by Jake Aaron
******
Honored as a delegate to New Mexico Boys State, Gunnar attended the week-long educational symposium on the campus of New Mexico Military Institute that summer. The barracks setting, formations in the quadrangle, mess hall, and bunk beds gave him a nibble of academy life. Overall, he counted the experience as great lesson in the give-and-take of politics. He entered thinking the power of his ideas would propel him to leadership in the mock state government. They did not. He left with the knowledge that networking was everything. Contacts, he said, were more valuable than logic.
I was glad to not attend any such gaggle. I was not into politics or anything having to do with big groups. That was not sour grapes. I would have turned down the opportunity as a waste of my valuable time. I didn’t like compromise or its mediocre results, and I didn’t like people full of themselves.
The next time Glen was over for supper, he and Gunnar discussed Boys State at length. Glen was rapt. His opinion was that Gunnar got the biggest take-away of Boys State — knowing the right people was the critical key to getting most things done in this world.
The same night I remember what became a recurrent dream. In the dream Gunnar and I were playing kick ball at White Sands. Just as he kicked the ball, a black semi-trailer truck roared over the dunes. It fatally hit Gunnar and disappeared over another dune. I woke in a cold sweat. I threw back my top sheet and went to Gunnar’s room to find him safe.
******
Later in the summer, Gunnar and I were selected for two-month summer intern programs at Holloman AFB. Gunnar worked in Guidance and Control, developing inertial missile control systems for the Air Force. I interned in the biomedical area monitoring the chimpanzees that occasionally rode the rocket sled on 5000-feet of nearby track. It was good that we had our Vespas, because the work sites’ satellite operations were many miles from the center of the base, meaning a further commute from Alamogordo.
Gunnar met some interesting recent grads of engineering programs from UC Berkeley, Notre Dame, Oklahoma State, and the University of Chicago. He also met some more senior Air Force engineers who graduated from West Point and Annapolis. They had taken their commissions in the Air Force. He took every opportunity to pump them for information on each academy, from the mechanics of academy admission to the typical day there.
I learned a lot from veterinarians about biology, in general, and chimps, in particular. I was surer than ever that medicine was in my future.
Each night, Gunnar and I playfully argued over who was the senior GS-1. Later, Gunnar told me that was like debating who was the senior second lieutenant; it didn’t matter.
Gunnar knew he had to step up his program to qualify for a military academy. He applied to the Air Force Academy, Annapolis, and West Point. He leaned toward the latter two because of their long histories. If he went to West Point or Annapolis, he also might be able to get his commission in the Air Force and fly jets. Of those two, he preferred West Point. He thought he had the academic side nailed. He needed to concentrate on the physical side. He also knew that being on a sports team was a plus, so he tried out for the B-squad of basketball. He was crushed when he was cut after a week. He was pretty good at basketball, but a total unknown to the coaching staff. That didn’t stop him from the intramural league and grabbing every opportunity to play. He added on a routine of weight lifting, calisthenics, and running. My twin brother was starting to look like Superman.
I heeded my dad’s advice about not bulking up. He said he knew a lot of jocks who couldn’t control their weight as they aged. I did occasionally work out with Gunnar if I didn’t have to study. We challenged each other to swim a mile a day starting when the pool reopened in the spring.
As if Gunnar did not have enough motivation, “The West Point Story” aired on national television. Gunnar took notes. He was convinced that there was too much literary license in the series. He saved questions for the officers he had met at Holloman AFB over the summer. “Funny thing,” he said, “every time they talk about their experience, it’s as if they had stepped into some alien world at the academy. They also are not very articulate in explaining their experiences. Their eyes go unfocused, and their expression says, ‘I can’t tell you, kid. You just have live it.’”
In the spring, Gunnar and I went to our first prom. When we compared notes at breakfast the next morning, we had almost duplicate assessments. We had anticipated too much. We were disappointed. I wasn’t sure I would even bother next year.
Seniors in High School
Senior year was memorable and jam-packed.
Gunnar got the year off to a great start. He really started breaking out of the box classmates had put him in. He was really dissatisfied with school social events, so he floated the idea of a first-ever Columbus Day dance. With three days to get it done, he was repeatedly rebuffed with the words, “It can’t be done.” That made him even more determined. He called on friends, teachers, the principal, and me — as many times as it took. He pulled it off. Everyone had fun. Part of its appeal was the lack of folderol that inevitably came with events like homecoming and proms. That’s why I enjoyed it, anyway.
Gunnar and I were a formidable debate team. Junior year we had often won on sheer intelligence and will power. Our fortes were detailed research and creative strategy. Gunnar used his powers of analysis to read broadly on the national topic and compile an impressive deck of categorized 3 x 5 index cards. That was in stark contrast to the majority of debaters who were content to read the standard texts recommended by the National Forensics League and regurgitate what they’d heard others say. I looked at different ways to put the facts together, including the counter plan. Now and then with a counter plan, we liked to stipulate to the problems cited by the affirmative side and then present a plan better than theirs for fixing the problems. It had a way of knocking the opposing team off balance.
October 4, 1957, Russia’s success at launching Sputnik 1 into earth orbit shook the United States like a grizzly bear going after a huckleberry bush. It appeared that the Soviet Union overnight had the upper hand in the nuclear arms race in the prolonged Cold War. Not only did the Soviet Union have the edge in intercontinental missiles, it seemed to have technological leadership in all science and engineering. The news reinforced Gunnar’s conviction that his path of concentrating on advanced math and science was the right one. Indeed, both the Naval Academy and West Point demanded a major in engineering. The boy who loved model airplanes and military aircraft was a natural for that college major.
The Nation’s newfound focus on winning the Space Race inspired Gunnar to add to the inventory of his scientific interests. He studied all of the library’s books on rockets and missiles. He watched every newsfeed on space launches. He wrote to the major defense contractors for pictures of their aerospace vehicles. As a result, he had an entire wall of pictures showing their aerospace vehicles in various phases of flight. His vocabulary expanded to include air-to-air, air-to-ground, and ground-to-air missiles. He insisted on precise use of the terms intermediate-range missile and intercontinental ballistic missile. His expertise was such that he was asked to give lectures to various science classes at school on the history and principles of rocket flight. One science teacher who taught night school at Holloman AFB even had Gunnar teach the subject one evening to airmen.
I continued with the advanced math and biology track. I felt somewhat out of the limelight, especially when Gunnar and his hard-science buddies were designing and launching rockets in their spare time. We certainly lived in the right area for them. For real-life inspiration, often they could see overhead the zig-zag trail of a Nike Hercules missile launched at the New Mexico Joint Guided Missile Test Range or a terrain-following Mace missile launched from Holloman AFB on its way to Utah. For amateur rocket enthusiasts, the wide-open desert presented an ideal playground.
The SATs were a major event for the year. I did well on the tests because I felt they were a non-event. I thought you really couldn't cram for
something you’d already spent years on. Gunnar felt they were the key to getting into an academy. He studied and took practice tests. Even after doing well on the first go, he retook the SAT to do better — and he did. He was sure that helped his competitiveness for a service academy.
At the time, political connections were a big player in getting a nomination to a service academy. We did not have that kind of influence. Gunnar refused to play the Glen card. In spite of that, Gunnar got separate telegrams in the spring that he had a congressional nominations for the Naval Academy at Annapolis and the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. I was sure his score of 788 in the advanced mathematics portion of the SAT made him a sought-after candidate. That meant he missed one question in that difficult exam. Despite his successes, he was let down that he was an alternate for West Point. The airing of the series, “Men of Annapolis,” on national television helped him feel better about his second choice’s coming through.
When Glen did his yearly visit, Gunnar shot nearly as well as I did. He had been practicing. Gunnar transitioned the conversation from his shooting ability to marksmanship training on the M-1 at West Point. When Glen asked how the nomination process was going, Gunnar asked for help. Gunnar never asked for help! Indeed, he had learned from Boys State.
“Gunnar, you’re physically qualified. We know you’re of good character. Your SAT scores are better than I have ever heard of. Don’t waste another minute fretting about getting into West Point. You’re in! It’s not negotiable. When I nearly bled out in Okinawa, I swore I’d never let a worthy buddy down — ever. Those duty-honor-country types will understand. I will not back down.” Glen shook Gunnar’s hand.
At that moment, I recognized my determination in Glen’s voice and eyes. We had a great deal in common.
Gunnar did not know what to believe. He could not believe this one man could keep that promise. After all, there was still a byzantine bureaucracy to deal with to get to his goal. Gunnar explained, “I feel bad about asking for help. It doesn’t seem fair …”
“If you want fair, wait till next September for the New Mexico State Fair,” Glen dismissed Gunnar’s comment. “The important thing is that the right people get into West Point, and I’m telling you that you are in.”
Gunnar was purposely inappropriate, “What, no chocolates?”
“Gunnar, I’ll have to mail them to you. Keep that sense of humor, buddy. Do you want See’s?”
Glen turned to me and shook my hand. “Alex, whatever you’re doing with the rifles, keep it up. You could make the Olympics, you know, but I’d stay with pre-med.” If he liked Gunnar’s SATs, he should have seen my perfect SATs. I didn’t brag; I just happened to leave a copy of my test results in his rental.
In early spring, Gunnar went out for the tennis team. I don’t know what possessed him except getting that sports letter. We both had a full dance card, so to speak. He and I were both naturally good with racquet sports. We sporadically played with friends, but we were hacks. We had more bad habits than good. Those who had spent three prior years training on the team were a tad resentful as Gunnar became the first seed in the initial singles competition.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“Footwork, Alex!”
“You’re kidding me …” I scoffed.
“Yeah, I don’t have any,” he laughed. That was true, but he was Charlie Hustle on the court — intense energy, strategy, and heart.
I couldn’t explain why I didn’t emulate my twin, except that I was becoming aware that my life had a course of its own. Now and then I would step back and observe what was going on around me. I had always done that, but now I could watch myself watching life. I could pause and see my own detachment.
I asked Gunnar, “Do you ever stop to think about what you are doing with your life?”
Very honestly, Gunnar shot back, “No, I don’t. I just act. Call it predestination or whatever. I feel like the channel I will take at the next fork in the river of life has a faster current that pulls me that way. I also believe in free will, so I guess I can choose the slower path if I want — somewhat of a contradiction. I’m now in over my head, drowning in the river of life. I hope your studies of the brain in medical school can sort that out.” He smiled, “Or maybe my differential equations class two years from now will provide the answers.”
*****
Gunnar and I went to the state speech tournament for the second time. Our speech coach and her husband drove a total of ten of us to the University of New Mexico setting in Albuquerque. I thought Gunnar would be distracted by the academy admission turmoil, but he soldiered on.
In the third round, on the second and last day of the tournament, we were up against the winners of the previous year’s debate contest — the former state champions. They were smooth, they were eloquent, but we were deadly. Gunnar took them down point by point like a great trial attorney. I gave overall shape to our arguments to lend them a dazzling coherence, if I do say so myself. I skillfully summarized how Gunnar’s points were superior. Gunnar wisely refused to take cheap shots. He read the room, awed the audience with concise logic, and made them laugh. I read the judges and adjusted our tactics with precision. We were both in the zone, functioning at a level we had never before attained. We won decisively. We were on our way to be the new state champs.
In the finals, despite our near flawless performance, my insistence on a counter plan strategy cost us first place. The lead judge pulled me aside and told me it was his firm belief that no team, not even as sharp we were, could ever win with a counter plan. “Yes,” he said, “you can say that I am prejudiced.”
Afterward Gunnar saw the temporary disappointment in my eyes. “Alex,” he began, “remember how great our earlier victory felt. See it, hear it, savor it, and remember it. Now think about the final round for fifteen seconds; that’s all it deserves. We are the best high school debaters this state has ever seen. Don’t ever forget that! We are a great team.” He paused and grabbed my shoulder, “Thank you!” My despondency was gone. It was one of the greatest days of my life.
At the end of April, Gunnar received momentous news in our afternoon creative writing class. From her desk, the teacher smiled as she eyed the telegram hand-delivered by the principal. She walked deliberately over to hand Gunnar the yellow paper, “I believe this is what you have been waiting for. You are excused from class if you choose.” Gunnar was expressionless. He immediately turned to look at me. He showed a faint smile, gave me a thumbs up, and nodded. He reread the telegram as he exited the room to call Aunt Cece. From the pool of alternates, Gunnar was appointed to the United States Military Academy at West Point.
Before he sent in his acceptance, I pulled Gunnar aside. “Remember what Mr. Arnold taught us about Korea. He was cold, miserable, and under siege for months. His recounting left me with a sense of the purposelessness a soldier has to endure. Ground war? You have your pick of service in the air or water, too, with the other academy acceptances. How about law or medicine?”
“Alex, this is what I have to do. I have to go to West Point. I can’t put it in words why, but I feel that is my destiny.”
*****
For a while, the idea that Gunnar was realizing his dream still seemed like a fantasy. When several teachers called him aside to tell him FBI agents had been by asking lots of questions about him, the reality struck him. Subsequently, neighbors relayed the same message through Aunt Cece. Indeed, the Academy was processing him for a secret clearance. The dream was becoming reality.
By that time, I had a number of acceptances to premier colleges for pre-med. I was waiting to see where Gunnar was going to go. I knew he was in for a tough time at the United States Military Academy, especially in his first year as a plebe. I’d like to say I wanted to be near to support him. I wanted him to think that, but I know I really needed to be near him. I drew energy from him. He inspired me. My twin made me feel whole. So I accepted a college in the East. I had to turn down my first choice on the Wes
t Coast.
I kept my north star in mind. The hallmark of my senior year was winning first place in the high school science fair. My project was to build a mechanical ventricular assist device, an external artificial heart machine for chimps. I piggybacked on current research that had recently kept a dog alive. After a lot of internal debate, I chose to go with a pulsatile pump that mimicked the chimp’s heart versus a continuous flow. Gunnar helped with the mechanics of converting the energy of a rotating electric motor to pulsing streams. Gunnar also showed me how to measure and control output blood pressure. The veterinarian for the rocket sled at Holloman AFB helped me with how tubes from the device would connect to blood vessels. My device was meant to be a prototype for a short time if a chimp ever underwent a heart transplant. If nothing else, I knew the effort would look good on my resume for medical school.
Gunnar placed second in that science fair. He was experimenting with having a source of air internal to a model airplane blow air through vents in front of the rounded trailing edge of the wing. The theory was that the invention would increase lift. He needed a battery and motor to pump the air, but he could never make them light enough. However, he showed proof of concept with a mock-up wing in a wind tunnel he built. The judges liked the progression of his engineering designs, in any case. I think he might have spent too much time helping me on my project.
*****
As we closed out the high school chapter in our lives, Gunnar’s piercing gray eyes shone bright with the idealism of youth. I could see them sparkle in the auditorium as he gave his valedictory speech. Not surprisingly, he finished first in our class in academics. He spoke enthusiastically of taking on the challenges of the world, closing with Robert Frost’s “promises to keep” to inspire commitment.
Coincidentally, Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece commented on my stunning gray eyes reflecting my burning desire to be a physician as they congratulated me on being the salutatorian. I didn’t mind being second, especially to Gunnar. What I enjoyed most was beating out Carol Robbins, who was notorious among students for cheating on tests. When she congratulated me on beating her, I caged her eyeballs with a double-meaning reply: “Copy that!”
