In Memoriam

Jack Cirie

Jack Cirie died on January 6, 1992, from a cerebral aneurism at the young age of 49. Here are two remembrances by his classmate, teammate, and friend Patrick Caviness ’64, followed by a remembrance by his younger brother Jerry.

• Remembrance by Patrick Caviness ’64, April 21, 2009
• Remembrance by Patrick Caviness ’64, December 14, 2023
• Remembrance by Jerry Cirie, February 15, 2024

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Remembrance of Jack Cirie (1 of 2)

by Patrick G. Caviness, '64

April 21, 2009

Introduction

John Arthur "Jack" Cirie was born on May 2, 1942 and died on January 6, 1992 at age 49. Jack was the first son of five children. The Ciries were part of a large Polish-Italian American extended family blessed with immigrants and first-born Americans who dedicated themselves to hard work and sharing with others.

Jack attended Branford High School in Branford, CT. He graduated from Yale University with a degree in Latin American Studies on June 15, 1964 and entered the Marine Corps as a 2nd Lieutenant. He retired from active duty 20 years later, in 1984, as a Lieutenant Colonel. He had a warrior's reputation of being fearless in the face of fire and possessing deep compassion for the Vietnamese people he met.

Jack married his first wife, Ann Gawlak, in 1964 during his senior year at Yale. Anne gave birth to three extremely beautiful and gifted daughters. Jack's first daughter Cybele (called Mo) was born in 1964, Andrea (called Deedle) was born March 15, 1967, and Amanda (called Boo) was born in 1971. Jack and Ann Gawlak were divorced in 1974.

In 1980, Jack married Anne Bartley. Jack and Anne lived in Washington DC where he finished his military career. Jack and Anne were divorced in 1990.

Jack married his third "Ann", Annie Brook, in October 1991, just three months before his death. They were married in a meadow on a sunny day on Lopez Island, off the coast of Seattle, WA. His mother's name was also "Ann." Jack's paternal grandmother was named Anna Cirie. Jack clearly favored the name "Anne" among the more significant women in his life.

In high school and college sports, Cirie was fiercely competitive, full of desire, toughness, quick thinking and confidence. After his 2-year career with the Marines, Cir was a trainer-consultant, director of design and development of Sportsmind, Inc., a high performance training company.

Jack listed among his substantial creations: "Three wonderful daughters, a superb fighting machine ― the 3rd Platoon, "K"-3, Fourth Marines, and an award-winning TV commercial for the Marine Corps.

Jack's Years Growing Up

Jack grew up in the small community of Branford, CT. The first son of a large Italian-American family, he played and excelled in most sports. As a Little League player Cirie won the "Most Valuable Player" award in the All-Star game. He was captain of his Branford High football team his senior year. As a senior, he scored 46 points and threw for 9 touchdowns. On defense he played middle linebacker and in one game made 19 individual tackles. It was Jack's brother Jerry who would break that one game record in his senior year.

Jack was president of his high school class for three years and a member of the Student Council. He won several leadership awards and was a member of the National Honor Society. Jack's Yale Bowl rooting section included his parents Nick and Ann, an older and younger sister, Ciri and Joanzie, and two younger brothers, Jerry and Jimmy.

Jack's father, anticipating his military career, called him the "Little General." His middle name, Arthur, honored Douglas MacArthur.

Jack's Years at Yale

Jack entered Yale in the fall of 1960 and graduated on June 15, 1964. His college career was rich and rewarding. He was a stand out in sports, a solid student, member of Beta Theta Pi Fraternity, and as a senior, a member the Skull & Bones senior society. Jack and Terry Holcombe, another highly regarded high-school football player from East Haven High, were roommates their first three years at Yale.

Jack had a sterling football career at Yale. In the 1962 season he intercepted 5 passes, just one short of the Yale record at that time. In the 1962 Harvard game, he threw a hip at a tackler and charged up-field almost untouched to score Yale's only touchdown on a 59-yard punt return.

According to his senior salute in the 1963 Colgate-Yale Program, Cir was called "The Cat" because he was always "a thorn in the side of opponent's offensive players." As appropriate as the name is, it was probably one of Charlie Loftus' sports writing "monikers." The name was never used on the playing field. His teammates often called him Cir, Cirrius, and Serious (owing to the somber look on his face).

In the 1962 season, Jack Cirie stole the ball at the one yard line from Princeton's crushing fullback on what was sure to be a touchdown. Jack was stunned and dazed after the impact. The fullback had thrown a hard forearm shiver to Jack's helmet. Without thinking, the fullback had used his carrying arm to deliver the blow. Jack spun off the runner (ball now tucked under his arm). The fullback stumbled into the end zone and threw up his arms up signaling a touchdown. The referee didn't. Dazed, Jack staggered about 20 yards before the Princeton players realized they hadn't scored. Cir had the ball and was running erratically the other way. He ran it back 64 yards to set up a Yale score.

Jack later said he saw the Princeton fullback run straight over Patrick Caviness, a hardnosed linebacker, without breaking stride. Jack, smaller than Patrick, said he decided to tackle the ball, not the runner. Jack was always smart like that under pressure.

While Cir was never going to play pro football because of his size (5-9 and 168 pounds), he was always a larger-than-life presence on the playing field throughout his college playing days.

Along with his two letters on the football team, Jack won two letters on the Eli lacrosse team, a game he particularly loved (it was wide open and he could use his small size and quickness to his advantage). He also participated in Yale's boxing program where he won two middleweight boxing titles.

Jack learned to fight sparring with his brother Jerry and in the streets of Branford. In the ring as in his life, Jack was a master of effortless motion and quiet intensity. Jack always kept his cool and composure. Even when being pounded, he was thinking. Jack would occasionally get caught in the ring against the ropes and take seven or eight sharp blows. Meanwhile, defending himself, he would wait patiently like a cobra for that one opening to strike back with devastating counter punches.

Jack and Patrick, both on the Yale boxing team, had a mutual respect for each other's boxing skills. At the beginning of the boxing season, Patrick would ask Cir what weight he was going to fight to be sure and put on enough weight to stay one class above Jack's weight. Jack would counter by saying he intended to keep his weight down to stay out of Patrick's weight division.

Jack's Years in the Military

In the military, Jack began a career that spanned 20 years from 1964 to 1984 as a US Marine Corps infantry officer. He served as a platoon commander and advisor from 1965-1966. He embarked on a second Vietnam tour of duty in 1969-1970. He was a director of Armed Forces Advertizing Programs from 1980 thru 1984. During his military service he received the Bronze Star, the Silver Star, and the Legion of Merit.

He attended Yale University between his two Vietnam tours, where he took intense language courses in Vietnamese. While in the Marines, he attended Wharton Graduate School and received his MBA in 1971.

In Washington DC during his last assignment in 1983, Jack had the title of Special Assistant to Assistant Secretary of the Navy; Lt. Col, Director of Advertising, Marine Corps. In this capacity, Jack worked with an advertising firm to produce one of the most famous and successful Marine recruiting ads ever made, entitled "A Few Good Men." For his creative effort, Jack was awarded the Legion of Merit, the highest peacetime medal the Marines grant.

During his time in the Marines, Jack dedicated himself wholeheartedly to the warrior's path. He was immersed in practicing his warrior skills, following the warrior's code, taking calculated risks, learning how to test himself, dealing with discipline to the violence and death surrounding him.

In a July, 1986 article for Esquire magazine, George Leonard wrote a moving story about a firefight Jack was in. The article entitled "The Warrior" depicts Jack's first combat experience under fire in a Vietnamese graveyard. An excerpt from that article follows.

Jack once told Patrick a little-known story about his last military engagement in Vietnam during 1970. Jack had been relieved of his duties as an ARVN adviser and was waiting in a rear-guard camp to be sent home. At the base he learned his former Vietnamese company was caught in a firefight, taking heavy casualties and was in danger of being overrun.

Without hesitating, Cirie hitched a ride on a helicopter right back into the fight. Once on the ground he listened to battle chatter over a radio. Jack said it was clear the Vietnamese company commander, a man he had fought with and respected, had "gone completely crazy." Enraged, the commander was sending his men in waves to die needlessly.

Jack began crawling across the battle ground to the bunker where the leader had taken cover. Cirie said if he had no choice, he would kill him. By the time he had reached the bunker his moral predicament was over. The officer had been killed by enemy fire. Cirie regrouped the Vietnamese troops and restored order. There is little doubt Jack would have done what he had to do to protect those soldiers and stop the senseless slaughter. He was evacuated from his last military battle and flown to the US two days later.

Jack at Play

Jack loved any kind of adventure. In October, 1973 Jack Cirie, his friend Patrick Caviness and eight other men, decided to take canoes down a particularly desolate part of the Rio Grande River. Six members flew down in a single engine plane. The other four men brought five canoes and supplies in by truck.

One of the men, Jim Guy Tucker, the Attorney General of Arkansas and licensed pilot, was flying the plane (Tucker would later become a US Representative and Governor of Arkansas).

Tucker had chosen to land the small plane on a barren ranch just south of Marathon, Texas. The field was nothing more than a dirt strip on a flat butte above the Rio Grande River. As the plane circled on its final approach, Tucker told everyone to place their backpacks on their laps to shift weight forward. Because the field was short, Tucker brought the plane in "hot."

The plane hit the field hard and fast, clouds of dust everywhere. The plane's landing gear collapsed on impact. It went careening out across the desert floor. Like the coyote in a one of those Roadrunner cartoons, the plane shot out over a deep canyon rim and was momentarily suspended in time and space. Then the plane nosed over and plunged straight down, crashing through brush and rocks along the steep canyon wall.

Near the bottom, the plane slammed into the ground. All heads smashed into those packs that acted as "crash balloons." Only the pilot's head was unprotected. Tucker hit the Plexiglas windshield, breaking it and cutting a large gash across his forehead. The smell of gas was everywhere. Tucker turned and screamed, "The power's off, get the hell out."

Patrick kicked out a side panel and scrambled through the opening out on to the wing. Cirie was right behind him. Somehow both managed to hit the ground at the same time.

Cirie and the others would run the Rio Grande for a week in open canoes. But that first night, under a starry sky next to the Rio Grande River, Jack and Patrick sang Dylan's "Knock, Knock, Knockin' on Heaven's Door" over and over again with a deep profound feeling of being alive.

Two years later, in August of 1975, Jack and Patrick decided to hike the High Sierras. Jack wanted to explore a little known mountain pass called Pants Pass, near the headwaters of the Keweah River. Six days later, on a bleak plateau resembling the moon, Jack and Patrick made their final ascent across a snow field and into the skree-filled Pants Pass.

Skree is thick loose patches of rocks and pebbles. Finding solid footing in skree on a steep slope can be almost impossible. Jack began sliding through the skree and slowly toward the back of the pass. His body slipped down until he was barely clinging with one hand to a small ledge on the side wall of the pass.

On his belly he grabbed desperately to stop his backsliding just as his knees hung out beyond the overhang. Jack, never the one to miss a chance to inject a little humor into a serious situation, cracked, "Pat, watch closely, I'm only going to show you how to do this once!"

Jack put just enough pressure against the wall of the pass to brace himself. He slowly maneuvered his body over the loose rocks and back into the pass. Slower still, he pulled himself into a small hollowed out nook in the rocks.

Patrick seeing Jack was safe, climb over some boulders and into Jack's small perch. Reunited, they hugged each other and laughed their asses off. Hot, tired and with 50-pound packs that tried to pull them off the face of the rocks, they climbed up and over the peak and down the other side. Only after they had reached a glacier lake far below the pass did both mention in passing that they thought they were going to die up there.

Cir started played a guitar and blowing on a harmonica in his early days in Vietnam and continued strumming and singing with friends and family throughout his life. Jack got his voice and love of music from his father, Nick, who performed for years in a barbershop quartet. All the Cirie children and most of the grandchildren harmonize beautifully. Jack was influenced by Dylan's style. He was drawn to the traveling performers passing through those years. Jack liked the honesty found in folk tunes and in singing the old standards with friends over a few glasses of wine.

Cir was a practiced chef. He could whip up a pot of lentils or linguini and clam sauce (the key to both was to add a lot of good or bad Italian wine and plenty of garlic) that served two or twelve friends causing everyone to salivate long before the dish was served.

Jack liked working with his hands. He took leather and leather crafting to a professional level. He enjoyed staying up late at night making his friends cherished gifts of engraved albums and belts from fine leather. He left behind an array of water color paintings he made in Vietnam. He worked with beads and made crude and ancient jewelry.

Most of all, he enjoyed the camaraderie and care of friends or strangers soon to be friends.

Jack used to send Patrick writings that were guides to his life. Robert Louis Stevenson was one of his favorite writers. This quote by Stevenson expressed Jack's sense about how to judge a man's success in life.

He held to and lived up to these measures of success in their fullest throughout his life.

Jack's Death

In 1990, Cirie summed up his past life's accomplishments and growing sense of self awareness in these comments:

Of his present life in 1990, he rejoiced in his new transformation from his military career to his civilian challenge:

At that time, less than 24 months before his death, Jack dreamed about his next 25 years predicting:

Cirie was nothing if not paradoxical. A man of high intelligence and deep acute thoughtfulness, he engaged in the study of moral philosophy and human psychology all of his life. He was constantly examining the ethical implications of his own chosen profession in the military. He was in some ways as unlike the notion of a traditional warrior as you could possibly imagine.

A gentle quiet mild-looking man, he could lie in a hammock reading under a blue sky as if harboring not a care in the world. He loved all children and enjoyed engaging them in his pranks. He cared about pretty women, good coffee, good tunes, cold beer, a few or more sips of whiskey, Italian red, conversation, songs and children. At times dreamy, Jack often appeared more a poet than a warrior who was the embodiment of the battle-stained leader he most certainly was.

If you spent much time around Jack you discovered his darker side. When under stress or threatened, a cold sheet of calculated rage would drop down like a curtain over his face. To combat these darker tendencies, Jack always found solace and comfort reading, singing, strumming his guitar, laughing at his own foibles, writing his poems and living a healthy lusty life.

His sister Joanzie said in 1991 he and Jack were walking down the main street of Branford one night. Jack had returned to his hometown because his mother was undergoing an operation for cancer. Jack talked about his plans for the next 50 years. He told Joanzie he thought his mother may not live much longer. Less than a year later, Jack died. His father Nick would die of a broken heart 18 months after Jack passed away. His mother, now 93 lives on. She remains the matriarch of 49 Lovers Lane in Branford in the same house where all her five children grew up.

On the early evening of January 6, 1992, Patrick talked with Jack by phone. Patrick was in Dallas contemplating returning to medical school to obtain his doctorate. Jack called from a roadside phone outside of Seattle on his way back from a personal growth seminar in Canada. He said, "What are you waiting for? Don't to waste a moment; pursue your passion. "

Jack said he wanted to talk longer only he had been in some "rough housing" during a training seminar, gotten a bump on his head, and had the worst headache he had ever had in his life. He said he would call the next day. At 4 am the following day, on January 7 Jack's sister called Patrick and said Jack had come home, gone to bed, fallen into a coma and never regained consciousness.

The official medical report said Jack died of an aneurism on January 7, 1992. The doctors tried to relieve the pressure on Jack's brain but soon discovered he had advanced Leukemia. They could not stop the bleeding.

There were two funerals. One on the West Coast in Seattle was held in a dojo. Though people were filled with sorrow and sadness, it was a celebration of his life with people singing songs and many telling stories about their dear friend and loved one, Jack. The second was held on the East Coast in Branford on a cold grey day a week later. It was a traditional military service with an honor guard of meticulously dressed Marines firing their rifles in salute followed by a bugle's final mournful sound of farewell taps for one of their own.

Some have speculated Jack was a belated victim of Agent Orange, a defoliate used extensively in Vietnam and later connected to an unusually large number of soldiers who fought in that war that years later died of various forms of cancer.

According to those who were with him in his last few months, Cirie was, "impassioned and fully, lovely alive; a blend of awakened warrior, soulful samurai, and Tibetan monk." Clearly his accomplishments overshadowed the many prices he paid along the way.

Close

In the game of college football, you live and fight together as a unit week after week through those few short seasons in the fall together and then go on with your lives. Gradually you perceive an unspoken truth — we will look out for one another, even 15, 20 years down the road, only to realize we cannot.

A sportswriter recently said, "Athletes are supposed to be invincible. Young and strong, we play the game confident that Death does not have a locker-room pass." Jack Cirie, Brian Rapp, Stan Thomas, and Strachan Donnelley, all Yale football teammates, were invincible because we remember them as young and strong. And all died too soon.

Jack had a sense of being on a journey through life early on. He was clear we all sense more about our travels than we can ever put into words. He liked to describe — in his poems and his letters in clear, simple and open terms — how he was moving through his life's journey.

He had this unblinking recording eye for the details and insights of his travels. His gift in writing was to give even the familiar its beautiful due. He could walk through the wilderness for days and weeks and then, months, even years later, write incredibly detailed descriptive perceptive poems and letters about his experiences.

He was passionate about his poetry and composed poetry most of this life. His poems were doggerel, free verse, trivial, profound, and some almost Dylanesque in their hobo lyrics. His favorite poems were "The Neighbor Girl", "Carousels", and "The Minstrel."

His poems written in 1969 and 1970 while in Vietnam were stark, candid, discerning observations about a war he questioned and later, thought unwinnable and wrong. A poem he wrote in 1969 called "Song for Cybele" for his oldest daughter, who would have been six or seven at the time he wrote it, expressed his early growing doubts.

Jack wrote poems up until a few days before his death. Some say one of his last poems, written in December, 1991, called "Along the Rim", foreshadowed his own death.

Jack personified Frost's line, "it's hard not to be king, when it's in you and in the situation." Throughout his life, Jack was called on to be a leader ― in school, in sports, in the military and in business. A part of him exalted in the responsibilities and another part rebelled. Late in life he would say he had been, in Robert Bly's words, "a warrior and a king." In the last part of his life he wanted to be nothing more than "a jester."

If he had a warrior's heart, he also had the spirit of a jester and an artist. He had a comic mischievous way about him. When friends least expected it, he would pull some outlandish antic and then enjoy laughing about it in the retelling for hours.

Throughout his life, Jack possessed and practiced generosity and kindness. He had a fundamental, gentleness about him born from genuine strength. Most who knew him spoke of his warmth and that wonderful devilish smile that made you feel as if you and he were co-conspirators in life.

On Saturday, June 5, 1999 on the occasion of the '64 class 35th reunion, George Humphrey, Tony Lavely and Patrick Caviness drove out to Jack's family home. They met with Jack's mother and presented her with a Yale 35th reunion tee shirt in memory of Jack. Each man gave Ann a long loving hug. She understood Jack was still as much in their hearts as he was in hers.

Jack sent Patrick this reading about death from Henry Scott Holland saying this was how he wanted to view his own death.

John Updike speaks of death as when "the earth tumbles on, and the sun expires, and unfaltering darkness reigns where once there were stars." Jack's life here on this earth is over. His memories ― those stars that once lit our nights ― remain an enduring reminder of his presence in our lives.

Poem on the funeral memoriam card

The card included a brief statement:

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Remembrance of Jack Cirie (2 of 2)

by Patrick G. Caviness, '64

December 14, 2023

Pants Pass over Mount Kaweah in the High Sierras, August 1975

We were both fit. Jack was a Marine Captain. He planned the trip. Our objective was to hike to the headwaters of the Kaweah River in the CA. High Sierras. The headwater of the Middle Fork that feeds the Kaweah River originates in a glacier lake over 13,000 feet. Located in the Sequoia National Park, the river has a vertical drop of nearly 2.5 miles. It is one of the steepest river drainages in the Joaquin Valley.

Jack had gotten a map from a Marine friend who wanted to climb out of the glacier lake and over Mount Kaweah via Pants Pass but hadn’t done it. The pass was not even on our maps. We planned to hike up along the Middle Fork up to the glacier lake, and camp overnight there. On the next day, we’d find the pass, scramble over Mount Kaweah, and drop down into the valley below.

We walked for about six days along the Kerr River then began following the Middle Fork of the Kaweah to our destination. We made the ascent up the Middle Fork in two days. When we arrived at the glacier lake we found everything was desolate. No vegetation. It looked like we were on the moon. In the photos, you can see the endless piles of rock shards where Jack is walking. We could not find any flat-level ground to pitch our tent. We finally found a little nook in the rocks that was only slightly tilted. We stuffed our clothes between the rocks, tossed our sleeping bags over the rocks, and got a few hours of restless sleep.

Early the next morning we started walking through the snow to where we thought the pass was. The snow was soft and deep, the sun high and hot. We had to stomp down the loosely packed snow with our boots to get a solid footing before taking the next step. It was a strenuous trek. By the time we got out of the snowpack and near the peak, we were drained. We found what looked like a small narrow steep passage in the rocks leading to the crest. We decided this was Pants Pass.

We crawled slowly over the scree (small loose broken-up rock fragments) inching up through the pass. I was leading. The scree kept causing me to slip back down the narrow passageway. One foot forward, two feet back. Finally, exhausted, I pulled myself onto a small ledge on the right side of the pass. I looked back to see Jack sliding slowly down and out the back of the pass. He stopped his slide by using his arm pressure against the wall of the pass. Ever so slowly he inched his way up back up the pass. I told him I could see a small flat space on the left side. He should try to pull himself up into that space. After a lot of maneuvering, he made it.

Jack asked me if I could climb up through the rocks from my ledge and get over to him. I said I thought I could but not with my backpack. I would have to leave it if I had any chance of scrambling up through the steep rocky boulders above me. To abandon your pack when you are still four or five days from the take-out point is a last-ditch effort. It meant leaving behind food, camera, sleeping bag, everything you need to survive in the wild.

I slipped off my pack and rested it on the ledge. At the last second Jack had an idea. Why don’t I get my parachute cord, tie one end to the pack, and throw the other end to him? If I got up through the rocks, across the pass, and back down to him, maybe we could retrieve it. So that’s what I did (completely disregarding his ominous word, “if”).

My last words to Jack before starting to crawl towards him were, “I don’t want to think about this. You can see where I’m going. Tell me where the grab holds are. I can focus on pulling myself up and over”.

And that’s the way I got over to Jack. We hugged each other, laughed, and then realized that even though we were reunited, we were still in a precarious position. Jack was adamant about not getting back into the pass. His idea was to scramble over the massive boulders to the top and then figure out how to lower ourselves down the other side.

We decided to try and retrieve my pack. I held Jack by his legs and he jerked the pack off the ledge. It fell into the pass. There was a sudden jerk but the cord held. Slowly Jack reeled in my pack. So now we were together, with both packs, and about a 50-yard steep rugged climb to the top. Jack led. It was rough going. Determined, we slowly pulled our bodies up and over massive boulders. Then we got stuck. Jack was leading us down a narrow ledge and it ran out. Nothing there.

Jack had another idea. He looked around the side of the ledge and could see another ledge above him. He thought he could make out a flat space behind the ledge. And here is how cool Jack was. He looked at me and said, “OK, you’ve got to grab the ledge, swing your ass out around the corner, and pull like hell. Watch closely. I’m only going to show this to you once”. And then he did just that, lifting his body and the weight of the pack up and over the ledge into the small flat area. Leaning over, he said, “Just remember to swing out and pull like hell”. I positioned myself, reached up, grabbed the ledge above me, and pulled. I was pumped. With an adrenalin rush, I shot up up and easily fell into the niche where Jack was. We hugged again and after laughing about how absurd it all was, we crawled up through the rocks to the crest. We found where the pass descended. It was ridiculously steep.

I forgot to mention that early on in the pass we had found where someone had abandoned their climbing rope. It was long and in good condition. That rope was now essential to our descent.

Our plan was for Jack to go first, tied to the rope but without his pack. When he got down to a safe place I would take the rope back and use it to lower our packs down to him. He would get back against some rocks to shield him from falling debris and I would come down to where he was. And so that’s what we did. We took it a section at a time shuttling our packs and bodies all the way down that mountain,

When we finally reached flat ground we looked at each other, amazed we had survived. In several photos, you can see the stress on our faces as we looked at each other and then stared back up the steep side of Mount Kaweah. We would say something like: “Can you believe we just came down off that fuckin’ mountain”? I told Jack there were times when I didn’t think we were going to make it. He said that he thought the Ogre (his term for death) had gotten us for sure.

We set up camp on a ledge overlooking another glacier lake. That night we talked about our adventure until three in the morning. We later learned that this is common after a near-death experience. It’s called “survivor’s syndrome”.

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Remembrance by Jerome “Jerry” Cirie, Jack’s brother

February 15, 2024

This picture was taken of Jack when he was 28 years old and had returned from his second tour of Vietnam. Somewhere between his years of 23 and 28 he had served two tours in Vietnam and faced imminent death from ambushes, a defective mortar landing at his feet, and more untold combat fighting. Somewhere in this timeframe — at age 24 I believe — he lost a son from a miscarriage at 7+ months of his wife's pregnancy. He said he would have more children, and the loss was to be taken in nature's stride as he had seen so much carnage and did not want his wife to feel guilt or sadness, just thankful for being alive and able to move forward.
 
Jack never talked a lot about his experiences — or rather I never pried — but during our time of mutual endeavors, he would relate a story or experience of the past and its relevance and/or association to the time at hand. When recounting an event and incidents from the war, Jack would end the story and, on one occasion, look penetratingly into the distance and murmur — “the violence, oh, the violence.”

On the day of this photo, when we were sitting and relaxing — he with a cigarette, me being unobtrusive but cautiously aware of his moods — he turned and said to me:

“I've lived a long time. I feel rich too. I'm alive and I have a half pack of cigarettes left, and that’s a lot.”

By age 28, Jack had aged beyond 28 years to somewhere in time — his time — a somewhere we don't know. The years after, he continued to live with passion, uncanny perceptiveness, and an appreciation for all things and persons with a greater sense of compassion. He lived with a graceful blending with all things that surrounded him.

Jack balanced life with the great distance he felt inside.
           
He grew and lived to become younger.

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Postscript by Jerry

Per Jack, “When a mortar lands, its last whistle is distinct.” Upon hearing the last whistle, Jack said, “I didn't think I was going to die; I KNEW it. I was dead.” And as luck would have it, the one in a thousand mortars was a dud — burying itself in the dirt at his feet and fizzling out. As it approached with its last whistle, Jack said his previous thought was — how about that — so this is the way I die — from a friendly mortar!!

Upon instantaneously regrouping to life, he said everything was magnified: the smell of the grass, the leaves, the flowers, the gunpowder — all hyper in the senses.

Jack was confrontational and challenging in all things he undertook. While having a desire to defend and to do good, he remained an educated realist. He could not choose and pick the wars to be fought. He had to serve, even if it meant in the controversial war. He had to fulfill a greater good. He was appalled, angry at how the media and upper military ranks distorted and lied about the progress and general info of the war.

I mentioned that, during the war, the news casually mentioned the baseball scores — Yankees/Red Sox, etc. — after the brief scoreboard in Vietnam, and how Westmoreland was asking us to be patient — we are winning, etc. Jack shook his head in disgust.

As a kid listening on the radio to the Lone Ranger, Jack remembered hearing an interruption of the news announcing the fall of Dien Bien Phu, or perhaps some other French Indochina parcel that had been overrun by a successful revolt or overthrow.

Jack’s attitude towards Vietnam and Ho Chi Minh was that Ho Chi Minh was the George Washington of Vietnam, fighting for independence from Europe. He said, "I was sorry to see the old guy pass."

I don't know what light this casts on Jack, but history and JFK were on his side regarding the involvement — our country’s involvement. Perhaps caution in repeating it, perhaps not. Your call. So it was.

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