I had the good fortune to attend La Salle Military Academy in Oakdale, Long Island, New York for all four years of my high school education.  The school was located on the thousand-acre former summer estate of Commodore Frederick Gilbert Bourne, of the Singer sewing machine family.  It was run by an order of Roman Catholic clergy, the Brothers of the Christian Schools, and boasted an Army-certified Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC) instructional program in addition to a first-rate classical education syllabus.

I have many memories of the place, as I’m sure the reader does of his or her own high school.  Some are fond, some are traumatic; most are mundane and routine.  Every once in a while, however, something occurred that seared itself in my mind, never to be forgotten.  These moments are so vivid after four and a half decades that I can still remember the sight, the sound, the very feel of the moment.

A crisp autumn breeze whipped the air, creating white-capped waves on the gunmetal gray waters of Great South Bay and agitating what few copper-colored leaves remained on the hardening ground under the trees.  I hustled from the mess hall, across the herringbone pattern of bricks lining the Esplanade in front of the tall white pillars of the building known simply as The Mansion.  Past the Esplanade, I followed a well-worn path through the trees to the Military Science building.  It had once been the carriage house for the Bourne estate before the school bought the campus in the Roaring Twenties.

My final two classes on this particular November Friday were part of my JROTC training.  The classes were taught by Sergeant Miller, part of a small coterie of officers and noncoms attached to the school to administer the military part of our education.

The subject of that day’s lessons was “Military Etiquette.”  Once my classmates and I were seated and settled down, Sergeant Miller addressed the subject of the proper care and handling of the American flag.  He explained the proper way to fasten the flag to the lanyard and the proper speed to be used in its raising and lowering.  He explained that the flag is always raised to its full-staff position before raising or lowering it to the half-mast position.  He played a film on the proper way to drape the flag over a casket and the correct procedure for folding it after it’s been removed for presentation to the family.  And he explained the rules for flying the flag at night or in inclement weather.

Suddenly, there was an interruption at the door at the back of the classroom.  Major O’Brian, the commander of the Army advisors on campus, called Sergeant Miller out of the classroom.  He was gone for only a minute, then returned to the front of the class.

“Listen up,” he started.  “I’ve just been informed by Major O’Brian that President Kennedy has been shot in Texas.”

There were a few gasps, and scattered murmured comments.  I leaned over to the guy sitting next to me.

“It’s a drill,” I said.  “He’s gonna ask two guys to get up and show how the flag is properly draped on the casket.”

I was an underage freshman (I had just turned 13 earlier in the month) and a short and scrawny kid.  I was always striving to show that I was smart and knew what the score was, probably in a lame effort to gain respect.

“You’re full of crap,” my seatmate hissed.  “They wouldn’t tell us that the President was shot if he wasn’t.  You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And, of course, on that brisk autumn afternoon, 22 November 1963, I didn’t know what I was talking about.  Major O’Brian came back into the classroom, walked slowly to the front, and took a deep breath.

“Gentlemen, it is my sad duty to inform you that our Commander-in-Chief, President John Kennedy, was shot and killed a short while ago in Dallas.  The school administration has decided to cancel all remaining classes this afternoon.”

The kid next to me gave me a shove.  “Told you, you jerk.”

The rest of the afternoon I spent glued to the television in the cadet recreation area, watching the unusual non-stop news coverage.  As the fullness of the truth sank into me, I became horrified at the reality.  Who would want to kill the President?  Why, for heaven’s sake?  The news people announced that the police had caught the guy who did it, but not before he killed a cop who tried to arrest him.  What was going on with this guy?

My worldly innocence and naiveté took a final shot later that fateful weekend.  On Sunday afternoon, I was watching the television again when Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald in the basement of the Dallas police headquarters.  I saw the killing as it happened, on live television.  I had never witnessed anyone dying before.

My world view was never the same again.

As I struggled to understand the reasons behind the JFK assassination, I began to develop a lifelong interest in and study of politics.  I learned about political philosophies and the clash of opinion on the best course our country should take to achieve a prosperous nation with liberty and justice for all.

I still do not understand the need for violence as a method of resolving ideological differences.  I don’t suppose I ever will.

Words © 2009, Kenneth M. Rhodes

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