Growing Old

by
David Avery

VMI Barracks

The Virginia Military Institute was founded in 1839 to train citizen solders and engineers for the state of Virginia.  VMI alumni include George Patton, George C. Marshall, and Chesty Puller, and the faculty has included Stonewall Jackson, Matthew Fountaine Maury, and Cladius Crozet.  Cadets still live in the original barracks, rebuilt shortly after the civil war during which it was cannonaded then burned by a Union raiding party in retribution for the defeat of the Union army by the corps of cadets at New Market.

Three archways penetrate the barracks, named for the statues standing in front of them: Washington, Jackson, and Marshall.  The interior of the barracks consists of two courtyards onto which all cadet rooms open directly.  Rats live on the top stoop, thirds (sophomores) on the third stoop and first classmen (seniors) on the ground floor.  A cadet sentinel walks each courtyard whenever the corps is present, preventing visitors from entering farther than the arches.  On any sunny day there are alumni standing in Jackson arch, below the brass inscription "You may be whatever you resolve to be".  They stand pointing upwards to a room once occupied, or to the sentinel box once defended from opposing football rivals. 

I matriculated in 1964, signing the great bound ledger of all cadets with some 350 brother rats.  When you are a rat at VMI you don’t leave your room more than necessary, as each trip to formations or class involves walking the ratline past three stoops of upperclassmen. I recall spending hours looking out my room when I was supposed to be studying, wondering about the parade of bearded, incredibly old men who appeared in Jackson arch.  Although I soon understood they were alumni, they clearly belonged to another and more heroic distant age.  The old corps was far removed from my concerns about satisfying the demands of the cadre and my calculus professor.   Passing through the arch I would hear snips of conversation about places I would probably never see and could only vaguely locate on a map.  “Normandy”, “St. Vith” , “Luzon”.   I tried not to make eye contact with men so different from me.

Now a moment later I stand in Jackson arch, point out the doorway to room 414 to my young son, and realize, like those old geezers who used to stand there, that twenty-five years have passed since my graduation.  When my son asks about my brother rats, I find myself saying “he ejected over Thud ridge in Laos”, “next time I talked to him was when Bill  was the FAC controlling an inbound Specter flight for me”,  “Jim got blown away on an ACAV with F troop  near Snuol in Cambodia”.  I smile at the passing uniformed cadets, but for some reason cadets passing through the arch won’t make eye contact with me.