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Merely to live ninety-two and one half years lends a certain distinction to the one who does it. However, the subject of this sketch departed leaving far more to his credit than a record of longevity and of being the oldest living graduate of West Point.</p>
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“We live in deeds, not years: in thoughts, not breaths:<br />
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.”</p>
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According to information kindly furnished in the main by The Adjutant General’s Office, and Brigadier General Otho B. Rosenbaum, <em>James B. Jackson</em> was born June 15, 1852, in Hopkinsville, Kentucky, and died February 7, 1945, in Washington, D.C. He was a cadet at the United States Military Academy, West Point, N.Y., from September 1, 1873, until June 15, 1877, which latter was the date of his graduation and appointment as additional Second Lieutenant of the 5th Infantry, stationed in Montana. He was promoted to Second Lieutenant of the 7th Infantry on August 9, 1877, to First Lieutenant on April 18, 1884, and to Captain on December 22, 1896. Next he was advanced to Major of the 15th Infantry on November 11, 1901; to Lieutenant Colonel of the 26th Infantry on July 18, 1908, and to Colonel on September 6, 1911. He was assigned to the 25th Infantry on October 19, 1911, and was retired August 11, 1912.</p>
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He served in the hotly fought Sioux Campaign and in other Indian wars; was on duty during a strike in Chicago in 1894; sailed with the expeditionary force for Cuba in the Spanish-American war in 1898; was wounded at El Caney, but in twelve days rejoined his company in the trenches before the battle of Santiago. He was awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action at El Caney.</p>
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Following the Spanish-American War he served at Army outposts in frigid Alaska and also in tropical Puerto Rico and the Philippines.</p>
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Such, in bare outline, was the active military career of Colonel Jackson—a career marked by strict fidelity to duty, by bravery and tactical skill on the field, and by steady advancement in rank and responsibility. Unfortunately for me, I did not know him during that earlier and very eventful period of his life, but I did enjoy a singularly delightful acquaintanceship and friendship with him beginning in 1932 and continuing until his death in the second month of the current year, 1945. We lived in the same apartment building in Washington for seven years, and it was there that most of my contacts with him took place and most of my chats with him were had. Both of us hailed from Kentucky, which fact, in itself, constituted a tie of no flimsy strength.</p>
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Although bred in arms and long experienced as a soldier and officer, there was nothing militant about Colonel Jackson in figure, voice or manner. On the contrary, he was slight of frame, soft-spoken in voice and gentle in demeanor. Yet it must not be inferred from this description that he was at all lacking in definitely masculine traits. Far from it. His career as a soldier of course refutes completely any such idea. Besides, he was a man of well-informed opinions and convictions, and not at all backward in expressing and maintaining them.</p>
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His sense of humor was innate and highly developed. I recall that in one of our conversations he told of an incident—or two of them, rather—that took place at an army post in the West where he was stationed. An Indian from a nearby reservation had come to be something of a nuisance by reason of the frequency and length of his visits and his disposition to beg. On a certain day he appeared at the quarters of the medical Colonel complaining of a headache. The doctor told him that what he needed was a Seidlitz powder, and proceeded to administer the dose in a way calculated to keep the Indian from returning soon. Instead of following the usual course and emptying solutions of each of the two constituent powders into a glass and having the patient drink it as it effervesced, he had the Indian swallow first one of the solutions and then the other, with the result that the effervescing took place in his stomach and with such violence and in such volume that the victim spouted involuntarily and copiously from nose as well as mouth, to the great amusement of bystanders. Contrary to popular impression, the Indian does not lack a sense of the ludicrous; so when this one had recovered sufficiently to speak he said to the doctor: ‘‘Me bring friend tomorrow. Do it to him.” The doctor agreed and the next day the red man returned accompanied by a fellow tribesman who said he had a cold. The same medical attention as in the former case was administered and with the same volcanic result. Colonel Jackson said that the Indian who was party to the joke dropped on the ground and rolled over and over in convulsions of laughter at the astonished look registered on the face of his pal and at the violently eruptive sputterings and spewings from both oral and nasal outlets.</p>
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The Colonel displayed more ardor as a baseball fan than anyone I have ever known. Up to a few years before his death he very rarely, if ever, missed a game when the Nats were at home. Singularly enough, as it seemed to me, instead of choosing a seat in the section behind the home plate, he always selected one way around in the front row facing third base. And he was a mighty rooter for the home team. To illustrate, I quote from a communication furnished me by his long-time friend and fellow fan, the Reverend Herbert Scott Smith, of Washington:</p>
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“When the home team was winning he would often jump up from his seat and let out a yell that could be heard over the entire ball park. Piercing?—Oh, more than that; it was awesome. Amusing as this may seem, it is clear proof that our friend never did anything by halves.”</p>
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The only World Series game I have ever witnessed was as his guest. Babe Ruth was in the game and in his prime. As usual, he knocked the ball out of sight if he connected with it at all. I do not think he could ever have scored otherwise, for he seemed little more than a moderately animated tortoise as a base runner.</p>
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When Colonel Jackson became too old and infirm to go to Griffith Stadium he took up crossword puzzles, and, as was his wont, he tackled them in dead earnest and with growing enthusiasm. Every evening he awaited with lively interest the arrival of a particular newspaper which carried what he considered the best of the puzzles. The last time I saw his dictionary it was in an advanced stage of disintegration, due to the constant use he made of it. He must have acquired a vocabulary of prodigious volume and range. The crossword pastime was a resource of priceless value to him during his closing years when he was unable to go out.</p>
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He possessed a remarkable memory. This was shown at the celebration of his 92nd birthday, on which occasion (planned by Miss Davis, his devoted friend and nurse) he recited Poe’s Raven in its entirety and without missing a word.</p>
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Although he never married, he took a fatherly interest in little children and young people and was never happier than when surrounded by them and doing nice things for them.</p>
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Referring to the Colonel’s sterling character and engaging personality. General Rosenbaum writes:</p>
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“Those who had known him for more than forty years do not recall ever having heard an unkind word said about him. He was always affable, courteous and polite. In fact he was well liked by everyone, and especially by the soldiers under him.” And the Reverend Herbert Scott Smith, already quoted in this sketch writes further:</p>
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“I feel that it was a great privilege to call him friend. To know him was to respect. Indeed to love, him, he was so human and so true.”</p>
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Colonel Jackson’s nearest relative at the time of his death was a niece, Mrs. James Henderson, of Brush, Colorado. The geographical remoteness of that kinswoman of course precluded her caring for him in person, but he had in his nurse. Miss Davis, and in Mr. Perry, of The Argonne staff, and in Mrs. Perry, three staunch friends who, over a protracted period, did for his comfort and happiness all that kind and tender hearts and unfailing thoughtfulness could suggest.</p>
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The funeral services were held at Fort Myer Chapel, the pallbearers being Major General Merrill W. Ireland, Brigadier General James T. Kerr, Brigadier General Otho B. Rosenbaum, Brigadier General Robert H. Dunlop, Colonel Richard D. LeGarde and Captain Stewart Dickson.</p>
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The body, worn to frailty by the vicissitudes of multiplied years, was laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery, that beautiful and hallowed bivouac of the Republic’s martial dead; while the immortal part of the gallant old soldier and gracious gentleman, we may with all confidence believe, winged its flight to that bourne where dwell “the spirits of just men made perfect.”</p>
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Requiescat in Pace!</p>
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<em>—James Quarles</em></p>