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PRIVILEGE, HEARTBREAK, AND THINGS IN BETWEEN

I attended St. Luke’s Private School in New Canaan, Connecticut. My father owned an apartment in New York City, and we traveled back and forth until we moved into a Park Avenue high-rise in New York City when I was 12 or 13. I spent a lot of time as a young boy without a worry about the rest of my life. I lived high above the Manhattan streets and the never-ending noise, separated from the rank and file. I wore clothes from the best tailors, frequented the best museums, and the best restaurants, where I ordered the best cuts of meat, and received the best service from the maitre ds. I had tickets to the hottest Broadway shows and attended upper-crust schools. My classmates hailed from some of New York’s wealthiest families. I was privileged.

Not considered a model kid by any stretch, I was still the impeccably dressed boy, with impeccable manners. The fact that I had been blessed with good looks always made it a lot easier to attract girls. Outwardly, I was the boy that parents would have chosen to accompany their daughters to the homecoming dance. Inwardly, I wanted to be on the edge, always pushing, mentally anyway, to see how far I could go with my rebellion. New York City provided many outlets for me to push the adolescent envelope, but I escaped without getting into serious trouble, and I credit my parents for that.

I come from a long line of Churches - 16 generations of pioneers, elders, gunslingers, and tough guys from Boston to California by way of the Cumberland Gap, the Midwest Prairies, and Death Valley. My ancestors’ stories were broadcast on TV’s “Death Valley Days” in the 50s. My mother, Charlene Church Pfeifer, loved me, and I loved her. I looked more like her than my sister or brother. That made me proud because she was beautiful and sophisticated. A talented painter and interior decorator, she helped decorate the “SS United States,” while working for Smyth, Urquhart & Marckwald. She was fun, and she made me laugh. Generous, loving and a firm believer in education, she and my Dad made sure I was well-schooled.

As a child in Connecticut, we had two pet goats and a Labrador Retriever. When mother called to us, “Come on kids, we are going for a ride,” it was not unusual to climb into the car with her and my siblings, and try to have one of the pet goats in the seat between us. That did not work too well with mother, but our Lab was with us a lot unless we were going to church. The dog usually had his head stuck out one of the side windows, its ears flopping in the wind. Occasionally, he would bark at the top of his lungs and could be heard for blocks. Mother did not care that people stared as she drove down the street with a dog’s face stuck out the window. As I said, she made me laugh.

When I was 13, mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. When she died, I was heartbroken. It left me in a conflicted adolescence between new-found, and somewhat restricted, privileges. My life would never be the same. I acted up more than ever and got into lots of trouble with my Father, Charles F. Pfeifer. He was a paper packaging executive and salesman, and he commanded – in fact, demanded – respect. His advice for a successful life was “continuity,” and he often said, “be bright, be brief, and be gone.” He was also a world-class hurdler. My grandfather was a tough, but fair, New York City cop. In 1956, when I was 15, my father married Shirley Ewald, a member of the distinguished Ewald advertising family. Now, instead of just brother, Billie, and sister, Annie, I had two step- brothers, Theodore and Brewster (Bumpy) Loud. We never cultivated a close relationship in adolescence, or in adulthood. Needing more discipline than my father and step-mother were able to provide, due in part to my cocky and semi-brilliant adolescent mind, I enrolled in Culver Military Academy in Culver, Indiana, when I was 15. I did not want to leave New York City. I loved it. However, my father was a strict disciplinarian, and I did what he said. Private school was, however, a tradition in my family, so I followed suit. I seriously considered attending Andover, but chose Culver, not so much because of its reputation, but because it also had a very good athletic program. Culver’s football team played bigger schools from surrounding in-state cities and from Illinois and Ohio, and that appealed to me.

I did not have a lot of time to spend with my step-mother. I am sure she was not crazy about me and was probably relieved when I left for Culver. Thinking about it now, I, undoubtedly, resented her because she would never be the mother I had lost. She often left me behind at my grandparents’ house while the family went on vacation or day trips because I had become too rebellious. Not fully understanding this, I vowed to get back at her in some way, somehow. Surely, I thought, I can think of something. That, of course, was my adolescent mind working overtime. I realized much later that she had done the best she could with a resentful boy, who obviously did not like her very much, but one who, nonetheless, called her mother. She helped me break into advertising with a great firm after I returned from my Vietnam tour.

Excelling in football and basketball at Culver, I was voted the best all-around athlete. Finishing Culver in 1959, I enrolled in Dartmouth College, where I played football as a wide receiver and defensive back during my freshman year. I was eagerly looking forward to playing under the excellent tutelage and coaching of Bob Blackman for the next three years, but that did not happen. Dartmouth was great, but my time there was brief. My classmates and I engaged in a lot of arguing and fighting with Amherst boys. Nothing was personal. We liked most of the guys we met, but our arguments centered and escalated mostly over their invasion of our territory called “the all-girl Smith College.” Testosterone flowed freely, and we usually had a few too many beers before heading back to our dormitories. Usually, there were no problems, but one night I became a bit too controversial. I had a date with a beautiful Smith girl. I thought I would remember her name forever, but now it escapes me. We returned to her dorm an hour after curfew. Her housemother stood at the door, arms crossed over her chest, and a pretty stern look on her face. I knew I was in trouble.

“Mr. Pfeifer, you are late bringing her back. Where have you been?” she demanded, reaching to wring one of my ears between her bony fingers.

“None of your damn business where we've been,” I replied, attempting to leave.

“Mister,” she exclaimed, “You stop right there. This most certainly is my business. I expect my girls to be in before curfew, and I do not condone their dates keeping them out late.” She eyed me with suspicion, looked me straight in the eyes, and moved a little closer to my face. “You’ve been drinking. Dean Dickerson will hear about this,” she haughtily declared.

“And you can’t wait to tell him,” I sassed, pulling loose from her grip on my ear. Then, on a sudden whim, I dropped my trousers, brown-eyed her, and ran as fast as I could with my pants below my thighs.

My reputation was already badly tarnished, and this episode was quickly added to the stack of infractions. Dean Dickerson had heard plenty about my escapades, and when this reached his very sharp ears, he had heard too much. Before he had the opportunity to talk to me however, I, with drunken delight, put a fire axe through a dorm door. I was summoned to his office promptly at 8:00 A.M. the next morning. “Charles,” Dean Dickerson sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I hardly know where to begin.” He studied me for a minute or two, lips pursed, slowly shaking his head. I did not need to be told I was in deep trouble. The Dean chose his words carefully, making sure I understood the full impact. “I am appalled to hear about your recent behavior, especially after what you pulled on Smith’s housemother. She called me yesterday, and I don’t have to tell you she was pretty upset. Violating curfew and being drunk are bad enough, but sassing the housemother and showing her, or anyone else, your butt are not acceptable behaviors. And how do you expect to pay for the dorm door you damaged? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Not much, sir,” I said meekly. “I got carried away, I guess.”

“Yes sir, I believe you did.” He paused for a moment, as I stood there squirming, hands behind my back and trying, without success, to hold my head high. He let me stand there shifting my feet for another minute or two. It seemed much longer. He was good at letting students have plenty of time to reflect about their infractions before passing judgment. “Charles,” he finally said, “You have a lot of potential. You are smart and a very good athlete, yet you throw it away. You need to pull yourself together, and I do not believe you will be able to do that if you continue here. We expect our students to conform to acceptable social norms and our rules. I am sad to do what I have to do, but I have no choice. You have three options: I can expel you right now, you face possible jail time, or you can lend two precious years of your young life to Uncle Sam. Before you make a decision, would you like me to call your Father?”

“Oh no, sir,” I quickly replied. “I’ll call him.” I thought for only a moment. I might not have been a good student, but I was smart enough to know this was no contest. I had to answer to my Father, and if I had chosen anything other than Uncle Sam, I would have been in even greater trouble. “I’ll choose Uncle Sam, sir,” I responded meekly. I had not expected to be expelled, and I certainly did not want to go to jail for something as trivial as mooning Smith’s housemother. The axe episode was a different matter. Two weeks later, Dartmouth was behind me, and I reported to the Army training base at Fort Dix, New Jersey, where I played on the “Burros” football team as an end and defensive back. What was supposed to be punishment and/or exile, for my Dartmouth behavior, turned out, ostensibly, to be a two-year “football scholarship.” I absolutely loved my stint there, even though it was not all fun. A lot of hard work was involved, and I quickly learned discipline and respect. I can’t say that my wildness was over, but I had begun to grow up, but with still a long way to go.

After my stint at Fort Dix ended in 1960, I reported to Fort Benning, Georgia, and played football on its team, the “Doughboys,” again as an end and defensive back. A football scout from West Point saw me play and thought I would make a good team member for West Point. He vetted and recommended me. When my Father heard this, he called me. “Son, you are one lucky boy. You are considered a rogue student, and this is a rogue student’s ticket back into an Ivy League college. I will immediately arrange for the necessary recommendation letter.” He could not wait to contact a Connecticut congressman, who wrote the letter, and I was in. I reported to the United States Military Preparatory School at Fort Belvoir, where I studied until May 1961. I moved on to West Point Military Academy in July 1961.

I played on the West Point football team under the coaching of Paul Dietzel and Dale Hall. West Point had a big- school schedule, such as Pitt, Penn State, Syracuse and, of course, its all-time rival, Navy. An injured shoulder, badly injured knees, and subsequent surgeries, knocked me out of football. However, even though I was sidelined with injuries, I was dressed and still part of West Point’s team. The unquestioned highlight of my football career was the 65th Classic between the Army Black Knights and the Navy Midshipmen in November 1964. The game played out before a crowd of 100,000, including 2,700 cheering Cadets, in the John F Kennedy Stadium in Philadelphia. Carl Roland (“Rollie”) Stichweh, Army’s quarterback, was probably the greatest ground gainer in West Point history. Recently, he was inducted into the Army’s Football Hall of Fame. Every football fan knows that Roger Staubach, Navy’s quarterback, went on to become one of the NFL’s greatest. Both Stichweh and Staubach were seniors and badly wanted to go out as winners. Stichweh says of this 1964 game: “That win was the gift that keeps on giving for the decades that follow. It’s a topic of discussion every time our old team gets together - and each play becomes greater every time we tell it.”

In 1964, neither West Point nor Navy had ever won six in a row against the other. History has it at 30-30-5. Today, Navy leads the series at a 60-49-7. We all knew the 65th Classic would be hard-fought and tough, but we were ready. Staubach finished minus 22 on the day, and completed 12 of 20 passes for around 120 yards. A single deciding field goal told the tale: Army 11, Navy 8. “The Philadelphia Bulletin” reporter, Sandy Grady, wrote about that day: “Staubach joined the “I-Spent-The-Day-On-My-Back-Quarterback Club."

Have you ever heard the song, “There’ll Be A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight?”

I had been a mediocre cadet at West Point, graduating at the top of the bottom third of my class. I was smart enough to graduate with a better record, but I had difficulty focusing on academics. I still wanted to have a good time within the confines of the West Point community, so I did just what I needed to graduate. The only people to whom I endeared myself were my cohorts in crime. Sometimes accompanied by my friend and fellow cadet, Bobby Jones, I spent a lot of hours walking back and forth with a rifle on my shoulder, called “walking the area,” West Point’s punishment for demerits and offenses against the rules. Some cadets were punished with confinement, except for visits to the bathroom, the library and for meals, so there were others worse than me. Because of my injuries, I didn’t have the opportunity to live up to my potential in sports, but it was great while it lasted.

I could never have imagined a time when I would realize that being privileged might be a mirage. I did not know that privilege does not, and cannot, provide insulation from the vicissitudes of life. I would not discover that until much later. Actually, I am not sure if my life’s experiences have been destiny, or if they simply hinged on the choices I made. Had I known what those choices embodied, I would have been a bit more discriminating and a lot more careful. I would have changed a lot of things and now wonder why I did them, especially mooning the housemother. I did not care about showing my butt, but it certainly was not a polite thing to do. I had been reared better. When my parents heard what I did, they were horrified. I chalked it up to adolescence.

I and several other West Point players got a letter from a West Point football player, which moved me. It read: “My name is Drew Hennessy (#73) and I am a firstie right tackle on the Army football team. I am writing to you today because we share the same home state, beautiful New York, and both represented the greatest team in this nation. One of the proudest accomplishments of my life was my entrance into the Army football brotherhood and being able to represent this nation and my brothers before me. Although you are no longer on the fields of Michie, (outdoor stadium on the campus of the U. S. Military Academy in West Point) your influence and spirit still lies within the heart of this football team. I firmly believe that there is no stronger bond in this country than the Army football brotherhood and the relationship we as players form both on and off the field. As my brother, and my fellow believer in this team, I promise to give my heart and soul to this team so that you are still represented. I vow to honor those before me and carry out the winning tradition that embodies this group and this institution. We as a team will no longer settle for anything less than success and when we finally attain that goal, we will have your presence in our hearts. I hope that you enjoy this season as we go forth and honor the values that this brotherhood was founded on. Please keep on believing in this team and this strong brotherhood.” (Parenthesis added).

This letter is the genesis for the instincts and discipline that make a good combat officer.