TALES FROM THE OLD CORPS . . .
Tales, some tall in nature, some remembrances, and some commentary about our life as cadets.

Last updated on 19 September 2010

   
Tom Endres

How a Local Bar
Holds History
Of a Small Town
June 28, 2005; Page B1

 

Reprinted with permission of Wendy Bounds, Wall Street Journal

Decades ago, places like Guinan's Pub & Country Store in the river hamlet of Garrison, N.Y., were a mainstay of American life -- homes away from home where citizens convened to share pints and swap advice and town gossip. But in this era of big box retailers and chic hotel bars, the neighborhood hangout is an endangered species.

Yet these once-prolific gathering spots hold the stories that make up the history of our nation's towns. When they disappear, so does that history.

In her book "Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, A Town and the Search for What Matters Most," published today, Wall Street Journal small-business columnist Gwendolyn Bounds explores Guinan's past, present and what the future might hold. She chronicles the struggles of 79-year-old Irish owner Jim Guinan (pronounced Guy-nan), his wife and children to keep the family business alive through the years, and reveals what draws an eclectic cast of patrons, herself included, to the bar.

An excerpt:

* * *

It's March 1977, and a young West Point cadet crouches in the bushes with a fellow classmate, staring intently at the neon signs on the opposite bank of the Hudson River. Night is falling and the red-haired boy, a husky plebe named Thomas Endres, is bored and restless, weary already of the regimen of military life. He's only come to play lacrosse and to live down the words of his father, who told his son when he graduated from high school with his long hair and well-honed disdain for authority: "West Point? You won't be accepted there. It's a man's school."

Right now young Cadet Endres is looking for a diversion and assumes, correctly, that the neon signs across the river belong to a bar of some sort. The cadet is nineteen, old enough to drink legally, but that's of no importance by West Point rules that prohibit drinking within 20 kilometers of the academy when off-post. However, the headstrong cadet figures that by putting a river between him and his instructors, he's probably in pretty safe territory. So as the sun dips below the hills around West Point, Cadet Endres coaxes a buddy down to the academy's yacht club, where they commandeer a dinghy and slip the boat through the weeds and marsh until they are directly across from the twinkling neon lights. Then the pair begins cutting across the river in silence, save the rhythmic dip of the oars rippling through the water.


Guinan's Pub & Country Store, featured in the new book "Little Chapel on the River."

 		  

Their plan might have gone smoothly, except that Cadet Endres underestimates the currents of the Hudson. He's rowing as hard as he can, but the neon signs are slipping past him. Mischievous as always, the river carries the cadets past their mark and finally dumps them ashore several hundred yards downriver, near Arden Point. Sweaty and disheveled, Cadet Endres ties the boat to a tree stump and the exhausted boys make their way through the muck and up along the train tracks until they reach Jim Guinan's door.

Inside is a crowd of about eight to 12 men. Some are playing darts. The cold, dirty cadets traipse into the back and size up their surroundings. The crowd pauses for a moment to examine the new arrivals, red-faced and breathing hard in their muddied army-issue sweats. It is the bartender who speaks first. "Well, well," says Mr. Guinan with a grin. "I'm glad to see there are still some cadets who have the balls to sneak over here."

* * *

Cadet Endres has a beer. Then he has one more. And one more, and well, just one more until his curfew is fast approaching and he's in no shape to row the boat back across the Hudson with those quick-moving currents. Mr. Guinan realizes this and corrals a well-built and relatively sober guy named Don to drive the boys back over. He pats Cadet Endres on the shoulder and hands him his phone number. Tells him rowing over is fine and shows the proper spirit, but maybe he should just call next time he needs a lift.


View of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point from Guinan's Pub & Country Store.

 		  

The next day, Cadet Endres feels great, although he's a little concerned because he left the rowboat tied to a stump just south of Guinan's. A day and a half later, he tentatively makes his way back to the West Point boathouse to see if he can spot the craft across the river. And there, to his surprise, lashed up snugly in its rightful spot, bobs the stolen vessel. Somehow, the Irish bartender has managed to have it returned with no one the wiser.

Cadet Endres stops rowing across the river. But he doesn't stop going back to see Mr. Guinan. Sometimes the cadet sneaks out with upperclassmen in their cars. For a period during his sophomore year, he hides his own car illegally around the post. In a pinch, he telephones the bar and Mr. Guinan sends someone to pick up him and a few pals at the academy's gate. Mr. Guinan always remembers each of their names and treats them as equals. But that doesn't stop the boys from getting cocky sometimes. They get going playing darts and empty a few beers. Then they start boasting about how they can beat the Irishman at his own game.

One night Mr. Guinan lets them get good and riled up, and then when he's got the attention of the crowd, he stands up and walks around the end of the bar.

Cadet Endres and his buddies are grinning, sure they've got him beat. And then, POW. Mr. Guinan lands a dart right in the bull's-eye. He leans over to the silenced boys and tells them it's important to be able to back up your boasts. That you don't want to be someone who "has flies on 'em."


Cadet Endres (left) and Jim Guinan (middle) in 1977.

 		  

That is to say, don't be a bullsh -- er.

Cadet Endres never gets caught going to Guinan's. And he actually stops hating military life quite so much. He leaves West Point's gates, becomes a pilot and flies with the 101st Airborne Division. But even after he makes his way through Korea and Somalia -- even after he sees the world -- he never forgets Mr. Guinan or Garrison.

Cadet Thomas Endres goes on to become Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Endres. And in 1990, he comes back to the Hudson Highlands with his nephew, son and wife, Sandy, to visit relatives. The colonel decides, for old times' sake, to stop by Guinan's. Warns his family as they are approaching the screen door, "Now I don't know if he'll remember me. It was a long time ago."

The door swings open. Everything looks the same. Wood floors still trampled so tender they almost feel like dirt. Compressors running. Candy counter overflowing. And there, in the back, the colonel sees Mr. Guinan sitting on the far stool leaning against the wall, his head hanging slightly, body backlit by the sunlight so that he's just a silhouette.

Lt. Col. Endres steps into the doorway, and the noise makes Mr. Guinan look up. There isn't even a pause.

"Ahhh," says the barman. "I knew you'd come back, lad."

* * *

West Point graduates only owe a minimum of five years' service after graduation. Yet it's now been almost a quarter of a century since the cadet who never wanted to attend West Point went on active duty. Even more ironically, perhaps, Lt. Col. Endres now works at West Point as director of all cadet activities. He's grown into a charismatic, barrel-chested man who's built neat and muscular like a spark plug. His blondish-red hair is cropped into a sharp military flattop.


Lt. Col. Tom Endres (left) and Jim Guinan in 2004.

 		  

The colonel takes his job seriously -- managing a multimillion dollar operation, running hundreds of clubs and teams, restaurants, all entertainment and everything extracurricular the cadets do. But on Monday afternoons he'll hop in his silver Porsche and slip across the river to the little green bar of his youth where everyone just calls him Colonel Tom.

If it's summer, Lt. Col. Endres will have his own boat tied up (legally this time) down at the dock under Mr. Guinan's window. The colonel's own home has become something of a halfway house for cadets these days, and many afternoons he and his wife linger around the bar waiting to bring a few bright-eyed boys to their place for a home-cooked meal. Sometimes Mr. Guinan will come out to sit at the colonel's elbow. In front of the two men is a picture tucked into the corner of the bar's cracked mirror. The image captures a baby-faced Lt. Col. Endres as a cadet, seated at the bar, impish grin spreading over an empty glass, as a much younger Mr. Guinan stands nearby raising his full glass to the camera.

Lt. Col. Endres is not one for bulls -- t. No, he learned that lesson well. But ask him what he thinks about his days of endless beer and darts and tales and he'll tell you this and he'll look you in the eye.

"It was one beautiful, warm time."

Adapted from the book, "Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, A Town and the Search for What Matters Most" by Gwendolyn Bounds. Copyright 2005 by Gwendolyn Bounds. Published by William Morrow, HarperCollins Publishers.
  R-DAY STORIES - 2005
Bill Crawford

I came in with hair down to the small of my back.  I asked the barber, Jimmy Greco, to go a little easy on me.  He gave me a cut that wasn’t that bad and asked if it was ok.  I said “Sure” the then proceeded to “clean it up a bit” and my onion was peeled. 

I later became good friends with both Jimmy and Bobby Chatfield, another Barber at Woops.  They were good tailgate partners and also much kinder to the hair on the head of a firstie.

Speaking of hair; we had a little thing we did in the Zoo which we learned from one of our African American zoomates (class of 79 I believe ) named Jody Wilkerson.  Jody would take a ladies hose, cut it off somewhere above the knee, tie a knot and place it on his noggin the night before haircut inspection.  This would press his hair down and, on the weekend, he would leave with a fairly respectable fro.  We figured if it worked for Jody it would work for us white guys too.  Hence was born the little cap affectionately called the “Jody”.  Were you to wander into the zoo the evening prior to haircut inspection, you would have seen some strange caps on our heads but it always worked.  Look in the yearbook at the picture of those branched Aviation and you can see me in the back row, with my nice little un-jodied hair, ready to roam for the upcoming weekend.

Now, the hair stays short all the time, too much heat and head
   
Mike Luttmann I remember with great “fondness” the ear blisters.  I came in with straight blond hair to below my collar.  When they were done with a quick “trim around the edges”, I looked like a hedgehog.
   
Drew Shearer
Strange, but true- I had about 5-6 inches over my collar. Haircuts cost money and I had other things to spend it on. Besides, I knew no matter what I had when I went in, it would be wrong- so I thought what could having a little extra hair hurt?   Ever have sunburn blisters on the top of your ears?  My ears had not been in the sun for years even while bailing hay or playing sports.  That combined with the black glasses with spring earpieces, no hair, and the old green fatigue ball cap?- that was a sight!
   
John Canby Some of us try not to think about it when confronting hairlines that are attempting phased withdrawls. . . . . . . .

Dave Charest excluded, of course. . . .
 
   
Paul Lascelle Drew, I can't imagine you with hair down to there.  The only image I can conjure up is Garth from Wayne's World.
   
Peter Collins Oh my GAWD! I think I just saw something incredible.  Are they letting WOMEN in now!!!????
   
Drew Shearer With the exception of one fuzz-head (#32), it seems like most of the "Before" haircuts are pretty tame. Not like when we came through- I bet they had to have dump trucks haul the hair away then. Or maybe it was just me that had "hair down to there"
  REUNION STORIES - 2002
Steve Plutt This 20th Reunion story is true; well, it's historical fiction, anyway. The actual deed took place during the reunion, while the conversation is sort of contrived, maybe. While the main character in this story has yet to acknowledge what happened, the story begs to be told. Factual evidence is available in the form of 2 pictures taken at the scene; they are posted on the Scrap Book page. All people named are the real ones involved, with the exception of the cadet, whose name was changed to keep him from walking the area. Oh, they don't do that anymore! To keep him from being a perpetual dessert cutter. Oops, they don't do that either. To keep him from not being able to go off-post to McDonalds. That would be way too harsh.

The Scene of Our Vignette: the Commandant's Wing, 4th Floor, Washington Hall.

The Main Player: LTC Jeffrey Weart, Assistant to the Commandant of Cadets, Class of 1980, self-described gray-hog (Witness the fact that this is his 2nd tour of duty in the USMA Tactical Dept. Furthermore, our Cadet Hostess, Mrs. Brown, introduced Jeff to his real boss/wife, the lovely and talented Carol, who is the current Cadet Hostess).

As our vignette opens, LTC Weart has just arrived in his spacious office suite. He enters the outer lobby, says hello to his trusted Administrative Assistant, Jane, a woman who has seen her share of Assistants to the Commandant come and go. A woman, secure in her position and secure in the knowledge that Jeff is about to receive a surprise that can only come from true friends. Friends who know that making Jeff the butt of a joke is like experiencing your first kiss -- you want to do it again and again.

Jeff grabs the office copy of The National Enquirer from Jane. Upon entering his office, he is greeted by the normal trappings that he expects to find every time he walks in -- the memorabilia from too many postings as an armor officer of leisure, the high-gloss linoleum floor he buffs every evening before leaving for home, the huge mahogany desk upon which he practices carrier landings when he thinks he's alone (except that Jane knows all). Greeting him instead is something as horrible to a former TAC as water in a sink during SAMI. It's unspeakable! It's unacceptable! It's just not right, damn it. He must find out who did this!

Executing a less than perfect about face, Jeff runs out of his office to confront the nearest approximation of an information booth he can find - the one person he saw just tooling around the hallways on his way through his office door - Cadet Jim Al Fye.

"Mr. Fye", asks Jeff accusingly, in a voice well-oiled from confronting beanheads during his off-duty hours, "do you know what happened to my office? Do you know who's responsible? Do you? DO YOU?? IRP!!"

"Sir, I do not understand", responds Fye, entirely at ease answering overly emotional TACs finding water in his sink, while knowing that a bottle of Jack Daniels lies hidden in his tarbucket at the same time.

Mr. Fye, "Isn't it true, that you know what happened in my office?"

"Yes, sir."

"And isn't it true, that you know who did this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me, Fye...TELL ME!"

"Sir, I . . . I . . .", spews Fye reluctantly, yet happily, knowing that he will take great delight in recounting the story to his own classmates at lunch, and reveling in the irony of the involvement of one of the accomplices.

"Sir, your office has been completely shrink-wrapped by two of your classmates back for the reunion. Your desk and chair, your conference table, your phone, your computer, your bookcase, your filing cabinet and even that fine, home built memorial of a bronzed C-Ration ham and eggs can from your first field exercise have been wrapped in plastic like every one of your kids' school lunch sandwiches."

"What else do you know? Who were these classmates? Names NAMES!"

"Colonel Weart, it was, it was Oettinger and Plutt. They worked fast, sir. They and Robertson, their wives and Mrs. Errrr. Uhhh that's it, sir."

"Oettinger, Plutt and Robertson. I knew I should have run them out when I had the chance. I'll write them up, Fye. Brigade board! No, that's too easy, I'll put them on Regimental Staff instead. Oh, sorry Fye, just a momentary flashback. But you slipped up Fye. There's someone else, someone else who did this. I want to know and I want to know now!"

"Sir, it was the Cadet Hostess."

"WHAT?! The Hostess? Mrs. Weart? My wife?"

"Yes, sir. She took the pictures!"
   
Sonya Martin That's OK John, I've got plenty. Can anyone actually believe people ate the food after we took those nasty templates out of our sweaty hats and put them on the dessert? YUCK!

I Butchered the proverbial dessert at lunch and was tasked by Cadet Clay to produce 80 PERFECT templates before dinner formation--a fitting number given we were the class of 80 or some other nonsense. Well, I was in rock squad calculus so PERFECT was a challenge but I had taken econ in high school and knew all about the time/money trade-off, so I managed one perfect one and headed to the library with a fistful of dimes to make copies.

Not able to wait for me to "post around" to his room, Clay comes to mine just before dinner with half the firsties in tow, demanding to know if I'd accomplished my task. He was speechless when I handed him the stack of 80 carbon copy templates. The rest of the folks cracked up. I had templates for the rest of the year.
   
Elrin Hundley No one told me about the sleep part. But, I must admit the ultimate bag time seemed to come on those rare days when we didn't have parade practice or intramurals. Diving into the green girls or boys after the last class until supper was heaven. I guess that's what allowed us to continually stay up well after taps. 

Of course, there were those people with the special ability to sleep anywhere any time. A few of us witnessed Vince Brooks fall asleep in a pizza while trying to study. Face first! 

Another time Ben Hodges came to Lee Taylor's and my room to study. Lee and I were at our desks and Ben was on one of the beds. Well Ben fell asleep.  Lee and I decided to set the alarm clock for about 5 minutes, cut off all the lights and left the room. The kicker is that the rooms in the Divisions were set up in mirror images of each other as was Ben's to ours. Needless to say when the alarm went off we could hear Ben banging into walls in utter confusion because he still thought he was in his room. 

I've read a few stories of unusual feats. One time we had a small food fight going on and I whipped an orange at Roy Graham. He tried to jump in his room and slam his door before the projectile could get there. Well the timing was perfect. The orange split in half. One half dropped to the floor in the hallway and the other proceeded into his room spinning and spraying fresh pulp throughout. Don't think we could duplicate that with a thousand throws.

Now this was only few minor things that happened in I-4. Hardly worth mentioning. But, I'll see if this can flush out some more of the I-Beamers to own up to some of our more spectacular feats.
   
Dave Peters I learned how much the West Point experience stays the same over time from an assignment I had as a captain, (following company command and grad school), when I served as a strategic intel analyst. I worked closely with a GS-14 radar engineer, who I later found out was a retired O6, veteran of 3 wars, and a West Point grade from the 1930's.

Ross attended his 50th reunion while I worked with him, which resulted in us exchanging several Cadet stories. The Days!, the man in the red sash, Jan band box reviews, and all-night poop sessions were virtually unchanged. Brown Boys morphed into Green Girls, and RF seemed to be a new term, but the general principles that guided our lives for 4 years (although 40 years apart) were the same: cooperate and graduate, and sleep as much as possible.

War stories were harder to get out of Ross, but he did tell me that he had not eaten chicken since 1953-54, when he spent 2 years in Korea during and after the War...
   
Mark Stevens First the disclaimer - although certain facts/details may have become blurred (embellished?) with time, the following is substantially true. I apologize for the length, but it's necessary to get the full flavor of this memorable event. Oh, and the main perpetrators have been warned in advance!

This all occurred in the spring (I think) of our yearling year. It was a Saturday (or was it Sunday?) afternoon, and Tom Wilhelm (my roommate) and I were typically bored. Before I relate the events that transpired that fateful day, however, a little background information is in order.

For those of you who don't know, Tom had an uncanny ability to attract women (of all sorts) no matter where he went. In fact, he was known to be able to walk up to a particularly attractive girl at a hop that most of us had tried in vain to even strike up a conversation with, and succeed in getting her to dance/talk/give up her phone number/etc. on the first try. Some called it charm, or even animal magnetism, but we could never figure it out. As a result, Tom always had more than his share of female attention, wanted and sometimes unwanted. This particular spring, Tom was the focal point of serious interest by one of the numerous Ladycliff girls that were regulars at Ike. She was using every trick in the book to get her hooks into Tom, dropping subtle hints, and actually some not so subtle hints. We all saw
it - Tom was clueless. In the usual give and take of seeing each other off and on, she let Tom know that she was moving to a new apartment but it wouldn't be ready for a while and she needed a place to store some clothes.  (The rest of us were immediately suspicious, after all, who moves out of their dorm room before they can move in to their new apartment?) Tom, in his normal good natured, big hearted manner, saw nothing out of the ordinary and offered to keep them for her "temporarily". This is how we happened to have a moderate assortment of women's dresses hanging in our closet (properly spaced between the long overcoats). O.K. back to that booooring Saturday.

Conversation had turned to the topic of, what else, women. We had been trying to convince Tom of the perils of his "relationship" with this current fem fatale (the one with the clothes). As evidence of her intentions (entirely different from Tom's I might add), I offered the clothes in the closet - among which I discovered (upon cursory examination) a white frilly formal number which, even to my untrained, inexperienced eye appeared to be a Wedding Dress. Of course I pointed it out to Tom, who in his ever eloquent manner immediately responded "No WAY!!!!" 

It was then the usual flash of brilliance hit Tom (you can always tell when it happens by his eyes) and he got one of his "Great Ideas" (you know the type - they involve things usually against the rules and generally get Tom and/or his associates (i.e. me) in some sort of trouble). 

Our classmate, Pete Ash, was in a deep sleep down the hall. Pete was notorious for his "Power Naps", from which he could be roused with difficulty, usually dazed and confused, often mistaking people and things in his room as being a part of whatever dream he happened to be having (this had occurred numerous times in the past). Based on the state of Pete's love life at that time (he was agonizing over his "one and only"), and knowing Pete's hopes and intentions (along the lines of Tom's Ladycliff "girlfriend"), we were pretty sure what Pete was dreaming about. Tom's great idea? Put on the Wedding dress we happened to have in our closet, go to Pete's room, wake him and watch the fun as he (hopefully) confused the person in his room with the subject of his dreams (or something to that effect). Great practical joke, right? (I told you we were bored!).

So Tom pours himself into this dress (no way I would have fit!). Being a
Corps Squad swimmer (went to Nationals in back stroke), he had the flexibility (and low percentage of body fat) to get it zipped up! (He even managed a little cleavage!). After arranging his hair "do" we were ready to venture down the hall (camera in hand of course) - but were rudely interrupted by a quick knock on the door and the entry of our squad leader (he lived next door, of course) who, after gathering his wits, immediately demanded "What's going on here!?" 

Unfortunately, I was unable to answer as I immediately fell on the bed laughing at the look on our squad leader's face! Fortunately, he was a super squad leader (and a genuinely good guy): he calmly shut the door while Tom explained this great practical joke we were planning to play. He was so taken by the sheer ingenuity of our idea (he was bored too), that he volunteered to assist us put one over on Pete. He even went to his room and retrieved his pet cactus (one of his authorized 7 desk items) for Tom to take with him, since we all knew that brides need to have a bouquet. 

As we composed ourselves, Tom rechecked his appearance in the mirror, hair in place, "bouquet" in hand, "cleavage" readjusted. Ready to go, Tom pause slightly with his hand on the door handle, looked and me and our squad leader and said "Watch the OC be in the hallway."

Of course you all know what happened next. As Tom opened the door, there standing in the doorway was the OC, a very stern looking Major in Class A's with saucer cap pulled low. Ever quick on his feet, Tom immediately came to attention, and reported "Cadet Wilhelm, 1st Squad, 1st Platoon, Sir!".  Of course, I was unable to come to attention as the squad leader and I immediately went into hysterical convulsions on the floor at the sight of Tom reporting to the OC in a white Wedding dress, cactus in hand. The OC's obvious first question "Whose your squad leader" only led to more convulsive laughter as I managed to pointed to our equally incapacitated "leader" collapsed on Tom's bed. The OC never cracked a smile, merely reached for the door handle and closed the door. 

Tom lived in fear of becoming a multiple century man for a few weeks after that, but nothing ever happened. I think the OC was at a loss for how to record what he had seen in his log! For those of you who doubt that this really did occur, I have three words - "We have pictures!". Ask Tom at the reunion - maybe he'll have them with him! 

In retrospect I suppose it's a good thing that it was a different OC on duty later that year when he stumbled on Tom and I in the showers while I was shaving Tom's legs . . . but that's another story.

Can't wait to hear the next true confession! Keep 'em coming!
   
Keith Melvin About 30 minutes before the R-Day parade, we (3d CBT Co) were all herded up to ES&GS lecture hall (I think) to be briefed by our Company Commander, Stan Ford. Stan was a pretty intimidating figure and he was introducing the company motto. I just couldn't figure out why we all had to scream "THIRD CORPS, BETTER THAN THE BEST SIR!", but I was doing so at the top of my lungs, anyway. It took me a couple of days to learn that it really wasn't CORPS.

Another memory from R-Day: Standing in my Speedo (a lifetime first) with barracks bag in hand while some specialist (hard to tell the specialists from the colonels at that point) jammed earplugs in my ears and thinking. "Oh, we must have to wear earplugs when we go swimming."

John Mazzucca once wondered how many guys were still wearing jock straps under grey trou at the R-Day parade because athletic supporters were the last undergarment we were told to put on that day. I know of at least two.

There are lots of funny Guppy stories such as "the dangerous exploding
bathroom door" and "discovery of the element Ralphium", but I'll save them for the reunion.
   
Joseph Hafeman The bits about singing the national anthem reminded me of this one.

I remember that during second detail of beast, we had to learn all of the USMA songs (Alma Mater, The Corps, etc). Most squads just recited them to their squad leaders. In my 4th CBT squad, Dave Dehorse got the bright idea that we should sing the songs and get mega cheese points with our beast squad leader. The song of the day was Alma Mater. Dave told us that he new the tune and he taught it to us.

After much practice, we went into the hallway and reported for Alma Mater song singing. So we started singing Alma Mater...to the tune of On Brave Old Army Team. To make matters worse, our squad leader (Rich Nagle) was a member of the glee club. I thought he was having a coronary; he was screaming so loudly. Then he ran down the hall calling for all of the other beast detail firsties. We got to give an Alma Mater concert for all of the firsties in 4th CBT. Needless to say, nobody presented us roses when we finished.

After that, we only recited the words to the USMA songs (like everyone else).
   
John Chory We were plebes and I was on a table with (I believe) Lloyd Miles and a reluctantly compassionate firstie as table com. Lloyd picked up an obviously very HOT stainless steel serving platter and with his steely determination properly and calmly displayed it to the rest of the table and began, "Sir, today we are having...." He was abruptly cut off by the firstie who slowly and deliberately drawled, "Cadet. Put that plate down. I hate the smell of burning flesh."
   
Bob "Smitty" Smith
Phil May
Casey Brady		 ... How many times Phil Telander actually said he would resign.... Right at the end of the next semester of classes?????? I know of 8... plus one at the end of beast... ...and once in line at graduation...and several times from the army "just after the next assignment..." What a riot... and I think Phil in now officially WAY over 20!!!!

I do remember Phil refusing to study at night because he didn't want to
ruin his eyes and blow his chance at flight school.

Not only did I hear that too many times to count, I'll add that he still
gets excited when his hair touches the top of his ears! Love ya T!
   
Kathy Silvia How about being mail clerk and knocking on the Regmtl Commander's door... (of course he forgets about women doing the mail carrying) and says "come in" only to find him standing there in his BVDs shaving

How about "PORT BANANA?" Or being minute caller at the dinner formation... and the late football players coming out of the shower to whisper in your ear: "Miss Silvia, what do YOU wear to bed each nite?" Try one of your 4 answers on that one??? Hmmm.... Anyone still have the USMA Blanket; mine was stolen along with my car (leave it to the thieves in NJ!!!)
   
Mike Trusty I do remember Maj. Bettin, what a great Officer and Tac, he is one of the reasons I went FA (KING OF BATTLE). Think he was a Capt. when we were beanheads.  I can remember it was his first year as a Tac when we were beaners. He had the E-1 beanheads up to his house on Halloween, or the Sunday before, if Halloween was during the week that year, long ago. Anyway we had to hustle back to Old South before study barracks started and all the upper classmen were out on the stoops(mostly yearlings) hazing us as we scrambled to our divisions. 

Another story, when we were yearlings I was rooming with Gary McVaney in the division that was next to F1 facing D1. John Gniadek and John Tindall were one floor up, and we always played pranks on each other.  One night I came back from Ike Hall (did they sell beer when we were yucks?) and decided that I would get Gniadek good. Got the fire extinguisher from the division and proceeded to empty it on John and his room. Both Johns were speechless, Tindall was laughing but not Gniakek. The next day I had a long talk with the Platoon Leader and was lucky enough not to get written up (not sure to this day how I got out of that one), one cool Platoon Leader from the class of 78. I guess.
   
Doug Combs During our first year, H-2 was on the first floor of Central Barracks. The
upside of this was that we didn’t have to haul mail, books, laundry, etc up six flights of stairs. The downside of this was we had to deliver such stuff to the regimental staff. It was through such activities that we learned that the 2nd semester Regimental Cadet Commander, CDT Lynch, was no friend of the beanhead. I believe he came from 1st Reg and missed its tradition of messing with crots.

Anyway, I and my fellow H-2 beaner, Cadet Nelson, had the honor and privilege of sitting on the regimental staff’s table one rotation. That first night, I was beverage corporal and Nelly was the gunner. He took the dessert, cut it, and passed it up to Lynch for inspection. When it got there, what we thought we heard was him say was, “I don’t expect any dessert.” He then gave the pie to his adjutant, who looked it over, said it was fine, and that he never ate dessert. At that point, one or two other staffers said that they never wanted dessert either. Nelly and I made mental notes on who did and did not want dessert for future reference. 

The next night, Nelly cut dessert and passed it up to Lynch for inspection.  He yelled at Nelly and passed the dessert to his adjutant. He looked it over and asked, “Who is not having dessert?” Nelly replied, “Sir, Cadets so-and-so and CDT Lynch are not having dessert.” Lynch heard this and yelled that he wanted some. So his adjutant asked again, “Who is not having dessert?” Nelly replied, “Sir, Cadets soandso and CDT Combs are not having dessert.” Kathwap, I kicked him in the shins. After the meal, Nelly and I met. I thanked him for watching my calories, and he thanked me for the new knot on his leg. Then we tried to figure out how we had miscounted the pieces of dessert. We were determined that we were correct and that Lynch was possibly messing with us.  However, throughout the week, Nelly continued to cut the dessert, say the Lynch didn’t want any, then correct himself and say that I didn’t want dessert, and KATHWAP, I’d kick him in the shins. Every night we’d meet, but couldn’t determine who exactly did or did not want dessert. And of course, there weren’t any friendly yearlings on regimental staff that could help us figure this puzzle out.

At any rate, the next week, I was the gunner and cut the dessert. I’d pass it up, say that Lynch didn’t want dessert, be asked again who didn’t, I’d say, “Sir, Cadets soandso and CDT Nelson do not want dessert,” and KATHWAP, Nelly would kick me in the shins. Finally, I can’t remember if either we were smart enough to figure it out, or if one of the staffers took pity on us, but what CDT Lynch had said that first night was not that he didn’t EXPECT any dessert, but that he didn’t INSPECT any dessert!!!!!

That, and the time CDT Lynch asked me, “CDT Combs, what do you want to talk about tonight?” and I replied, “Sir, I do not care.” made my time on the regimental staff table as one of the more memorable culinary events at the cadet mess hall.
   
Jeff Easley
Doug Stearns
Mike Conrad
John Canby		 Anybody remember about half of us walking around firstie year looking like chipmunks after having our molars removed?

WP must've been a training ground for intern dentists. I fought tooth and nail (so to speak) to keep 'em - still have 'em to this day.

Yeah, I do -- because the admissions office had told me I had to have my wisdom teeth taken out before R-day. My mom was not happy paying for that, especially when she found out everybody else got it done on Uncle Sam's nickel.

What Doug doesn't realize is I heard her commenting to a girlfriend on guys coming back from the showers and dancing in the buff in their rooms.  You could see into the upper floor rooms of the barracks from Bldg 720.  This was before they installed the "frosted" windows in what is now Bradley Barracks.
   
Jeff Easley
John Canby		 As you may remember, Vinny Gambino couldn't shine shoes to save his soul. As I recall, Hodges snuck into Vinny's room one night, took one of Vinny's shoes and shined it to perfection. The next day Hodges inspects Vinny's shoes and remarks how wonderful the one shoe is and why not the other? Vinny, in his hilarious high schrill New York Italian voice, explains how he just open his closet and found the shoe shined. Hodges inquires, "Mr. Gambino, do you have a shoeshine fairy in your room"? He had the whole platoon cracking up.  Hodges made parts of beast rather fun.

What ever happened to Vinny? I suspected he returned to the city to "manage the business"!

We know that he was "found" for academics. Guys in 3rd BN 4th Regt
were taking bets on the life expectancy of the Dean, Vinny really was
"connected". . . . .
   
Glen Carroll Doug Stearns -> Remember the dental assistant or hygienist, whichever she was, who used to clean our teeth?

Glen -> Oh my, she has been in my thoughts for a life time. Maybe we could invite her to the reunion? 

Russ Medina reminded me of our first TAC Maj Greenhouse. For some wacky reason the upper classman referred to him as Maj Grits. I had passed a story on to my mother. She chose to share the story with my father walking down to the Day room during Plebe / Parent Weekend. "Yes.... we are going down to see Glen's TAC, they call him Maj Grits and he has two children, Hominy and True" ...... you guessed it, as she finished the words we rounded the stairs to his smiling face. I am sure that the next three weekends of getting 8 and 4's for my room had NOTHING to do with my Mother's ill timed story.

I have been listening to "THE BEST OF THE WEST POINT COMEDY HOUR" for the past two days. I seem to remember this as being A LOT more funny when I was rolling on the floor duing the tapings of it it. Some things still ring true.... like NERD BOARDS and MAJ ROBERTS Neighborhood.
   
David Leigh Doug Stearns point about giving yourself a haircut is right on and reminded me of the time I gave Robin Friedman a haircut. 

My yearling roommate, Rich Henton, had an electric shears which was of course contraband. Rich could really cut hair. But one day Robin needed a haircut badly, Rich was nowhere in sight, and the haircut inspection was in 10 minutes. I bravely took the shears in hand, but reversed the cutting surface, which meant it immediately went to the scalp, about halfway up the back of Robin's head! We both freaked, and then Rich came into the room to make the most of the damage. Then we went out to inspection.

That week our Tac was going through the ranks and chose Robin's platoon.  Robin immediately hiked his shoulders to minimize the exposed skin on the back of his head (which now looked like a bowl haircut, something akin to what punks have today sans the piercings). Now Robin looked like the hunchback of Central Area, with a bad haircut to boot! We were both sure his haircut would be caught and all of us would be slugged. As I watched from the platoon behind Robin's, MAJ Lorenz stopped at Robin's back and paused, then whispered into Robin's ear.

I caught up to Robin at lunch thinking he's got a separate meeting to be grilled on his haircut, but the tac had something else in mind. He told Robin he had to do something about his posture! 
   
Doug Stearns We were made to sing the Star Spangled Banner for that Cadet Choir audition, weren't we?

First semester plebe year. Trying to figure out class schedules, locations, books, and all while keeping to the shadows in an attempt to dodge the now hugely unfavorable ratio of upperclassmen to our Proud and Excellent classmates. Manage to make it back to my room unscathed after class one morning, only to find a note from the CCQ that my TAC wants to see me in his office. What? Why? Now, in between classes, or after classes, or when? And where the heck is his office? Of course it doesn't matter why and the when is now, so off I go in search of his office, carrying books for my next class.

Jeez, the TAC, the Right Hand of God, I'm thinking as I head toward the upper reaches of Washington Hall where all those god-like beings maintained their offices (or was his office in Pershing Barracks? Hmmm...). I didn't know it at the time, but our TAC, MAJ Bettin, was a superb officer and a great guy. Turns out he had been going through the company roster to familiarize himself with his charges and he recognized my last name. He indirectly knew one of my older brothers somehow and just wanted to chat about that fact (could that really have been all?). I'm standing in front of his desk maintaining a rigid at ease during the entire conversation. We finish up and I snap to attention and pivot a smart about face to leave. I shift my books to my right hand to grasp the door knob on my left, when MAJ Bettin asks me if I've forgotten something. I execute another strac about face, frantically wondering what I've forgotten. He reminds me I should salute him when dismissed!  So I do. With my left hand. Ouch. As he returns my salute, I quickly turn to leave hoping he hasn't noticed. No such luck. But as I mentioned, he was a great guy and other than suffering supreme embarrassment, I left that office that time pretty much intact.

As a plebe, did you ever try to give yourself a haircut using an electric shaver? Not recommended. The yearlings, in particular, had quite a hoot at formation the next morning.

Remember stripping down to our Speedo's and posing in front of that huge graph paper for body alignment photos? I failed.

First day, beast barracks: marching around in black oxfords and black socks, wearing gray gym shorts with a large tag safety-pinned to the front (still have that tag), and a v-necked t-shirt, wondering what the hell you'd gotten yourself into. Goodbye hair.

Remember the dental assistant or hygienist, whichever she was, who used to clean our teeth?

And then there was that time one of my beanhead classmates needed to use the john, but it was late, he was tired and didn't want to get dressed to go down the hall, and the sink in his room was right there...
   
Vernon Greene ALRIGHT... I loudly "gong-ed"(sp -.05?) Dave Olwell during a perfect,
eloquent, exact, precise, accurate etc... response (I would have done well to pay attention to!) during CPT Hurley's U.S. History class yearling year as he was answering the proverbial, "Discuss the ramifications of the political, social, economic, cultural, military etc impacts of _________ (whatever, fill in the blank!) on U.S. History"

A simple cultural exchange of our own was held in short order out in the hallway with just CPT Hurley and me in attendance...
   
Mike Conrad  Eyes watering, nose itching, sweat dripping down my face from the allergic (probably fresh mown grass) reaction I was having, I finally explode -- You sure it wasn't a "rhynovirus?"

Couldn't resist. But your story was a hoot! Smirk on.
   
Mike Conrad  Jeff's pudding dilemma was hilarious!! Sometimes, you can't win no matter what you do.

I had my own pudding story, but it happened in the hallway outside my squad leader's room during the first week of Beast (do they call it Beauty now that it's so tame and pleasant? But I digress. . . ). 

My squad leader was getting ready for the next formation, had us lined up on the wall reciting poop. He asked me what was for lunch. I responded, and the dessert was some kind of "surprise pudding." He asked if I knew what the surprise was, and of course I had no idea. So I said, "Sir, the surprise will be if it tastes good." He flew out of the room and gave me an up close and personal lesson on the inappropriate application of humor and sarcasm.

Somehow, the lesson didn't stick. During the academic year, I was reporting to a plebe chaser who did have a sense of humor, and when he asked me how many days it was till Halloween, I said a bit too loudly, "Sir, there are XX and a butt days until the upper three classes take off their masks for Halloween." Got a Fourth Class Board for that one -- and that was the real joke. If any of you have ever faced this ritual, you'll understand. I walked in in FD to face a roomful of upperclassmen, all in FD, with a table set up with a cadet blanket as tablecloth, a tarbucket and sabers crossed on its top, and the company commander seated as president of the board. It was all I could do to keep from laughing at how serious it all looked -- like the frat initiation scene in Animal House! But I managed to keep a straight face, and received my punishment (don't remember what it was, but it did NOT require me to say, "Please sir, may I have another.") I did finally learn to keep my jokes to myself -- in certain situations, anyway.
   
David Leigh During Yearling Winter Weekend, Todd Ostheller and I decided (since our usual dates did not come up, mine would have been my eventual wife of the past 20 years) to throw an after taps party. Because Saturday Night Fever was in full swing it became a disco party, complete with disco ball, all the stag C2 yearlings dancing with green girls, and an occasion lesson for Jeff Hills and Jun Sanchez on the latest moves (thankfully forgotten later).  Robin Friedman and I were working the disco ball (flashlight and spinning ball) when I notice Robin looking outside. The OC was trying to figure out what was going on in our ground floor room at 1:30 with all the lights, music and bodies! Robin yelled out "It's the OC, scram!." At which time, all 25 yearlings and the OC start a dead sprint to and from our room.  As the OC comes into Central Barracks, he is met with a barrage of half naked cadets running down the hall. Todd and I turn off all the lights, and jump into deep slumber, awaiting the inevitable. The OC spent about ten minutes trying to find someone in charge before coming to our room. When the gig was up our company commander at the time was all too happy to go back to sleep so we got off. Later that OC became my battalion commander at Ft Lewis and followed me to Knox, so maybe I wasn't so lucky after all. 

This one is second hand, but as plebes Keith Strohschein, Charlie Wright and Joe Waldron were assigned to police the roadway between Central Barracks and the hillside below WDKT. After a week of this duty every morning, with little results, they decided to sleep in on Saturday (or prepare for SAMI). What the didn't account for was the rally Friday night.  The roadway was a sea of paper and trash for which our first sgt caught holy hell from the tac. Needless to say, it flowed downhill, and every plebe was braced outside the first sgt's room for our famous "golf shoes" lecture (something like, "if you're going to step on my *&#!@, I'm going to stomp on your's with golf shoes).

Finally, as yearlings we got a new tac, MAJ Lorenz of the USAF, hence C2 became and remains the Flying Circus. Lorenz was pretty slack as air force people are, and this trouble Maj Lloyd of B2. Lloyd actually "drop the dime" on the few haircuts C2 was getting each week! When word reached the cadets, our CO Tom Dolan had a contest to see who could get the most haircuts in a week. The next week, C2 had over 250 cuttings, with I believe Paul Wentz getting the case of beer prize. The comments from Lloyd apparently died down after that. 

Then there's the skunk in the barracks, a hundred D. Jimas (spelling), Kent Sykes, Todd Lammersfield, Rich Henton stories......
   
Mike Schneider Phil Tiewater (ex '80) and Mike Gayle were close friends in 8th and 9th grade before they both moved away. Fitz Lee was a year ahead of me in High School (our brothers were best friends) and Dave Jesmer and I car pooled to school together our senior year in high school. Dave and I entered together on R-Day (my Grandfather, USMA '33, brought us up to West Point). I did not know that the other guys had made it to West Point though we had all talked about going there years earlier. On R-Day, while getting my haircut, I looked across to the other side of the Barber Shop and there was Fitz Lee, also in a barber's chair, trying to get my attention. We were able to trade info on which CBT Companies we were each in before getting our necks snapped back by our squad leaders. As I was marching from the barber shop to the taylor shop ("You'll grow into it!!") I saw Phil Tiewater marching with his squad, he quickly told me Mike Gayle was there before he got blown away too. In all, R-Day was a regular old home week.
   
Carol MacGibbon These stories seem to clear away some cobwebs in my memory...

I just remembered an image of Tiki Traylor, standing on the Rabble Rouser jeep at an after-taps rally, flexing every muscle, with a ferocious look in his eye, tearing off his t-shirt! Surely Dan Gray has some Tiki Traylor stories...

My husband Kevin often tells about George Mayes and the indoor obstacle course...something about not fitting through the tire, putting a foot through the vertical wall...something about the 10 meter tower....and asking a "P", "Sir, are we gonna do anything important today, or can I sleep?"
   
John Anderson The first dessert I cut during Beast was a pie that had to be cut into ten pieces. Of course, I made a mess of the pie and sent it to the Table Com for inspection. Cadet Mangan looked at the pie and then looked at me and asked "Anderson, did you take mechnical drawing in high school?''

"No, sir!" I replied.

"It shows, Anderson, it shows." was his comment.

I learned about the dessert template that evening.

At family gatherings, my mother still hands me a knife and insists that I cut the pie. Unfortunately, I've lost the dessert template.
   
George Rhynedance During Beast, filing through the building where the Boddler's and WKDT were in order to - one by one - step up to the piano and audition for the Cadet Choir (or the Chapel choir or something). Couldn't sing then, can't sing now. One of the more "defining" experiences of my life....

Even more defining than standing in heavily starched White over Grey in beast formation, having to sneeze, holding it back unsuccessfully as Cadet Jim Hodge (offensive lineman - huge, intimidating, but overall a pussycat) worked his way down the line to ask us poop before dinner. Eyes watering, nose itching, sweat dripping down my face from the allergic (probably fresh mown grass) reaction I was having, I finally explode - internally. Have you ever sneezed so hard and held it in so that it makes you dizzy for a brief moment. Had I been able to maintain a good "seal" that's what this sneeze would have done. It was about a 6.5 on the Richter Scale. Unfortunately, my sinuses failed as my sneeze peaked and purged a golf ball sized wad of snot onto my belt buckle and shirt (sorry about the graphic description) just as Cadet Hodge stepped in front of me. I'm now a mess. Hat cocked back from the force of the sneeze, dress off totally gone, have sweated through my shirt, and, you know, the goo. I am certain I am dead. Hodge, deadpaned, looked directly into my eyes and said, "New Cadet Rhynedance, do you wish to make a correction?" "Yes sir," I blubbered, still wheezing a bit despite the purge. Mike Pracht and Vinny Gambino are falling out next to me they are laughing so hard, and Hodge can barely contain himself as he turns to work over Gambino. He tells me to make an adjustment. I reach into my pocket...no handkerchief. The clean up is another story altogether....

How tired you were at the end of Recondo....

"You can have these back Lerman, I couldn't sell 'em...."

Actually sitting in the ejection seat in one of your classes (many say they did, but only a few of us really did)....

Giving the postman the greeting of the day as you pinged towards Mahan Hall....

Trying to figure out why the Barracks Police don't carry guns...until you see one?
   
Vernon E. Greene Roger Stanley (ex-80), Ron Loiselle, John Tindall and I were in the same Physics class in highschool...

Mike Cardarelli and I were in 6th grade together in Massachusetts; we ended up sitting at the same table at Ike Hall early plebe year staring up the light gray that was the Hudson River (over there in the far corner) eating hot fudge sundaes...
   
Glen Carroll One of the great things about being in E - 2 was that living one floor below F - 2 there was NOTHING you could do that would make you appear even close to as UNSTRAC as them. Of course, you often had to spend days cleaning up the primordial ooze that had a tendency to float down as well.
   
Jeff Easley Although hailing from Arkansas, I didn't think myself that naive until I was assigned the gunner position early in our plebe academic year.

A quick review of the lunch menu one day, listing "cabinet pudding" as the dessert, made me sigh with relief that I would "get off easy" that meal. Much to my surprise, I spy this round, cake-like concoction in a pie tin placed on the table. Now my dilemma was not about cutting it correctly (a secondary concern), but what to call this dessert. I thought all pudding was eaten with a spoon! I was unable to delay the "pronouncement of dessert" hoping to overhear another classmate thanks to our table com, a cerebral firstie named Cris Kurek with a martini dry sense of humor. So I began... "Sir, the dessert for this meal is uh, WHITE CAKE, SIR. Would anyone not care for white cake Sir? All upperclassmen eyes turn to Kurek who quickly asks me to repeat myself. "Sir, the dessert for this meal is White Cake? Would anyone not care for"....EASLEY, DID YOU READ THE MENU? yes, sir. WHAT DID IT SAY? Cabinet pudding, sir. WELL, THAT'S WHAT IT IS! PLAN TO CUT DESSERT AGAIN!

Well, my memory is that it was the next meal, but it may have been the next day, but again the menu listed yet another pudding, Tapioca. Well, I never had the privilege of eating tapioca, although I suspected it was the spoon type pudding. I made a point to consult with several classmates who assured me this was the case. Imagine my shock when I arrive at the table to see 2 large slabs of what appeared to be brownies. Well, get burned once, shame on me...get burned twice - kick me in the head! So yes, I hoisted those brownies up and loudly announced, "Sir, the dessert for this meal is tapioca pudding. Would anyone not care for tapioca pudding, Sir"? Kurek: "Easley, you're from Arkansas, right"? "Yes, Sir." "Let's see if a week of dessert cutting will help"!

Thank goodness I knew the "Arkansas Poop" which gave me some points with the upper-class. Of course, since only 1 of every three words in the dissertation is not obscene, I will not be able to share it with you now. 

Keep 'em coming, folks! It has been a lot of fun!
   
Tom Brockway And I'd like to thank all B-2'ers for not reminding me that I now make my living sitting behind a computer designing corporate training.

Particularly ironic since I flunked the Sosh paper because I refused to use the mainframe's word processor (one letter grade each for being late and the typos). I believe my retort was, "word processor, why do I need to learn to use one of those?".

Hey, IBM's president didn't see the potential of 'em either!
   
Bill Duelge There were a number of reasons why I never achieved any significant cadet rank, and this story contains most of them. In D-3, we had a ritual wherein we would play hearts the night before a test or major paper was due. If you have read Steven King's Hearts in Atlantis you have a perfect sense of how compulsory the card playing was. The reasons were straightforward, anyone who studied, typed or wrote before taps was reaching for unfair competitive advantage, it was strictly disallowed. The contest was scored as such: the highest grade ate Tony's free, the lowest grade bought, and the second lowest flew. Bill Friedman, Dave Perkins, and I had the bet on a Drugs PR. Chuck Pepperak was in the game but not the bet, he must have had a different test date. Anyhow, Perkins wins the bet, I fly and Friedman buys. Friedman isn't thrilled about buying, and Perkins, still smarting from having his Corframs super-glued into his closet for SAMI (about three degrees crooked) decides to be a pain in the ass and order pasta shells instead of pizza. This is cow year, and Perkins and I are roommates. I slip onto my bed with my pizza, Perkins stakes up at his desk with his shells. There is an air of evil in the room and it doesn't take long to cross over to the dark side. Friedman, with nowhere to eat, takes his pizza onto Perk's bed. Perkins says, "Friedman, you pig, don't make a mess on my bed." Friedman opens his mouth and drops well chewed pizza onto Perkins' pillow, then rubs it in. Perkins, stands up and picks up his very hot shell dinner and goes into the windup for the pitch. Not a shell, the shell dinner. With amusement and fascination, I continue to eat my pizza. Bill Friedman, with speed and agility impressive still today, jumps up and blocks the launch of the shell dinner. The block, while worthy of Bruce Lee or bayonet drill, routed this oven hot shell dinner across the room. With amusement and fascination, and still eating my pizza, I am showered with Perkins' shell dinner. This stuff is like napalm, the cheese won't come off. The grease and sauce soak through my sheets and you can see the stripes on my mattress. I look like an Italian Yeti, stunned but soon dangerous. Moments later, I've taken them both down and we are wrestling in the food. This draws a crowd, and the melee doesn't end until the toothpaste, shaving cream and shampoo have joined the food. The floor was too slick for curling. We even ambushed the subdiver (the late great Russ Altizer) and covered him with food before letting him go. By now the room is not fit for habitation. So I decide to break into the BP's closet (this wasn't the first time) and get a mop and bucket. As I emerge from the closet, I greet the OC, then run for my life. He orders me to halt, sorry, couldn't stay. I showered the food off my clothes, then undressed and showered the food off of me. We got away with the whole thing, I even posed for a picture on my bed.
   
Casey Brady I've got one...I played football with Ted Jelinek (Fort Hunt High School in Alexandria, VA) we both were accepted to USMA, as well as about 7 other classmates from the same school (Wayne Jackson, Bob Fix '81, Mike Stevens, Jack Kerns, Howard Barker, Ray Damm, Mike Peppers et. al.).

Believe it or not, Ted and I were randomly assigned to not only the same company (after beast) but we were also 1st semester, beanhead year roommates (along with Mike Helmick)! Ironically, I kept the newspaper article (now very yellow and fraile!) which announced our acceptance to find, years later, that Mike Helmick was also listed in the same article! Other friends, Denise Dawson and Bobbi Fiedler were also in the article.
   
Bill Crawford Does anyone remember the F-2 camp-out? Here is what happened. During our Bovine year, we in the Zoo had a great idea to have a fun weekend when we were low on funds. We went camping in the woods of West Point. We took food from the mess hall, a 2 and 1/2 ton truck, and had about 24 cases of beer delivered from a firstie friend. We harmed no one as we drank and told stories in the woods.  Unfortunately, on the way back that Sunday, our bubble was burst. LTC Muscatelli of the 1st reg was following our truck back to the barracks and saw an out of uniform cadet in the back of the truck. He pulled the truck over and we were all written up. I, however, was back at the Officers club quenching our thirst with my Portuguese professor (Bom Dia Professor!).

Meanwhile, back at the barracks,our Tac was in the process of discovering that each and every classmate had been drinking. The problem this created was the potential for our company not to have a candidate for a Captain to command F-2 during our firstie year due to the possibility of everyone receiving a 1st class slug. There was even a fairly credible rumor that the class would be scrambled so we could have a commander (we were all hoping for Dave Olwell or Vince Brooks). Fortunately, we were not scrambled and all merely received 40 hours each of room confinement and had to go through alcohol counseling (very unsuccessfully, I might add).

I was one of the "3's" of the event. I wonder how well I would be received at the reunion if they had , in fact, scrambled our class for our firstie year?

By the way, if you look in your Howitzer at the F-2 senior class picture, you can see the same hat that caused Muscatelli to pull us over proudly displayed on the head of (now lost) classmate Danny Neighbors.
   
Kurt Westerman 1. Small world part 3 - Pete Cardinal was one of my best friends in the
the 7th grade in Florida. The next year I moved to Oklahoma and we fell out of touch. Then to my surprise he ends up sitting behind me in General Ulmers welcome address to the new cadets of the Class of 1980. Funniest thing was that I recognized his voice, but not his physical appearance.

2. Funniest moment - As you remember, each of us took turns reporting for the squad in order to spread the pain and suffering that usually came with the task. One day it was Mike Koznitsky's (sp?) turn to report for those of us in 6th squad, 3rd platoon, 4th New Cadet Company. Mike knocks on the squad leaders door and says, "Sir, New Cadet Koznitsky, 3rd platoon, 6th squad, Sir may I make a correction?" "Go ahead", came the reply. "Sir, New Cadet Koznitsky, 4th squad...Sir may I make a correction?" "Go." "Sir, New Cadet Koznitsky, 6th squad, 4th pla...Sir may I make a correction?" "Go." At this point I physically bit my tongue as hard as I could in hopes that the pain would keep me from laughing. Just as I was about to regain control, Bob Faille completely loses it. Not wanting to be seen falling out in the hall he runs by me as he headed for the latrine. One look at Bob's contorted face and I lost it. I ran for the latrine as well. The two of us were literally on the floor laughing when a firstie walked in. Our laughter was short lived. As we were being hazed we could still hear Mike in the background..."Sir may I make a correction?"
   
John Anderson Here is another "I know somebody going to West Point, do you know him?" stories:

When I graduated from high school in New Orleans one of my classmates had transferred to our school from Ohio. Before I left for WP he said a friend of his from Ohio also was entering with the class of 1980 and gave me his friend's name to look him up. I figured I could find his friend during all of the free time we would have during the leisurely summer of Beast. At the end of the first week when we finally realized that our squadmates were more than blurs in our peripheral vision while in formation, it turns out that my high school classmate's friend from Ohio was in my Beast Squad.
   
Bob "Smitty" Smith Good one, Ed... We had a similar scenario next to the E-4 orderly room a couple of nights prior to our graduation... Rich Martinez, Ken Schmidt, Chip Bridge, and I think Kenny Howe and Dave Autry ... we were sitting there drinking beer at about 0100... The OC presented himself... the beers flew into the open closet... dripping under the door as it was closed...

Two of us were in our drawers... NOT the two to whom the room belonged... The OC said, "Have a good graduation... Go back to your rooms..." Without hesitation, the two guys whose room it was left... leaving the two in drawers sitting there in their drawers so as not to further try the patience of that kind-hearted OC!!!

It wasn't my room... I am from B-4... :-)
   
Ed Ruggero TB, a couple of years senior to us, was a weird combination: star-man, brigade staff and century man. One of his passions was to sneak around after Taps to classmates' rooms for long games of Risk (practicing world domination, perhaps?). One evening, the OC heard the excited chatter from behind the door as another continent fell; he knocked and let himself in. The cadets sprang to, the OC counted heads and noted there as one more cadet than names on the absence card.

"Who's not supposed to be here?" the OC demanded.

"You're not, sir," TC answered quickly.
   
Doug Stearns All right, Carol! I wasn't aware that swift slipping movement had been assigned the term Textbook Toss - but of course! Those of us upperclassmen of a sadistic bent residing in Old South routinely hung out on the stoops during class hours in the winter just to observe the unfortunate few of our fellow cadets coming back from class perform this maneuver. They would walk up the road between Pershing and Grant barracks and then round the corner behind Pershing into Central Area. Have you heard the term "black ice?" This mysterious substance formed a generous coating around that corner, which happened to have a slight incline. No matter how well plowed, that ice was present, invisible, and canted at just the right angle to induce spectacular feats of gyration. We watched many a cadet perform your Textbook Toss, and occasionally we assigned judges to hold up score cards, accompanied by much loud cheering and guffaws. Can't remember what the winner was awarded. How awful is that?
   
Tom Wilhelm After having successfully hussled to the exchange point, back to distribute the sheets and pillow cases, and to finally class (where I was deftly piloting our class's ejection section in drafting!), I recall returning to the barracks at the end of the day wallowing self-adulation. Almost as immediately as I 'pinged' onto the floor, I was summoned to my platoon leaders room. Laid out before him were the whites that I had delivered so expeditiously. "Mr. Wilhelm, did you deliver these for my use?" he asked. "Yes, sir!" I popped off. "Do you know what these are?" he continued, and this was when I first suspected that he was not going to be passing out a good C-4. "Ummm, sheets?" I ventured. "Mister, these are, in fact, not sheets but tablecloths, and they appear to be an uncomfortable and undesirable alternative to sheets. What do you suggest we do about it?" Two things occurred to me. First, I realized that I discovered how everyone else was able to use sheets to make football rally posters and still come up with a good linen count. Second, I realized that I did not want to sleep on the starched and stained decking. So I answered confidently: "Sir, now you can more easily have brunch in bed!" (Well I thought it was funny.) There is a morale to this story: Coming back to your room and crashing on your rack's nasty tablecloth isn't so bad after a long day of walking the area.
   
Carol MacGibbon It's plebe year, in the dead of winter. I'm linen carrier, and it's 3rd Reg 
linen day. After breakfast, I have barely enough time to get the job done before class, so I really have to hurry. I gather all the squad's dirty stuff and make the swap over in the basement of C-wing. I head out with my twenty clean sheets and ten clean pillow cases, folded neatly and stacked up to my chin. Like a good beanhead, I hustle as fast as I can through the snow to the edge of the Apron, past George W. on his horse, and into the D-wing sallyport. Sadly, I failed to downshift to a safer shuffle as I enter the building. The tile floor was covered with muddy, melted snow, carried in on hundreds of shoes and stomped off inside the doorway. I made it about two steps and, you guessed it! My feet shot out from under me. Of course, since my arms were full, nothing broke my fall. Ouch. Twenty sheets and ten pillowcases went flying! I didn't realize it at the time, but I had just come up with the indoor modified version of the more common Textbook Toss, normally executed with books and calculators on a sheet of ice on the way to class. Fortunately, most of the sheets landed on me, but some got dirty. I didn't have time to go back for more sheets; I of course kept the dirtiest two, and begged a couple classmates to put up with a slightly muddy sheet that week. Let's just say I didn't earn any brownie points with them!
   
John Mazzucca My apologies for what follows...but Smitty's spoon/cobbler story prompted this one to be dredged up from my memory dump:

100th Night....Role Reversal.....I'm decked out in my best version of "As
for Dirt-bag" (Dress Grey over Levi's...tucked in of course!...topped off with my favorite Belushi-like headgear). I drew the honor of serving my country that evening as Cold Beverage Corporal. As dinner was drawing to a close, I quite naturally stood on my chair to fulfill my duties. As I completed the obligatory "Sir, the beverage for this evening is fruit punch.  Would anyone care for more fruit punch, Sir", I proceeded to reach in with a serving spoon and withdraw my jock strap from the pitcher. John Hilliard, who was in the middle of processing a serving spoon sized Silver Bullet, proceeded to "fire for effect" across the table. Needless to say, John elected not to wash down the remaining peanut butter with an additional serving of fruit punch!! Of course, I did inform everyone that the jock strap was new.....yeah, sure!!!
   
Kurt Westerman I try to refrain from telling stories about my classmates. However, since there was no illegal, immoral, or fattening activity going on, I hope Bill will not be angry. Chances are he has forgotten the incident.

The first week of beast we got our table assignments. Being last in my squad alphabetically, I was assigned to the Platoon Leader's table (Rich
Stinner, 3rd BN, 4th New Cadet Company, Sir). Next to me was Bill Weeks, last alphabetically from my sister squad. We both had pretty good squad leaders, so our squadmates were eating pretty well (for Beast) and being at the platoon leader's table really sucked. The week ended and the new table lists came out. Everyone rotated back to their squad tables except Bill and I. We were marked men. Cadet Stinner ended every meal with a hearty "Beat Navy" and we would all pound on the table and reply "Beat Navy Sir." We would often use the end of our knife or some other object to pound the table with to get extra noise. One day, Bill picks up the ketchup bottle and slams it on the table giving his best Beat Navy yell. Unfortunately the top was not on the bottle securely and the ketchup went directly to Cadet Stinners perfectly starched white shirt. Stinner was speechless for a minute and then yell, "Weeks come by my room with a pad of 4-Cs and your name stamp." At this point I could not hold my laughter any longer. The sight of our platoon leader covered in ketchup was too much. Stinner looked at me and yelled, "Westerman, come see me with a pad of 4-Cs and your name stamp." I don't know what he did to Bill, but I was sent on the "Magical Mystery Tour" to obtain the signoff of every firstie in our company. While this was a very unpleasant experience, it was well worth the comic relief at that point in Beast. The third week came and once again Bill and I were on Stinner's table. I was sure that he was determined to run us out.

On the last day of first detail, I was so thankful that the reign of terror
was almost over. I had made it and knew that I probably wouldn't see Cadet Stinner once the academic year started. However, at our final inspection, Cadet Stinner leaned over and said, "Westerman, on the first day of the academic year, you come find me." I realized then that he was not finished with me yet. At the end of Beast I was assigned to H-3, but on the first day, as ordered, I ventured out to find Cadet Stinner somewhere in the 4th regiment. You can imagine the warm reception I got as I asked firsties in 4th regiment if they could direct me to Cadet Stinner's room. When I finally found him, he "recognized" me and told me that if I ever got in trouble to look him up. I was completely dazed. I had dreaded this day for a month, with my mind anticipating all of the various ways he could make my life hell. The guy who I thought I hated above all others was the first to recognize me. I never saw him again, but will never forget him.
   
Glen Carroll Halfway or there abouts through Beast, my parents came down for a visit. At the picnic, my father greeted me with.... hey,..... you have a cousin here.  My third cousin from the Seneca Falls area of NY. He told me all about it, I rolled my eyes at the old guy and said "Dad, firstly..... there are 1600 people in the class, secondly ..... I know 10 (those who were in my squad) and finally.... I don't dare turn my eyes 3 inches to the left..... I WILL NEVER MEET THIS INDIVIDUAL.... HE WILL PROBABLY RESIGN BEFORE I MEET HIM."

The next morning at Catholic Mass, we hit the part where all of us Catholics shake hands... the guy in front of me turns around.... and you guessed it.... There is my distant cousin.... Tim Eno. Small worlds get smaller all the time.
   
Bob "Smitty" Smith Okay, here goes another mess hall story... Summer of '76... Cal Williams was the table comm in beast... I was in 4th Co... I cannot remember for sure which classmates were also on the table, but I think Phil Telander, John Warnke, John Peabody, "Tinker" Stewart, and Kathi Gerard (Snook) may have been there or close by...

We had apple pie for dessert... I cut it... a literal abortion... forwarded 
it for inspection only to have it returned... Williams told me, "Cut it again, Beanhead!!!!" I was astounded... Fortunately (?) for me, a '76 grad told me before I started Beast that if this ever happened I should grab the biggest spoon I could and make Cobbler out of the fruit pie!! That I did... I announced, "SIR, THE COBBLER HAS BEEN PREPARED, ...COBBLER TO CADET WILLIAMS FOR INSPECTION PLEASE, SIR!!!"....much to the utter horror of Williams...and the delight of some of his classmates... I had an equal number of good and bad 4 C's come out of it, and didn't eat for two days, but it continues to be one of the funniest stories I have ever recounted for the hordes of plebes that have been across my threshhold in the last 5 1/2 years...

I'll recount the best quill that I was tagged with . . .

Mine was being written up by CPT Helsel (?sp) in Math class for submitting a disreputable document.... I had bled all over a drill problem after Mike Marmaro bent my nose to its current leftward position in plebe boxing!!!!
   
John Anderson I remember at the beginning of during the first detail when we were still sitting with our squads before being split up among other squads in the platoon, our Squad Leader/Table Commandant would ask us personal questions.  I guess either to learn more about us or to get us used to being placed on the spot (pick one). One question was "What is your home zip code" and two of my squad mates came from the same zip code but didn't know each other. At one meal, our Squad Leader asked us "What were you famous for in high school." One of my fellow Beanheads replied " I got an appointment to West Point!"

After he stopped laughing, our Squad Leader told the Plebe "Stand up and look around. There are about 1600 people in this mess hall that got appointments to West Point. Try to think of something original."
   
Bob "Smitty" Smith "Paper Chase" was the big rage when we were (?) cows.... I loved Kingsfield -- he would have made an incredible Beast First SGT!!!
   
Jay Harris One of the funniest stories I remember was from Beast Barracks. I apologize if all the details are not 100%, the mind plays tricks as one ages!! Our Table Commandant at lunch was some hazing fool from F-1 (little guy with glasses and a small man complex!).  Anyway, he was tough and we hardly got to eat! Drew Harrington was the beverage corporal and as we're preparing drinks, the table commandant loses it for some reason, like he needed one! He pounds on the table, the silverware goes flying and he pushes the entire table forward. Drew starts screaming and stands up and starts hopping around the mess hall in
pain. Apparently his foot was strategically located between a leg of his chair and one of the table legs.  When the table was pushed forward his foot got crushed.  The firsties start flipping out! They are all concerned about getting in trouble for physically hazing plebes! Things calm down a bit and we actually got to eat. After the meal, Drew hobbles back to the barracks. We're all concerned about our platoon-mate and start pinging around the barracks to check on him.  When we go into his room, he's laughing and his foot is fine. He staged the entire incident but we got to eat!!
   
John Canby Since we seem to be baring our souls ( or at least some good tales) I'll recount the best quill that I was tagged with. It may seem paltry to the folks in the century club, but it is a lot funnier twenty plus years later. The lost 50's have only four rooms per floor, which means the cadets in the 4th Reg usually had overdeveloped legs form all those stairs, especially the CCQs!. The stair wells are wide, especially in the 50th Division. I was engaged in a water fight with Elias Balderas, and decided to await his re-appearance on the walkway of the floor below with a trash can full of water. When I heard his footsteps I brought the water directly on target. Small problem -- it wasn't Elias. It was Scott Snook, who was all decked out for a big date. My cow squad leader sadly informed me that he had to write me up. But the write -up was worth the hours. I can still remember it, as it was classic, "Exercising poor judgment, i.e.: Emptying a trashcan full of water on a classmate."
   
Glen Carroll Strange......

I have traveled most the world, and I still have never found a calzone that would lay quite so well (heavy) in the pit of my stomach as one from Sal.

Nor have I found a Chocolate Milkshake equal to Grant Hall.

Of course, I also don't remember worrying about the calories of fat content.

But then, it is also rare that I run from the 4th floor of Central Barracks
to the top of Miche Stadium and back in 20 minutes just to meet my Tac's (Captain Jim "I write on my hands" Crawford) requirements to allow me to turn off the Transformer for WKDT during my Yearling Year. I praised the day we were able to install the auto shut off switch, wow, what technology brought us.

(and imagine that, I just ran the spell check to find that TAC, Calzone, Sal, and Miche are not in Microsoft's Library..... damn Liberal Geeks)  (but then, on the second run..... geek is in the spell check....... go figure)
   
Jeff Easley Marty's point about serious stereos made me think about an incident involving my own music. Remember how many of us visited those semi-trailers filled with various stereo components and based on what we could eventually afford, purchased our "music"? I was always jealous of those of you who got the "reel to reel" machines, but anyway... Not long after purchasing my "system", one of my 2 roommates went deficient in a subject which meant we had to box up my stereo and store it in the basement until he got his grades up. Man, was I pissed, but it brought out the teamwork in all of us and soon the privilege was restored. 

I was just reviewing the assembly and saw the bit about the Elton John concert, my vote for the best concert while we were there. A few years ago, I got to see Elton and Billy Joel play at Clemson university. It was great, but not as good as Elton at the point. Anybody remember how he had the two pianos on both ends of the stage and ran back and forth playing each? Wow!!
   
Marty Eaton I was one of those guys with the serious stereos during our cadet days. Jeff's email was correct when he said that some music always makes us think of the Point. Heart, Boston, Peter Frampton for sure. Meatloaf is right there. Maybe Pink Floyd, I can still hear the heartbeat throbbing as that album starts. But for me the one that always sends me back is Styx. We even selected Styx's "Babe" to play at our wedding reception in June 1980,, just the other day it seems.

And my son is developing a taste for Queen, the Bee Gees, and 3 Dog Night. Who says parents don't have power!!!
   
Collin Agee Let's not forget that the West Point Comedy Hour also featured a weekly audience participation segment, including the aforementioned, "I'm mad as hell and not going to take it anymore" deal. (I think the movie was Network and the guy who wigged out was Peter Finch, the anchorman.) -- Jeff Easley gets credit for researching the anchor man's name.
   
Mike Conrad For our graduation issue of The Pointer, I was going to pose on the front cover as a new graduate handing over a silver dollar to the first to salute me, and then on the back cover as a new LT saying goodbye to my young wife as she takes my last dollar ouf of my wallet a la Jane Jetson. Since I had my greens already, costuming was not a problem, and I got permission from Mrs. Goodpaster to use her kitchen door for the "goodbye" set. One of my classmates graciously offered his girlfriend for the role of my wife (thanks, Joe). I was all set. All I had to do was put on my greens and get over to the Supe's house to shoot the picture, then come back to E-wing and get back into proper cadet uniform without anyone noticing. After all, I was literally impersonating an officer, which could get me court-martialled. It didn't help that I was still undergoing a conduct board for my excessive demerits the previous semester. But I figured, with such a short distance to cover (about 50 yards across the front of the gym), it wasn't too much of a risk. Besides, nobody would recognize me in that uniform, since they weren't expecting me to be in greens. 

I had to return a lot of salutes on the way there, but I figured it was better than trying to explain to everyone that I wasn't an officer, and have them feel like they had saluted a mere cadet. Anyway, the shoot went as scheduled, and I was on my way back to E-Wing, returning salutes and about to breathe easier, when I spied an officer coming my way. Scrambled egg on the brim, oak leaves, no way to avoid it, even though he was on the opposite side of the street. So I decided to brave it out, rendered a snappy salute and a cheerful, "Good afternoon, sir." As he returned my salute, he did a double take and said, "Mike?" 

It was my Tac -- one of the guys who I thought was trying to get me thrown out of the Academy a month before graduation. I was sunk! "What are you doing?" he asked. I explained the bit about The Pointer pictures, and he just said, "OK." and let me go. I don't think I started breathing again until I got to the sally port.

It's amazing the stuff we got away when we were taking pictures for The Pointer.* 

Oh, yeah, and eight days before graduation, I was given the word that I would be graduating with the class. Just in time for my folks to get a plane reservation.

*Of course, we never used it when it wasn't true. That would have been dishonest, and would have violated their trust that we weren't up to no good.
   
Mike Conrad I recall watching the pilot episode of Battlestar Galactica, and we were so enthralled that after taps, most of us from all classes sneaked back down to the dayroom and watched the final hour (it was three hours long in original form). The CCQ came by on his rounds, so we turned it off and hid under the furniture for a minute until he passed by, but we managed to see the rest of it.

As for Mork and Mindy, I remember having to try and convince the others (mostly cows) to give it a look on its pilot episode. It was a hard sell, but as soon as Robin Williams showed up in his backwards suit and tie, they were hooked (and of course, took credit for the decision). Charlie's Angels was big, then, too, and when Kate Jackson showed up with hubby Andrew Stevens for the filming of Women at West Point, it caused an immense furor. (She actually spoke to me, too. I was drawing a picture of Linda Purl as an excuse to hang out while they were shooting, and Dave Olwell was interviewing her for The Pointer and Miguel Gutierrez shooting candid pix, and when the actors had to go back in and shoot a scene, she walked over, took a look at the sketch, and said, "Nice picture," or something like that. I shrugged and 
said "Thank you," and so history was not made. I didn't even bother to get her autograph.)

As for daytime viewing, our tradition was to watch the Gong Show during mid-period (?), which made us fans of the song known to the Hellcats as "J" -- we always requested it by that letter at football games, and then danced like Gene Gene, the Dancing Machine.

Ah, entertainment!
   
Pete Palumbo As the 7th CBT company came back to the barracks after bayonet training, I noticed the laundry was back - starched O.D. fatigues along side white mesh bags. After that very quick shower, I discovered that I had no fatigues at all left to wear to lunch. What in the world happened to the ones I sent out? Were they lost? Opening the mesh bag to get underwear I realized what I had done - yes, I sent everything out in the mesh bag! (talk about not paying attention to instructions!) Besides shrinking 2 sizes smaller in the hot water, when stretched open, they immediately sprang back to petite size. They had vertical creases like an accordion. "Sir there are 10 minutes until assembly for lunch formation - 10 minutes sir!" Even Kathy Wildey and her strac roommate Ann who knocked on the door and came in could not solve this one- no one was near my size. 

I had to squeeze into those highwaters and get to formation, which for 1st squad, 1st platoon was right on the front edge of the apron of the Plain. I would give anything to capture on film the double take the cow squad leader did when he saw me. "Palumbo what the ------ is this?!" "Sir I . . .I sent my fatigues out in the mesh bag".  The entire platoon struggled with all their might not to bust up laughing, you heard snorts and giggles and wheezing, as the cadre was caught between falling in, and figuring out a way to hide me. He nicknamed me "tiger stripes" for the rest of the detail.

In case anyone can top this story I have some powerful stuff in reserve; e.g. missing our Acceptance Parade writing my girlfriend a letter (my desk clock was set 1 hour behind), slug for trying to buy a pizza at Tony's while a beanhead on a school night, (didn't know limits) and getting my platoon to move the Supe's Mercedes onto his front lawn to make it look like he tied one on the night before. (got away with something finally in the name of football spirit).
   
Tom Brockway
Bob "Smitty" Smith
Dale Fye		 My first and last attempt at being the American Gigolo. The story begins in Boston following a game against Boston College in, I believe, our firstie year. I have no idea who won the game; but I remember I and George Conrad were out to win the party. We floated from sorority to sorority collecting girlfriends, telephones and addresses. Two of which I followed up on with letters that I am positive extolled the virtues and advantages of dating a West Pointer soon to graduate. (Not that I had any intention of getting married; but, well, you know....). Heard from neither of these ladies. Surprising to me since I, I'm equally sure, I was quite the raconteur (credit Bret Dalton) that evening.

Weeks later I did hear from one of the young ladies. Kinda. Sort of.  She sent back my letter. Just my letter, no other note. It was barely intact as it had been unfolded and folded many, many times as she showed all of her girlfriends how the West Point cadet had enjoyed the evening of conversation, dancing and drinking. Only it wasn't her name at the top. I had written both letters, addressed both envelopes and put the letters in the wrong envelopes. I never did hear from the second lady; and have never set foot in Boston again.

Shorter story. George, my roomie at the time, reported that he was out
with "his girlfriend" one Saturday afternoon. When the CCQ asked me to take a telephone call from a girl calling for George, I assured his sister that George was out for the afternoon with his girlfriend. Oops. Wasn't George's sister, it was his girlfriend. To this day, I deny all culpability since George hadn't given me all the intel I need to cover his six! George doesn't agree.

To All B-2'ers who witnessed the Rapone/Dwyer tableaus: Did anyone else think they'd ever hear Steve Dwyer identify himself as a regimental TAC?  Congratulations & God speed Steve, but expecting that ranks right up there with predicting Joe Cocker and Steve Tyler (Aerosmith) still being alive today!

Smitty: Or Jawbone commanding a brigade... Or Rhyno is a DoD PAO!!!! ...Or me as an eye surgeon!!! The list goes on and on... I have a confirmed sighting of Stevie as a Reg TAC!!!!

Dale: Or Karl Masters as an IG!!!!!!!!!!!!
   
Kevin MacGibbon
Tom Hagan
Mike Conrad
John Canby		 Okay, who has the next line......

"Four hungry children and a crop in the field"

According to Kenny Rogers, it was: "I've had some bad times, I've lived thru some sad times, but this time the hurtin's for real"

According to the Class of '80 at Ft Knox, it was: "DRINK!"

I always sang it as "four hundred children and a crop in the field " -- seemed funnier that way.

But I do remember it as our unofficial TCAT anthem (that and the far less clean ones we sang on the bus, thanks to our resident Rugger, Mike Stephenson). "Knock knock!" "Who's there?" "Eisenhower. . . ."

"You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille!! " Now that brings back the memories!  Ft. Knox (TCAT) and a lot of drunken braying!
   
Jeff Easley I would find it hard to believe that most of us haven't craved a Tony's specialty at least a dozen times or so since graduation!

I have often told friends of the difficult choice a cadet had to make if he/she should desire to get a pizza, calzone, or pie, late in the evening.  First, if you wanted to go yourself, you needed to dress in the required attire, normally Gym A ( which included sweats in cool weather). Of course, this was a dead giveaway, and many (cadets) were willing to "buy if you fly". At first, this seems like a good deal if you wanted your snack paid for, but everyone knew the agony that awaited at Tony's when you arrived. Often, you were forced to accept what ever Sal(?) had ready and if you were buying for 2 or more, this could be complicated. In retrospect it seems hilarious, but it was never fun in actually. Nevertheless, sinking your teeth into a delicious calzone after almost 2+ hours from eating 2000 calories at dinner seemed almost heaven.

Some other fun topics to reminisce about:

MUSIC: I am sure many of you think of WP when you hear certain music:
Fleetwood Mac, Boston, Hart, Christopher Cross, Doobie Brothers, Cars, etc.  Since we didn't have TV until later, and stereos were the "in thing", music was great. Of course, now I listen to AM radio (stock talk, etc), but I still like the old music.

TV: Anyone remember watching....Battlestar Galactica, Mork and Mindy (oh man, Mindy!), and the Saturday morning toons (between classes)!! How come we weren't lucky enough to have Baywatch???
   
Doug Lobdell NO way can I match Bret's or Doug S's stories - office mates were looking at me strangely as I tried to stifle my laughs at those.

The highlight of my cadet career was not my sosh paper (unlike Dave Speck and Glen Carroll), nor was it the single Corps Squad Wrestling trip I made (although by staying on the B squad I missed dozens of parades!). No, goat  thievery was definitely the zenith.

I can still remember Don Reeves pulling me into my room, checking for bugs, then, in hushed tones, laying out the OPLAN for stealing the Navy goat. Having grown up on a farm, my role was to be goat-handler, and was there any way I could procure a truck for the weekend? (We didn't want to follow the class of 77's example and bring the goat back in a sports car.)

Well, goat-handling I could do in my sleep, but I was one of those rare cadets who had the foresight not to get a driver's license before coming to the academy (which got me out of deuce-and-a-half driving detail - do you see a pattern developing here??). So I had no clue about vehicles. We were cows at this point, so we certainly had no classmate resources (and if we did I'm sure they had sports cars, not goat-haulers).

Well, the week of the theft arrived, and neither I nor any of the other thieves had a vehicle yet. So I did what I had to: went to Coach Pifer after wrestling practice and said "Hey, coach - I need to move some stuff this weekend - any chance I could borrow your pickup?" After some thought he conceded, so we were good to go. At our first opportunity we signed out on weekend pass, did one last mission briefing, and crowded (4 of us!) into the cab of coach's pickup. Stopped at the post engineer's office and signed out a pair of bolt cutters first, and grabbed 8 subs for nourishment on the way.

Thankfully, we had Ken Healy, exchange cadet nee 'spy in the enemy's camp,' on site at USNA to help us in our quest. We arrived after dark on Saturday,  and made the link up. Ken was a HUGE help - he told us that the goat was on the Naval Academy Dairy Farm. No idea where the dairy farm was, but he knew it was at the farm. Thanks. We started walking around, asking squids where it was, but they must have been on to us because the first question was always something like "Why, are you from West Point?" I think we finally stopped a plebe, locked his heels, and pretended that the location of the USNA Dairy Farm was plebe poop. We got an address, changed into our all-black clothes, and were off.

About 2 hours and many wrong turns later (but only one stop for directions - this was an all-male crew) we saw the sign for the farm. We turned off our lights, drove up close, then one of the team snuck along the hedge and disappeared. We waited, and waited, and waited - and were about to give him up as lost, when Garon came back with the recon report. We drove about 2 miles away, and finalized our plan.

We drove back in blackout drive, pulled up, and got out. Garon led us silently to the pen. Out came the bolt cutters, and we were on the objective! The goat was in no mood for a 2 a.m. stroll, and threatened us, but I ignored those menacing blue-and-gold horns, whipped a loop around the goat's neck, and we headed for the truck, resisting the temptation to whoop it up at our success. Pretty soon we were headed north with a hogtied goat!

This story's getting long, so I'll just hope you all remember the goat's appearance one evening on the poop deck.  And when I finally told coach why we'd put 1200 miles on his truck just to 'move some stuff' - I think I had about a week of the toughest wrestling practices ever before or since.
   
Doug Stearns Wow, yeah, memories of public humiliation.

Yearling year: For some reason I've be designated guidon bearer for my company, E-1. I suppose I practiced the movements in the company area and probably did drill on the parade grounds before performing in an actual parade, but I don't much remember that part. What I remember is my first real Saturday morning parade.

E-1 forms up in Old South and marches to the area behind Washington barracks to await our entry onto the parade grounds. I'm feeling confident as our turn comes and we saddle up and head towards the sally port, but I've made a serious error in judgment. I don't believe I had ever actually marched through that particular sally port while bearing the guidon prior to this real show. Of course, our class is still fairly new at being upperclassmen, so I'm still in the habit of keeping my beady baubles pointed straight ahead and maintaining a rigid military bearing, doubly so while out in front as guidon bearer in a parade.

Thus I fail to notice or take into account the lighting fixtures mounted in the ceilings of the sally ports. I've dipped the guidon enough to clear the ceiling, but not those dang fixtures. Marching straight down the middle of the sally port, my guidon jams with considerable force into the first fixture. This brings me to an immediate and startling, not to mention slightly painful, halt (imagine catching a javelin just above your crotch). The CO continues to march on, unaware of my predicament. The three (?) platoon leaders marching just behind me manage to miss me, but the troops in the middle of the first rank don't. Somewhat bewildered at first, I struggle to dislodge the guidon. In finally backing up to do so, those marchers directly behind crash into me. A bit of a melee ensues, but remarkably, we reform in short order and continue on.

I'm considerably flustered at this point, so it's quite understandable (isn't it?) when almost the exact same thing, to only a slightly lesser degree, happens at the very next light fixture (I think there were three in that particular sally port). However, having been pummeled in the gut twice, my posture by the time we reach the third light helps me to safely clear that last treacherous obstacle. I'm sure my face was beat red during that entire parade, as it is now 20 years later thinking about it. Amazing this is, those fixtures managed to hang on and are likely still there to this day.
   
Bret Dalton Time for a true confession that makes Laura (my wife and girl friend since we were both 15 yo) and I laugh every time (mostly because we were there).  Along the lines of Jeff's graduation/shoe story . . .

On the day before graduation, Laura and I were to escort General and Mrs. "Jumping Jim" Gavin, war hero and our speaker, to our banquet. Plans were all set. A staff car with a three-star flag and all that stuff was to meet us at Central Guard Room.  Laura looked great in her dress and I was in whites--remember those extremely well starched and stiff garbs. We headed over to CGR and the driver was there, and he came around to open the door for us. Being a gentleman (and having paid attn to Mrs. Brown's etiquette classes), I was to slide in and across the seat first. As I stepped into the car, there was a loud ripping noise. 

Yep, split those well starched, only-had-to-be-worn-this-last-time trousers  from the middle seam in the crotch right up the back to the waist band. No time to return to the room and change. GEN and Mrs. Gavin were expecting us at the Thayer. I stepped back out of the car to try to survey the damage. I found it very hard to believe, but had no options when Laura and the NCO driver assured me that the tail of the coat covered all.

I am sure you can imagine the thoughts flooding my mind as we drove to the Thayer. I was certain that I would be handed a blank piece of paper in a tube the next day as I walked across the stage and all those years would be for naught.

Needless to say, it was a breezy evening, but I did all of the rest of my hosting and podium duties with my trousers split virtually in half.  Ahhh, how good it is to remember from 20 years away! (Though I am in a cold sweat sitting here at my desk.)
   
Jeff Easley Most of us must remember when it was announced that Ladycliff was closing down and the night dozens of "Cliff Dwellers" raided the barracks, some with six packs in hand!

Beast Barracks story . . .

We had just returned from one of our first bivouacs. It had rained and everything was a mess and we had a big inspection the next day. It was about 2:00am and we were still preparing with penlights in our teeth (lights out at 10:00pm!) One of my squad mates, Scooter J. (later resigned) was cleaning his M-14 using the trick of cleaning the barrel with some dry-cleaning plastic wrap and some spray deodorant. All of a sudden, we (and everyone else) heard a loud banging on the barracks' walls and finally a scream, "I CANT TAKE IT ANY MORE!!" Well, it turns out Scooter, instead of using a small piece of plastic, used about a square foot and had the cleaning rod wedged tightly in the barrel. The loud banging was him using the large broom head to hit the rod with the butt of the weapon next to the wall which worsened the situation. This noise and his subsequent ranting brought most of our chain of command and the OD promptly to our floor. We were ordered to get in bed, but also told to be ready the next day. I'll never forget the inspecting officer, some Major, asking Scooter about the "complete darkness" in his weapon during arms inspection. The weapon had to be turned in to the armory to have the rod melted out!

Did I mention that one of my Beast squad mates tried to "sew" a dress-off on his shirt during beast? I won't embarrass him by giving out his name, but I admired his initiative. No, it didn't work! 

A Graduation Day story . . .

On graduation day, while marching into Michie stadium, I was wearing my oldest corfam (spelling?) shoes, which I planned to ditch right after graduation. I tripped on the astro-turf and tore one shoe's sole back from the toe to the heel. My shoe was flopping like a clown shoe and all during the speeches I was trying to figure out how to fix this before I climbed onto the stage to get my diploma from the Honorable Harold Brown. I even pulled my saber and tried to "cut it" off. Yea, right... cutting through a half inch of leather with a dull saber! What saved me was gathering up a dozen or so of the sticky labels they gave us to put in our hats, rolling them up and sticking the sole back to the bottom of my shoe. It held just long enough to get across the stage and fell apart just as I came off the ramp. Needless to say, I hardly remember anything about the ceremony other than fixing that damn shoe! Oh yea, I looked pretty funny walking down from the stadium as a new 2LT with a "flopping" shoe!
   
 

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