Old men reminisce. I am one, and my story here is what I remember from a boyhood summer in the middle of the last century and the optimistic spirit that prevailed then.
When I was eleven years-old I was sent off to a summer camp in the Pecos wilderness of the Sangre De Cristo mountains in New Mexico. The camp itself was comprised of one long, flat-roofed, adobe main building that served as a dining and recreation hall and other less permanent, mostly wood-frame structures scattered on the mountainside that overlooked a rapids-filled stretch of the Pecos River. For field trips that didn’t include horses as the mode of transportation, campers and counselors all fit into the two school buses parked near the stables. Patriotic ceremonies and religious practices were routine: daily assemblies for flag raising in the morning and lowering in the evening; prayers to start and end the day and at every meal in between. There was a Benedictine abbey nearby. And Sunday Mass was offered by one of the priests in the ancient adobe chapel located across the unpaved road from the camp’s ranch-gate entrance.
Cabins were assigned by age groups. Each simple dwelling bore the name of an Indian Tribe and held eight-to-10 boys, plus a counselor. Our lodge was named “Apache.”
Prefaced with a handshake, the common introductions for boys in those days included an information set that was either volunteered or addressed to several brief questions. Exchanges went something like this: “Where are you from”? “What grade are you in”? And, most important, “What did your daddy do in the war”? In the 1950s, “the war” meant World War II. A large number of the camp’s young population were products of men who had returned from that war. A unique esprit de corps was shared by those blessed to be sons of victorious American soldiers and sailors, not just in that remote western camp but in every section of the country.
The first day’s introductions were in no particular order. But the last opening came from the smallest boy in the cabin. He wore glasses. He was light complected; looked like he wasn’t used to playing out-of-doors. Following the standard litany, he told us that he was from Saint Louis and that he was going into the sixth grade when summer ended. Concluding his self-identification, he said in a shy voice that his father had not been in “that war” but quickly added that he had been “an officer on Black Jack Pershing’s staff!” To benefit those who recognized neither the queer name or that there had been another war recent enough in time for surviving veterans to be around, he clarified that his father had served in the First World War. Continuing with his audience, he described an extraordinary event that his father had experienced (which I paraphrase best I can): “One day, surveying the field, my father and the general sighted through their binoculars the Kaiser sitting astride his white horse on a distant hill. And he was looking back at them through his own binoculars!”
Not in a boastful way, but probably to disprove a suspicion that he was rooming with illiterates who had no sense of history, the boy added that, besides Pershing, his father personally knew Charles Lindberg and former President Harry Truman, both of whom were still living at the time. All were Missouri natives. He likely included with those august names others that we didn’t recognize (or remember), including George C. Marshall, who was also on General Pershing’s staff in 1917-18 and following the war.
After a brief silence, one of the still unimpressed members of our troop blurted out, “Boy, your dad must be really old!” Everyone agreed. In our hearts I’m sure we all felt sorry for “the kid.” And, sure enough, on Parents’ Day, the final day of camp, up the steep pathway to Apache Cabin came a slightly bent, white-haired gentleman, laboring with the help of a polished wooden cane. He was our little cabin mate’s father.
Only years later, in adulthood, did I realize the significance of that youngster’s story. During “the war to end all wars,” his father had shared history in the presence of the Commanding General of the American Expeditionary Forces in the First World War and the future Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army in the Second World War (Marshall was recommended by Pershing to Roosevelt for that position in 1939), including, for a brief moment in time, the commander-in-chief of the German Army (Wilhelm II). His son, with as much or more reason to be proud of his dad as were his companions of theirs, was owed a never-to-be apology for our immature ignorance and insensitivity.
At one time I had a list of the names and addresses of those who attended Camp LaSalle that year. It was lost long ago, as were the brief friendships, some of which I wish had been maintained. Though not a resident of our cabin, there was another memorable camper. He was popular, although somewhat cocky. He hailed from Midland, Texas. His name was George. In retrospect, I’ve sometimes wondered if I’d recognize his last name.
That summer we rode horses up into the high mountains and camped out beside Spirit Lake. We climbed Santa Fe Baldy and hiked to the top of Hermit’s Peak. We explored a cave up the valley from the camp and pueblo ruins along a desert mesa. We walked the battleground at Glorieta Pass and stood in frontier wagon ruts of the Santa Fe Trail. The camp’s two buses took us into Santa Fe for the 4th of July rodeo parade and fireworks celebrating America’s one hundred and eighty-second year of independence.
July 4th is the date that Americans celebrate the independence that was declared in writing by brave men in the summer of 1776. That independence is what we are privileged to live every day. In every conflict since 1776, its preservation has been due to those in military service including, if only to a small degree, the fathers of those boys who lived in Apache Cabin in the summer of 1958.
Chip Williams is a Northsider.
