Dear Hearts,
March 16th in 1802, West Point began its work. Today is known as Founder's Day, West Point's 217th birthday. Thanks to Jim for a fascinating lesson in this impressive institution's history:
It's job has been first to provide the Nation with officers for the Regular Army, from the ranks of its citizens, so we would not have hereditary or purchased commands, like Europe and elsewhere. The first graduates were meant to be combat engineers and artillerists, ordinance engineers, construction engineers, surveyors and scouts. As time went on, the mission became to furnish officers primarily to the combat arms and overall to forge leaders of character for the country, during active service and then afterwards.
West Point, The Gray Rock on the Hudson, home of the Black Knights, has produced a brotherhood known as the Long Gray Line, and Whitey, Whitey's Dad, Signe's Dad, and Gus and I are glad to be part of that Line, as is the brother of Nicole Sullivan. Boompa's first cousin, Brigadier General Joseph Barzynski, was a member of the Class of 1934. George Ronan, a relative of our great-great grandmother, Mary Ronan, was in the Class of 1811, and was the first West Pointer ever killed in action. He met his fate at the Fort Dearborn Massacre in 1812, at the Chicago River bridge right on Michigan Avenue today.
Our brother John and Dr. John Ullmen, being graduates of the Air Force Academy, are younger Brothers of the Line, since the Air Force was born out of the Army Air Corps. Big Sully, an Army Aviator, would proudly wear the colors of the Air Force if he were alive today.
The first graduate, Joseph Gardner Swift, graduated on 12 October 1802, with Simon Magruder Levy. Their Cullum Numbers, in the Line, are 1 and 2. Mine is 29460 and the last graduate in 2015, is 71,447.
West Point has faithfully sent her sons, and daughters, into harm's way, in all its varieties, whenever and wherever it is. About 1250 have been killed in action. She was the first permanent installation of the U. S. Army, and was the campground for the Continental Army. The "Rabble" slept on the ground that today is the Plain. The British never took West Point, although Benedict Arnold gave them the plans of the defenses. Koscziusko built a hanging garden there, still there, next to the river, and Von Steuben and Lafayette stayed there with General Washington.
My classmate, Col. Don Blakeslee from Chicago, a surgeon called back to active duty and stationed at the Army hospital at West Point to free up a surgeon for Afghanistan, lives at the Academy now and his beautiful wife Betsy, whom I have known for 53 years, is now the custodian of Koscziusko's Garden, bringing it back to life as that Polish general and hero of our Revolution originally planted it. She has been honored by the Polish government for that labor.
West Point is our Alma Mater. She raised us in the ethic of service and her motto, "Duty, Honor, Country," rings in our hearts, next to our class's motto, "Serve with Integrity." She is ours, belonging to us all as citizens. The Corps of Cadets has always been called "The Rabble."
Below is a poem I wrote about the Rabble.
Happy Birthday, West Point. May you have as many more birthdays as does our beloved Nation. God bless us and save us and keep us from harm.
Love,
Seamus the Older
USMA '70
THE RABBLE, THEN AND NOW
The weary Gen’ral sipped his port;
He rubbed his noble brow.
He fumed and cursed and asked himself
The ringing question, “How?”
This unrelenting rebel mob
Had swiftly whipped his men,
To settle rebel questions of,
“Just Who rules Whom, and When?”
At Concord, just that morning
And at Lexington, the same,
These little boys, and old worn sires
Had taken their own Name.
They stood their ground and held their fire
And faced the Red machine.
Then let it fly, to live or die
Right there at Concord Green.
These Infantry who were the first
Of all of us long since
To step right squarely in harm’s way
Intending to convince
The predators, and others, who
Would seek to harm this land,
That they would deal with hearts of steel
Right down to our last man.
So they were hungry, wounded, cold,
No food, supplies or pay.
Eleven long campaigns they fought.
Their numbers fell away.
But four of these red battlefields
The Continentals took.
They wrote the weary General
A chapter for his book.
He did not understand the minds
Of people who had thrown
Themselves into a deadly fight
For Liberty alone.
He sniffed when first he saw our troops.
His scorn was not concealed.
“Why these are naught but Rabble!
We shall sweep them from the field.”
And now at West Point on the Plain,
Where once that Rabble slept,
The Plebes will sleep one night right there.
And so the bond is kept
Unbroken down two centuries,
The sense of duty fine.
And true and clear the Rabble blends
Into the Long Gray Line.
The Corps of our West Point Cadets
Is called the Rabble now.
And this is to inform all those
Who’d threaten us, of How
They’ll never sweep us from the field.
The message should be clear.
The U.S. Army shall not yield.
THE RABBLE IS STILL HERE.
AFTER THE ATTACK: THE RABBLE, ONCE MORE
Two hundred-twenty years, and more,
Have passed since their demise.
Now death fell on their countrymen
And from our own blue skies.
The Rabble came and stood close by
To enter in the fray.
Their spirit-eyes, and souls, and guts
Would fight a different way.
Within their ranks are heroes all,
And each and every one,
Once gave his life, or part of it
To see the job was done.
They know that liberty was worth
The pain and grief of war,
So, when this horror came on us,
They took their place once more.
They stand together, as of old.
Their strength is in their hearts.
They formed their wills into One force
Made up of Many parts.
And by some mystic alchemy
They took this force in hand,
And put it in the hearts of us
Who love this blessed land.
How else did those brave men who saved
So many when they died
Find strength to hurl their captured plane
Into the countryside?
How else could firemen rush up stairs
To where the fire was worst,
And put their safety to the rear,
And put their country first?
Policemen marched straight into hell
To try to save their men.
Full well they knew the deadly odds,
But in they went, again.
And when the building came straight down,
And killed them on that street,
The Rabble gripped their bloody hands
And pulled them to their feet.
Our President, his father’s son,
With courage clear and strong,
Is made of stuff too good and tough
To bend before this wrong:
His mother’s grace and character,
His father’s valiant heart-
There must have been a Bush among
The Rabble, from the start.
We see Them even in our friends
Who come from Over There.
The Rabble surely had with Them
A rifleman named Blair,
Whose namesake hastened to our shore
In answer to our need.
He stood beside us, on the line.
We won’t forget his speed.
The Rabble sprang from many lands,
Like those who later came.
And certainly, there’s one who bore
The Giuliani name,
And reached his spirit-hand to touch
His far-descended son
Who stood up brave, as Mayor’s must,
And lifted everyone.
The Spirits of the Rabble found
The hearts of gold that day.
And there those Spirits do their work,
And there these Spirits stay.
They’ll NEVER sweep us from the field.
Not terrorists. That’s clear.
Americans will NEVER yield.
THE RABBLE IS STILL HERE.
--James Patrick Sullivan, Jr.
THE IRAQ WAR: THE RABBLE FOREVER
The Rabble live inside us all.
They’re quickly summoned back,
To Kosovo, Somalia,
Afghanistan, Iraq
They speak to every soldier’s heart:
“Please, hold this country dear.”
One thing is sure, since from the start:
THE RABBLE’S ALWAYS HERE.
