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<em>James Alward “Jimmy” Van Fleet, Jr.</em> and I became roommates our third year at West Point. As members of a small class in Company A-1, we knew each other even be­fore that, but Jimmy, a swimmer and typical “Army Brat,” didn’t participate in the same activities as I. To Jimmy, West Point was a natural rite of passage into his chosen career. When West Point expanded its schedule from three to four years at the end of WWII, we both were placed in the four-year course and became members of the Class of 1948. Jimmy was a model of the best that the Army culture had produced. His father, LTG James Van Fleet, was one of GEN Patton’s division commanders and, when we were at the Academy, commanded of the Army in­stallation at Governor’s Island, NY.</p>
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Jimmy had a ready sense of humor and the self confidence to take challenges in stride. He was a natural athlete and cap­tained the swimming team during his First Class year. For several weeks in 1948, he even held the intercollegiate record for the 200-meter breaststroke. Good as he was, he laughed and learned from the more experi­enced. One Sunday, he returned from the pool with a wry look on his face; the West Point water polo team had invited the New York Athletic Club to a match. The West Point team, made up of 20-year olds in their prime, met the New York Athletic Club team, men in their 30s-40s who had spent the previous evening partying. They put down their cigars to begin the game and, as Jimmy put it, “drowned us.”</p>
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Some have claimed Jimmy only opened a textbook to put his name into it. I disagree. I never saw him write his name in any text­book! He did have a theory though: if he placed a textbook under his pillow before going to bed, the information contained therein would exude into his brain during the process of sleeping. He did this before a critical turnout exam his First Class year, and it seemed to work—he passed.</p>
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After First Class Christmas leave, the dark cloud of the gloom period descended, and we asked for permission to build a mod­el airplane in our room. Jimmy, fascinated by things mechanical and aerodynamic, joined me to fly the small, gas-powered model Sunday mornings. We decided to run a model plane contest at Stewart Field, Newburgh, NY, and our long suflering Tactical Officer, LTC Hightower, gave his permission. We were excused from Sunday Chapel formation, set up shop at Stewart Field, timed the flights of a dozen or so con­testants, and identified winners, distributed prizes, and returned to barracks for the eve­ning meal formation. In late April, Jimmy was cited for his only major disciplinary in­fraction: “Embracing a young lady among the garbage cans behind Cullum Hall.” His mandatory reply was a classic.</p>
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Paragraph 1</p>
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—“The report is believed to be correct.”</p>
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Paragraph 2</p>
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—“There were garbage cans about.”</p>
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He was given two weeks restriction to quar­ters, but I think he should have received an award for clarity of correspondence!</p>
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On 8 Jun 1948, we graduated, and Jimmy and his bride Yvonne were the first married in the Cadet Chapel that afternoon. Quite appropriately, they became the parents of the first son born to a member of our class, by tradition becoming the godson of the class.</p>
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We subsequently reunited at Lackland AFB, TX, as basic training flight instruc­tors. Jimmy and I borrowed shotguns from the Special Service Office to hunt doves in the open range country west of the base. One trip, we stopped at a small, roadside bar some 30 miles west of San Antonio. While there, we watched the ranch families sip beer out of bottles, and dance to a fiddle player. It was probably Jimmy’s first exposure to back country America.</p>
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After Lackland, Jimmy graduated from the Advanced Multi-Engine Flying School at Barksdale AFB, LA. In late December 1949, I unexpectedly ran into Jimmy and Yvonne in London, on their way to Greece, where Jimmy’s father was head of the U.S. Military Advisory Group to the Greek government in its eflorts to prevent the attempted Soviet takeover of that country. This was the last time I saw Jimmy.</p>
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After his father became commander of U.S. Forces in Korea, Jimmy was assigned to a B-26 light bomber wing at Kunsan Air Base, Korea. His classmate, George Thomas, described an incident that says it all about Jimmy Van Fleet. “While on a special recon mission checking the bridges over the Han River in an H-13 helicopter, the craft he was in developed engine trouble and went down in the river. When Jimmy got out and sur­faced, he dove down, pulled his pilot from the wreckage and dragged him safely ashore, saving his life.”</p>
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Later, while assigned to the 3rd Bomb Group (a B-26 night intruder unit), Jimmy’s flight on 4 May 1952 was declared missing. An extensive search proved fruitless, and he was declared dead on 4 Apr 1954.</p>
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Some 40,000 American servicemen died in the Korean War. A half dozen or so of the Class of 1948, to include Jimmy, were among the lost. While they can’t be counted among the lists of those who provided a full career of dedication, they also contributed to the substance of our history, be it among the garbage cans behind Cullum Hall, in the cadet swimming pool or flying a model airplane motor on a Sunday morning on the Plain. Jimmy Van Fleet had a tragically brief career; bright, full of promise but too short. Short, but never forgotten.</p>
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<em>—Donal D. Kavanagh, classmate</em></p>
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