Honoring Bob Kemble

POSITION: 41°23’57.2″N 73°57’58.4″W

“Spring at West Point”, Ginger said, “is grey and depressing.” Sure enough, barren trees covered the hills surrounding the United States Military Academy and the cold, cloudy weather felt more like February than mid-April. Only a clutch of yellow forsythia here and there broke the sombre monotone. Had spring been in full blossom, however, we might have missed views of the Hudson River and sculls being rowed earnestly just below the promontory.

Looking uphill, beyond the football pitches and the graveyard, stand a series of muscular slate granite buildings: the classrooms and dorms of the Academy. Crenelated in the manner of late 19th century gothic revival, the campus reflects a pre-World War I vision of America’s military. An army still shaking off its dependence on European role models. Further uphill, through the naked branches of sawtooth oak and horse chestnuts, sit two and three-storey red brick houses for the faculty and their families.

Ginger, like her oldest buddy Carol, spent her childhood at West Point. Between them they gave me an insider’s tour. As we drove around, they reminisced about who lived where and what happened to them. They talked fondly about their grade-school teachers and their good fortune at having the run of the sports facilities. In winter they competed on swim teams and ice skated on any one of a half dozen rinks. A small ski area gave them the basics of what became a lifelong passion for both of them.

Bittersweet

Carol was born at West Point when her father, Bob, was teaching there as an associate professor. Later, when Lieutenant Colonel Kemble was made a permanent faculty member, the family moved into one of the large residences. The house was big enough that each of the five kids had their own bedroom. There was enough space left over for guests to stay overnight and not force the kids to double up.

For children who grew up at West Point, returning there later in life is often bittersweet. For many the journey down memory lane includes the burial of a parent. In late 2007 the Kemble Klan returned to West Point to bury their mother, Helen. This time it was to lay their dad’s mortal remains at peace next to his wife’s.

HONORING BOB

I had never attended a funeral with full military honours before. And nothing less would be accorded Carol’s father. It was, as you might expect, highly organized. A procession of ten or twelve cars rendezvoused at the main gate and, right on time, proceeded slowly into the Academy with headlights lit and blinkers flashing.

Eventually, the cars pulled into the circular driveway of the Old Cadet Chapel, at the entrance to the cemetery. Colonel David Bowlus, West Point’s current chaplain, greeted each of us as we started up the steps to the chapel. Like a good chaplain should, Col. Bowlus immediately put us at our ease. My sense was the chaplain could read people in seconds. With that rare gift, he understood what levels of empathy, humour, and gospel were appropriate for each conversation.

Old CADET CHAPEL

About 40 people attended the service, including all of Carol’s siblings and her extended Chinese family. Carol’s sister Keith led the eulogies with her memories of growing up in the army and her time at West Point. Geoff, the younger of Carol’s two older brothers, picked up the story from when Colonel Kemble left the army and took an appointment as President of the New Mexico Military Institute. Cyndy, Carol’s younger older sister, closed the eulogies by talking about the period of Bob’s retirement and travels.

John Brown’s Body by Stephen Vincent Benét was part of Bob’s core curriculum when he taught humanities at West Point. In his last wishes, he had asked for a reading of “I Heard the Song of Breath” from that work. That task fell to Carol, who prefaced her reading by saying it was only last year she had come to understand the importance of Benét’s epic poem to her dad. It was just one of the many gifts she got from our time caring for Bob in Albuquerque. Bob had also requested a reading of the “Cadet’s Prayer”, for which Carol’s elder brother Chris stepped up. Everyone spoke from their heart and did their dad proud.

Military Burial

After the chaplain’s remarks and prayers, we made our way outside under cold, grey skies for the final honours. The threatened rain held off and the wind kicked up and rustled the trees at particularly poignant moments. The chaplain led the traditional burial service with words and prayers. A full honour guard fired a 21-gun salute 25 yards off. As the last volley’s echo faded away, a bugler blew taps.

A flag ceremony followed and was conducted with the utmost gravitas. Traditionally, a flag is draped over the casket and at the time of burial it is folded 13 times with great precision by the members of the honour guard. Because Bob was cremated, there was no casket. A circumstance that was clearly familiar to the honour guard. They didn’t miss a beat. Once the flag was folded into a tight triangle it was handed with a rock steady salute from the last soldier in line to the Sergeant First Class, who to this point had stood at rigid attention overseeing the ceremony.

Accepting the flag, the sergeant turned to the presiding officer and looking directly at him, passed it to him. Continuing to look unwaveringly at the officer, the sergeant bent slightly at the waist and tilted his head downwards. He then saluted the flag for at least a minute. It seemed like Bob’s spirit was cocooned the flag, and that the salute lasted a lifetime. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the officer presented the flag to Carol’s brother Geoff. Afterwards, in keeping with tradition, shell casings from the 21-gun salute were distributed among the family.

Kemble Klan

Retreating from the cold, the group made their way to the Class of ’49 Lodge for lunch. The Lodge was a gift from Bob’s graduating class to the cadets. It was the first time such a huge gift was made by a graduating class and made possible by Bob while he served as class president. Having only seen photos of the lodge, I had learned a great deal about it from Bob. Walking in for the first time, I experienced what can only be described as received nostalgia.

For the rest of the day and into the night, we communed with our extended family and talked about our memories of Bob and his legacy of contribution. As imperfect as families are, Bob and Helen had constructed a big, welcoming tent that became known as the Kemble Klan. Long may it stand. Godspeed Bob.

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