bypasses have increased from 159,000 in 1981 to 200,000+ in 1984 at an average cost (1983) of $19,985; the operation does not cure patients, it does not cure coronary artery disease; a National Heart, Lung and Blood Institute Study (1983) found that surgery didn’t prolong life, and one therefore “can put off bypass surgery until the pain gets so bad that nothing else helps,” and that another reason for delaying surgery is that second bypass operations typically aren’t as successful as the first. A recent Canadian study found that 10 years after a bypass, veins became completely blocked in 30% of the cases and were clean in only 40% [mine were clean at the 3-1/2 year mark!].

Because bypasses may not last a lifetime, consideration should be given to angioplasty (the catheter-introduced balloon process that has proven 69% effective on total blockages and 89% effective on 75–95% blockages, but which close abruptly/dangerously in 3% of the cases and re-narrow within 6 months in 20% of the cases per the Sep 84 Research Resources Reporter of the U.S. Dept. of Health and Human Services. There is roughly a 2% chance of dying on the table [but at the point I went in you really don’t care!].

Doctors at the conference also confessed that they started doing the operation in the 1960s before there was proof that it worked. “They were acting on their beliefs, but not on scientific knowledge.” Nor is that all. It turns out that “beta blockers” (Inderol) caause 6-8% increase in cholesterol, which could be comparable to a 16% increase in the risk of heart attack – a case of double jeopardy! Not only that, Inderol (in doses greater than 120 mg/day) so depresses the heart rate that it is impossible to raise it sufficiently to enhance the cardiovascular system through aerobic exercise. On the other hand, some cardiologists are coming to concede that there IS something their patients can do to help themselves. They can’t yet pre-coat the interior of their veins, nor periodically flush out their veins, BUT they can control the ingestion of killer foods: egg yolks, red met, processed meats, whole milk, ice cream, and cheeses. The secret word is FAT – especially “animal” fat! While excess salt should be avoided, a consensus is forming that the degree of salt restriction necessary to significantly reduce blood pressure is so radical as to be impractical. How about that, sports fans?

XXII. ANNIVERSARY

The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; the secret anniversaries of the heart. – W. W. Longfellow

We now resume the regular chronology of our story in late Jun 81. On the 28th I lost my special nurse, waitress, and cocktail hostess. Laurie left Kinross as her home to join her mother, now Lt. Mary Wright, USAF, in Denver, CO. Part of my already deficient heart went with her. (Maybe that’s what “did in” that lower right corner!?!) An excerpt of a 28 Sep letter of mine to Laurie seems pertinent:

I see by the old calendar on the wall that you have been gone from here (Kinross) three months today! By now you’re into a whole new sort of life: new family of your own, new home, new school, new town, new friends, and new church. How exciting it all must be! And, you STILL have this old home, and an older Grammy and Papa! So, you have lots of new, and haven’t lost any of the old. I think that’s a pretty neat deal. Oh, we still have a few items around that remind us every day of the many happy years we were together – like your organ in the playroom, and your little make-up bench in your old bedroom. Every time I see that little table I almost get a tear in my eye, because I know that LITTLE girl is gone – forever. I’ll bet you’ve grown so much that your knees wouldn’t even fit under it anymore.

Who was this little girl who left us? I have one of her school papers from that period that summarizes her “favorite things”: color – violet; pet – cat (cat?); ice cream – chocolite [sic]; sport – baseball; game – kick the can; day of the week – Saturday; place to visit – Grandma’s (Ma’s?); holiday – Easter [good theology, that]; thing to wear – first communion dress; restaurant – Red Lobster; food – shrimp; school subject – reading; thing I own – ring; song – One Wide River to Cross. Well, that might provide a good benchmark of her early likes for checking against later in life, but it doesn’t begin to describe the delightful little human being who enkindled so much love and brightened our house and our lives for so many years.

I realize that this may well strike some as nostalgic and even sentimental trivia, but I introduce it to make two possibly totally overlooked points: after so many years, Laurie’s leaving Kinross was perhaps more traumatic to Kathleen and me than to anybody else involved, and, more personally, I should be indulged some scintilla of favoritism in her behalf – she was the only child (my then being retired) I felt I had any real hand in raising. So, if it turns out I didn’t use my hand enough, what are Grandparents for but to spoil grandchildren like they never would their own! I’d buggy her with me to the bank, the Safeway, the Post Office, and even to the county liquor store. While I worked for Fr. Burke (3 years), I’d even strap her in the front seat and take her there with me. Naturally, I missed her much. I only hope that someday she may discover that I was as important to her life as she was to mine.

In Aug of 1981 Laurie enjoyed a fabulous trip through that showplace of natural wonders on the eastern side of the Rockies with Mary and Bill. (This was perhaps one of Laurie’s biggest adventures apart from Maureen having taken her to Florida to visit Moni the previous summer.) Their pictures were so good that now we won’t have to make that great trip.

Meanwhile Voyager II, which had been launched in 1977, sped by Saturn even as President Reagan launched PATCO’s recalcitrant air-controllers into the ranks of the unemployed. (Was all this really so seemingly long ago?) In Sep Reagan appointed the first woman to the Supreme Court, and John hosted one of his great Labor Day picnics at Jug Bay. We’ll ALL miss those. At the same time, and on a more somber note, my mother’s health started deteriorating at an accelerated rate. On 21 Sep 81 she went into congestive heart failure, but at my request was not rushed to the hospital. For one thing, extraordinary measures didn’t seem appropriate, and I didn’t want her to become the pin cushion and expense account for a bunch of pioneering young interns. For another, I thought the presence of her immediate family members, as allowed by the looser discipline of the Nursing Home, would do her more good than any doctors could. A letter I wrote to Laurie at the time elaborates:

Remember Grammy especially in your prayers as we think she may be dying. She went into congestive heart failure a week ago today. I don’t know how she really hangs on. She can hardly breathe and has been on oxygen all week now, and hardly eats anything. She’s weak as a bird and hurts all over. It hurts her even to breathe. Still, every now and then I can make her laugh. Mostly, though, I just sit by her bed and hold her hand, and give her little sips of ice water. I know the sight of you would really cheer her up. You were always her favorite medicine – as you were for me when I came home from the hospital. (Remember, as my Special Waitress you even stopped taking tips!) Remember, too, how you’d pull off my elastic stockings, and bring me cotton balls to wipe down my scars with hydrogen peroxide? My chest still is a little sore sometimes, but none of the old pains, and now I can almost do anything once again, and I know your prayers helped all that. So, please pray especially hard now for Grammy.

Of course, as anyone who ever witnessed my mother’s fighting heart might have expected, she’d survive this threat and live to fight again another day. The final battle came in early Dec. My Dear All letter of 10 Dec 81 may sum it up best:

I feel impelled to mark my mother’s passing last night with this special note. Let me say right off that I’m thrilled and overwhelmed by joy that she has at long last found that eternal peace that only God can grant. I’m truly excited vicariously to share in the happy prospect that she now knows HIM, the Author of it all! I hesitate only slightly to remark that there is a slight touch of envy in me – she is now really HOME!

Secondly, I must remark that she was a real fighter to the very end – with more heart in her than Muhammad Ali had on his best night! And too, in her strange way, strange in that she had often been quite abrasive, she was overflowing with love. She touched me viscerally in her declining days with her unabashed confessions of love for her husband (for whom she often mistook me) and ALL of her children. If any of you ever find yourselves battling against odds and refuse to give up, you can thank your paternal grandmother – because she was the real source. I marvel now at the fantastic parlay of my father’s patience (which I don’t have) and my mother’s determination which (to some extent) I share.

As I sat by mother’s side often, if not long, in her last days, I must confess to a morbid interest in capturing her “last words,” but alas, I not only was not with her when she died, I didn’t even see her on her last day. Kathleen and I took turns (since Mom had so often survived so many of these threats), and so Kathleen was the last to see her – and Mom wasn’t talking by then. A few days earlier she had spent the entire day endlessly repeating aloud, “Holy Mother of God, pray for me.” After that day she spoke not another syllable, but lapsed into silent serenity.

She didn’t appear to be even aware of us near the end. As best I can recall, her last words to me took the following form: (Me) “Are you warm enough?”; (Her: affirmative nod); (Me) “Do you know I love you?”; (Her, speaking for the first time in several visits): “Yes. Do you know I love you?”; (Me) “Yes. And do you know how much I’m praying for you?” (Her, nodding affirmatively and again speaking): “And I never stop praying for you!” That was the last thing I ever heard her say – and now she’s praying for all of us – up there!

In her last weeks I’d been praying hard to the Sacred Heart via the Immaculate Heart, and was just brimming with suggestions – as though trying to make sure the Lord would get mother’s demise right. The day she died, beginning with the second decade of the rosary I’d been saying for her while I did my daily biking exercise (after saying the first decade in my customary vein of, “Lord, it sure would be nice if you would …,”) I suddenly changed the prayer preceding the four final decades to “Lord, into YOUR hands I commend my mother’s spirit. Do unto her according to your way.” That very night HE DID IT HIS WAY! Glory be to God. Thanks be to God! The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

So it was that at virtually the age of 64 I was finally alone in the sense of being irrevocably severed from the umbilical cord, both my parents being laid to rest. It’s only natural that one would take a backward look, wondering if one had done enough or all one could. We felt no cause for regret, feeling we had done our best. The quite common dilemma about resorting to a Nursing Home was never a problem for us. In these days of ever-increasing longevity, there comes a time when old folks not only can’t take care of themselves, they become a real danger to themselves and to others. Beyond that, loving relatives often can’t provide the requisite 24-hour surveillance or the necessarily professional medical care. In such circumstances placement in a Nursing Home is often the kindest and most prudent thing one can do for a loved one. As for those who think it results in intense loneliness or amounts to cruel abandonment, there is another often overlooked aspect of the situation. We’re talking about the fact of senility. A portion of a letter originated by a newspaper editor named Herb Hames and republished by Ann Landers is pertinent:

These are the people who reach out to you as you walk down the (Nursing Home) hall. Don’t pity them because they appear to have no interest in life. They live in a world that is very interesting to them. My mom sits in a chair doing nothing, but she isn’t in that chair at all. She is visiting with her mother, or perhaps, she’s out to a dance. One day she may be playing with her sister or brother. The next day she may be raising her family, doing her housework, cutting up Fels Naptha soap. Far-fetched? The last time I left her room Mom said happily, “I’m going to visit Mama’s today. We’re going to have cookies and milk.” I replied, “Enjoy yourself – and say hello to Grandma.”

Old age robs people of a great deal but it leaves them the precious gift of memories of days long gone. They’re able to recall something that happened 70 year ago, but they can’t recall what they had for supper. When you see the very old woman smile for no reason, or nod and greet an imaginary friend, don’t think she is crazy. She sees someone you don’t see – a loved one from way back. Mom doesn’t have any stress and strain in her life. She had been through all that. Now is her time to relive her life with pleasure. We younger people live for today and tomorrow, but Mom lives each day in the past. Who is to say that it is unpleasant?

That’s the way it went with my mother. On many a visit she’d complain of how tiresome it had been in school all day. She’d always remind me to say goodbye to Mama in the kitchen on the way out. She’d inquire about all the noise the children were making downstairs whenever she’d overhear a nearby radio. On other occasions she’d complain that she’d had enough vacation and was ready to get back to work, and that she didn’t like the hotel food anyway – everything tasted the same. The strange thing was that she could often be making perfect sense to an outsider, or even to you, until suddenly she’d ask when on earth was her husband (dead nearly 40 years) going to get home, and did I know he’d been out all night again. Yes, she had a world of her own, but she still enjoyed visits, especially when the visitor, as I’ve said, brought one of her favorite delicacies – sour pickles, fried oysters, or a chocolate soda. She was just like a little girl at her first-remembered birthday party. And this is the proper point at which to salute Pat Brady Wright for making mother’s last years such a party. Pat was a regular, long-staying weekly visitor whose visits my mother cherished. THANKS, Pat! When you were on the scene Mom had a ball! So it was that, considering where Mom was going and her at-long-last serene acceptance of it, we marked her passing with a celebration for friends and relatives at our house. It seemed a fitting bon voyage.

Now it was 1982, and Kathleen and I spent Jan at the Treasure Cove in Ormond Beach, FL. We played golf at Largo with Kathleen’s cousin Kirk Krutsch (an usher at our wedding) and his wife Penny, and we exchanged visits with Moni and Jerry in St. Pete’s. Jerry prepared a sumptuous feast of Chicken Oskar with asparagus at our apartment on a beautiful Super Bowl Sunday. (San Francisco beat Cincinnati 26 to 21). It was a great game. The feast was even better! Otherwise we went to the dogs on that trip – literally, at the Dog Track near Orlando. We won substantially (for us) on each visit. We then headed home via Austin, TX, not exactly a short cut. There we had a nice visit with Mary, Laurie, and Bill. Our plans for a picnic at the LBJ ranch were frozen out by an ice storm. I’ll always remember that Feb week in Texas as colder than the North Atlantic during my war days. (Yes, George, “Colder than the rim of a cocktail glass,” etc.)

This (1982) was the year that AT&T split. Hasn’t the phone service been improved since? It was also the year of the movie Gandhi, the Hitler diary hoax, and completion of Israel’s withdrawal from the Sinai. The Falkland Islands mini-war between Great Britain and Argentina occurred between 2 Apr and 14 Jun. This was the year that our departed son, Herbie, would have been 21; the year ERA was defeated, General Haig resigned as Secretary of State, and Valerie Toth was born. It was also the year we took Mo and Bob with us for our 4 Jul trip to Detroit, and had Laurie and Jesse with us at Ocean City. Yes, friends, this was also the year that Laurie baptized Jesse’s Raggedy Ann. Hey! This was, in the late Ed Sullivan’s phrase, “A really, REALLY BIG year!” Who will ever forget that wonderfully magic 40th Wedding Anniversary surprise party? Kathleen and I certainly never will. I think that was just about the nicest thing that ever happened to us.

40th anniversary bash – August 1982

Oh, it wasn’t the first especially nice thing the children had cooked up for commemorating one of our anniversaries. Previously, we had been surprised with the gift of a freezer (1968); gifted with a free weekend at the Park de Ville in Ocean City (date unknown); and gifted with an extended weekend at Williamsburg, VA, at a motel that featured its own par-3 golf course (1976). Then came our 40th anniversary of a truly 4.0 marriage. Maybe this 40 emphasis needs a little elaboration. I was, of course, graduated from the USNA in the class of 40 and 4.0 is the Academy’s top mark of excellence. Beyond that, 40 years is an important biblical span with a special hold on our imaginations, marking a hiatus between two really key events. Forty years marked the wandering of the Jews in the desert between their Exodus from captivity and their entrance into the Promised Land, the time between deliverance and redemption.

For us it might be said to have marked the ceremonies indicative of the beginning of the begetting of children (sounds like the name of an old song), and the maturing of said children to the point of final role reversal vis-à-vis us as parents. In short, our child-rearing days were now done – our children now all accepted personal responsibility for their lives, and sought to indicate their appreciation for our efforts and celebrate the termination of our responsibility. Our sacrifices stood redeemed, we had now arrived at the Promised Land of parental liberation. A special celebration was in order. (What the hell – it is a great concept!) In any event, our children were more than up to the occasion. In fact they outdid themselves, and I’d suggest they simply rest on their laurels. There is no way they can ever top that fabulous celebration of 28 Aug 82. It was the first (and probably the last affair in my life that I didn’t want to leave – didn’t want to see end! We started with a nuptial Mass at 1400 in St. Bernadette’s, complete with the renewal of wedding vows. Then there was the reception at the VFW Hall in Wheaton! (We were so glad it wasn’t held at the Veterans of Domestic Wars. That could have given our marriage a bad image.)

Anyhow, we only learned what was really going on the very night before, when suddenly all of our living children, even the far away out-of towners, showed up almost all at once at Kinross to present us with our invitation. I’m pressed to recall a more emotional moment in our lives, certainly in the realm of non tragedy. A highlight of the Mass was the singing by Laurie, Terri, Jesse and Katie, led by Mary. We also fondly recall our pride at George’s toast at the reception, and of course I reveled in Kathleen’s public salute to me as “a great lover.” (Oh, to relive the glories of yesteryear.) “BL” Meehan’s catering was superb, and Sr. Kathleen provided the organ accompaniment in church (but I could have done without our “once again for the movies” second pass up the church aisle). It was a Great Day as sort of befitted a GREAT marriage! THANKS, kids! And a special bow to the local planners, KT and Mo!

How are we doing so far? And the anniversary festivities still weren’t over. Kathleen and I had planned a little celebration of our own. From 15 to 25 Sep we finally enjoyed our long-awaited dream trip to Europe, complete with a boat trip up the magnificently beautiful Rhine River. We flew from Dulles to London, thence to Amsterdam, then by motor coach via the Hague to Nijmegen where we embarked for the five- day boat trip up the Rhine to Basle, Switzerland. Then it was by rail to Paris, thence by plane back to Dulles – 8,542 miles in 13 days through five countries – at $8 over budget! (Now, kids, you know where you got that planning talent.) By rising one hour earlier each day the week before the trip, we hit the ground running in London, already being in sync with British time (an idea we strongly recommend). In London we visited the British Museum (Rosetta Stone, Elgin marbles, Magna Carta), the pubs, the theatre twice, Westminster Abbey, took a boat ride up the Thames to Greenwich, a day trip to Windsor castle and the magnificent Hampton Gardens, had dinner at the famous Simpson’s – you name it. We celebrated our actual wedding date with a superb hot curry dinner in Soho followed by a Glenda Jackson play. It was perfect, but it didn’t match or top our family affair of 28 Aug.

Castles along the Rhine

A bridge too far – Nijmegen

Kathleen meets Big Ben

Alas, Hampton Court really puts Kathleen in the shade

From London it was off to Amsterdam, another culture altogether. We visited all of their many famous art galleries (Rijs, Sted, and Van Gogh), the Anne Frank house, the Heineken Brewery, a diamond merchant’s show room, took a wine and cheese by candlelight evening cruise on the canals, AND – are you ready for this? – McDonald’s. Then it was by bus via the Hague and a Delft china factory to our boat secured in the shadow of a “bridge too far.” After dragging through London and Amsterdam largely on foot, we really enjoyed sitting in the sun on deck and watching the scenery roll by us. A highlight of this leg of the trip was a stop for Sunday Mass at the fabulous cathedral at Cologne. We entered Basle via 21 canal locks and an invisible customs office, then it was on to the train and on to Paris. By then it was already dusk, however, so we saw much too little of the picturesque countryside.

Rijksmuseum exhibit in Amsterdam

Then we were in Paris. What can you say about the Louvre (with the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa), the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Jeu de Paume or Notre Dame? And, or course we took our now traditional boat ride, this time on the Seine, and did our stint at the sidewalk cafes. As in London, we once again found the excellent subway system indispensible. I won’t even resurrect the memory of Kathleen coming down with a fever of 104 degrees the night before we were due to leave. That cost us our planned evening stroll down the Champs Elysees. We did make it to the airport on time, however, there to acquire our favorite Shalimar perfume. We won’t mention the over-zealous TWA steward who off-loaded our jackets just before our plane left France. All in all the trip was a resounding success and we accumulated some fabulous memories. Indeed, 1982 was emerging as a fabulous year!

Author gets Eiffel in Paris

We had been home hardly a week before we were off on another adventure. We bought our first computer in Sep 82 – a Vic 20. We replaced it about a year later with the adequately more powerful Commodore 64 used for composing this very masterpiece. It really has markedly changed our lifestyle. I now spend almost 6–8 hours at the keyboard every day, and don’t know what I would have done without it. Mo did the first hundred or so pages of this epic on an office word processor. After that, I’d write out this memoir in my beautiful script, from which Kathleen would then type it up on the C-64. More recently we’ve added a spell-checker to the WP, and I’ve taken to composing directly at the keyboard. Suddenly Kathleen is out of a job. In fact, I also do her HELP statistics and reports on the computer. I’m also still trying to develop a winning computer-based horse-handicapping system with still marginal success. We’ve also acquired a rather sophisticated flight simulator program but have been too busy so far to really check it out. Needless to say, all my pen-pals are delighted that we now do our letters by computer, and I also turn out a weekly lectionary-based sermon on the computer. As you can tell, we’re solidly into this computer age.

Digital Edition Note: Obviously, Jack was an ‘early adopter’. He realized that writing by hand was tedious and painful and, as noted above, he transitioned to computers as soon as they became available. Wikipedia articles at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commodore_VIC-20 and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commodore_64 provide some insight into the early computers that he used.

Digital Edition Note: Charlie has a printed copy of a document titled “Lectionary Throughout the Year” if anyone is interested.

The year 1982 closed out with Charlie’s family leaving Lexington Park for the much nearer locale of Reston, Va. Welcome home, guys! A week later Solidarity was out in Poland, and over here the NFL was out, as it went on strike. Finally, on 16 Dec Anne Gorsuch (later Burford) was virtually out, as she became the first cabinet officer ever to be found in contempt of Congress. The operative word must be found, as surely there must have been (and will be) many more who have nothing but contempt for Congress. And so the bountiful year of 1982 drew to a close. Who would have imagined that 1983 would open with a Redskins triumph over the Dolphins in the Super Bowl (27-17), and end with the triumph of the Orioles over the Phillies in the World Series? Or who could have anticipated that our super-conservative Pope John Paul II would start the year by approving a less medieval Code of Canon Law on 25 Jan? Perhaps these good omens presaged another great family year as Kathleen and I (much later) turned 65.

Having demonstrated a hopeful ray of progressiveness with his overture re Canon Law, the Pope moved swiftly to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by solemnly announcing on 9 May that he was re-examining the Galileo question. Way to go, JP! While the Pope tried to turn the world back into the past, the world was winging swiftly into the future. In Feb 83 our space probe Pioneer raced by Neptune a mere nine years after speeding by Jupiter. Meanwhile, KT and Greg did an end-run to Greg’s relatives in West Virginia, where KT became the first and only family member to opt for the elopement route. This isn’t KT’s sole first and only, claim to fame as the following excerpt from one of her letters elaborates:

I don’t remember much about my birth – Yuk! Yuk!´ – but neither does Mom! The only thing she ever recalled about this stupendous event is that I was the first and only kid that ever sent her to the hospital early with false labor! That is a very important remembrance, and I’ll tell you why. When Mom told me that I had to laugh. Of course I was the only one to send her to the hospital with a false alarm. If that isn’t proof that babies exhibit their personalities VERY early, even in utero, I don’t know what is! I’m sure they had me in mind when the phrase “to cry wolf” was invented. Plus, I was the only one always trying to get attention in any way I could. Mom can verify that! The unnecessary hospital trip was just a foreshadowing of things to come.

Anyhow, KT and Greg were wed on 5 Feb 83 in a move that surprised (but happily) both sets of parents. (I’d always liked Greg even though he did eat all the candy bars I’d unsuccessfully tried to hide.) We weren’t present for the ceremony, of course, but there were several family celebrations, on their return, of what turned out to be the family highlight of the year.

In March TV viewers were thrilling to The Thornbirds and The Winds of War , as EPA head Anne Burford finally saw the light and left government. Shortly later (18 Jun 83), Sally Ride became the first US woman astronaut to leave the earth. Mike accompanied us to Belleville (not Bellevue!) that July. August was a busy time as we shot our first black into space (it was a guy named Bluford, but somehow I wish it had been Michael Jackson – one-way), in the Philippines the government shot Aquino, and Begin shot his wad as Israeli Prime Minister. In Sep the Ruskies shot down Korean Airliner 007 and 269 innocents (we hope) died. Sep 83 was also the point at which I bought the word-processing software with which Kathleen then commenced to transcribe this epic for posterity. In Nov Brezhnev died, and Mary’s marriage died as Bill split just before Christmas – taking with him the money (his share only, we hope) for a planned Xmas visit home. Enough said. I expect that this is sufficient to show that (apart from KT and Greg’s marriage) 1983 wasn’t one of our better family years.

Thus we arrive at 1984, and everybody knows how George Orwell warned us about it. Perhaps the temper of the times might once again best be conveyed by reprising some bumper-stickers of the day: KISSING A SMOKER IS LIKE LICKING AN ASHTRAY; FEED JANE FONDA TO THE WHALES; WARNING, I DON’T BRAKE FOR GAYS; MORE PEOPLE HAVE DIED IN TED KENNEDY’S CAR THAN IN NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS; I IS A COLLEGE STUDENT; OBVIOUSLY YOU’VE MISTAKEN ME FOR SOMEONE WHO CARES; NONE FOR THE ROAD; MORE NUKES – LESS KOOKS; WOMEN MAKE GREAT LEADERS – YOU’RE FOLLOWING ONE; NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS ARE BUILT BETTER THAN JANE FONDA; I SPEED UP FOR SMALL ANIMALS; NURSES CALL THE SHOTS; and finally, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU LOVE OR WHAT YOU’D RATHER BE DOING. (And you and George Orwell thought it wasn’t going to be a good year!)

The truth is, and isn’t it fortunate for our sanity, we tend to remember only the good things. No matter how heart-rending or soul-searing at the time, bad memories DO tend to become blotted out with the passage of time. Not only that, we apparently don’t long harbor anything, including notes or letters, which might serve to remind us of the unhappy events. For example, my archives harbor no record of when Anne and Doug called it a day on their marriage, or when Johnny and Patti split. I’m certain things were positively traumatic at the time, and certainly we exchanged correspondence on the subject, but no mementos survive. Time not only marches on, luckily, it really does heal. As a would-be theologian (and almost by definition all of us are necessarily do-it-yourself theologians), I still mentally wrestle with the problem of trying to reconcile my Catholic belief in the permanence of the marriage commitment, and the facts of Anne’s, John’s, and Mary’s divorces, and KT’s and Mo’s marriages to divorced persons. Then, with Malcolm Boyd, I have to ask, “Why does religion separate people instead of unite them? Why must universal love give way, in the priorities of organized religion, to erecting high walls between people in whom God’s spirit dwells?” There is a great paradox here, and there’s something in what Boyd says as he continues, “I discovered somewhat painfully that religion is often misused. It becomes self-serving. It loses the dynamic of a holy movement and is transformed into a competitive institution. At this stage, religion tends to look inwards to the makings of its own worldly success rather than outward to the needs of others. It even begins to see God in its own image. Its increasingly rigid dogmas limit – in its eyes – the scope of salvation to its own immediate constituency.” I’m merely confessing that I, too, have some problem with the tarnished image of institutional religion.

Now, I recognize full well that this need not be a problem for my children’s consciences, and am merely admitting that it is sort of one for mine, if only because I like order and consistency and feel my beliefs should jibe with the realities I confront. So, this marriage commitment business poses somewhat of a faith dilemma for me personally. I’ve given it a lot of prayerful thought. My tentative conclusion (and, since I hope I’ll never be too old to learn, it can only be tentative) is that either the hierarchy’s position (not necessarily that of the Church – which includes ALL the people of God) is to some degree un-Christ-like and even hypocritical, OR, I’m misinterpreting it.

In short, I take a dim view of their subtly nuanced and seemingly semantic distinctions between annulment and divorce, and find their annulment process downright demeaning to the human dignity that they so piously profess to esteem. Conversely, I’m impressed with the total absence of carping or caviling in the many biblical episodes portraying Christ’s dealings with self-professed sinners who come to or were brought to Him. The solution, I’m satisfied, lies in the inviolability of the good conscience of the involved individuals, who should remain free to practice their religion in accordance with its dictates, unhampered by necessarily “artificial” ecclesiastical judgments that defy requisite enlightenment and precision, for who can divine the mind of another? This marriage business, however, is merely one element of what is a bigger problem for me personally. Other elements difficult for me to accommodate to in varying degrees would be failure to have children baptized, failure to attend church, and ridiculing the pope in particular and institutional religion in general. Even these concerns only serve to frame my root dilemma, which is a consequent perceived failure on my part to achieve the one thing which I have throughout this sagging saga professed to be the essential goal of my life: a large Catholic family.

By age 67 one has acquired a fair degree of experience and attained a reasonably balanced perspective on life. One’s productive years, both physically and intellectually, then lie largely in the past. My so-called life’s work now remains only a fast-receding, strictly personal memory of no great significance. Fame and fortune escaped me, not that they were goals, and they would not have assuaged my dilemma had I achieved them. I seemingly failed at the one thing that mattered to me: passing on the faith! So, one might well be forgiven for exclaiming, “Oh, what the hell! Was it all really worth it?” The immediate response has to be a resounding “YES!” for several reasons. First of all, certain of our progeny (notably those who shared our good fortune in having Benedictine teachers who communicate such a love for the liturgy) seem secure in the practice of the faith after our example. Second, the faith wasn’t mine to pass on, but (given the grace of God) to cherish and nurture personally. Faith is, after all, purely a gift of God. Whoever did I think I was to have tried to assume HIS job? Third, who is to judge that any one or every one of our children doesn’t share the faith NOW, or may yet come to do so? God himself won’t judge them until the end of their days, so who am I that I should presume to judge them now? And, as Tennyson has remarked, “There lives more faith in honest doubt … than in half the creeds.”

Finally, why should I either hope or expect their faith precisely to mirror mine? Consider the vast variety in the insect world, for example. Why might we not expect to find as broad a diversity among humans in terms of faith-life? Don’t we profess each individual to be unique? Might it not be that it is precisely our uniqueness which gives the greatest glory to God? And, isn’t the gift of life offered precisely to enable each individual to come to a personal awareness of his or her total dependence upon Almighty God? Beyond this, the only thing I know for sure (I’m no longer young enough to know everything) is that I’m increasingly impressed by how little I know. I am more and more suspicious of dogma and rather more inclined to accept that loving (as Christ says) indeed fulfills the law.

The truly important thing is to radiate or (better said) reflect God’s unconditional love back to God, and to our neighbor – including our enemies. It may help regarding loving enemies as well as neighbors to recall Chesterton’s wry observation that this caveat was levied “possibly because they’re the same people.” Well, I’m more than satisfied that our children are very loving persons. Samples of their letters incorporated throughout this epic testify to that. So, I suppose, what my dilemma really comes down to is not so much any conclusion as to a lack of faith on their part, but rather some degree of hurt, chagrin, and disappointment on my part at the seeming utter rejection by some of them of all institutional religion. (Perhaps significantly, I couldn’t have conducted this very analysis without benefit of my years of increasing familiarity with the teachings of the church.)

The dilemma then devolves into the dual questions of: how vital is this, and to what extent am I responsible? As to the former, I somewhat hesitatingly and tentatively conclude that this question is not crucial. I perceive institutional religion as a crutch – to be seized as an aid if found useful, to be eschewed if found otherwise. The church is not forever: the Kingdom of God is! A loving demeanor, after all, generates its own community of lovers, which may well be another name for the Kingdom of God. As to the latter question, I’m reasonably satisfied that Kathleen and I between us did every thing possible, and even tried some things that weren’t. End of dilemma. But – please God – may our children ALWAYS love one another!

Returning at long last to matters of more potential interest to any persevering readers, Joe Pugliese (a product of love) was born 20 Apr 84 (KT violently rejects the rumor that the doctor didn’t even have to slap him to raise a cry). Mindful of the difficulties I had just been through in trying to reconstruct the salient facts surrounding our children’s births for this epic, I immediately dashed off a letter to the “new” Pugliese family recounting same re Joe’s debut. (We’ll leave the bulk of that detail to KT’s memoirs.) Suffice it to say that the event wasn’t featured on the evening TV news, much to Greg’s chagrin, especially since Joe had had the PR sense to be born on a day appropriately designated from his viewpoint as Good Friday! It should also be remarked that, not to be upstaged by his mother’s birth history, Joe also went the false-alarm route. Apparently, however, he was even more eager to get out than KT had been, forcing a bikini-cut Caesarean delivery. Naturally, even I wouldn’t have the temerity to observe that 20 Apr was also the birthday of Adolph Hitler.

On 30 Mar 84 our old watering hole and pizza palace, Marrocco’s (where Kathleen was surprised by the whole family for our 25th wedding anniversary, and where Anne had dined on her wedding night) closed after 35 years in business. Coming after the somewhat earlier demise of Leonie’s, this left us without a really good pizza place. (We’re still searching as of 4 Feb 85, even though Eddie Marrocco opened his own pizza-less place on 30 Aug in the 1100 block of 21st street.) Kathleen and I had enjoyed using our Senior Citizen subway passes once a month just to enjoy a really good pizza. But life must go on, and on 14 May Mary and Rocky were wed in Austin, TX. Laurie was the only family witness, but the entire clan celebrated the occasion, which all ardently hoped would presage continuing good fortune for the “new” Blackwell family. Not to be outdone by all this, Mo became engaged to Joe Perry in Tampa on 31 May. A true pundit might remark that May 84 was obviously the Month of the Rocks. I shall stand mute.

In July we journeyed to Belleville again for the 4th, this time with Matt. Later, we enjoyed one of the best O.C. vacations ever as, in addition to George’s clan and visits from Greg and John, both Rocky and Mary and Mo and Joe joined us. It was a great crowd, and a fine time was had by all. This was our first meeting with Rocky and Joe, and we only hope we passed muster with them as easily and fully as they did with us. Aug brought the ho-hum Russian-less Los Angeles Olympics, my acquisition of a disk drive (enabling use of the flight simulator), and Laurie’s departure with Jesse to San Diego, in preparation for Mary’s soon-coming deployment to Korea. Mary actually left for the Orient on 5 Sep 84, almost as John emerged from social hibernation and enjoyed his first post-marital date with a friend of KT and Greg named Rita. (They seem perfect for each other – assuming Rita can adapt to John’s inherited (maternal side, obviously) propensity for circumlocutious prolixity – and another elopement in the family wouldn’t be an unhappy surprise.) Also in Sep our old high school, St. Anthony’s, whose then avant garde coed policy happily brought Kathleen and me together, announced that it had been re-designated as a girls only school. Too bad. Anne and Charlie also had some minor affiliation with our old alma mater, Charlie having taken driver-ed there while attending Priory, and Anne having technically graduated from there after the eventually “committed” Principal of Holy Names had terminated her about a month before graduation. So, here’s to you, St. Anthony’s, you served us well!

Thus we draw to the close of 84, and what better way to commemorate the end of another fine family year than saluting Mo’s delightful wedding to Joe on the Saturday following Thanksgiving! Only Rocky, Mary, and the Toths couldn’t make it, but we even got a phone call from the Korean contingent amidst all the hoopla and hubbub. Another bonus was that the Wright and Perry families seemed to hit it off immediately, and that isn’t always a “given” on such occasions. And, the weather was perfect! Mo arrived by air a week early, and thus took all the heat off of her willing but decrepit parents for completing arrangements – dresses, flowers, music, rehearsal, license, etc. (You did a fantastic job, Mo, and we salute you!) Moni and Jerry (and the groom’s younger sister, Tricia) also arrived early, and like Mo stayed with us. That sure livened up the old house for a spell! Jerry also did yeoman service, effectively operating as de facto best man. The groom arrived with his parents a few days in advance, and Anne, Jesse, and Laurie arrived just in time for Thanksgiving dinner for which we really had a joyful full house.

The next day we held a special dinner for Joe’s family, then the next night was the rehearsal dinner (at Anchor Inn), and the next the reception blow-out! (No wonder I was having heart problems!) The ritual went smoothly, even though I did have a game of tag with Joe’s small son, Jason, behind the altar. Then that magnificent reception, with the best variety of great food I’ve ever enjoyed at one, and champagne without limit! And then Laurie catching the bride’s bouquet, and Mike latching on to the garter tossed by the groom (as John almost broke his neck and back trying to duck it). George and Bobby were among the ushers, all in formal attire, as was I for the first (and no doubt the last) time in my life. Everybody said Kathleen looked outstanding in her bright blue dress, and most thought I looked so distinguished in my tux (except Aunt Mary, who told me to take off some weight). It was a truly glorious affair, but let’s let Mo’s follow-up letter add her testimony:

Dear Mom and Dad: I thought it appropriate that I should let you know how much Joe and I appreciated your help and support during one of our most joyous occasions. There is no doubt in my mind that it would not have come about so successfully without all your time and effort. [Ed. note: Thanks, Mo, we did what we could, but you were the real dynamo!]

Joe and I felt the whole thing was a tremendous success, and it was just as I had hoped it would be except for lacking a few people I wished could have been there to share it. I plan on sharing the videotape with Mary and Martha so they can enjoy the next best thing to “being there.”

My main purpose for this letter, though, is to express how much your love means to me. Maturing and meeting so many different people has made me realize just how lucky I am to have such wonderful and understanding parents. You both saw me through many poor relationships and had enough trust in me to know that things would work out for all concerned. I don’t really know (and suppose I never will know) if you realize how much your trust means to me. I have strived all my life for your approval despite peoples’ objections that the only approval I should require is within myself. I tend to agree, in that a person cannot survive without self-approval, but I don’t think anyone is very willing to admit just how much parental approval means to them.

I would have married Joe with or without your approval, but it means so much to me to know that you think it best. I’m sure you’re concerned by the fact that he’s divorced and has a child, but Joe and I only see that as an advantage.

Sometimes, when I sit back and think, I feel like crying because I’m so happy. I feel like he’s a dream come true. Don’t misunderstand me though – I realize it will not always be peaches and cream, but as the cliché puts it, You KNOW when it’s right! I love you both. s/Mo

I ask you, after all this, whatever shall we do for an encore? Well, speaking personally, I don’t think we really need one. I feel we’ve had it all – the whole enchilada. So, the 17-year locusts are due in 1985. Who cares? So Halley’s Comet is due in 1986. If I’m here, I’ll go outside and look, but if not.… Hey! We can’t begin to count our blessings. We thank God, though, and will just go on trying to do His will as long as He wishes. It’s been a magnificent journey, but apart from a postscript or two, the chronological saga must end here. Our last living child has now plighted her troth in holy wedlock. To put it another way, we’re out of a job! So, this seems an appropriate point to conclude this epic. (The details of my death would in any case have to be ghost written.) We can only hope that you’ve enjoyed the trip as much as Kathleen and I have.

XXIII. FULFILLMENT

I am part of all that I have met.   – Tennyson

As English poet Sir Edmund Gosse has so succinctly put it, “Biography is a study sharply defined by two definite events: birth and death.” By rights, then, every true autobiography should conclude with an account of the death of the author, as only thus can we be sure that we have arrived at the end of the earthly life in question. Forgive me, please, if I must demur on this point. Perhaps the closest I could ever hope to come to fulfilling such an assignment might be to hazard my last words, but even that is fraught with risk. Frankly, according to the circumstances and mindful of my propensity to foul up, I’m sorely afraid I might very well venture something as inelegant as “Oh, (expletive deleted)!”

Nevertheless, (and wouldn’t you know it?) I’ve made a study of other peoples’ alleged last words, just in case I’m called upon to speak at the last moment. (One MUST be prepared!) First of all, I must confess that I’m not so overwhelmed by what I’ve managed to do as by what I have failed to do. For example, I never lived sufficiently in the present moment, and never adequately affirmed others. That being the case, I hardly feel qualified to express some hitherto unproclaimed nugget of wisdom, nor should you expect any such.

As you might have guessed, the most common exit line throughout history has been the exclamation first attributed to Christ (Lk23:46), “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” This perfect phrase has reportedly been echoed by St. Stephen, the apostle Philip, Charlemagne, St. Catherine of Siena, Columbus, and Martin Luther, among dozens of others. Certainly no one could improve on that, but there have been other gems and some truly novel non-gems. British General Henry Havelock had the style to say, “Come my son, and see how a Christian can die.” British essayist Joseph Addison gave us, “See in what peace a Christian can die.” Well, both of these are comforting to say the least. The same might be said of the expiring epigrams of Russian Czar Alexander I and Elizabeth Browning: “What a beautiful day!" and “It is beautiful!” Our President Grover Cleveland, on the other hand, was somewhat more introspective with his farewell line: “I tried so hard to do what’s right.” Let’s hope he succeeded.

Poet Henry Heine made a clever exit with, “God will pardon me. It’s his profession.” Continuing in a religious vein, Pierre Paul Royer-Collard elaborated, “There is nothing substantial in this world but religious ideas. Never give them up, or if you do, go back to them.” St. Teresa was more succinct, “Oh welcome hour – the end of exile.” Death Valley Scotty was another loquacious one with his remark, “I got four things to live by: Don’t say anything that will hurt anybody. Don’t give advice; nobody will take it anyway. Don’t complain. Don’t explain.” Pretty solid stuff, that! Statesman William Seward laid claim to another gem, “Love one another!” My childhood hero, Al Smith, simply said, “Start the Act of Contrition.” (You wonder if anyone even remembers that anymore.) Then we have Carlyle with, “So this is death – well.…”; and astronomer Maria Mitchell with, “Well, if this is dying, there’s nothing very unpleasant about it.” Lady Mary Montoya observed, “It’s all been very interesting.” This sampling was culled from a little book entitled (would you believe?): How to Speak More Effectively While Dying or BYE LINES. Now, that’s class.

So, you might well ask, what is my bye-line? There’s no quick and easy answer to that. (Wouldn’t you know it?) Actually, I’ve now experienced three occasions when I thought I was in imminent danger of death: at the time of my heart failure in Nov 79, in the month preceding my 3 Jun 81 bypass operation, and on that dreadful early morning of 8 Dec 84. The pattern of my reaction was generally the same all three times (there being one significant difference with regard to the very last time, to be elaborated later). I first emulated Al Smith in a silent but intense recital of the Act of Contrition, and then followed this up with an also silent little litany of long-favored ejaculatory prayers. I would then lapse into a state of spiritual serenity as my brain reoriented itself to pragmatic concerns.

I’d review with Kathleen the location of our insurance policies, tax records, civil service survivorship procedures, and body disposal (Anatomy Board of Maryland) and memorial mass plans, etc. Then, we’d just wait, seeking as much calm and relief as we could under the circumstances. Thus I would expect that any final words of mine would probably be quite mundane, like Kathleen’s last words to me when entering the hospital in grave danger herself incident to one of her pregnancies that had gone awry: “Don’t forget to take the rolls for dinner out of the freezer!”

This shouldn’t be too surprising. I always felt God knew the state of my mind far better than I could ever express it. I feel I’ve said just about every thing of importance (and a lot of what isn’t) to my family – almost all of which I imagine is reiterated in this book. Ready or not, I felt I was as ready as I could ever hope to be (and, in fact, even felt a little cheated upon my first recovery). And actually, I feel I’ve lived virtually all my life specifically in preparation for dying – which strikes me pretty much as it did Wendy: “To die must be an awful big adventure!” Beyond all that, my several close fly-bys to death (with that one exception only alluded to above) were characterized by an almost unreal calm, a tremendous sense of serenity, an eerie peace. I might as well have been hypnotized. There was no sense of anxiety, no worry, no panic. In fact, I was overwhelmed by a sense of well-being. All in all, it was a very comforting experience, one I can say I now look forward to in a way.

The foregoing conclusion is to be understood solely in reference to my own death. There is another side to this coin of which I was to become rudely aware on Friday, 22 Feb 85. It seems that around Thanksgiving, just when I was once again having problems with my heart, Kathleen herself was having medical problems of her own. What with my more dramatic incapacitation, and the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays (with Mo’s fantastic wedding festivities sandwiched in between), Kathleen didn’t get around to consulting the medics until early Feb. So it was that we got the dismal news on 22 Feb: CANCER of the colon, requiring prompt surgery!

It seems she had developed a growth about the size of a golf ball in the lower portion of the colon. There was a good chance that it was localized, and that it might be excised without resorting to abdominal surgery. It might even prove to be essentially benign upon further more sophisticated laboratory examination. So, surgery was set for Tuesday, 12 Mar 1985. The intervening 18 days seemed to us more like 18 years. They were days of great anxiety ameliorated only slightly by profuse gallows humor. Well, the surgery turned out to be almost a “worst case” event. The main growth was virtually benign, but it had a malignant core, which latter generated one major sprout that just wouldn’t quit. The result was that practically the entire colon had to be removed, and Kathleen missed having to have a colostomy by less than inch or so.

It could have been a lot worse, but this fright will do, I assure you. It goes without saying that our recent Oct experience (losing our 40-year-old neighbor, Maria, to stomach cancer in the span of a mere two months) greatly heightened our alarm. And, 4-1/2 hours under the knife left Kathleen a pitiful, pathetic sight. She was at once exhausted, in shock, and still reeling from the anesthetic and other pain-killers. Beyond that, she was decorated with a nasal-trachea stomach-pumping tube, a wound drain tube, a Foley catheter, and the usual wrist-inserted heparin connection. Well, for my part this was something else altogether. I had felt rather resigned to my own death, but I was unhinged at the sight of this suffering loved one. Devout coward that I am when it comes to hospitals and pain, I was amazed to hear myself sincerely reiterating, “I’d rather it be me.”

In short, I learned a few things. I learned the depth of what (with the passage of years) may have seemed even to us to have become a very comfortable, taken-for-granted and complacent sort of love. I learned anew that personal suffering could be subsumed by the sight of others suffering. (I had been overwhelmed by this before, by the Murmansk “basket cases” in the Tuscaloosa hangar and by seeing George at Balboa, just as he himself had been at Scott AFB en route from Balboa to Bethesda.) This time the insight was even more profound. It dawned on me that indeed Christ could best redeem us only through his own death – divine love demanded a divine victim!

It was an almost inadvertent quip from KT that brought all of this into even sharper focus. Incident to my reporting to her how my first post-operative viewing of Kathleen had stricken me, she good-humoredly chirped (quite appropriately in some now forgotten context), “Oh, Dad, Mom likes to suffer!” We both knew that this was not true, of course. Nobody in their right mind LIKES to suffer. But, I knew what KT meant, or rather, what it indicated. It showed (not too surprisingly, considering her youth) that she still (we hope!) has a lot of living to do. She apparently does not yet fully appreciate that when true love matures, the lover reaches a point where concern for the loved one inevitably, totally, and naturally exceeds self-concern.

This concern can’t be faked, and extends to a willingness to lay down one’s life for the other. We’ve seen this in the movies and on TV a hundred times: one spouse sacrificing his or her life for the other, a parent sacrificing his or her life for a child. Perhaps we all remain just a little bit incredulous – until it happens to us! True love ultimately manifests itself only through acceptance of the inevitable crosses of life, which is not at all the same as welcoming crosses. We learn this – almost instinctively – the first time even near-tragedy strikes our own spouse or child. So it is that I grew through Kathleen’s confrontation with cancer, as so apparently did Moni. An exchange of letters between Kathleen and Moni will make this clear. Kathleen wrote to Moni following her operation, thus:

I decided I had better write to let you know that I’m on the way back. Before the operation several people (including Dad, George and Pat) warned me it would be traumatic, but I didn’t really understand what they meant. Now I know. The body really freaks out when assaulted by major surgery. It switches from chills to sweats, it sometimes refuses to accept food which it did before, and there are weird mood swings over which you have no control. For one who is accustomed to having fairly good control over actions and emotions, this is a very humbling experience. You realize that you really aren’t in charge after all.

Happily, I’m gradually improving, can eat a little more, and do a little more. This is due in great part to the tender loving care of my dear spouse. He is my rock and refuge. He has put up with my crying jags and my weird mood changes. He cheers me up, he keeps the house spick and span, and he buys, cooks and serves all my meals. All this from one who only 2–3 months ago had a traumatic episode himself (never fully explained) and whom I was worrying about. I was doing most of the driving to spare him the tension. Now he has taken over completely. What a switch!

There is one somewhat humorous sidelight (although I don’t find it too amusing). George told me that just like amputees have phantom pain where their former limb was, so I might get signals from my former colon. Sure enough, it keeps telling me that it is full and needs to be evacuated. So I promptly go to the bathroom but there is nothing there. The upshot is that I spend an inordinate amount of time either feeling the urge or sitting on the “throne” and doing nothing. Some fun! I go back to the surgeon for a post-op visit on Friday, so from thereon everything is downhill.

Moni was quick to reply on 29 Mar 85. An excerpt from her magnificent letter follows:

Thanks for your recent letter, Mom. I sure hope you showed it to Dad before you sent it. It’s so insightful in terms of the physical freaking out of the body part. I never really thought about that before. And it’s also touching. Your sentence about Dad being your rock and refuge, for example, really had an impact on me. What is so neat is that I’m sure Dad would just as easily have said the same thing about you. Both of you are so special. I thank God I have parents like you. Taken apart you are each extraordinary in your own way. And taken together you’re inspiring. I really mean that; although it’s hard to express exactly what I mean in any letter, I won’t even try.

I know everyone comes into this world with their own unique personality, and I know many things affect one’s development and growth. But you as my parents have without a doubt been the single most important influence on me. I can just hear the snide comments – but I don’t care. Taking the good with the bad, I’m still happy with who I am. I also know that Jerry and I have the kind of a marriage that the majority of couples will never come close to, or be able to understand.

I owe this to you, I feel, because you all continue to grow and change and allow me to see and be part of it. I learn so much. Just think how your relationship to each other has changed over the years. While I’ve only been cognizant of your influence on me lately, i.e., since about the 1970s on up, it has been a particularly healthy example, in terms of spouse relationships ever since our shared champagne toast to my engagement to Jerry. Do you remember the night? That’s when I asked you to let me in on your seemingly secret recipe for a healthy marriage. Instead you leveled with me. No stock answers, just some eye-opening truth which has given me a proper frame of mind in which to view my relationship with my husband.

In only 4-1/2 years we have grown and changed and learned so much about each other. When I see glimpses of the depth of your relationship, I’m filled with delight. To know that this development goes on and on is hard to believe when one already feels so close. But to see you is to be reassured or rather, as I said before – inspired. Thanks for sharing!

Thanks, Monica. There’s only one postscript anent this affair that I should add. You’ll recall how, when George crashed, it was such an advantage that we (the parents) were also pilots. It made the job of the authorities trying to convey the situation to us much easier. We spoke the same language. In much the same way, Kathleen’s major surgery effected yet another link in our ability to communicate. Now our mutual surgical adventures (as would also be the case with George) allowed us immediately to comprehend one another’s needs or feelings without even the necessity of speaking. We both inherently knew how each other felt or was thinking. It was so neat.

So, back to work, but after that glorious tribute of Moni’s, I’m almost ashamed to return to my relatively piddling personal problems. However, my last brush with death was different in that I was in more acute and continuing pain, and thus was dominated by an urgent desire for some relief, which in turn compelled consideration of seeking remedial action that exceeded our private resources. Thus, while I was resigned to dying as before, I was this time confused by an apprehension – strange to say – that dying might be too difficult to do without some help from well meaning medics. I say “strange,” because I was a follower of Norman Cousins in the belief that, “A hospital is no place for someone who is severely ill.” As Cousins elaborates, “Death is not the ultimate tragedy of life. The ultimate tragedy is depersonalization – dying in an alien and sterile area, separated from the spiritual nourishment that comes from being able to reach out to a loving hand, separated from a desire to experience the things that make life worth living, separated from hope.” (This, no doubt, is precisely what explains the beauty and effectiveness of Mother Teresa’s concern for the dying.) I’d always said that we would NOT go to the hospital, that I preferred to die at home. Yet, I suddenly found myself struggling to get dressed to head for the hospital emergency room. There was one other remarkable feature of this last brush with the grim reaper (and it makes no difference whether this was a real or imagined threat, it was totally real to me). I was seized with a terrible sense of an indescribable, unclassifiable impending doom. (Later, I read in one of my medical tomes that this is one of the distinguishing features of a heart attack as opposed to angina, but if I had one (a heart attack) it’s my doctor’s secret. Personally, I think not (and they say, if you REALLY have one, there’s NO doubt about it), but I was certainly on the very verge.

BULLETIN ! ! !

At precisely 0900 on Wednesday, 6 Feb 85, Laurie (and Anne and Jesse) called with the glad tydings that Mary is expecting and that Rocky is ecstatic – as are we! A fast local estimate – necessarily primitive and preliminary – suggests an ETA of 4 Oct 85, the feast of St. Francis of Assisi. God speed to all concerned! Grandchildren are the crown of old men (Pr17:6).

How appropriate! Even as we write of death, LIFE GOES ON! Thanks be to God! But, to continue our essay on death, in a way I’m lucky to be here at all in the first place. The WWII statistics on my USNA class of 1940 tell the story: My class lost more than ANY class from ANY service academy in ANY war! Lost more ANY way you count it! By percent, or by actual numbers! The official count is: 12% KILLED IN ACTION! Yes, my class was well represented in the battleships at Pearl Harbor. Perhaps the cold, rough North Atlantic was not such a bad place to be caught by the outbreak of our WWII after all.

Perhaps this decimation of the ranks also helps explain the dearth of my classmates who made flag rank: 15 Admirals – only one making it above Rear Admiral; and four Army or MarCorps Generals; a grand total of 19 flags, or a mere three percent of graduates – who in turn comprised only 62% of my entering plebe class! We also spawned five doctors and one priest. Not to worry, for as Graham Greene has said, “Success is … a mutilation of the natural man” – as many a celebrity has found out. In any event, I’ve now parlayed the notions of death and the Navy, the better to introduce what I would favor as words appropriate to my final farewell – a sort of reprised epitaph, if you will, comprising two short poems by Walt Whitman. In the first, the word “eidolon” is best interpreted as “soul,” thus:

Heave the anchor short!
Raise main-sail and jib – steer forth,
O little white hull’d sloop,
now speed on really deep waters,
I will not call it our concluding voyage,
But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best, maturist;
Depart, depart from solid earth – no more returning to these shores,
Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending,
Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities, gravitation,
Sail out for good, eidolon yacht of me!

The second little poem needs no explanation:

Joy, shipmate, joy!
(Pleas’d to my soul at death, I cry,)
Our life is closed, our life begins,
The long, long anchorage we leave,
The ship’s clear at last, she leaps!
She swiftly courses from the shore!
Joy, shipmate, joy!

Moving right along (there’s life in the old boy yet), my USNA class had another distinction: it was the last class to have to buy the old-fashioned dress uniforms, complete with cocked hat and fancifully upholstered epaulets. We also had to buy the velvet-lined boat cloaks made famous by FDR, and every graduate had to own a sword – the last made of top quality Czechoslovakian “blade” steel. In brief, more than life came to an end with our class. It marked, aided and abetted by WWII, the end of a naval era. And, in a way, the conclusion of this book will for me herald a sort of end of an era. Let’s face it! I know I’m on borrowed time, but I’m quite comfortable with that. The heart is a magnificent, even a miraculous, wonder in this world of wonders – “a fist sized pump that can fill the Astrodome,” according to heart specialist Denton Cooley. Yet, it’s at the same time fragile. It wears out, even though Bernard Baruch once opined that only “two things are bad for the heart – running up stairs and running down people.”

Lord knows I’ve had my share of this world’s delights, foremost among which have been the marvelous dual blessings of my devoted spouse and terrific family. I’m sure you’ll find ample testimony of that throughout these pages. And there have been numberless less sublime blessings, which nonetheless were fantastically unique experiences. To cite just one, take flying. I can’t improve on fellow Washingtonian Everett Johnson’s paean to baseball anent someone else’s observation that “Once the ball is in the air, nothing else exists,” thus:

I considered that very phenomenon only last year, in close interaction at first base with a certain third baseman. His accuracy was somewhat less than pinpoint, but once the ball was in the air there were sublime moments of perfect and utter isolation, intense concentration and focus. It was totally compelling and so very different from the way I spend most of my time: No consultations, no approvals to be sought, no meetings, memos, thoughts, calculations; just motion and action, me and the ball, in the whole world. Excepting emergencies, there are few moments in life, moments with absolute and immediate demands that may not be denied.

Substitute the idea of plane for ball and you have the best depiction of the thrilling, unfettering freedom of flying that I can imagine. Raising a glorious family is on an altogether higher level to be sure, but flying, too, is a unique and almost unsurpassed human experience – a sort of first taste of heaven. What I’m trying however inadequately here to convey is simply the notion that I feel totally fulfilled in this so-called vale of tears. I’ve even made my peace with Grandpa Kirk. Not that we were ever at war, but just that I had not heretofore closed the circuit of love as I felt I had with my own parents and Grandma Kirk. So it was that I wrote him on the 4th monthly anniversary of his 95th birthday (Jan 85) of my admiration, respect, and affection for him. I incidentally tried, perhaps too subtly, to encourage his detachment from purely worldly concerns, especially with things.

Perhaps I was too conscious of my own need to redirect my own fullest attention to God as the clouds close in for the final sunset of life. I long ago came to agree with Lindbergh, who once confessed he’d “come to realize possessions are a worry” and result in a loss of freedom. Amen! They are a diabolic distraction. Again, I simply felt Grandpa could use his remaining days to better advantage. I’ll admit I’m deaf, but he never has, it seems to me, ever learned to listen. One going to meet God shouldn’t be too tightly focused on self. In writing to him I was merely sharing my own self-indictment.

Lindbergh also said anent his own autobiography, and it seems particularly pertinent at this point, “If I can’t pass on something of value hereby to others, at least I can clarify my own values.” And I guess that somewhere along the way that became a secondary objective of this lengthy endeavor. My primary objective is best summed up in the Bible (Dt4:9): “Make certain that you do not forget, as long as you live, what you have seen with your own eyes. Tell your children and your grandchildren.” This sort of postscript merely hints at a few of the guideposts that have impressed me along the way. I concluded with St. Ignatius of Antioch that, “These are the beginning and ending of life: faith is the beginning, love the end.” And, “Everyone of us will render account for himself to God (Rv 14:12).” So, I’d say with Douglas MacArthur, “People grow old by deserting their ideals.… You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your despair.” To which Pascal adds, “A man doesn’t show his greatness by being at one extreme, but rather by touching both at once.” Or, as Sirach (31:22) puts it, “In whatever you do, be moderate!”

I never subscribed to that George Allen/Vince Lombardi hogwash that “The future is now!” or “Winning isn’t everything, it’s the ONLY thing!” I align myself rather with perhaps one of the last real sportsmen, Grantland Rice, who said, “Trying is the thing.” There is an almost obscene pressure on winning today – being first, being number one. I agree more with playwright Neil Simon, who has observed, “It drives me insane. I hate it.… Doing your best is what’s really important. If winning is the only thing, then somebody’s got to lose.” That’s the point. A single winner means a multitude of losers, so the odds for success are terrible. Winning is largely an impossible ideal, one that will guarantee a lot more anguish than satisfaction. As Aldous Huxley has remarked, “There’s only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, that’s your own self.” Always try hard to do your best, but also stop along the way to smell the roses. After all, God found it necessary or desirable to rest 14.3% of the time! All work and no play may make jack, but it also makes jerks. The perspective gets skewed and proper values get skewered. So I guess that’s about where I come out. Last words? I’d be satisfied if it was merely said of me, “He kept on trying.” That’s enough challenge for anybody. So saying, let me now conclude with a few favorite poetic excerpts that somehow seem relevant:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; –
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.    – Tennyson

Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime’s effort;
first, the cold friction of expiring sense …
Second, the conscious impotence of rage …
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to other’s harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.     – T. S. Eliot

“I will bring my own story to an end here too. If it is well written and to the point, that is what I wanted; if it is poorly done and mediocre, that is the best I could do. Let this, then, be the end.” (2Mc15:37–39)

XXIV. EPILOGUE

Wherever we find ourselves … we should seek perfection.   – Francis de Sales

This epic was begun 25 May 78, and finished 16 Mar 85 – an effort spanning almost seven years! This should serve to explain (if not necessarily excuse) the varying styles, differing perspectives, repetitions and other such inconsistencies. Perhaps you’re wondering what possibly could have been left out of this torrent of words (now well over 220,000). Well, let me incorporate KT’s letter requesting this opus, and then you be the judge:

I read my first “Dear All” letters from you folks when I arrived at Anne’s. They were really interesting … (and) in part are responsible for my now wanting you to write an autobiography. The lives of my parents really interest me – especially because you and Mom never talk about your past. (Do you have skeletons in the closet, or what?) I want to hear more. I want to know: what you went through growing up, what you thought and how you changed, what you learned, what impressed you as you grew up, what you did during the war, what it was like when all us kids started coming, etc.. I want to hear all the funny, interesting, sad, happy vignettes of your life … and it would be neat to include the historical side – what you were doing when the Japs struck Pearl Harbor, how the Depression affected your parents’ life-style, etc. All of this interests me, because then I’d learn about all the things that make you what you are. I know that I’m the way I am partly due to my family’s influence, and it would make a lot more sense if I could see the whole picture – why you are the way you are. [Ed. note: Why do I get the feeling KT is looking for pitfalls to avoid?] Plus, I know you as my adult father, and I’d like to know what you were like when you were my age – what you did, what your hopes and aspirations were, etc. No small order, I realize. [Really?]

In any event, now EVERYBODY knows where to place the blame for this treatise, or should I say travesty! But, I wonder, does any child ever really know its father even as an adult? I thought I knew mine, but since his death I’ve been overwhelmed by questions I wish I had asked him about himself – many of them like KT’s questions – and I wonder how he would have changed with the fast-changing world from which he made such a timely escape. Fathers! Whatinhell are they anyway? Essentially, a father is seen as an authoritarian nemesis. (To the Japanese, the four most dreaded things on earth are fire, lightning, earthquakes and fathers, which latter may explain their aversion to our Christian God!) I sort of like author Larry King’s recorded soliloquy on the subject:

You see the fix the poor bastard is in don’t you? He must at once apologize and inspire, conceal and judge, strut and intervene, correct and pretend. No matter how far he ranges outside his normal capabilities, he will remain unappreciated through much of the paternal voyage – often neglected, frequently misread, sometimes profaned by his own creation. For all this, the father may evolve into a better man: may find himself closer to being what he claims, a strong role having ways of overpowering the actor. And if he is doubly blessed, he may know a day when his sons (by then, most likely, fathers themselves) will come to love him more than they can bring themselves to say.

Well, there is no question that I evolved into “a better man” in the course of this exercise, AND, I discovered that this was due in no small part to the influence of my children. In fact, I not only learned a lot about my roots, I learned even more about myself. In this respect, a John MacDonald remark seems quite apt, “Every day, no matter how you fight it, you learn a little more about yourself, and all most of it does is teach humility.” Amen! And writing an autobiography merely accelerates the process. (I must also confess John Steinbeck perhaps had a point when he observed that, “The real me inevitably turns out to be a savage, self-seeking little beast.”) So, let’s briefly fix the blame. Note the title of this opus – THAT JACK THE HOUSE BUILT. [I just plain didn’t have the guts to entitle it The Wright Stuff.] It is meant to convey my recognition of the notion that I am to a major extent the product of the house in which I lived – first my parents’ house, and then my own family’s house. The major molders of whatever it is that I am resided in those two domiciles, and, mostly they were women. I mean this to be a cause of pride on their part rather than shame. (Who am I to say that they didn’t do a tremendous job?)

I tried to start this epic at the very beginning. (Actually I wrote the very first AND the last two paragraphs of this story at the outset. I just had to know how it was going to come out before I could really get into it!) Trying to recall one’s very first sense of personal awareness in concrete terms is a most fascinating exercise, as is trying to trace the original and main influences on one ‘s good and bad traits. The results are always interesting, and (more often than one is apt to expect) sometimes quite surprising.

My experience in dredging for first recall would seem to confirm the theory that conceptualization and memory are possible only when one has gained some mastery over a language. Certainly I was already thinking in English at the time of my first consciously recalled memories. Whether my English has improved significantly since those earliest recollections I must leave to the reader. But this book is now virtually completed, and so my children may forevermore say with Elie Wiesel, “My father is not dead. My father is a book, and books do not die!”

I’m sure I’ve omitted someone’s favorite memory (for example: my taking Anne to the Casino Royale on her 16th birthday to hear Johnny Tillotson; our picnics to Glen Echo; Mary’s extended – 1976–77 – support through troubling times from a University of Maryland psychiatrist who compensated in part for our parental inadequacies; Maureen’s trust and generosity shamefully exploited by an incorrigible “friend” at the cost of the loss of our three TV sets while we were in Europe in Sep 1982, and the impounding of her golden little Pontiac Sunbird by the District police; our ill-fated attempt to get George into the Congressional Page service/school, and his investigation of the Trinitarian priesthood upon completion of the eighth grade; the St. Bernadette’s carnivals, where I won the only thing in my entire life – appropriately a ham; my refusal to a stupefied Special Assistant to SecNav of his offer of my boss’s job with the confession that, “I may be the best #2 man in the whole Navy Dept., but no amount of money could induce me to take on the grief of being #1!”). Yes, I’ve left things out (never being one for details, you might say), but YOU try recalling your entire life and see how difficult the task is. But rewarding, too. I confess that I’ve concluded that everyone should attempt an autobiography. (As theologian Bernard Cooke has remarked, “For each of us, it is the sequence of experienced happenings that tells us ultimately who and what we are, what the world around us is all about, what transcendent influence works with and upon us, and what response we are called upon to give as we help to shape the future.”) It would never had occurred to me to do so, and I therefore want heartily to thank those who commended this course to me. I trust my effort doesn’t merit the censure of critic Robert Martin who remarked anent autobiography that, “Most of them are in part gestures of defiance, fists shaken against oblivion.”

Much of what is here presented is stream of consciousness recall, generally aided and abetted by first setting down the chronology of contemporary public events as an aide memoire. But I also had a lot of help. A Catholic University graduate student had written a biography of my father. A paternal-side cousin provided my paternal grandfather’s Memories of an Octogenarian. Several cousins on my mother’s side provided vital recollections of her roots. Then there were the public sources. The Naval Historian provided ship histories for the vessels in which I served. I was able to procure a copy of the official White House log of FDR’s cruise in Tuscaloosa from the FDR Hyde Park Library. The civil and military Record Centers in St. Louis provided copies of my civilian and military service records. And, I was able to acquire all the official records pertaining to George’s crash under the Freedom of Information Act. Then, of course I had access to several good histories covering the period of my life, and many good books elaborating certain phases of it as, for example, WWII. I’ve tried my best to provide proper attribution throughout, and I have tried to be accurate.

Consider also how diminished our coverage of FAMILY would have been without the abundance of letters from our children – precious gems all! Over the years, I’ve found that there’s a lot that can be said for letters, especially in comparison to “reaching out to touch someone” by telephone, and writer Ellen Goodman has said most of it very well:

The telephone call has replaced the letter in our lives…. On the telephone you talk; in a letter you tell…. [The call] makes demands on us. We are expected to respond as quickly as computers…. But we cannot, blessedly, “interface” by mail. There is leisure and emotional luxury in letter writing. There are no obvious silences to anxiously fill. There are no interruptions to brook. There are no nuances and tones to distract.

A letter doesn’t take us by surprise in the middle of dinner, or intrude when we are with other people, or ambush us in the midst of other thoughts. It waits. There is a private space between the give and take for thinking.

There is an advantage to slowing down the pace of communications. The phone demands the kind of simultaneous satisfaction that is as elusive in words as in sex. It’s letters that let us take turns, let us sit and mull and say exactly what we mean.

But you cannot hold a call in your hands. You cannot put it in a bundle. You cannot show it to your family. Indeed, there is nothing to show for it. It doesn’t leave a trace. Tell me, how can you wrap a lifetime of phone calls in a rubber band for a summer’s night when you want to remember?

Digital Edition Note: Charlie, at least, has been struck by the degree to which hand-written (or typed) letters that Jack had saved for decades added detail and substance to this book and by the sad realization that no one writes letters anymore. With the advent of hard-to-archive email, few of us would have available to ourselves today the same resources if we were to attempt to write our own autobiographies.

I apologize to any reader, and more so to my departed mother, for the rather uneven under-development of my ever-changing and maturing relationship with her. A more qualified word-craftsman might have (as I’ve remarked elsewhere) etched the gradual transition of my mood from insecurity through humiliation, resentment, fury, and hatred, on to a path of indifference, suspicion, questioning, doubt, satisfaction, remorse, false generosity, real generosity, and sacrifice, to love, with all the nuances in between, AND not by mere explication but through dramatic recounting of illustrative episodes depicting actual events. Clearly, I wasn’t up to the job, but that is more or less the way it went, and over the larger portion of my life. It was only when this saga was well along that the father’s child, which I’d always fancied myself to be, suddenly realized he was in fact a mother’s child! This was without doubt the biggest personal surprise of this entire venture. Forthwith I made peace with my mother and did my best to recompense her the rest of her days.

Critic Robert Martin has said that, “Probably the most interesting reason for autobiographical writing is the attempt of the writer to understand what has formed his own mind and personality. Almost inevitably this relies on memories of his early life, for most of us believe … that character is molded early in life … and that childhood is the most important of all in the formation of personality.” I’ve already conceded my main preoccupation, once encouraged to begin, soon became to find out as best I could what made me what I am today. I have already affirmed and now reiterate my finding that the primary potter working my formless clay was my mother, and most especially in those vital first half-dozen years. This raises a most disturbing question in my mind about the potentially stunted (if not seriously deformed) personality and character development of so many of today’s children who pass these vital years without the ever-present loving care of (often necessarily) working parents. Some handicap seems to me to be virtually inevitable. I don’t have a solution, but certainly such parents should be aware of this, the better to try and compensate.

Kierkegaard said it: “We live our lives forward, but we understand them backwards.” That’s certainly true in my case, and it is my hope that this book might hasten the understanding process in my children. One does acquire a smattering of wisdom along the way, and I should like to try to pass on one of my main conclusions before closing out this epilogue. Now hold it just a gol-durn minute. As Don Robertson has said:

I don’t mean to sound like some sort of propagandist for the, ah, generation gap, but it’s nice to know some people can live a long time and still be human enough to admit they don’t know all the answers. You see, that’s what bugs so many kids – all these older people who are so smug and dump on you about the, ahem, Eternal Verities. It’s as though God is all the time whispering in their ear. I believe in God, but do not necessarily believe that He spends all the time whispering in the ear of some automobile salesman from Dubuque. Do you … do you understand what I mean?

Sure, but there are some lessons from old age, as Joseph Kurismmootil has noted: “Deep acceptance of life, and a tolerance for those maladies that cannot be overcome. These are the fruit of ripe age which, knowing all, is capable of forgiving all.” So, I forgive any and all open or closed rebellion at my making even the slightest effort at regaling you with my accumulated pseudo-wisdom. And, there positively WON’T be any big summing up of verities. OK? I just want to make ONE point. OK? So, get hold of your selves now, my dear children, and please TRY to bite this bullet! For me, the Church remains the single most indispensible guard, guide and guarantee of a good, meaningful life and a happy death! There! I’ve said it! Now, let me elaborate a little. (I can almost hear someone saying, “If only ONCE he would, just a little.) First of all, point of view is everything! (Remember the story of the single marine in a ravine who, though surrounded by a goodly force of the enemy, reported, “I’ve got a dozen of the bastards trapped down here!"?) Well, the only valid perspective is derived from the age-old questions: Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?

The purpose of life IS life! Eternal life! This earthly life DOES end. This fact has some important implications – moral implications. Morality, you know, has to do with what we are required to do or not do in accordance with our beliefs. And I concede that Graham Greene had a point when he noted that, “Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered.” I think St. Augustine proved that. And things sure have changed since the so-called good old days and today – penicillin has supplanted prayer, IBM has displaced IHS. But there is something to be said for the good old days, and John Steinbeck has said it:

What did they have then that we are losing or have lost? Well, for one thing they had rules – rules concerning life, limb, and property; rules governing deportment, manners, and conduct; and rules defining dishonesty, dishonor, misconduct, and crime. The rules were not always obeyed but they were believed in, and breaking them was savagely punishthe Great! ed.

This is what morality is all about – standards of right conduct derived from our bedrock beliefs. Now, of course, beliefs can differ, even among people of good conscience, but to be human is to be a seeker of TRUTH. And truth can only be perceived (and then only partially) in two ways: through reason and through revelation. At the same time, there is a constantly accumulating reservoir of ascertained truth. Even as each individual accumulates truth throughout a lifetime, succeeding generations accumulate and pass on truth. Ground Zero, as it were, is raised for each succeeding generation. It would be foolish for each generation to start over by going back to reinvent the wheel, even if it could. This then naturally leads to a consideration of institutions, which have the advantage (bankruptcy aside) of not necessarily being subject to death. Institutions confer the virtually indispensible benefits of stability, order, and continuity. We take them so much for granted that many who purport to decry institutions are unconsciously the first in line to reap their benefits.

If you were threatened by a mugger wouldn’t you be glad to hail a policeman? If your house were on fire wouldn’t you be glad to see the fire department coming? I can assure you that when the Japs hit Pearl Harbor EVERY American rallied to the support of our Armed Forces. It is a characteristic of institutions always to be there! Sometimes people wish they weren’t there – until THEY need them – then it’s often too late. But the institutions are there! Remember the great speech that the drunken lawyer Greenwald unloaded on Keefer at his acquittal celebration in The Caine Mutiny?

While I was studying law and Keefer here was writing his play for the Theatre Guild, and Willie here was on the playing fields of Princeton, all that time these birds we call regulars – these stuffy, stupid Prussians, in the Navy and the Army – were manning guns. Course they weren’t doing it to save my Mom from Hitler, they were doing it for dough, like everybody else does what they do. Question is, in the last analysis – last analysis – what did you do for dough? Old Yellowstain, for dough, was standing guard on this fat dumb and happy country of ours. Meantime me, I was advancing my little free non-Prussian life for dough. Of course, we figured in those days, only fools go into the armed service. Bad pay, no millionaire future, and you can’t call you mind or body your own. Not for sensitive intellectuals. So when all hell broke lose and the Germans started running out of soap and figured, well it’s time to come over and melt down old Mrs. Greenwald – who’s gonna stop them? Not her boy Barney. Can’t stop a Nazi with a law book. So I dropped the law books and ran to learn how to fly. Stout fellow. Meantime, it took a year and a half before I was any good, who was keeping Mom out of the soap dish? Captain Queeg!

As Ernie would say to Vern, “Know whata MEAN?” The institutions are at the ramparts, maintaining the continuity – keepers of the flame. We all lean on them whether we recognize it or not. And the Church is an institution. And most of us benefit from it however remotely we might be aware of it. You’ll only find Christ in the gospels, and it was the early Church that gave us the New Testament. Not Christ himself. As theologian Bruce Vawter has said, “To take seriously a christology – is to accept an ecclesiology as well. Here we say nothing with regard to church structures or polity; we simply insist on the sine qua non of continuity of a people and a tradition. A churchless Christianity is historically a contradiction in terms, and by the same token any Jesus who is not at the same time the Christ of the Church’s biblical faith is merely the mental or emotional construct of those who have parasited on the Church.” Or, as biblical scholar Raymond Brown puts it, “the great anomaly of Christianity is that only through an institution can the message of a non-institutional Jesus be preserved.”

The Church, then, is a sheet anchor – the main support or sure dependence in times of danger. Again, the Church is an inexhaustible, never-failing source of spiritual energy to which we can (and should regularly) return to get our own spiritual batteries recharged. If you don’t exercise a muscle – it atrophies. If you don’t practice a skill – it deteriorates. If you don’t regularly and ritually renew and replenish your stock of religious faith – you lose it! If you don’t think you need divine help to reach the Kingdom of God – you’re a neo-Pelagian at best, and an incipient atheist at worst. And, the current generation should be the last one to knock the ritualistic aspect of religion. It recognizes and even relishes ritual in virtually every other context.

Ritual is, after all, merely a dramatic form designed to intensify meaning. Consider the use of rings and the tossing of bouquets at weddings, the candlelight processions and coffins full of Viet Nam casualty name-tags at war protest rallies, the burning of draft cards, the defacing of doors to the Pentagon with blood, the observing of a moment of silence at some giant public event to commemorate the passing of some celebrity, the marriage act in itself, the playing of taps over a fallen hero, saluting the flag, the sign of the cross (how did that get in here?), the Star Spangled Banner, the SACRAMENTS. They’re all of a piece. Every true ritual effects what it signifies, and intensifies that underlying signification.

Proper religious ritual serves one further vital purpose – it serves to establish and enhance our sense of the sacred, which our modern world has seemingly largely lost. In our Church perhaps Vatican II was effectively (however innocently) a contributing factor, recognition of which a tentative reinstitution of the tridentine mass may signify. The use of Latin, the ancient solemnity of Gregorian chant, the aura of incense, the purple veiling of statues as Holy Week approached, more stringent rules of fast and abstinence – all of these ritualistic adjuncts had a powerful and compelling effect upon establishing and enhancing a solid, solemn sense of the sacred. So, it’s high time, I think, that the younger generation cease disparaging ritual – uniquely in a religious context, it would seem – as a four-letter word. (Too many cynical young adults today seemingly recoil from the very mention of the word “religion” like the devil reportedly is repelled by the sight of a crucifix.) “When you lose all sense of the sacred, then everything assumes an unnatural equality and nothing special any longer exists.

The fact is: Humankind is transcendent. It rightly aspires to assimilation into the Kingdom of God! Hans Kung insists that, “The greatest and most urgent requirement of our time (is) a new awareness of transcendence.” We’re all mired in a blasé society that seemingly worships mediocrity. Don’t YOU get trapped. Seek excellence! Do your best! As Josh Billings has put it: “Emulate the postage stamp – it sticks to one thing ’til it gets there!” Carpe diem! Like Carlyle said, “Our main business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies closely at hand.” Ignore the crowd, then, which often reacts like lemmings going over a cliff. And forsake uncritical devotion to TV (which has done its best to level all values and make Sunday just another day). Break out your Sunday best once again – for CHURCH!

You get my point. You may still not accept my thesis, but there it is. The Church is our main source of hope and help. I firmly believe this, so – “Harden not your hearts (He 4:7)!” Work in the present, but let your idea of fulfillment by a vision of something farther off – a glimpse of The Kingdom. That’s about it. I only wanted this last hearing on what I’ve found to be the most important impetus in my life. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Harken to Samuel Johnson: “To be of no church is dangerous. Religion, of which the rewards are distant, and which is animated only by faith and hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind unless it be invigorated and reimpressed by external ordinances, by stated calls to worship, and the salutary influence of example.” There! That’s exactly what I’ve been trying so hard to say!

So, we come to the end of this story of an ordinary life. It is one marked by a supreme irony – a life of flight away from the very source of its strength. The Bible (Mt 1:19) characterizes St. Joseph with a mere five-word epitaph: “He was a just man.” In like manner, I’ve confessed that I’d be quite content if those kind enough to remember me might only say: “He kept on trying!” This, certainly, is my legacy from my mother. And so much of my life was spent running from her! One might well wonder if such is not the general experience of each and every unique human being – precisely in the striving to underscore uniqueness – a sort of “law of human perversity” which compels us to fight or flee those who would make us better.

No less than Carl Jung has remarked upon this strange state of affairs incident to St. Paul, thus: “Saul owed his conversion neither to true love, nor to true faith, nor to any other truth. It was solely his hatred of Christians that set him upon the road to Damascus, and to that decisive experience which was to decide the whole course of his life. He was brought to this experience by following with conviction the course in which he was most completely mistaken.” So it has been with me. God bless you, mother!

AFTERWORD

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it.  – 1 Corithians 9:24

Don’t quit because you are not good enough, keep going because you are not good enough yet. – Richelle E. Goodrich

Digital Edition Note: In Chapter XXIV. EPILOGUE Jack says that he finished writing on March 16, 1985. At the very end of Chapter XXII. ANNIVERSARY, he says that “the details of (his) death would have to be ghost written.” So, some 36 years later – to the day, as we completed reformatting this third edition, Anne was asked to do just that. Herewith is her contribution.

The above quotes were selected by Charlie as, perhaps, a fitting summary of Anne’s words that follow. They include a biblical quote, because Jack likely would have gone to the Bible for inspiration, and a more secular quote, because it fairly sums up his lifelong attitude as described by Anne below.

As his oldest daughter, and as the person who was with him when he died, I have written this brief afterward to record the details of Dad’s death in 1996, ten years after he finished this book.

Our mother Kathleen Wright died at home on November 13, 1994, having declined further treatment for colon cancer earlier that year. Instead of hospital care, Kathleen returned home to The Oaks to receive hospice care. George, Charlie, and Katie who lived relatively (but not conveniently) close by had arranged to be with Dad on a rotating schedule to support our parents during Mom’s final days. They stood in for their brothers and sisters who were unable to be there, and took on the physically and emotionally grueling task of helping a loved one take their final journey. This is not Kathleen’s story, so we are spared any attempt to detail how loved and treasured this remarkable woman was and how devastated we all were by her loss. But Jack was never the same. He had remained strong through her illness. But his final year must have been a lonely living hell.

Our Dad died unexpectedly on November 13, 1995, the first anniversary of Kathleen’s death.

As the anniversary of Mom’s death approached, I decided to visit Dad so he wouldn’t be alone to mark the sad occasion. My husband Ken and I traveled from San Diego to spend the weekend with him.

Although not mentioned in his autobiography, Dad’s OCD was almost as strong as his faith in God. For example, he insisted that the small cast iron frying pan that remained on his stovetop be placed with the handle facing in a certain direction. Having discovered this during our visit, Ken made a point of rotating the handle out of its designated position. Dad appreciated the joke.

When he entered the kitchen the morning of November 13 to find the frying pan handle misaligned, he feigned outrage at this disturbance in the order of the universe. As Dad grumbled and straightened the frying pan, he and Ken laughed over the futility of trying to attain perfection.

I was sitting in the chair Mom used to sit in. Ken, knowing we would soon be leaving the non-smoking apartment for church stepped outside for a cigarette. Dad headed to his bedroom to put on his shoes so we could go outside to meet Ken. He paused to smile at me as he walked out of sight down the hallway.

Then I heard him exclaim “Oh!” and I heard him fall down in the hallway. I recall pausing for a few moments before I went to help him up because I knew he would be embarrassed about tripping in his stocking feet. I wanted to give him a moment to collect himself.

When I rounded the corner I saw that he had fallen so hard, without even putting out his hands to break his fall, that there was a cut on his forehead where he struck the floor. I thought he must be stunned because he hadn’t moved and his eyes were wide open in shock.

I knelt beside him, touched him, reassured him. I must have known he was dead, but I wasn’t ready to know so I kept speaking softly. At one point, I told him to take a deep breath and we would see if he felt ready to get up. I heard a long soft breath and had an instant of grace to believe he was still alive. I realized I had heard the sigh of his final exhaled breath.

Then I started thinking maybe he was not quite gone, or maybe he was still nearby, so I started speaking for all of my sisters and brothers. I thanked him for everything over and over again. For a happy childhood, for an example of a happy marriage, for unconditional love. I told him we would all always love him and remember him and Mom and all they did for us and all their love.

I remember glancing at the clock so I could tell everyone what time it happened, but of course I now have absolutely no memory of the time. As we were about to make the ten minute drive to church for 9:00 Mass, my sisters and brothers will attest that it must have been shortly after 8:00 in the morning.

When we failed to meet him outside, Ken returned to find me kneeling over Dad in the hallway. I was holding Dad’s hand and telling him to go and be with Kathleen, that she was waiting right beside him. He was lying with his good ear to the floor, so I was speaking quite loudly into his bad ear. Ken knelt beside me and had the presence of mind to check for a pulse.

Only upon re-reading this autobiography have I recalled how Dad researched famous last words. In this book he presciently muses on his own eventual last words. “...I’m sorely afraid I might very well venture something as inelegant as ‘Oh, (expletive deleted)!’”

In this book, Dad wrote several times about how he would want to be remembered. He said, “I’d be quite content if those kind enough to remember me might only say: ‘He kept on trying!’” As a person of strong and abiding faith, he spent his life trying to be a good man and never stopped trying to become a better one.

Jack Wright’s final conversation was about adjusting the handle of the frying pan on the kitchen stove. In a typically humorous, knowingly futile, and metaphorically perfect final moment, he was still trying to set the world right.

With his last words, Jack Wright was laughing with his loved ones about his compulsive need for order. With hard-won patience, with gentle humor, and with rueful self-awareness of his imperfections, Jack Wright kept on trying.

Anne Mayer

Des Moines, Iowa

March 16, 2021

THE WRIGHT STUFF

JOHN HERBERT WRIGHT – 1918-1996 & KATHLEEN CECILIA KIRK – 1918-1995

George Martin – 1944

   Robert Joseph – 1970
      Robert Brady (“Brady”) – 1999
      Jake Michael – 2001
      Bennett Matthew – 2005
   Michael Brady – 1972
   Matthew Patrick – 1973
   Phillip Martin – 1975
      Orlando Austin – 2008
      Sebastian Frederick – 2008

Anne Kathryn Mayer – 1947

   Jesse Veronica Renny-Byfield – 1974

Charles Justin – 1948

   Theresa (‘Terri’) Marie [Gillingham]* - 1973
      Conor Stevenson – 2004
      Kendall Elle – 2006
      Cameron Maxwell – 2010
   Kathleen Patricia Mitchell – 1975
      Emma Grace – 2001
      William Wright – 2003
      Henry (“Hank”) Harper – 2005
      Joseph Charles – 2007

Martha Wright* Toth – 1950

   Leilah Blakeney Lyons – 1977
      Suren Maeve – 2015
   Valerie Wright Dixon – 1982
      Demetrius Amiri – 2014
      Marcus Inali – 2017

John Joseph – 1952-2020

   Alice Pelczar [Gokee]* – 1986
      Emmett Wright – 2014
      Forrest Wright – 2018
   John (“Jack”) Pelczar – 1987
   Curtis Pelczar – 1989
      Griffin Lucas – 2020

Mary Wright* Blackwell – 1954

   Laurie Wright Cuttino [Denton] – 1973
      Samuel Wright – 1999
      Elka Marsh – 2000

   Elizabeth Aimée Pepper – 1985
      Gwendolyn Sage – 2015
      Theodore Rowan – 2017
   Aaron (“Stoney”) Christopher – 1987

Kathleen Teresa Pugliese – 1955

   Joseph Kirk – 1984
      Rudolph Anthony – 2016
      Lucia Marie – 2018
   Monica Wright – 1987

Monica Louise [McGinn]* –1957

   Timothy Griffin – 1994
   Christopher Liam – 1995

Maureen Patricia Perry – 1959

   Angela Lynn – 1986
   Cassandra Linnea Eschen – 1991
   Samuel Kirk – 1995

Herbert Francis – 1961-1961

* “Wright” retained or middle names to retain the family name upon marrying.

(Through 2021, and still counting.)

This is not meant to be a complete genealogy, just a list of direct descendants. Names have been updated for marriages. Anyone born after mid-1985 has been added for completeness in this updated, 3rd edition of 2021. Note that the original 1985 edition listed 21 direct descendants. This version, published 36 years later lists 56! Jack (and Kathleen) would have been proud.

Table of Contents

DIGITAL EDITION NOTES

FOREWORD

I. ORIGINS

II. AWARENESS

III. FRUSTRATION

IV. SCHOOL

V. EDUCATION

VI. LOVE

VII. NAVY

VIII. NEIGHBOR

IX. WAR

X. MARRIAGE

XI. FAMILY

XII. PEACE

XIII. DESIGN

XIV. OPERATIONS

XV. MANAGEMENT

XVI. BRASS

XVII. CRASH

XVIII. PROFESSIONAL

XIX. GROWTH

XX. FREEDOM

XXI. HEART

XXII. ANNIVERSARY

XXIII. FULFILLMENT

XXIV. EPILOGUE

AFTERWORD

The author’s Ports of Call 1937–1984 (1 of 2)

The author’s Ports of Call 1937–1984 (2 of 2)

With sister, Margaret

Wright tribe on sister Margaret’s graduation

Early Pop

Chocolate, Pop-like goatee

Sailor and Horseman

Already braced-up for USNA

Class Picture

With

May procession

Franklin

1961 Corvair – The

First Communion

An angel (?) with neighbors

With sister, Margaret, and neighbor Albert Noyes

Halloween Chinaman

My first love – 1932

“I told you! I don’t like milk!”

Two yo-yo’s

“Who says I’m chubby?”

“I hate this outfit!”

Before High School – 1931

Charlie looks like who?

Washington Post newspaper carrier contract

Sweet sixteen – 1934

Kirk tribe – Winter of 1934

Joe Waring and

1935 St Anthony’s High School Graduating Class

Now so mature!

First Ocean City sojourn together

My mother (!) on the beach?

Awaiting USNA acceptance

Plebe year

Johnny Refo – Dave Davenport – Abbot Street, my roommate

Shoulder that butt, buddy, if you don’t want a black eye!

The disk is up! The disk is down! Ready on the firing line!

Halfraters

Cutters

From the book

Dave Davenport, Abbot Street, and Frank Hertel

Illegal rest

Seaward Terrace – over the Mess Hall

Embarking/Youngster cruise – June 1937

Enroute to Kiel canal in USS Wyoming

Field Day – holy-stoning the deck of USS Wyoming on Youngster cruise

Funchal, Madeira. It sure beat Bermuda!

Funchal sled

Palace of Frederick the Great at Potsdam

The Lido – Madeira

Sailing – with my and roommate’s wives-to-be

Sunday after Mass

With DAD –

Ring Dance – June 1939

Christmas leave – 39/40

Letter from Decca Records

Letter from Columbia Recording Corporation

Letter from RCA

“J.” H. Wright – “40”; Don’t believe everything you read in

Letter from Life Magazine

Hell Cats

A snare, a delusion, and a dream

LAST P-rade – June 1940

LAST formation – June 1940, 3rd Battalion Terrace

Washington Post graduation announcement, 1940

Times Herald article about USNA graduation, Class of 1940

With paternal grandparents

At Mt Vernon, post-USNA

Jack’s Children at Mt Vernon in 2015

With Pop, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With parents, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With Mom, Graduation – 6 June 1940

With Kathleen –

With Kathleen and Mom –

ENSIGN

Newspaper article about FDR voyage aboard USS Tuscaloosa, Dec 1940

Magazine article about FDR voyage aboard USS Tuscaloosa, Dec 1940

Route of USS Tuscaloosa during 3-14 Dec 1940 with FDR

Admiral-Ambassador Leahy on Tuscaloosa, 22 Dec 1940

Departing Hampton Rds, VA

Last picture as a

It’s all over now! 14 Sep 1942

Flanked by Kirk Krutsch and Tom Walsh

Leaving Wardman Park reception for NYC honeymoon

Newspaper article about the naval battle off Casablanca, November 8, 1942

Tuscaloosa hangar show 5/43

Crew reaction – Made DC Sunday paper

Picture from Washington Star, August 29, 1943

PG school home – 44, George’s birthplace

Jack with Geo, Lexington Park California

Lexington Park California (Long Beach)

The

USS Amsterdam decommissioning crew

Newspaper item about USS Amsterdam decommissioning

USS Amsterdam entering drydock for decommissioning

Kathleen with Geo – Coral Sea Village – Vallejo, California

Jack with Geo – Coral Sea Village on Mare Island

USS Amsterdam arrives in Astoria, Washington

Newspaper clipping about USS Amsterdam’s arrival

Photo of USS Amsterdam in Astoria

Passing under Golden Gate

Hood Canal – Sunset Beach – Union, Washington

Anne’s birthplace – Hood Canal

USS Bremerton, CA-130 – My last ship, 1948

Yeoman Brutus – 3 December 1948

Last officer crew – Lt. Rich my r.

Last picture in

Inspiration for my post-service future

Family 26 December 1952 – George 8, JJ 4 months

Mary

With George at Mayo Beach – June 1954

With Anne at Haines Point – June 1954

KT at 5 days – 5 September 1955

Navy Management Review – September 1959

Navy Management Review – March 1964

SOLIDARITY DAY

Meridian MI, Macho-man – December 6, 1966

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (1 of 3)

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (2 of 3)

Kathleen on final approach to Montgomery Air Park (3 of 3)

Author over Bay Bridge – April 13, 1968

Jack’s hand-drawn schematic of George’s crash

Kathleen approaching Dulles runway 1R for touch-and-go, April 13, 1968

Kathleen and the Author as seen by George and JJ enroute to Harper’s Ferry – December 02, 1967

A night with the Bradys – Howard Johnson’s Wheaton motel – October 1969

Skyline drive – September 1970

Blue and Gold,

Pre-flight at Ocean City, MD

Kathleen over Susquehanna enroute to Harrisburg

Illegal IFR flight

Charlie’s commissioning – October 01, 1971

ERA rally @ Capitol – July 09, 1978

Hilton roof – Hong Kong – November 1974

Enroute Kowloon – Red China border – November 1974

Clark Air Base, Philippines in front of HFDF antenna

Tarague Beach, Guam

Two gems

Volunteer, Sullivan, and Gates – May 1983

The Chief

Myrtle Beach – July 09, 1978

Author at Daytona – January 1980

Mary’s commissioning – February 1981

San Antonio surprise – February 1981

Fighting for my life – August 1972

I finally gave in – January 1980

Prototype “Dear All” letter

I told you I had a heart – June 03, 1981

My

Post-op Ocean City therapy – July 1981

40th anniversary bash – August 1982

Castles along the Rhine

A bridge too far

Kathleen meets Big Ben

Alas, Hampton Court really puts Kathleen in the shade

Rijksmuseum

Author gets

XXIV. EPILOGUE

here

XXII. ANNIVERSARY

XVIII. PROFESSIONAL

VIII. NEIGHBOR

IX.

XVII. CRASH

XII. PEACE

XXIII. FULFILLMENT