I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  “In fact, a local farmer took good care of the goat until the big game. The capstone was anonymously arranging for an Army ROTC cadet in the Philly area to bring Billy into the Army-Navy game at halftime. Of course, our male cheerleaders were ready to fire our cannon in celebration.

  “I think the goat snatch — ‘Billy for Philly’ — was the greatest event of my life!”

  “Navy won the game 13 to our 7, but Gunnar and crew won the day. You, Alex, are the first to know about anyone involved. We resolved to keep our identities secret until one of us passed. So, Alex, I say to you, we have lost a great one with Gunnar, but he once again carries the day. His spirit lives on.”

  *****

  The Protestant cadet chaplain, a civilian, walked up to me, “Alex, your brother was special. I know you know that. He was the only cadet I know who ever requested to attend Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish services. You know that attendance at a service on Sunday is mandatory. With the great demands on a cadet’s time, it would be prohibitive to attend more than one service.

  “Gunnar came to me for help in getting assigned to each religion’s service at different times. Typically, there is a formation for the respective service, roll is taken, and then the worshippers march to service. With my recommendation, he expanded his horizons, to paraphrase him. A very interested and interesting person. I miss him …”

  “Pastor, I sincerely thank you,” I answered.

  “Alex, be well. Oh, and I think I just explained why we also had a rabbi and priest at his services, in case you wondered. God be with you!”

  *****

  Another lieutenant grabbed my hand to shake it. “Due to the way we got shuffled and regrouped, I didn’t see much of Gunnar after yearling year. I can tell you that being a plebe at the table where he was doing fourth-class duties as beverage corporal was where it was at. Oh, we had our share of sitting up, reciting, and getting very little to eat. But with Gunnar at the table, our lot was usually better. He seemed to have the timing and initiative on how to get a ‘fallout’ from the table commandant. If you were really clever — could capture the firstie’s interest or make him laugh, he could let the plebes at the table sit at ease and eat semi-normally.

  “One particular Thursday supper, Gunnar did the boilerplate, ‘Sir, may we have permission to eat at ease?’

  “‘Why?’ the table commandant asked. ‘What do you have?’

  “‘Sir, I have two hard-boiled eggs for you for your breakfast tomorrow.’ The setup was always critical to achieving the objective.

  “‘Smack, what does that have to do with anything?’

  “‘Sir, you have a date with your OAO — your one-and-only — this weekend!’

  “‘Okay, you got me. What does that have to do with price of tea in China?’

  “‘Sir, it is well known that the mess hall serves us saltpeter in our eggs. There is no way these particular eggs have been adulterated. They are pure to the nth degree.’ From time immemorial soldiers have spoken of additives being put in their food to reduce their sex drive. Saltpeter in eggs was a popular rumor at West Point, supposedly for that same purpose.

  “The table commandant smiled at the inventive tactic. Gunnar had fact, conspiracy, drama, and the primrose path in his presentation. High intelligence worthy of eating at ease. With a measured smile, the firstie in charge commanded, ’You plebes fallout!’

  “We rotated table assignments periodically. I was always glad to be on a table with Gunnar, as were other plebes because of his quick wit. Because he was so masterful at this, the rest of the plebes sought him out for advice on subjects and timing for his art. ‘I can’t teach timing, but fake-right-go-left is a good tactic,’ he taught. A good example of that came a week later with the same table commandant.

  “Gunnar asked permission to eat at ease. Of course, the first classman wanted a justification. He expected something very elusive and cryptic from Gunnar. He began, ’Let’s have it, smack. What do you have for me?’

  “Gunnar, said, ‘Sir, I have a henway.’

  “The table commandant turned to the cow on his right, ‘This should be good.’ Then he addressed Gunnar, ‘I don’t get it. What’s a henway?’

  “Very professionally, Gunnar replied, ‘Sir, about six pounds.’”

  “The table commandant smiled at the old Groucho Marx line. ‘You got me. Fallout, down there.’ We got to eat at ease.”

  “Alex, may I get you another drink. This has to be hard.”

  “Soda water on the rocks, thanks.”

  *****

  A jaunty lieutenant approached me with a self-assured smile. “You know, Alex, Gunnar and I were in the same cadet company for two years. I would not be here if it weren’t for Gunnar.”

  “Please, tell me more,” I had a feeling this guy was setting me up.

  “It was yearling year — sounds somehow redundant. I was cramming for my turnout exam in physics at the end of first semester. Essentially, I had flunked the subject and had one last chance to pass the subject matter, or else. I thought I’d met my Waterloo. My roommate counseled me, ‘There’s one way, and only one way, you even have a chance at this.’ At the same time, we both said Gunny.’

  “When I asked Gunny, he said, ‘Big problem. I’m taking advanced physics. I’m not proficient with what you’ll be tested over.’ I begged him to give it a go. He did. He scanned my book. Then he said, ‘This project tonight already depresses me, and I’m sure, you. We need to work smart. First, we’re going to concentrate on the 20% of problems that will probably constitute 80% of the test. Second, we won’t study all night. We’ll make sure you get some sleep to be able to function tomorrow.’

  “Well, I’m here, so you know I passed! I am so grateful. My condolences to your family.”

  *****

  Hank drifted by again. “So I see you met Ralph Benson.”

  “I did. Quite a character, it would seem,” I said with a smile.

  “You only know the half of it. I think I overhead him telling you about getting turned out in physics. It was almost a disaster for Ralph. You may have heard about the famous painter, James McNeill Whistler, at West Point. He did not pass his turnout examination in chemistry, as he said, ‘If silicon were a gas, I would have been a general.’ That may be apocryphal, by the way.

  “Ralph’s is a true story. The rest of the story is equally good. Ralph was really highly thought of by the Tactical Department, the hard-core officers who oversaw us day-to-day. When the unofficial early results of the exam were available to the faculty the night of the exam, our company’s tactical officer came by after taps to give Ralph the good news before it was officially released.

  “Ralph was not in his room. He knew he had done well on the exam and ‘went over the wall’ to celebrate with his girlfriend. Over the wall means he left the post. His girlfriend had a car to make a run to New York City. Ralph rode through the gate in the trunk of the car. Of course, the well-meaning tactical officer then had to report Ralph. Ralph got a raft of tours on the area and a slew of demerits.

  “Ralph was probably the only cadet I know who could laugh off the whole incident,” Hank finished shaking his head and smiling.

  I could not imagine a place more prolific in cranking out legends and lore.

  *****

  A full colonel accosted me. “Alex, I’m from the Department of English.” I assumed he was the tenured head of the department. “Your brother came to my attention early on as a plebe writing impressive essays. Verbal skills far above what we normally see in engineering-oriented students. More importantly, he later performed a service for my family that saved a member from further harm. I can’t say more, but know that we are indebted to your family forever.”

  I knew the story of rescuing the nymphomaniac. I thought I had the context.

  He continued, “As Iago said to Othello, ‘Good name in man and woman, my lord, is the immediate jewel of their souls.’ Indeed, your brother had a good name. Let me know if there is ever
anything I can do for you. Here is my card.” He wiped tears from his eyes with his handkerchief.

  *****

  A tall, gangly lieutenant approached.

  “Alex, your brother was a big man. I spent three and half years not liking him. I can’t explain that. Personality clash, jealousy, fate? You know despite the legendary stories, he had to be a straight arrow almost all of the time to be the brigade commander. As a firstie, I was walking back to the train after the Army-Navy game. I was trying to walk fast to make the 0100 cutoff. I was obviously inebriated and having trouble finding my way. Gunnar grabbed me by the arm and asked, ‘Can I help you, mate?’ He led me to the train.

  “Drunkenness is a huge offense. I expected to be written up by First Captain Olson — get a wad of tours and demerits. He was known as a hard-nose. I kept waiting for the punishment to come down. He didn’t write me up. I had the deepest respect for him after that. He was a great guy!”

  *****

  As the crowd at the Officers’ Club diminished, I turned to Hank and asked, “When I went to view the remains of Gunnar yesterday, I was told that the casket was already sealed and sent to the cemetery …”

  “Alex, they probably didn’t want you to see what they didn’t have. I hate being gruesome, but I know you can handle it. In the aftermath of air strikes and artillery, there’s usually not a lot left — not to mention that napalm would have melted down his class ring and dog tags. We both need to remember his spirit rises above all material existence — or nonexistence.”

  That was one of the sanest statements ever spoken, but Hank could do that even after a few too many. I could tell he was warming up to sing “Danny Boy.” I arranged for a fellow classmate to get Hank to the bachelor officers’ quarters on post with his Corvette. At least every other classmate of Gunnar drove that sports car.

  I could not get Bobby Vinton singing “Blue on Blue” out of my head. The momentary lift I got from the kind words and thoughts of the day was wearing off. I was on a sharp downward trajectory again.

  The Proposition

  I returned to hectic, concentrated studying back at medical school, a seemingly endless process of honing my knowledge. I wasn't complaining; I’d learned from Gunnar not to gripe about my destiny. My classmates were so tired they didn’t even notice I had missed a day of school for Gunnar’s funeral. And I wasn’t about to wear some stupid black armband asking for sympathy. I was happy that Gunnar had so many colleagues who valued him. That actually made my pain slightly more bearable at times. Despite that, my down mood brought my progress in learning medicine to a halt. I was going through the motions without awareness.

  As I was one to hold a grudge, I was stuck on anger.

  A week later, Glen showed up unexpectedly at school and waited hours for me to get a break in my busy schedule. It was November 18, 1963. He handed me a much-needed cup of black coffee and asked me to step outside into the cold.

  I am rude and demanding, but I did apologize for keeping him waiting. As I’ve said, Glen was a longtime friend of the family and a very important person. That importance grew in my estimation through the years as I slowly pieced together exactly what he did. I told him I was surprised to see him again so soon after the funeral.

  “Alex, I would wait forever to see you! I didn’t mind. How are you doing?” He handed me another hot cup of coffee.

  “Glen, the days in second-year medical school are long. I’d be up to it if it weren’t for the loss of Gunnar. Every day, all day long, I feel as if I’d just been punched in the gut. He was the heart and soul of our family. Now, he’s gone …”

  Glen reached out to pat my shoulder. “I know Alex. I’m here to remind you that I am always only a phone call away. I know you’re due back in minutes. I brought more coffee. Figured you’d need it. Say, could I drop by your apartment with some Chinese tonight? I won’t stay long. Tell me your favorite wine.”

  *****

  Glen brought moo shoo pork, pork lo mein, fried rice, and French Chardonnay to my place. He made a joke about the “Chinese tacos” for a New Mexican — me. Two unpretentious people, we both chuckled at our use of chopsticks.

  “I notice you switch hands now and then eating the noodles,” Glen observed.

  “It’s a future surgeon thing. You know: develop manual dexterity. I have boxes of fishing flies I’ve tied. I’m getting better at using my left hand as primary,” I told him.

  “Still getting some shooting in?” he asked.

  “Glen, it’s always therapy for me — a meditation where my view of the world focuses in a very concentrated way and ignores all the clutter in the environment. It’s also a zone of mastery for me. How about you, are you getting any shooting in?”

  “I am, Alex. When I visited Oak Ridge this week, a friend had me try his Karabiner 98 Kurz, a World War II rifle. I was hitting at 1000 meters with the 8x telescopic sight, as advertised. Remarkable weapon. It got me thinking about whether I would have taken out Hitler if I had been a German in the 1940s.

  I asked myself where this conversation was going.

  “What about you, Alex? Would you have taken out Hitler if you’d known of the massive devastation and atrocities that he would cause?”

  I used my left hand on my chopsticks to fill my mouth. That gave me time to think about my answer. I sensed a hidden agenda. “I think I would,” I answered after swallowing my chewed pork and noodles. “I like the subtle smoky taste of the pork lo mein.”

  “Alex, I have been a friend of your family for over two decades. Whatever I say in this room is never to be mentioned again outside these walls. Can I count on you for complete confidentiality?” He furrowed his forehead waiting for my reply.

  “Of course, Glen. I trust you. And I hope you trust me.” As I’ve told you, he and I had some magic rapport. I bet we’d score the same on the Myers-Briggs personality test.”

  Glen inhaled. “I have something I think you should consider then. You know I have a long view of history. I was a Marine in the Pacific in World War II. I worked in Washington, DC, during the Korean Conflict. We wasted precious American lives in that debacle. Now, this president is taking us down a similar road to another disaster. He is about to bog us down in Vietnam the way the French were. He ignores history and reality. He won’t listen to seasoned civilian and military advisors who counsel him against the excursion. Something needs to be done!

  “Alex, I blame the current administration for Gunnar’s death. I hurt every day over losing him, as I know you do. You’re both the children I never had. Never forget that!

  “As I was saying, Kennedy is responsible. He got us into the Berlin Crisis. He screwed up with the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, leading to the Cuban Missile Crisis. He ignores history and reality. He’ll squander lives and national treasure in Vietnam for no reason.” He bobbed his head looking for me to nod in agreement.

  “We’re doubling down on stupidity, Alex, and it’s squarely on this president’s shoulders. He is some arrogant, spoiled Ivy leaguer, too smart — he thinks — to listen to sound advice — much less the wisdom of history. And the facade on White House! Camelot indeed!” he scoffed. “His so-called greatness is a fabrication of the fawning yellow press. Goebbels-style manipulation! The man’s dad bought the presidential election for him, with the Chicago mob, no less. John’s money is ill-gained. He is nothing but a womanizer pretending to be a wise man, which he is not. He will take more innocent lives with his misadventures in Vietnam. And he will take America down with it!

  “You had told me you campaigned relentlessly for Kennedy. Surely he has let you down immeasurably. Salt in the wound. There is a way you can address his betrayal.

  “Alex, I may sound like a raving maniac, but I speak the truth from my heart, based on years of experience and inside knowledge. We have an opportunity at this point in time to save our country from a pretentious demagogue who will take our country down a trail of tears to ruin. Would you consider doing your part to stop this? Alex, I’m giving
you the opportunity to save countless lives of servicemen and your country. Will you take it?”

  “Glen, I guess I need to know more.” This was a lot to digest, coming out of left field.

  “Alex, your life is mired down in grief and anger. I’m offering you a way out. You can avenge your brother’s death and earn two million dollars in a day. All you have to do is fire one shot. That’s all, one shot.”

  “I think I know what you’re saying. Can I give you an answer tomorrow?” The idea of revenge appealed to me. The fat-cat playboy had cost me everything. An inexperienced politician who conned everyone, especially me. I rued the day I voted for him, and more so the weeks I campaigned for him.

  “Alex, I need an answer tonight. There’s someone waiting in my car who can perhaps help you make up your mind. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  *****

  “Alex!” a familiar figure entered my apartment by himself. He stood uncomfortably in the doorway. I could not believe my eyes.

  I was equally awkward. “Dad, I thought you were dead!” My strong system had been shaken to its roots already by the loss of Gunnar. Then I found out my dead father was alive. Neither of us moved. Familiar people acting like total strangers. “How can this be? Were you lost in the backwoods where the plane crashed?”

  “Alex, it is a very long story. I heard about Gunnar …”

  “Dad, my mind is going in a thousand directions. What is going on? Is Mom here?”

  “First, I apologize to you, Alex, for what has had to be. I am the kingpin on a secret weapon that will end the Cold War when we have it fully developed. Remember when we had to move on base Sandia Base back in Albuquerque. We were just beginning the project then. When there were very credible threats against our family from Soviet and Chinese intelligence, there was just one solution that made the most sense. You and Gunnar could not be leveraged against your mom and me if we were dead. Your mom is alive and well. She sends her love.