West Point
Changing Times at the Academy
Only a soldier and his family can know the stress of combat separation and the emotions of “coming home.” The two girls greeted me, a little shy around this strange man who, for the last year, had been someone they knew only through letters. Jean, almost fourteen, had blossomed into a beautiful young lady, and Marty remained just as pretty and vivacious as I remembered. Tommy, now eight, was away at camp. When Tommy arrived from camp, he jumped into my arms and hugged my neck for a long time without saying a word. His actions, more than anything else, showed the void my absence had created in all our lives. I had been away before—in Colombia when we had only Jean and in Germany on numerous occasions for four to eight weeks at a time—but none of those remotely compared to my being on combat duty in Vietnam.
Daddy was ill and had been for some time. While nothing had been said in any of the letters, I sensed he was not well. The day after arriving in Columbus, I drove to Tifton and visited him in the hospital. Mother was there by his side as she always had been. Daddy was so glad to see me. The feeling was mutual. After a big hug, he asked in a disappointed tone, “Why didn’t you wear your uniform?” He wanted to see my ribbons. I returned to Tifton in about a week, and Daddy’s condition had worsened. Early one morning shortly thereafter, brother Tommy called and said Daddy had died. During the funeral service I felt devastated and sobbed uncontrollably. Remorse swept over me, guilt for not having spent more time with him, even for not taking the time to purchase my ribbons so he could see them. I miss him still and feel his presence.
Several months before my DEROS (Date of Expected Return from Overseas), I had written Maj. Gen. Sidney Berry, the commanding general of the Infantry Center and commandant of the U.S. Army Infantry School. Our careers had often intersected, and he was clearly tabbed for greater things. I requested assignment as the director of the Ranger Department, citing my long list of credentials stretching from Korea through various Ranger postings stateside, including command time, to my experiences in Puerto Rico, Colombia, and Germany. I felt optimistic, knowing no other officer could match my Ranger qualifications. Soon Berry replied with the deflating news that he already filled the slot. Lt. Col. Y. Y. Phillips had been selected. No doubt Phillips possessed all the right chits in his 201, but he had skillfully dodged any “dirty sox” assignments, lacked my Ranger résumé, and left the army six months into his tour. By way of consolation, Berry mentioned that Benning offered a number of other good jobs. Disappointment mounted when around the same time word came through that I was under consideration for an assignment to West Point. I just wanted to stay with troops and thought the assignment to the Ranger Department perfectly matched my experience. Finally orders arrived for West Point.
Return to the Monastery on the Hudson
I was disheartened, but Jeannie was thrilled. West Point offered the best possible posting for the family to rebind. The Pucketts definitely needed some family time. The post was safe, and the kids could roam at will with plenty of activities and friends to share them. We drew quarters on Lusk Reservoir, the choice residential area. Jeannie’s intuition proved on the mark.
I tried to look on the bright side. As regimental commander, a position of considerable prestige, I would serve as the senior tactical officer overseeing the tactical officers in the eight cadet companies of the First Regiment. Two of my classmates, Collier Ross and Dick Tallman, commanded regiments. My friend from Germany, Bill Simpson, commanded another regiment. Other old acquaintances and classmates held positions in the Academic Department. Most important, I would play an important role in molding some of the finest young men the country produced. Once I put aside my personal feelings, I decided a two-year stint at West Point presented plenty of positives.
Not long after arriving, Collier and I received promotion to colonel. The commandant, Brig. Gen. Bernard Rogers, presided over a simple ceremony. It proved especially gratifying to be promoted with my buddy Ross and with our families in attendance. A future four-star general, army chief of staff, and supreme allied commander in Europe, Rogers possessed all the urbane polish and intelligence you would expect from a first captain (Class of 1943) and Rhodes Scholar. Rogers had served as assistant division commander of the First Infantry Division in Vietnam before coming to West Point. As I gleaned from the beginning, Rogers would be a great boss.
Rogers was broad-minded, which proved a definite asset as commandant in a period of social disorder. The 1960s might be called the burnt-over decade: strife over civil rights set American cities alight; women demanding greater rights torched their bras; and the draft cards of many antiwar protesters went up in flames. The youth revolt assaulted all the bastions of tradition; the sense of innocence that pervaded American culture gave way to a cynicism that polarized—and still does—American society. While West Point appeared as an oasis of order and discipline, it could not entirely escape the turmoil and demands for change. The cadets, after all, were the products of that same overindulged baby boomer generation.
While a conservative, I was no troglodyte—a claim some of my charges might contest. West Point is a kind of monastery tucked away on a bluff overlooking the Hudson, far removed from the hustle and tussles of modern life (ironically within an hour’s drive of Manhattan). Tradition was its bedrock. Cadets still wore the gray uniforms of the Battle of Chippewa in the War of 1812, and many of the practices dated back at least that far. For decades, adherence to hoary teaching practices—rote memorization, daily recitations, arcane grading methods—left the Military Academy trailing the best civilian universities. West Point was in the midst of changing its pedagogic methods and modernizing the curriculum, but that, too, widened old fault lines. I agreed with those who wanted to make tempered adjustments when called for but also believed in preserving the best of the old system and enforcing the rules as written, which applied equally to officers and cadets. The tactical officers bore responsibility for the discipline and military training of cadets; the former demanded most of our energies.
I arrived during the summer lull, when the cadets, except those at Beast Barracks, were at various installations participating in a variety of training activities. In typical Puckett fashion, I wanted to get my feet on the ground and learn the ropes of being the First Regiment commander before they returned. Fortunately, my adjutant, Maj. Bill Mullen, an exceptionally conscientious and loyal subordinate, served as the perfect sounding board. As time would tell, Mullen possessed an unerring sense of the subterranean folkways of cadet life at West Point.
When the cadets returned from their summer schedule, I had the cadet regimental commander, my student counterpart, report to my office. Mullen described Cadet Nardotti as probably the most respected cadet in the corps and recounted how he had quelled a student ruckus—just cadets letting off steam—simply by showing up and waving his arms. I came to West Point determined the cadet leadership would exert the same influence as their counterparts in the active army. Granted, that ideal of leadership was seldom achieved in the “real army,” but it set a standard. The tactical officers always talked about how the cadets ran the corps. The cadets rated members of their company, their classmates, and all members of the underclass according to desired military traits. The cadets also regulated the holiest of holies—the cadet honor code. Virtually upon arrival at West Point, a cadet is counted upon to know and live by the oath, “A cadet will not lie, cheat or steal, nor tolerate those who do.” Anyone charged with a violation sits before a committee of twelve cadets and if found guilty is separated from the United States Military Academy. The 1951 cheating scandal involving eighty-three cadets—many of them football players—still hung over the institution. Nardotti lived up to his billing; he exuded poise and strength of character that demanded respect.
I wanted to place more responsibility on the cadets by granting them more freedoms providing they bore greater responsibilities for their actions. The tactical officers, or tacs, resorted to the gig (demerits) for every infraction. Cadet leaders, on the other hand, used the demerit system sparingly if at all. As I told my tacs and the cadet chain of command, I wished we never had to gig anyone; it was an impossibility but something to shoot for. Instead of demerits, the tacs and cadets leaders should identify shortcomings and counsel offenders. To me, the gig was an admission of failure. Not many—if any—cadets ever gained any true enlightenment tramping back and forth across Central Area.
Nardotti called upon other top-drawer support—Claude Alexander, his XO, and particularly Jon Shine, one of the cadet battalion commanders who came as close as possible to being the ideal cadet. There were many others. On one occasion, Mullen and Nardotti confronted a problem. Bill explained what he considered the best plan of action. Nardotti expressed a contrary view. Mullen turned to me and asked for a ruling. “Go with Mr. Nardotti,” I responded. Disappointed, Mullen persisted until I said, “I think my idea is better than both of yours. However, Mr. Nardotti’s is certainly workable. He is the commander. I go with him.”
The attempt at social engineering, empowering the cadet leadership, achieved very limited success. The cadet leaders were not exempt, as members of the corps, from peer pressure. One of the great strengths of West Point resides in building tensile-strong personal bonds between classmates. Officer corps ring pounding and membership in the careerist “West Point self-promotion society” are by-products of the “band of brothers” sentiment felt by classmates and associates. The same applied to cadets. Naturally, the standards of cadet leaders’ discipline enforcement proved far too lax for the tacs. My effort to combat the decline in standards and defusing the popular attitude of “getting over” on the army by empowering the cadets never gained any traction. Attitudes were far too entrenched. A few years later, General Berry saw his career sidetracked by a massive cheating scandal that rocked West Point while he served as commandant. Honor code violations became just one more method of “beating the system.”
Not long after assuming command, I invited Maj. Gen. Sam Koster, the newly appointed superintendent, to visit my regiment. The superintendent had commanded the Americal Division in Vietnam. Toward the end of the First Brigade’s run as a separate unit, it served under the operational control of General Koster, whom I considered a genuinely outstanding commander. While I was XO of the First Brigade 101st, he asked me to take over as the division operations officer. Thanking him, I begged off in the hope of getting another battalion command. Koster wanted to visit his old company. I had not alerted the Company tac, wanting the general to see the normal day-to-day standard. The company’s appearance fell far short of expectations. Koster appeared both dismayed and disappointed. (I wondered if he knew how I felt.) He asked me if the company had been alerted before his visit. When I said no and explained why, he queried me on my assessment of the company. When I stated the obvious, he asked what I intended to do. I told him that the company would meet the standard before the day was over, and he left.
I knew the general had to feel let down and probably thought that I should have informed the company before the visit. If the tac had been notified, the company would have been in inspection order and the visit would have made everybody happy, but the superintendent’s visit offered me a great training opportunity. I took the risk to impress upon the tac that he should be prepared at all times. The tac was chagrined and apologetic, but I left wondering if he had learned from the experience.
General Koster would later be held responsible for the cover-up of the My Lai incident that occurred while he commanded the Americal Division. Although he may be criticized for not going to the site and investigating himself, I am convinced that he was an honorable man, told the truth, and had been lied to by members of his staff.
Of all army schools, West Point is the most resistant to change. On the surface, everything appeared pretty much identical to the Military Academy I had left in 1949. For nine months, the cadets were subjected to the same rigid academic regime—in both scheduling and content—with the six-week selection process and cadets segregated by class standing. Cadets attended mandatory physical education sessions and participated in intramural and intercollegiate sports. Cadets who lagged behind in their studies or fitness sat for remedial work and extra PT. But some things had changed, particularly the shift toward greater emphasis on academics at the cost, in my opinion, of the traditional mission of West Point to develop officers with the moral fiber to serve as junior officers and with the potential of becoming the senior leaders in the army.
In the contest between the Academic and Tactical Departments over cadets’ time—another age-old point of friction—the cards were stacked against the tacs. The conventional wisdom held the tacs were the “brawn” (soldiers), and the Ps (instructors) were the “brains.” That characterization, unfair to both sides, expressed long-held perceptions and offered partial explanations for the differences that divided the departments. The tacs were chosen primarily on their military records, and at this juncture, almost all were combat veterans. Except for permanent associate professors who remained at the Academy until they retired, most of the officers in the Academic Department, many also boasting impeccable combat records, were serving their three-year “utilization” tour as payback for the army’s funding their graduate educations. As recent products of master’s programs in leading universities, the Ps could not escape the ferment on American campuses. Many of them relaxed the admittedly archaic classroom pedagogic practices in the interest of producing an environment more conducive to learning. As a result, they paid less attention to regulations than many in the Tactical Department believed appropriate. Haircuts, uniforms, and the shine on shoes acceptable to the Ps fell far short of what the tacs expected. Often at cross-purposes and never reconciled, the tactical officers and instructors—often the best of friends—never appeared to be on the same wavelength.
The Tactical Department faced severe restrictions on the times we could assemble the cadets. The inviolable schedule defined every minute of a very busy day that began with reveille at 0600 and ended with “lights out” at 2000 hours. The Academic Department jealously appropriated the study time that the tacs would have used for “military” purposes. Often it was necessary to infringe on free time just to speak to cadets. At the regular meetings with the commandant, the regimental commanders expressed their concerns. Rogers explained he occupied an impossible position. In the Academy’s senior leadership, his was but a single voice contending against those of the dean, also a brigadier general, and all the department heads, all senior colonels. The Academic Department held all the trumps.
Ironically, the tacs carried responsibility for maintaining discipline during the evening study period. Despite warnings, upperclassmen pestered plebes. Some of this went way beyond simple harassment. A cabal preyed upon those they considered weak and took it upon themselves to “get” the plebe, “run him out of the corps.” The sons of Ps and tacs were often the targets. Granted, in some cases these cadets proved ill-suited to cadet life and had applied for admission only to please their fathers. To combat this, I often spoke of the leader’s responsibility to develop his junior’s potential. Every cadet had something to offer or he could not have met the admission requirements. I urged upperclassmen to help plebes meet the standards. Unfortunately, I never convinced enough of them that their approach not only defied command guidance but violated basic leadership principles. Frequent visits to the barracks during study periods did little to curb the practice.
Each semester, particularly in the fall, cadets—mostly plebes—were “found” academically deficient and either turned back to repeat the year or turned out (dismissed). In common with the rest of the army, West Point suffered owing to the public disquiet over Vietnam. Applications were down, vacancies existed, and admission standards eased. The curriculum remained biased toward engineering. Six days a week cadets sat through eighty minutes of math classes and recitations. After talking to each of these young men, it became clear to me that the problem derived from their insufficient academic preparation at the secondary-school level for the focused science and math courses. Many of them played football in high school and at the urging of their coaches avoided math and science classes to preserve their academic eligibility. They became academic cripples, and there was not much West Point could do to remedy the situation. What I saw angered me.
Demographers and the press made a great deal of the “generation gap” that existed between parents, products of the Depression and World War II, and their baby-boomer children. The cadets, while not exactly manning the barricades of the “youth revolution,” nonetheless could not entirely escape it. One tac saw a cadet put on a wig as he left post for the weekend so he could pass as a “normal” member of society. Cadets clamored for more “privileges”—relaxation of the Spartan restrictions of cadet life. Nothing subversive about that.
One set of regulations that particularly rankled cadets involved “escorting” a family member or guest, but particularly a girlfriend, while on post. The regulation proscribed escorting in a certain area that might prove conducive to behavior deemed inappropriate. Rogers noted the convoluted regulation was inaccurate in that the area in question was not “below the level of the Plain” and therefore outside the forbidden boundaries. By the letter of the then regulation, cadets could escort in that area. The question arose: Should we eliminate the written ban since it contradicted our own delineation of appropriate physical locations? “Yes,” I offered. “We either eliminate the prohibition from the Blue Book or we enforce it. We should not make rules and then not apply them.” My view was rejected. The tacs did not want cadets escorting in that area, but if we removed the ban from the Blue Book, the sharp-eyed cadets would notice the change even though we would make no announcement to that effect. By leaving the prohibition and not enforcing it, so the wishful thinking went, cadets might not recognize that the rule was not being enforced and would stay out of the area after retreat.
“Public Display of Affection” (PDA) was taboo; even holding your girl’s hand in public was verboten. Rogers broached the subject, remarking how he enjoyed walking hand in hand with his wife. He felt that the rule was too stringent. Several regimental commanders agreed and decided on the same solution as with the escorting ban. Again I objected—stating the same complaint. Rules should be enforced as long as they remained on the books. If inappropriate, they should be eliminated. Otherwise, we would be failing to do our duty and that dereliction would be perceived and exploited by the cadets. Once again I was a minority of one.
Tacs acted as chaperones—as Officers in Charge (OC)—at social functions. Jeannie and I drew duty as chaperones for a yearlings (sophomores) dance at Camp Buckner. Mullen, who knew about such things, warned that PDA would be widespread and glaring, adding that tac chaperones usually took no action. Before the hop, I instructed the cadet coordinators and conduct supervisors to announce I would act as the officer in charge. I had been at the Academy long enough that they all knew where I stood. So much for my fearsome reputation. The flouting of the rules on PDA were flagrant, particularly after the dance. Furious and embarrassed at the same time, I confronted a cadet with a girl in his arms and asked for his name and company. Obviously the cadets had been conditioned to expect that the regulation prohibiting PDA would not be enforced.
Another thing that disturbed me about West Point was the contradiction between what officers professed and what we did. The cadets read us like a book. Gambling—pools and wagering—was strictly forbidden, yet officers openly participated in football pools and other betting; there was a football pool in the tacs’ barbershop. Well aware of this pool, cadets sometimes mentioned it to their tacs, and some even questioned why this discrepancy existed between what the tacs did and the rules for cadets. The gambling never bothered me, but the double standard did.
The Times, They Are a-Changing
An innovative thinker, General Rogers wrestled with preserving West Point traditions while dealing with the demands of a new generation of cadets. He was the perfect fit for that thankless task. Cadets lodged complaints about having to stand reveille, return to their rooms for thirty minutes, then reform to march to breakfast. For some obscure reason in the distant past, this probably served a function. Rogers agreed the two-formation drill wasted time. In anticipation of the inevitable fallout, Rogers solicited input from “old grads” before he ruled cadets would form for reveille and then march directly to breakfast. To an “old grad,” the corps appeared to be “going soft” with increased speed with each succeeding class since the year he graduated. To them, it seemed as if Rogers had eliminated reveille. Far more sweeping was the overhaul of the plebe system, which Rogers viewed as wholly counterproductive in instilling in cadets the proper leadership techniques. Any thinking soldier knew no officer could treat his men the way upperclassmen abused plebes without being severely reprimanded. Rogers wanted to eliminate the worst vestiges of these anachronistic practices such as screaming at and berating plebes; the “brace” (holding at severe attention) was replaced with a more realistic posture and discontinued in the mess hall. Wisely these changes were introduced during Beast Barracks. Responsibility for beast training fell to Ross, who modernized the plebe system by thoroughly orienting the Beast Detail who trained the new Fourth Class.
My frustrations deepened toward the end of the academic year. On Sunday afternoon, a few minutes before the First Year cadets returned to their barracks after the weekend, I assembled them. The time arrived when they needed to complete their “wish list,” their branch preference form. Remembering the difficulties I had faced before deciding to go Infantry, what tipped the balance was my desire to confront the biggest challenge—to be in direct contact with the men who make up our army and lead them. Based on the cadets’ comments, their priorities looked to lie elsewhere. The army had undergone remarkable change since 1949. The bureaucratized corporate army offered a broad range of career choices outside the combat arms. Most of those required advanced education. Some cadets stated their branch choices were based on purely social factors such as their likely initial posting being located close to their families or girlfriends. Most reckoned on the branch or service that held out the best prospects for early entry into a master’s program. What they were really stating was their intention to get the advanced degree best calculated for success in a civilian profession. They knew the army used the inducement of graduate school as a lever in recruitment and retention. In other words, they planned on “getting over” on the army, using the cache of West Point, a stint as an officer, and a graduate degree from a name university to parlay themselves into a high-paying civilian job. After serving their five-year commitment, many of them clearly intended on leaving the army. Also unstated, going to West Point, then getting their airborne patch, then attending their branch advanced course greatly increased their chances of not getting sent to Vietnam. Disgusted, I told them their “primary objective should be to get your master’s degree in soldiering—in leading troops.” Sadly, my premonitions proved correct: more than half of the Class of 1969 had left the service by 1975, a record.
In another of our Sunday-afternoon assemblies I cautioned the First Classmen on the dangers of drinking and driving. Denied alcohol on post, cadets drank heavily beyond the gates. A big day in a cadet’s life is when he can have a car. In the 1960s a red Corvette was every cadet’s dream. Drinking and driving made a deadly cocktail. Three cadets died driving back from a New Year’s Eve party that year. Two more died that spring when the driver, drunk, drove his car into the Hudson. My admonition fell on deaf ears.
Aside from the head-butting over rule enforcement, I got through my first year without major clashes with superiors. That happy situation soon changed. One of the first things Mullen did after I first arrived was ask, “Sir, when do you want to see the General’s List?” I was unsure what that meant, but I had a pretty good idea. “It’s the list of First Regiment cadets who are sons of generals,” Mullen informed me. I thanked Bill and told him that I never wanted to hear of it again. Mullen was taken aback and warned me to expect hearing from some of those fathers if something unpleasant in the way of discipline befell their sons. I stated emphatically that we would treat each cadet the same and hold them to identical standards regardless of who his father might be. Bill shook his head in a “you’ll be sorry” manner as he left the room.
That summer I ran the new yearlings’ training at Camp Buckner. A group had grabbed one of the interior guards (another cadet) and dragged him off his post. There was no malicious intent; it was a prank pulled just about every summer. One of my tacs offered up the names of the culprits and set up a meeting with me. When the crestfallen cadets reported and took their seats, I picked up my copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial, the Unified Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), and read them the charge concerning interfering with a guard in the performance of his duty. After finishing, I told them that I had no intention of preferring charges under the UCMJ but only wanted to impress upon them the seriousness of the offense. “Interior guard is important; I take it seriously,” I said. I then asked for their justification. They explained that seizing the guard and dragging him off his post was just a practical joke. I dismissed them and turned the matter over to the regular disciplinary process. They were “awarded” some demerits and punishment tours. As far as I was concerned, that concluded the matter. I was mistaken.
I received a call one night shortly thereafter from an irate father, a brigadier general, who made it abundantly clear that I had overreacted to what was nothing more than a prank by exuberant boys that happened most summers. He remembered his summer at Camp Buckner when a similar incident occurred. He excoriated me for threatening to court-martial the cadets. I explained to him what I had stated clearly to the cadets, that I had no intention of resorting to a court-martial and that I used the UCMJ to underline the seriousness of what they had done. The general raged on. I mentally pictured him frothing at the mouth. After several more minutes of venting his spleen, he hung up. He treated me just like an upperclassman might a callow plebe (a strong argument in support for Rogers’s revamp of the plebe system). I immediately called General Rogers and informed him of the conversation, fully expecting the fuming father would call him. I did not want Rogers caught off guard. The next day, Rogers told me that he received the complaint and dismissed it. I had figured he would.
June 1969 produced the routine change in command. During his two-year tenure, Rogers faced plenty of controversy and made important changes, stripping away some of the more arcane cadet rituals. Although not in total accord with some of his decisions, I admired him and the way he performed his difficult duties. Brig. Gen. Sam Walker took over. The son of Gen. Walton Walker, he had been a firstie in my plebe year.
That summer I served as officer in charge for the second class trip, which toured various army installations. Everything was routine: I briefed Walker on the plan put together by the Office of Military Instruction, and we headed out. So the cadets could enjoy themselves and get the most benefit from the trip, we suspended serving “confinements” (restrictions for disciplinary infractions) until the return to West Point. The trip went off without any major incidents.
Almost immediately upon our return, Mullen came to me: “Sir, today is the birthday of Cadet Walker, the commandant’s son. He is under restriction. His mother has planned a party for him and expects him to be allowed to go to the party.” He wondered what we should do. “Bill, we do what we are supposed to do,” I said. “I make no exceptions for Cadet Walker just because he is the commandant’s son. He knew and so did the commandant that the requirement to serve restrictions was reinstated when we returned from the trip.” Mullen warned, “Sir, you’re going to catch hell!” I knew he was right and never felt particularly courageous taking a stand that would almost certainly reverberate back on me. Mullen relayed my decision to Cadet Walker, but before the day ended Bill informed me that Walker would be attending his birthday party. I was not surprised. The next day General Walker summoned me to his office and asked, “Didn’t you tell me that confinements were suspended during the trip?” In my sometimes abrupt manner, I replied in the affirmative and reminded him the trip ended three days before. I was curtly dismissed. The only conclusion to be drawn from this sad affair is that I never learned how to play the game.
The climax of the football season—one of the highlights of the entire year—was the annual grudge match against Navy. I drew the assignment as officer in charge. Army had not fared well in the 1969 season, limping into the big game in Philadelphia with a 3–5 record. Fortunately, the Midshipmen had only one win. The Cadets crushed Navy 27–0. Despite the losing season, any win over Navy gave soldiers everywhere a reason for celebration; the cadets in my charge proved no exception.
That evening I went to the Ben Franklin, then the premier hotel in downtown Philadelphia, where many of the students on weekend pass congregated. Entering the ornate colonnaded lobby, I was greeted by the sight of two cadets with blouses completely unzipped and obviously inebriated. I took their names and directed them to return to their rooms and get themselves straight. On the second floor what confronted me was not exactly something out of Animal House but close enough. Cadets, clearly drunk and in all sorts of disarray, ran amok. Spotting me, they scurried to their rooms. That was the first of many forays back to the Ben Franklin that night. I called out the first captain and instructed him to “get control.” He accomplished nothing, and in fairness to him, there was little he could do. For me, this was a harrowing and unsettling experience. Here we were representing the United States Military Academy, and the cadets could not care less.
The following Monday, I submitted numerous reports of violations. I again approached the first captain and solicited his views. He informed me that in the past the tacs never ventured beyond the lobby. The conduct I witnessed was the norm. What made it worse, the first captain was very impressive—intelligent and polished—with all the makings of an excellent officer. I could not get my head around his seeming indifference.
When I went to see the superintendent he was unavailable, so I unburdened myself to his aide. He informed me that what I had witnessed was no aberration; it had been going on for years. Hotels suffered thousands of dollars in damages yet made no formal complaint since they expected their rooms would get torn up and made up the loss and more on the steep prices charged for the rooms and services. I remained in disbelief until my faithful and knowledgeable adjutant clued me in. Even more troubling, in a meeting with the first class, Commandant Walker made light of the entire episode.
One of the anthems of the youth revolution held that “the times, they are a-changing.” The author was right, but I did not have to change with them. The way Vietnam was being fought more than indicated the army had serious systemic problems, but at the time it proved beyond my understanding as to why. After a year and a half at West Point, it became clearer. The army held up the Academy as the font of the values and virtues that sustain the vision and ideal of American officership, yet the institution condoned a whole litany of breaches of regulations, some even court-martial offenses. The leadership, tacs, and instructors all bent the honor code in ways never intended. Cadets knew this and abused the code and spent their time dreaming up novel ways to beat the system. This game had been going on since at least the days of Sylvanus Thayer, but it appeared to me more pernicious than before, with destructive and long-term implications. Cadets who played the game well at West Point learned how to use the system to their own advantage—whether for promotions or laying the foundation for success out of the army—as officers. And that system was failing in Vietnam. In times of distress and self-doubt I thought back to what Daddy always said, “Son, you do what’s right no matter what.” So I continued rigorously enforcing the letter of the rules. The cadets hated me as a regular Simon Legree. They would cross the street to avoid me when they saw me walking toward them. They thought the scar on my head was the product of a war wound, that a metal plate in my head made me so ornery. The cadre probably thought I was some unregenerate old brown shoe—which I was—and it certainly did not make life easy, but I remained true to my core beliefs.
In professional and personal terms, the time put in at West Point probably constituted my worst years in the army. For the family, it was probably the best, especially coming as it did after our separation during my year in Vietnam. The kids loved West Point. Our oldest, Jean, attended school in Highland Falls, made loads of friends, and earned a spot on the ski team. She became quite the accomplished skier. Because of my rank and position, Jeannie and I had a very active social life. The social demands were eased by having Collier and Ann Ross there. West Point was close enough that we decided to indulge ourselves with a ski trip to Vermont together with Bill and Mary Simpson. It turned into a disaster. First the high-price condo was a construction site, then we managed to lock the only set of keys in the car, and finally I blew a ligament in my knee and returned to West Point before our week was up.
The head surgeon, Lt. Col. John Feagin, decided the knee did not require an operation, immobilized the knee with a cast, and after six weeks put me in physiotherapy. For weeks on end I put in the work but never made the hoped-for progress. A number of cadets joined me, injured in the very tough physical regimen they followed. One, a football player, received clearance to play after having had knee surgery only six or eight weeks before. After all my months of physio, working harder than anyone else, I could not believe he could play football. The PE instructor looked at me, hesitated, and then said, “Sir, you are forty-three years old—twenty-two years older than that cadet.”
As could be expected, I had one further tussle with Walker before my tour ended. At one of our regular meetings with the commandant, he briefed us on officer assignments for the coming summer. Walker instructed me to write an officer slated for duty at West Point to cut short his leave by one month and report for duty. I thought the incoming officer deserved his leave, but that was not up to me. Disinclined to write the letter, I went to the person who handled personnel matters, the commandant’s adjutant. The letter never went out, the officer took his leave, and a glaring vacancy appeared in the summer roster. Walker called me in. I related what happened, and he made no effort to disguise his intense displeasure. He later expressed that irritation in my efficiency report.
Before General Rogers left West Point to take command of the Fifth Infantry Division (Mechanized) at Fort Carson, I petitioned for an assignment under him. He seemed surprised by my wanting a reassignment from West Point but assured me if that was what I wanted he would do what he could. In spring 1970 both Collier Ross and I received notification of our assignment to Carson as brigade commanders. We would be cutting our programmed three-year tour at West Point short by one year; Rogers had come through. I was very pleased to have this opportunity to work for him again and return to troop duty.