| Summary: | Transcript of an oral history interview with Robert William Christie, conducted by Jennifer Payne on 21 November 2013, as part of the Norwich Voices oral history project of the Sullivan Museum and History Center. Dr. Robert W. Christie matriculated at Norwich University in 1940, the youngest member of his class. Although he is an alumnus of the class of 1944, he did not graduate until 1947 due to service in World War II. Dr. Christie received his M. D. from SUNY College of Medicine in 1951. He practiced medicine in Northfield, Vermont, 1952-1954, then specialized in pathology and practiced as a pathologist at seven hospitals in northern New Hampshire and Vermont. He discusses his experiences in the military as well as at Norwich University and as a physician in his interview. 1 Robert W. Christie, NU ‘44, Oral History Interview November 21, 2013 At the Kendal at Hanover Continuing Care Retirement Community 80 Lyme Rd, Hanover, NH 03755 Interviewed by Jennifer Payne JENNIFER PAYNE: This is Jennifer Payne with the Norwich Voices Oral History Project. Today’s date is November 21st, 2013, and I am with Robert W. Christie—class of ’44—and we are at Kendal at Hanover Continuing Care Community at 80 Lyme Rd. in Hanover, New Hampshire. Thank you, Dr. Christie for agreeing to be with us today and to do an oral history. ROBERT W. CHRISTIE: Thank you Jennifer. It’s a pleasure and, I believe, a privilege to be able to do this. I’ve called a few things that I’ve written to augment this oral history, and I’ll start off with the Independence Day celebration address that I delivered at the Dartmouth College Green in Hanover, New Hampshire on July 4th, 2012. JP: Thank you. RC: “I believe I was asked to speak here today because I am one of the contributors to—as well as one of the editors of—Kendal at Hanover’s recent book of memoirs, “World War II Remembered”. My comments will be about some local history, some personal history, some family history, and a few beliefs that I hope you may find to be of interest, and perhaps even instructive. I will conclude by offering you a challenge. (break in audio) JP: -- now. OK. RC: I will conclude by offering you a challenge. First, the local history. My alma mater is Norwich University, the country’s oldest private military college, which was founded in 1819 right across the Connecticut River in Norwich, Vermont. Its initial enrollment, as I recall, was 17 male cadets. Captain Alden Partridge, its founder, attended Dartmouth and later became superintendent of the US military academy at West Point. Partridge, an American education visionary, believed that Norwich University’s graduates should be trained to lead in times of 2 peace, as well as in times of war. The concept of land-grant colleges, and ultimately the nation’s reserve officers’ training program—ROTC—were founded at Norwich University. The first land-grant college bill was introduced by Representative Justin Smith Morrill of Vermont in 1857—using Norwich University as a model and prototype—and was enacted into law in 1862. The mission of these institutions, which include Cornell University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, as set forth in the 1862, was to focus on the teaching of practical agriculture, science, military science, and engineering—without excluding classical studies. I might add here that, during the Civil War, many of the Confederate Army officers were West Pointers—were West Point graduates, who had defected to the Confederacy, and many others were from the numerous state-supported military schools and colleges scattered throughout the South at that time. The Citadel and VMI are two examples. The only source of professionally trained officers in the Union army in the Civil War were graduates of West Point and Norwich University. Norwich University now resides in Northfield, Vermont, following a disastrous fire in 1866. An apocryphal tale has it that the university’s old south barracks burned to the ground as an act of arson by Dartmouth College students who were intensely jealous of the attention Norwich’s men in uniform were getting from the local young ladies. Since 1972, Norwich has been --“ (break in audio) RC: “--teen-seventy-two Norwich has been co-ed—the first military college to become so. It now has an enrollment of over 2,000, including both cadets and civilian students. Last year, as I recall, the highest ranking cadet regimental officer, and one or two of the battalion commanders, were women.” (break in audio) RC: I think I was a trustee during that time at Norwich, and I might have been involved in the discussions about integrating women into the Norwich family. So -- JP: That would be fascinating.3 RC: OK. Go back to. JP: Sure. Yeah. RC: “Next, some personal history. I spent eight years in the military. Three in horse cavalry ROTC at Norwich, and as an enlisted man and commissioned officer in the US Army. Horse cavalry had become obsolete, and I ended up in armor—tanks. My military occupational specialty—MOS—was tank unit commander. My military experience overseas in World War II was in the ETO—the European Theatre of Operations. I joined the 33rd Armored Regiment of the Third Armored Division. At the beginning, the Ardennes offensive—the so-called “Battle of the Bulge”. The Third Armored Division was the spearhead of the First Army. My combat service was as its tank platoon leader, and eventually the company commander in a medium tank battalion. My promotion to company commander had much to do with fate, luck, and the attrition—300%—in men and equipment that the Third Armored Division experienced. From its going ashore in Normandy, until the end of the war. I moved up in command as my company’s more senior officers were killed, wounded, or rotated. (break in audio) RC: “and a result of the attrition—300%—in men and equipment, that the Third Armored Division experienced. From its going ashore in Normandy, until the end of the war. I moved up in command as my company’s more senior officers were killed or wounded. When the war ended at the Elbe River in Germany, we met the Russians, who had just arrived at the other side of that river. My survival and presence here today has a lot to do with my following one of Murphy’s rules of combat: ‘Never follow anyone braver than yourself.’ Unless, of course, my company’s orders from the battalion headquarters were taking that next objective, move out. I never felt brave or heroic. I just followed orders and trusted that I would somehow survive. It never really occurred to me emotionally that I would be killed. Now, some family history. On my mother’s side of the family, my great-great-great-Grandfather, Johnathon Hildrith was a captain in the militia raised in Chesterfield, New Hampshire, and fought in the Revolutionary War’s Battle of 4 Bennington in 1777 [sic]. I guess that makes me a son of the American Revolution—comparable to the Daughters of the American Revolution, whose name is much more familiar than the sons’. My great-Grandfather, on my father’s side, George H. Weeks, was a sergeant promoted to first lieutenant in the Union army in the Civil War. American Civil War records show that as a member of the New York 115th infantry regiment, over his three years of service, he fought in 57 battles and scrimmages in Maryland, at Harpers Ferry, and Fredericksburg, Virginia—as well as in Florida, North Carolina, and Maryland. My father, George R. Christie, who’s trained as a pilot and commissioned as a second lieutenant in the army’s fledgling Air Corps in 1917—18. His memoir, “Wooden Props and Canvas Wings” tells, with humor and candor, what that experience and learning to fly was like in World War I. My younger brother, George R. Christie, Jr., enlisted in the army and was a parachute infantryman, AKA paratrooper. But fortunately, he did not have to serve in combat because Japan surrendered and World War II ended. He did, however, have to jump out of moving airplanes while in the air. And here are some of my beliefs. Perhaps my family history has led you to think that I am a hardcore, super patriotic, militarist by family tradition. Far from it. I found out firsthand what war was like, and I would like to see it disappear from the face of the Earth. But I fear it will not. I suspect war is built into the genome of the third chimpanzee. That’s us, as Jared Diamond has characterized Homo sapiens in his book of that title, “The Third Chimpanzee”. Anthropologist Jane Goodall describes troops of lower world-order chimpanzees systematically annihilating other troops whose territory they’ve coveted. Will and Ariel Durant, authors of the 11-volume, “The Story of Civilization” followed it in 1968 with a concise summary book, “The Lessons of History”. I reread that 117-page book every New Year’s Day. The Durants’ chapter on war is not encouraging. Here is a quote: ‘In the 3,421 years of recorded history, only 268 have seen no war.’ Now, in 2012, you can add on another 44 years, and make that 268 out of 3,465 years. 5 Here are eight things that I believe to be true. War and religion are the two great constants in civilization’s history. In our time, overpopulation of the Earth is a fundamental cause of most of the world’s problems, especially war. Human ignorance, greed, religious conflicts, and weapons of mass destruction come next. In that order. If a country does not adapt, and prepare for war imaginatively and continually, others who have so prepared, will overcome it. The British were slow to find that out during our Revolutionary War when the colonials used the ungentlemanly tactics of guerrilla warfare over a period of seven years, to force the British to surrender. Number four, terrorists and drones are now the guerrilla equivalence of 21st century warfare. Number five, in warfare, science prevails. Prayer vigils and marches for peace, unfortunately, have not been shown to be effective. The world’s acknowledgement of the overwhelming military and economic power of the United States is what has prevented, so far, another world conflict. Number six, American democracy—based, perhaps, on its Anglo-Saxon beginnings in English with the Magna Carta—shines as a beacon of hope to the rest of the world. Number seven, democracy cannot be exported. It has to arise from within a people, as did ours here in the United States. And number eight, our democracy along with liberty, must not be taken for granted. It must be nurtured, defended, and—when necessary—fought for when others threaten. So I am an unapologetic patriot, staunch believer in liberty, our constitution, and our way of government—with all its flaws. Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis stated, ‘Our country’s founders believed liberty to be the secret of happiness, and courage to be the secret of liberty.’ So here’s my challenge to you. On this day of celebration of our independence, for which so many Americans before us have given their lives—I challenge each of you to carry in your heart that secret of happiness. The flame of liberty. And to accept the responsibility and courage to preserve and hold high the torch that carries that flame. May God bless each of you. May God bless our independence. May God continue to bless America.” So that’s the end of that. RC: I almost flunked out of OCS because my voice projection was inadequate in the eyes—or ears—of “Natty Bumppo” who was the “Tac Officer” for our class at OCS at Fort Knox. And he told 6 me he was going to wash me out if I didn’t improve, and he gave me a week to improve my voice as I spoke—that I would use in commanding troops. So I did. Very carefully, I went out behind the barracks and talked loudly and focused and so on. And so, a week later, he had me take charge of the company—the OCS company that I was in—and had me lead them on the parade ground by giving voice commands of which way to turn, where to stop, so on. Incidentally, as a footnote, my father almost flunked out of flight school at Cornell—pre-flight school—because—for the same reason—he was not giving commands loudly enough! And as a result, he had to, once again, command his troops on the parade ground. And during that exercise, he managed to march them into the side of the barracks. Which again, almost flunked him out of OCS. But my father was survivor, and he survived that, too, and went on and graduated from the pre-flight training, and went on to learn to fly in Arkansas. JP: Oh, my. So, where were you born? RC: I was born in Mineola, New York. My father said that the hospital in Mineola was in Nassau County on Long Island, and my mother was supposed to have a delivery date—which had passed by—and so, they got out in the car and drove around in the hopes that driving around would stimulate labor. And they were going through Mineola, and she started to have labor pains, so they drove right up to the hospital, and there she stayed until she underwent the delivery. So that’s why I was born in Mineola, New York. But both my parents were New York City folk for generations. And I actually lived in New York from time to time, and—but most of my boyhood, and going up to public high school, was in Freeport, New York—which is also on Long Island. But the—when people ask me where I’m from, I always tell them I’m a New Yorker because I really feel I have that accent—and I just feel like that was where I came from. OK? JP: Yes. That’s great. Why did you—how did you decide on Norwich? RC: Well, that’s an interesting question. Actually I didn’t decide. My father decided. My father was an employee of the Standard Oil Company of New York all his life. And he moved up in the ranks—so to speak—and it was the—talking to some of the—of his colleagues in the fuel oil 7 division. And he said, you know my son is thinking about going to college. Do you guys—you’re all college graduates—do you have any suggestions to give me? Because I never graduated from college and my wife never graduated from college. And so, we don’t know where to start. So, one of the guys during this conversation happened to be a Norwich trustee. And he said, George, I know just where your son should go. And he said, Norwich University. It’s a beautiful location up in Vermont. It’s a wonderful school. I’m a graduate myself, and he should go there. And my father said, well you know, I’ve been thinking about seeing whether I could get Bob into West Point, but I don’t have any political connections—and he just went to a public high school, and wasn’t a particularly outstanding student, so I don’t think that will ever happen. And this other fellow—whose name was [Fred Coburn?] [00:21:46] a Norwich trustee—said, well you’ll get the same kind of training at Norwich that you would have gotten at West Point. And he said, you know, I think that we can agree there’s a war coming. This was back in 1940. And you’ve been in the army, you know that officers are treated better than enlisted men in the service, and when he finishes his experience at Norwich, he’ll be commissioned a second lieutenant from the ROTC. So my father came home and told me the story, and said, that’s where I think you ought to go. I was a good boy. I always followed what my mother and father told me to do. So I said, OK, Dad. And he said, I’ll write the checks and we’ll go up there when we find out whether you’ve been accepted or not. And sure enough, I was accepted readily. Because getting into Norwich was not a problem in those days—there were very few applicants, as it turned out—and they, Norwich, was really very happy to have anybody show up who wanted to go to Norwich. So I never set foot on the Norwich campus until the day my mother and father drove me up to Northfield, Vermont. And neither of them had ever been in Vermont themselves. They dropped me off at the parade ground. I gave them a big hug, and they drove off, and I never saw them again on that particular location until my graduation seven years later in 1947. After the war. So, that was my introduction to Norwich University. JP: And your major was a chemistry—you were a chemistry major --8 RC: Well, yeah. That’s another story. I said, “Pop, you know, I don’t know anything about college. How do you know what kind of courses to take?” And he said, “Well, you know, son, the chemists in this company do exceptionally well. And he said that they’re well paid and they have interesting job. Why don’t you take courses in chemistry?” That’s how I became a chem major. I wasn’t an outstanding high school chemistry student, but my father told me it was a good idea. So, being a good boy. And incidentally, I was the youngest man—next to the youngest man in my class of 1944, when I matriculated. Gerry Collins was the only one who was a few weeks younger than I was, and we were both 16-years old. JP: You were 16. You graduated from high school and were at Norwich at 16? RC: Well, and that’s another story in itself because my whole career at Norwich—in those first three years before I went into the service—I was just not of the same mindset of the rest of my classmates. They were one year older, one year more experienced, been out with more girls, done more things, and so on. And I just felt—and I really actually was—kind of a misfit. And I always was a—you know—I wasn’t a momma’s boy, or a daddy’s boy, but I always was a—I followed what my family told me to do. And that wasn’t what most of my classmates experienced, I bet. And so—and that feeling dogged me through the first three years of college, and I did not terribly enjoy Norwich as a cadet—for that reason. I didn’t realize it at the time, but when I got back, and put in my final year—after having been in the army, been through the war, and all of my classmates at that time—I caught up with them. Let me leave it at that. I felt very comfortable my senior year, when I was at Norwich. The first three years, they were not good years for me. JP: Oh. Did you join a fraternity? RC: Because I was a social misfit, I was never invited to enjoy the privilege of being tapped for a fraternity. It was only when I came back to Norwich, as a veteran, that—over at Theta Chi—which started at Norwich University – they invited me to come and join the fraternity. A lot of my friends were there, so I did. So that’s my fraternity history.9 JP: But you were—you were editor of the “Guidon”? RC: Well, I would have been—in my senior year—I had worked up from the reporter, to assistant managing editor, to managing editor, and I was actually putting down—putting the newspaper together—the “Guidon”—and I used to go down to John Mazuzan's office. He was a Norwich graduate, and he published the “Northfield News”—the Northfield newspaper—and I used to set type down in his printshop for the headlines of the next issue of the “Guidon”. So that’s really—I think—where I got hooked on writing, publishing, editing—which exist through—have existed through my lifetime. JP: You’ve written five books, at least? RC: Yeah. JP: Yeah. So, I was going to ask what you did to relax. But you didn’t—didn’t really -- RC: Well, that’s another story. At Norwich, in those days, you didn’t relax. I mean, if you were an engineer major—civil, electrical, whatever, mechanical—or you were a chem major—you had lab every afternoon, except those afternoons when you were on the parade ground, or down at the riding hall. And there was no free time. And you went to bed at taps, you got up at reveille, and you didn’t relax. It was go, go, go. But, you know, for a kid my age—a teenager—that was life. And this is what you did when you went to a military college. I didn’t know any different. JP: My gosh. What was your least favorite class at Norwich? RC: Well, if you were a chem major, you had to take scientific German. Not something you learn to speak, but you had to read—learn to read German. The reason being—purported reason—was that so much of the chemical—chemistry literature at that time, was written in German. Because all of the chemistry research was going on in Germany in the early 19—late 19th—early 20th—and throughout the 20th century. So if you wanted to be a chemist, and you wanted to be able to read the chem literature, you needed to be able to read German. And I didn’t enjoy that at all. And also, I must say, that it wasn’t all bad. Because, having been in Germany afterward—and having some familiarity with the language—and not having learned it to speak, or really 10 understand it as it’s spoken, but to only to read and to write—it was helpful to me, because I ended up as a—in the Constabulary—which, incidentally, General Harmon was the commanding general of—after the war—the Third Armored Division became morphed into the Constabulary—which was essentially a state police organization—and we were training new recruits coming overseas to be, essentially, state police officers—rather than people going out killing people, which is what we were originally trained to do, and what we actually did during the war. So I got to know German well enough. It was called Schlafzimmer Deutsch—Bedroom Deutsch. I think you get the connection. And so you get to use a lot of the language necessary to get along. And my job, as a troop commander in the Constabulary in the city of Ulm was to run the city through the Bürgermeister, the mayor. And so the Bürgermeister used to come to me every morning to get his orders of what the Constabulary wanted him to be doing or not doing. And so, you know, I had to carry on a conversation with him, and he spoke some English and I spoke some Deutsch, and we were able to communicate. So this course that I took at Norwich was not completely lost. JP: You may not have enjoyed it at the time, but -- RC: No. JP: Was there -- RC: But that’s true of so many things in life, you know? You just never know how things are going to be useful, not useful—you regret them, you enjoy them later on—never realizing how important they might be in your life. Incidentally, I notice that I’m dropping my voice at the end of—do I don’t know whether that’s not coming through well. JP: You’re still—when you talk, it goes up to the orange, so—mine isn’t—let’s see—upped it a little bit. I’ll keep an eye on it, but you’re looking—looking good. RC: You mean, I’m hearing good.11 JP: Yes. Yeah. Well, I look at this, and as long as you go in—up to the orange—you’re fine. We don’t want you in the red a lot, because then it could clip—although I’ve never had that happen—but so far, so good. Was there a favorite instructor at Norwich who you had? RC: Well, I had two—three. Perley Baker1 who was a professor of chemistry. Shorty Hamilton2 who was next in command. They had both been in the—in World War I, and they had been in the chemical warfare departments. And I liked them both. Absolutely different personality. Perley Baker stood up straight, was well-dressed, uniform, trousers creased, so on. Shorty Hamilton was a bit of a slob, if I may say so—very relaxed—very laid back, Vermont-type personality. And we all were respectful of Perley Baker, but we all enjoyed the presence of Shorty Hamilton. I’ll put it that way. And if you had a problem, you’d enjoy talking to Shorty rather than Perley. That does not mean that we didn’t think a lot of Perley. The third guy—I’ve forgotten his first name—his last name was Taylor.3 He was a civilian. He was very uncomfortable in uniform. I think he was at Norwich as an instructor in English because somehow he thought he might not have to go into the real service if he was a professor at Norwich. Anyhow, it didn’t turn out that way because Norwich closed, and I don’t know where he went. Never—but he taught English. And I loved that course. That’s where, incidentally, the term “Natty Bumppo” came from because some of the readings that I did were Nathaniel Hawthorne.4 And it may not have been American history that he taught. It might have been teaching American literature—I think that was it—and we did a lot of reading of American literature. And I really enjoyed that. And I realized—I’ve realized, latterly in my life, that I should have been an English major, not a chem major. But, you know, I was on the Dean’s List all the time, so it wasn’t completely lost. JP: For the audience, can you explain who Natty Bumppo is? For those not familiar. 1 Perley Dustin Baker, Professor of Chemistry 2 Harold Chapman Hamilton, Professor of Chemistry 3 Ralph Carlyle Taylor, Assistant Professor of English 4 Natty Bumpo is the protagonist of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales.12 RC: Natty Bumppo was a comical character in Nathaniel Hawthorne. I’ve forgotten all the details, but if we can break right now -- (break in audio) JP: And we’re back with Dr. Christie. So, let me ask you. Do you remember any funny stories about life or people at Norwich? RC: Well, after so many years, it’s hard to recall. But one funny story that I actually described in a publication here at Kendal, was a small essay called “Life’s Darkest Moment” or “The Day I Goosed Shorty Hamilton”. So I’m going to read this little essay. “It was one of those Tuesday or Thursday afternoons when all those of my classmates majoring in liberal arts were either back in their barracks doing Chinese infantry drill, i.e., sacked out, or walking towards around the upper parade of Norwich University to work off excess demerits, or sweating on an athletic field for some jock team. The sophomore chemistry majors—guys like myself—were doing the lab exercise requisite to quantitative—or maybe it was qualitative—analysis, down in the dingy basement labs of Dodge Hall. Major Shorty Hamilton—his real first name, I believe, is Harold, but I’m not sure. Major Shorty Hamilton and Lieutenant Perley Baker were the two professors staffing the chemistry department. Both had graduated from Norwich, and both had served in the US Army. Each was rather austere. Perley always looked spit-and-polish military, with his neatly trimmed mustache, the bright silver leaves on one side of his cocky blouse’s lapel, and cross-flasks of the army’s chemical warfare department on the other. And a Sam Brown belt tightly buckled over his upper torso. I always felt that he was the very essence of a Norwich faculty member. “Shorty” was what cadets called Major Hamilton when he wasn’t within earshot. My recollection is that his first name was Harold, but the years have dulled my memory. Shorty was a bit more—no, a lot more—casual in his appearance than Lieutenant Colonel Baker. His was the appearance of a college professor who dressed as casually in his military uniform as regulations would permit. His uniform did not seem to have been tailored for him, but rather for Ichabod Crane. And although he was clean-shaven, he always looked a bit scruffy. Shorty was at 13 least six-foot six, and perhaps even taller. The only other person on the entire hill who was equally tall was my across-the-hall chemistry major classmate in my barracks, Jim Lombard. 5 [00:40:45] Jim always looked a day late and a dollar short, and a dead ringer for Shorty when viewed from behind. Well, the lab on this particular afternoon wore on, and there were those frequent intervals when certain laboratory maneuvers—such as filtering in a solution—consumed time that could not be usefully employed on much else except poring over the lab manual to make sure you had it right, checking your neighbors’ experiments for reassurance that you were not doing the wrong one, or even light horsing around to make time pass until a liquid in the funnel made its leisurely way through the Whatman filter and into the flask below. It was this last interval of waiting that lead to my downfall. (break in audio) RC: Since there were only uncomfortably high stools on which to perch while working at the bench, we often stood up and leaned on our elbows with our heads down over the manuals, trying to appear busy studying. To protect our uniforms from misdirected reagents, we wore long wrap-around aprons, and thus, one man’s back looked very much like another’s. In one of the intervals of waiting for things to happen chemically, I noticed Jim’s derrière sticking far out, as it always did when he bent over the bench across the aisle from my own—a consequence of his long torso. The opportunity was more than an 18-year old could resist at the moment. I had hardly swung an extended thumb at the end of my looping right arm at the inviting target. I connected this maneuver with a resounding thump that almost lifted Jim off the floor. Or at least I had thought it was Jim. Of course, it wasn’t. It was Major Hamilton. No cadet could ever have been more embarrassed than I was at that suspended moment. Although greatly surprised by this assault from behind, Shorty slowly drew himself up to his full height, and looked around to see the perpetrator of this bold and unseemly attack. His eyes centered on me through his steel-rimmed glasses, since I was the obvious culprit. I stammered, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I mistook you for someone 5 James E. Lombard14 else.’ I didn’t know what else to do, pass gas or wind my watch. The then current colloquial military aphorism appropriate for such extreme circumstances of mortification. The professor said not a word, but rather turned around and assumed his former position leaning over the bench top next to him. Of course, I expected to suffer some terrible fate as a result of this misadventure, but none occurred. No demerits, no report to the commandant of cadets, no invitation to discuss the matter further in the privacy of Shorty’s office. Nothing at all happened. But in a bleak, and laconic reference to the events came eleven years later. I was practicing general medicine in Northfield, Vermont where Norwich University is situated. Shorty, now retired from the faculty, came into my office as a new patient. Not having seen each other since my college days, we greeted one another warmly, and made some small talk as I addressed his relatively simple medical problem, which was easily solved. As was the custom in civility in those days, Shorty thanked me for my ministration, but then, on his way out—and halfway through the door—he turned, and with a broad smile, said wryly, ‘You know doctor, when I heard that you had become a physician, I thought that you would have specialized in proctology.’” JP: That’s a good story. RC: Well, it’s kind of unique to Norwich. JP: It certainly is. And well told—well told. Gosh. How did your training prepare you for your work life? RC: Well, I can’t really say that my training at Norwich prepared me for what I ultimately did with my life. And my life experiences have been so varied, and I’ve done so many different things at so many times, for so many different reasons, it’s hard to say that I was really prepared through anything that I learned at Norwich. Except a certain attitude about—I would say—responsibility and leadership. JP: What about both of those? What is it about responsibility? RC: Well, Norwich—as you know—attempts to train people as leaders. And one of the things that you learn as a leader, is that you’re responsible for the people that are under your command. And 15 since I was a corporal—promoted to corporal my sophomore year, I had a squad of cadets that I was responsible for. And learned that—also when I was down in the barn—the stables of course, is what they were called—my first responsibility was to my horse, before myself. The horse got watered, the horse got fed, the horse got groomed, before I took care of my own needs. So, I think those little things probably inculcated into my personality the importance of responsibility. JP: So you are the class agent for your class and—do you—you stay in touch with some of your classmates? RC: Well, I’ve stayed in touch with as many of my classmates as I was able to. The class agent before me was a fellow named Al Lockard6—good friend, a Theta Chi—and he, unfortunately, died suddenly after having both of his hips replaced. And while he was working out in post-op therapy, had a pulmonary embolism and died. And the irony is that before his operations, he and I had either spoken or corresponded. And I said, you know, Al, I would never have two major operations like that done at the same time because complications of being on an operating table for that protracted period is an additional hazard. He said, yeah, I know, but the physical therapy afterward—I don’t want to go through that twice. So that’s why I’m having both done. I said, OK, boy. And that was it. And sure enough, he had what I had predicted, unfortunately—a sudden, severe complications. So I took over from him as class agent. And that was many years ago. JP: You have correspondence in the archives between you and Perry Swirsky. How many years did you guys correspond? RC: Well, that’s an interesting question. Perry and I were roommates during my junior year. Perry and I had entirely different personalities. He was a Jew. He had entirely different life experiences from my own—had grown up in Springfield, Massachusetts. His father was a banker. He owned and operated a chain of furniture stores, and he was very well-off. And I didn’t have any contact with him at all after OCS because at OCS—when we graduated, we 6 Alan T Lockard16 spread to the winds. He went to Sicily and Italy as a tank unit commander. I went to France, Belgium, and Germany as a tank unit commander. And so, we just lost contact with each other. And he hated Norwich. I mean, I didn’t have a terribly great experience my first three years, but he hated them. First of all, he was one of only two Jews in my class. And he never really integrated with the class, and as a result, he felt like a loner and an outsider. And I, in my own way, also had those same feelings—for reasons I’ve already explained. I was too young, and hadn’t had enough of the experiences my classmates had had, and I always felt as—to be—in a way, a loner—and out of sync. So anyhow, that might have had something to do with the reason that we linked up as roommates during our junior year. Perry—if I may diverge—was a very interesting guy. Somewhere I have recorded—or recounted—the fact that there were two members of my class that I know were awarded silver stars during World War II. Perry was one of them, and another one whose name will occur to me in a moment—I’m having a senior moment—also was awarded a silver star at Bastogne during the Bulge in Belgium. Anyhow, back to Perry. Perry was a platoon leader in a brigade that was assigned to an Italian tank division. And the relationship between the American units and the Italian units was—according to Swirsky—pretty ad hoc. So he was commanded one day to take his platoon and to take the hill that this Italian major pointed out to him. And he said, when you get up there, hold your ground and don’t leave for any reason. And we’ll be up to relieve you. So Perry did just that. And on his way up, he was literally killing Italians and Germans who were on that hill. And then, because he couldn’t stand the thought of running his tank over a possibly wounded soldier—or even a dead one—he jumped out of his tank and was taking these bodies—living or dead—out of the way of his tanks and his platoon, as he went up this hill under fire. And then he held out at the top against a counter attack, which he and his platoon repelled. And then he found himself stranded. Nobody ever came to relieve him. So, after a while, he got his guys together and took them back down the hill. And he said, the Italians forgot he was there. He said, I didn’t do anything heroic, but I guess somebody thought it was worth a silver star, so that’s what happened 17 to me. Well, anyhow, that’s a story that I don’t think has been told enough times. But just the idea that he’s jumping out of his tank, under fire, to take wounded soldiers out of the way, so he wouldn’t run over them. I mean, the mindset—the moral—whatever it is inside him to make him want to do that—or need to do that. But that’s the kind of guy Perry was. Anyhow, at our 50th Norwich reunion, Perry and I got together again. He was awarded the Distance Cup for the guy who had traveled the furthest distance to come back to reunion. He had come from Israel. So that sort of cemented his relationship, I think, with his alma mater. Which had waned from a very weak beginning. But anyhow, he came back to his 50th. And he came and stayed at my home in Lancaster, New Hampshire after the reunion. And we really got to know each other, and our wives had a good time. And then I kept in contact with Perry, and he invited me to join him—he and his wife Betty were going to London for a week—and he said, why don’t you come over and join us? So I said, OK. My wife, Connie, wasn’t interested in going. So I flew over and met Perry at the hotel that he had suggested, and I went to check in, and I found out I was already checked in and my bill was paid in advance. So Perry and Betty and I had a ball for a week. We went to the theatre, we did everything. And, you know, after that it once again cemented our relationship. And then we started to write by cursive letters, then typewriters, then I started to send emails—and he didn’t have a computer—and I got on his butt a little bit and told him it was time he came into the 20th century. So he got a computer and we started to exchange emails. I kept a record of every email I got from him, and a copy of everything I sent to him—and kept them in a three-ring binder. And at the end of every year, I sent the binder over to Kreitzberg Library as part of the archives. And I did that until just this past month—October, 2013—when I got an email from Betty telling me the sad news that Perry had died. And of course, in those volumes of correspondence—which is mostly nonsense, inane stuff—but correspondence between two guys with similar backgrounds, similar experience, one living in Israel, one living in the State, talking about what’s going on in our country or town—and he lived in Ashkelon, which is about five kilometers from the Gaza Strip. So he used to report when the mortar shells were 18 being lobbed into Ashkelon, and they would hide in the stairwells of their apartment building—and so on. So all of this stuff, I think, is an important part of history. I’m so pleased that I decided to send that stuff to the archives. JP: I think that other researchers use it. I know I’ve used it. It’s a great resource. It’s, as you said, guys talking about world events with similar backgrounds. What advice would you give a rook today about how to survive and thrive? RC: Well, I—free advice, as you know, some said, “is the smallest coin of the realm,” but I give it freely and frequently. I give it to my children whether they want it or not. And I give it to anybody when I think that they need it. But anyhow, I don’t know what life is really like for a rook at Norwich now. All I know is what I remember back in the ‘40s. But I would say keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, keep out of trouble, work hard, learn responsibility and leadership. Beyond that, I don’t know what I could say. JP: Those are good. You have a poem that you wrote. Would you be interested in reading that? RC: Well, yeah. One of my avocations is poetry. I’m an amateur. I never taken a course in poetry or how to write it, every once in a while the muse seems to sit on my shoulder, and I have this tremendous urge to sit down and write something. And at first I thought I had to write rhyme verse, and I think that’s probably what kept me from writing poetry most of my life. But when I was on an expedition in Greenland and I kept a journal—which I self-published—it is also in the Kreitzberg Library. I found that I wrote some poems when I was in isolation, up on the icecap. And so I’m really surprised when I looked back and find that I’ve been writing fairly seriously for about 20 years—the last 20 years of my life. Why? I can’t explain. But anyhow, I can only write what I feel and what I believe. And a lot of it is counterintuitive, and politically incorrect, and whatever—but I wrote one poem that I used at a veteran’s luncheon that we had here at Kendal. And the poem is called “A Veteran Speaks”. And here it goes. “Intelligentsia, laugh if you will. Yea, sneer at the patriotic redneck fools who chance their lives and crouch in fear in cold foxholes for the likes of you. You, who take the high ground or the streets to stake out your 19 perception of the higher morality with placards shouting, “Peace! Peace!”, and then go home to a warm bed. Could it be that your God is neutral, and doesn’t give a damn whether peace or war prevails? You take as a given that God is only with you. You, who are on the side of peace. Could it be that peace is but an unstable interval granted by God for the rest between the wars he has ordained as a sorting out, according to one of his laws, the one that Darwin deciphered? If you were as wise as Sophocles, you would know that only death keeps time from inevitably eroding friendships—be they of men or of countries—bringing them inevitably to war. God must laugh at the prophets. Those mystical schizophrenics that even now show up in every land, and claim to have heard the voice of God speaking directly to them. Explaining his will, giving birth to the myths contrived to all and control the credulous. And when the prophetic religious move on to theocracies, and the great Theocracies then clash for the great sorting out—Darwinian style. Then, perhaps God smiles and says, it is good. Laughers and sneerers, moral high-grounders, you leave it to others to lose their lives, taking the high-ground on the battle field. Lives you think they gave in vain. In peace’s time, you finesse your turn to follow the action of someone else’s father, mother, cousin, forebear, who risked their lives for you with the love you have never comprehended. Too late, you may learn that you have never lived until you have almost died. And that for those who have had to fight for it, freedom is a flavor you—the protected—have never known, and cannot understand.” JP: Wow. Thank you. (break in audio) JP: So, in the book that you wrote with a couple of your classmates for your yearbook that never was—then and now. You talk about missing something—maybe—whether or not—no, it’s called “Do You Remember?” and one of them is the joy of being dragged out of the sack in the middle of the night for P-call, and then being sent for a cold shower when your personal plumbing refused to produce. What is P-call?20 RC: Well, P-call is “piss call,” and it was standard operating procedure to treat rooks in that way, as part of their growing up. And—what do you call that now? When you mistreat people? JP: Hazing. RC: Yeah. That was one of the hazing treatments that rooks were occasionally exposed to. And P-call was not only occasionally. I’ll mention one other experience that I had as a matter of hazing by my classmates. Was that Basil Burrell who was my roommate in my freshman year—were pretty straight arrows. He and I had similar personalities, went to the same church, we had the same standards, both went to public high schools. We just got along very well together. And Bass and I were taking what was euphemistically called “a ride” as a sort of hazing and discipline, and kind of a getting-even with people who were straight arrows, and who—incidentally—were whistle-blowers. Basil and I, living according to the code of honor and the rook handbook, said that if you see something that is wrong and against the rules, it is your responsibility to report it. JP: It’s still that way. Yeah. RC: So we saw guys cheating at an exam in a military class. And we said, hell, that ain’t right. So we reported it. Well, I learned an important life lesson right then. Whistle-blowers get in trouble. And Basil and I were taken for a ride one night—about 2:00 in the morning—it was the late fall or early spring—I don’t remember that it was in the dead of winter—and were taken in a car, blindfolded, and driven around for about twenty minutes—on what obviously were backroads—you could tell from, you know, from the rumple and the noise, and the tread of tires on the road—and they’d drop you off and leave you there to figure out how you’re going to get home. And so Basil and I went on a ride once, as retribution, I think, for the fact that we were whistle-blowers. So, that’s another level of hazing. And I must say that when I mentioned this anecdote to Russ Todd—a former Norwich president, and a Theta Chi whose butt I paddled as initiation to Theta Chi—and he looked at me and rolled his eyes in disbelief. He said, you mean that really happened? And I said, you’re damn right it happened. And I’ll tell you something else, I bet it’s 21 happening right now, right under the nose of the people who have written and our trying to enforce the honor code—whatever it may be. And he said, well, Bob, you may be right. JP: You mentioned that Perry was one of only two Jews at Norwich—and I know there was a fraternity of the Klan during the teens. Was there much antisemitism there? RC: There wasn’t expressed Semitism—antisemitism. And there weren’t really two Jews in my class, there were three—which is another anecdote, if you’re prepared for this? JP: Sure. RC: The day that my folks dropped me off on the parade at Norwich—my very first day—we were lined up by the company—the troop that we were assigned to. And we were told to line up according to alphabet—we had little tags on—and so we did that. And I was at one end, and there was another guy whose last name began with a ‘Y’ or a ‘Z’ at the other end. And in between were two Katzes—K-A-T-Z. The Katz were Isadore Katz and Sidney Katz, and once we were lined up, the second lieutenant in the army—who was assigned to the commandant of cadets—stood in front of us and said, OK. Now I want you to sound off, loud and clear, your last name first and then the first initial of your last name because that’s how you’ll be known here at Norwich. So we went down the line, got to me, and I was “Christie, R, sir.” Then it was the next guy, and whoever it was. Well, we got to Katz. And Lieutenant Kelly was standing there observing all of this, and it came to Isadore Katz. And he said, “Katz, I.” And the next one was Sidney Katz, and Sidney Katz said, “Katz, S.” Kelly broke up. And the whole exercise got out of control. But the sad part of the story is that Katz Ass—as he was forever known—I say forever, for the next three weeks that he lasted at Norwich as Katz Ass. He left. He just couldn’t stand that kind of treatment. And so there was only two Jews, and one was Izzy Katz, who was a good friend, paratrooper, never dropped in combat—which we reminded him of frequently. But anyhow, he and I were also on the “Guidon” staff, and we were on the War Whoop staff. So the then and now book, he and I worked together very closely. And we became very close friends. And he was a real New York Jewish type—wheeler dealer—he ran a Christmas tree farm in some 22 place up in northern Vermont. He was in show business, he was out in Hollywood, he was writing script and so on—wonderful guy—and I got to meet him again when he was living out in Tucson when I was visiting some of my wife’s relatives out there. So anyhow, that’s the story of Jews at Norwich in 1940-41—particularly of Katz, I and Perry Swirsky. JP: You mentioned earlier about being on the board of trustees when Loring Hart was president and considering adding women to the core. Do you want to talk about that at all? RC: Well, there isn’t an awful to talk about. It happened. I would say the majority of the alumni were against it. Just as, here at Dartmouth, when it integrated and had women, the alumni were up in arms. And it was only the strength of character of the president and the trustees—said, it’s going to happen. And that’s what happened with Norwich trustees and Loring Hart said, this is going to happen. It’s got to happen. And of course, this was before the civilian component. These were just women who were being integrated into the cadet corps. So, that was a big deal. JP: What were they afraid of? Not be obvious—not to be obtuse. RC: You know, in Fiddler on the Roof—it’s tradition. Tradition. This is a men’s college, it’s a military college. Women have no place in the military. You know, whatever. That’s history. Who would ever dream that there would be gay marriages in our time. JP: And Don’t Ask Don’t Tell got repealed. RC: Exactly. JP: Do you have anything else that you would like to add? Is there anything else you’d like to say? RC: Only to congratulate you and your tolerance of all that you’ve had to go through to take this interview. And I’m enjoying it immensely while it’s happening. And, again, it’s something for posterity, and that’s part of what I do. Litera scripta manet, the written word endures. I think the spoken word, in our time, also endures. Someone may be listening to this 100 years from now, wanting to wonder what life was like in the early 20th century at Norwich. JP: It has absolutely been my honor and pleasure to talk with you, Dr. Christie. Thank you so much. RC: Well, thank you so much.23 JP: All right. (break in audio) [1:18:51] JP: And we’re back with Dr. Christie, talking about his relationship with Dartmouth. RC: When I went to medical school, it was courtesy of the GI Bill and the Norwich Dean at the time, who made it possible for me to get into medical school without the preexisting courses that every pre-med has to take to apply to medical school. Zoology and comparative anatomy—which is dissecting cats and frogs and so on. The Dean at Norwich let me take freshman zoology and sophomore comparative anatomy in the pre-med program during my senior year, so that I would have the basic qualifications to apply to medical school. I had the good fortune to have a family friend who was on the admissions committee of the Long Island College of Medicine in Brooklyn, New York. I won’t go into further detail—that’s unnecessary—but anyhow, graduating from Norwich magna cum laude—having the World War II experience, the friendship of a member of the admissions committee of the medical school—all led to the fact that I was able to get into medical school at a time when GIs were coming back in droves—all with GI Bill opportunities ahead of them—and all trying to get into the existing colleges and universities. Well, I won’t go into further detail, but the Long Island College of Medicine morphed into the State University of New York. So although I matriculated into a private medical college in Brooklyn, I actually graduated from the State University of New York at New York City—which was the official name at the time. It’s now known as Downstate. And Downstate has an established academic history that I think has been accomplished since it was put together. The reason that SUNY was founded was that New York state found that they had no state university, much to their amazing. There were all kinds of private universities and colleges all over the state, but there was never any need for a state university. So they cobbled together one, and they needed medical schools, graduate schools, law schools, and so on. And Syracuse’s medical school—which was a private medical college, like Long Island College of Medicine—became the SUNY upstate medical school, and Long Island College became the downstate medical school. 24 And that’s the way they exist at the present time. Anyhow—with that little footnote—when it came year for me to graduate, I had just been very fortunate to graduate where I did in my class. Which was right about in the middle. You know, one thing that most people don’t realize—and it’s important—that 50% of the doctors in the Unites States graduated in the lower half of their medical school class. But anyhow—that being said—I did actually write two medical papers while I was a student—which sort of, I think, got me started on my writing career—which has continued to this day. Anyhow, these publications were the reason that I was awarded two prizes on the day of graduation, much to the consternation of most of the other students in my class who had graduated summa cud laude in medical school and wondering what this dumb guy was doing getting these awards. Well—a little background for that, too, is that the Long Island College of Medicine was in Brooklyn, and almost all of my classmates were Jewish. And I learned the lingo and I can spout a Yiddish phrase at the drop of a hat—which may have some relationship to the fact that Perry Swirsky and I got along so well. We used to exchange Yiddish aphorisms and so on. That being said—so all of my classmates—there was a Jewish quota—this is something else that is not known—during the early 19th century—in all medical schools, because the deans had their own association, and they—you may not want to record me—it’s not well known, but there was a Jewish quota when I went to Long Island College of Medicine—and there were a lot of bright Jewish kids—as you can imagine—in New York City, which included Queens, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Staten Island, Bronx—and they were excluded from medical school. They would apply, be turned down, but—being the kinds of folks they were—would say, OK, well we’ll go to CCNY or NYU or Queens College, and we’ll get a masters degree in physiology, and they would reapply. And every member of my class at Long Island College of Medicine who was Jewish, had a long history of applying and being turned down by medical schools all over the United States. But the ones that got into my class were the ones who had the persistence and the credentials to get in. So, that put a guy like myself—from Norwich, with its very limited background—in zoology and comparative anatomy, dissecting frogs with guys who had PhDs in 25 biochemistry and so on. And, you know, it showed up. I mean, I was a struggling student all through my first two years where it’s all classroom and very little clinical experience. Soon as I got into the clinical years, I was able to really play the game with all the rest of them. I could handle myself as well with patients as they could. And so, that was one of the reasons I was able to graduate. Not because of my academic record in my first two years. But—that having been said—it’s important that—the senior year was the first year of something called the intern matching program. Up until that time, everybody had to have an internship if they were going to be licensed in a state in the United States. It didn’t make any difference which state. They all required the fact that you had had an internship. In other words, that you had had some clinical experience. So, I listed in this first year of the matching program—a number of the hospitals that I knew in New York City—Bellevue and Roosevelt Hospital in Columbia, PNS—and the way things worked out, I had an opportunity to list one other out-of-city appointments that I would accept. And that turned out to be Mary Hitchcock Memorial Hospital in Hanover, New Hampshire. The reason I did that was that my freshman year of medical school, a fellow at my autopsy table—there were four of us who dissected the same cadaver—was a Dartmouth graduate, and he and I became close friends. We did a lot of visiting and traveling together. And he said, I’m going to take a tour of the hospitals up in northern New England. Would you like to come with me? And I did. And he and I visited the medical school at Burlington, and the one over here in Hanover. And when I—you know, I had loved being in Vermont, and the years that I had spent there—although it wasn’t all salubrious, the first three years. I did love Vermont and northern New England, and the idea—and I was married at the time—of just doing something different came to mind. And I said, oh, what the hell? So, the phone rang. Dartmouth called up the Mary Hitchcock hospital and said, would you accept an appointment as a rotating intern? There will be 11 other interns in your intern class. And I said, yeah, sure. Sign me up. And that’s how come I didn’t go to Bellevue or Roosevelt Hospital or Brooklyn hospital—I ended up going to Hitchcock hospital. From there, I went and finished my internship, did a year in internal 26 medicine—wanted to do what I went into medicine for in the first place. Be a family doctor. An emulation of my family doctor when I was growing up. JP: Really? RC: And so, a couple of Dartmouth medical school graduates were practicing over in Northfield, and they had a place called the Green Mountain Clinic. And they were looking for an associate, and they came to Dartmouth, and they made their needs known, and we got connected. And I said, what the hell? I’m not sure I want to be an internist. I’d like to see what it’s really like to practice medicine. So that’s how I got connected with being in practice—general practice for three years at Northfield. And, because of my Norwich background, Ernie Harmon—who was then the president—appointed me the university surgeon. Well, I wasn’t going to do any surgery at the university. But the three of us who were the doctors in the town at Green Mountain Clinic took turns taking sick call. And what we were called was—you know, in the army, when you’re the doctor, you’re the surgeon. You go down to see the surgeon because that’s what doctors did mostly in the army. So anyhow, that’s how I became the university surgeon, and it was my relationship with Ernie Harmon—which is a whole other set of stories—that led to that. Ernie was actually one of my patients for minor illnesses. He got most of his care at the VA hospital down here. But, you know, when he had a sore throat or a boil or something like that, he’d come down to the Green Mountain Clinic and be one of my patients. As was Shorty Hamilton, of course. Perley Baker. So I was well connected later on with the faculty. But that’s what my connection with Dartmouth reconnected me with Norwich. And when I got to Norwich, I was amongst a lot of Norwich alums—one of which was John Mazuzan, the fellow who had the printing office where I set type for the “Guidon”, and who actually printed up the “Guidon”. He was the one who did the Norwich record, and it was a very minor publication, I can assure you. And he asked me if I would work with him on the Norwich record. And so, I did, and before I knew it, I was a member of the Alumni Association. Because he was, in essence—because he was the publisher of the Norwich record of the Alumni Association. There was no association. 27 So he said, you know, I’m going to appoint you the Alumni Association president. So that’s how I became president of the Norwich Alumni Association. Well, that led to a slot on the board of trustee. When I finished being a trustee for five years, with Bob Hallam—another Norwich graduate -- JP: The engineer? RC: Yeah. And a very successful one. We were approached after we finished out final year by Jake Shapiro, who was a war hero in the Africa corps—was badly wounded—shot up there—but a very dedicated Norwich alumnus. And he and I got to be good friends. And he used to visit me because he was a business man with business over in Maine, and when he was traveling from wherever he was living at the time, he would always drop in at the farm where I was living. And we would have a couple drinks together, and sometimes dinner together. So Jake was a good friend. But that came later. But Jake said to Bob Hallam and myself, you know, we’ve been thinking as the trustees that it’s so damn sad that so many guys like yourselves, who have had all the experience in the Alumni Association—you’re graduates—and so on. And you go become a trustee, and there’s nothing beyond that for you to be involved with Norwich about—except maybe giving money. So Jake said, how would you guys like to start some kind of organization of fellows of Norwich University, who will sort of be in the background and be a means of continuity of active alums who have done a lot for the university, who have been connected in some way. And so, Bob Hallam and I—and the then commandant of cadets—got together and we set up the Board of Fellows, and I became the first president of the Board of Fellows, and was the president for—I don’t know—five or eight years—and did that. And so, I’ve just been connected with everybody—all the presidents and whatever—right along the line—and that, of course, explains my deep relationship—and continued relationship—with Norwich. And I doubt that the many of my peers here at Kendal have the kind of relationship with their alma mater that I’ve had with mine. For all the reasons that I’ve been talking about here. Oh, here I’ve run on for more --28 JP: That’s fine. I have to ask. If you’ve got a Harmon story -- RC: I do. Well, I have a couple of Harmon stories. JP: That’s fine. RC: The first was at the time I graduated from Norwich, when we came back as seniors. Of course, we were in uniform. And we were sort of mentors to the cadets. When they wanted to know what it was like in the real military—what combat was like, all that stuff. You know, they’d—we’d have a beer together up at the tavern and—you know, we got an unofficial role—but anyhow, we were in uniform. The day I graduated, Ernie Harmon was on the stage. He was not the president at the time, but I think he might have given the graduation address. “Ol’ Gravel Voice” he was called, and he gave a wonderful talk. And I—you know—he was the CG of the Second Armored Division in Africa and Sicily—not sure Africa, but I know in Sicily and Italy—and then he went to the ETO, and he was involved, as I was, in the Battle of the Bulge. So we had this loose relationship. Well, walking across the stage to get my diploma, Ernie sees my Third Armored Division patch on one shoulder of my uniform, and the Constabulary patch on the other. And of course, he had been the commanding general of the Constabulary—which my division had become, as I previously accounted as the kind of occupation police force in Germany. Well, I was the troop commander of my Constabulary troop in Ulm and the discipline was a little loose in my troop. I have to admit that. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what was right, or what should be done. But, you know, the war was over, I was waiting to go home, and I wasn’t a spit and polish guy in my troop. It ran very well, everybody was happy, no suicides or anything like that. But anyhow, who should arrive on the scene in Goering’s private train—which he had commandeered after the war. It was painted with a big Constabulary signature on the side—same as on the patch on my shoulder—and out of it stepped Ernie Harmon to inspect my troop, unannounced. Well, he came up to where we were, and he found a few things he didn’t like. One was that a recent recruit was standing around doing nothing in particular when Ernie thought he should be doing something in particular. He didn’t care what it was, but he should be 29 doing something. Well, unfortunately, a buck sergeant—recently over from the States, not part of the combat experience—was in charge of this group of other new recruits. And this guy, this buck sergeant, was sweeping off the steps of the mess hall. And when Ernie Harmon saw a buck sergeant sweeping the steps, with privates standing around doing nothing, he exploded. And he started to chew, and he started at the bottom, and he chewed right up through the privates, through the corporals, through the sergeants, through the top sergeant, through the lieutenants, through the captain—that was me—and he said, Christie, I don’t want to have anything like this happen under your command. Understand that? Yes, sir. Well, things tightened up after that, of course. Although, he never did come back. And I came home a couple of months after that. But that was my first experience—face to face—with Ernie Harmon. Which is the prelude to what happened when I picked up my diploma from his hand. He looked at my patches and gave a kind of quizzical look, and he said,
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