March 3, 1985 -- West Point Military Academy, New York
"As I conclude, I would like to borrow the words of the late Robert F Kennedy. He said, 'It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centres of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.' I wish you all the best of luck as you all prepare to embark on your military careers."
In one fluid motion, almost as one body, the auditorium full of fourth year cadets stood and brought their hands up into crisp salutes for the old general. The general raised his own hand in a salute to them; not a tremor could be seen despite his age. As the general brought his hand down, the cadets burst into applause.
"Major General Robert Hogan," the professor announced proudly, rushing up to the platform to shake the man's hand.
After the last of the cadets had finished shaking the general's hand and had filed quietly out of the room on their way to the mess, the professor was left alone with the general. "So, Rob, I never pegged you as much a Kennedy fan."
"I never said that I was, Matthew," Hogan growled warmly. "I just borrowed some of his words."
"Don't get so worked up, old man. I don't want you keeling over dead on me."
Hogan would have likely made some retort, but the door at the back of the auditorium opened with a squeak of the hinges. A dark face peered hesitantly around the corner. "Colonel Hogan?"
Both men turned to face the door. It was still second nature for Hogan to respond to the title, even though he hadn't officially used it in more than forty years. But it was the other Colonel Hogan who answered, "Can I help you, cadet?"
"This cadet requests permission to speak freely, sir."
"Permission granted."
"Sir, I knew that Major-General Hogan was guest lecturing here today," the cadet replied a little nervously. "My father served with him during the war. If it isn't overstepping my bounds, sir, I would like to request permission to shake his hand."
The two Hogans exchanged glances; the elder one gave a short nod that the younger returned. "Permission granted, cadet."
The young cadet entered eagerly, the door swinging shut behind him with another squeak. Hogan's eyes swept him up and down, trying to see if he could figure out which man's son this was. There were too many men, and too many wars, for him to figure it out. "Which war was that, cadet?" he asked as the boy approached.
"The Second World War," he answered, a little confidence returning to his voice, "sir."
Hogan's mind immediately flashed back to his WWII days, the time he had spent in Stalag 13. There hadn't been many African American prisoners there; Baker and Kinch were the two that he had worked most closely with. But Baker had only daughters. And Kinch's sons surely would have been older than this by now.
The cadet had come close enough that Hogan offered up his hand. The boy took it, shaking it with a grip that was surprisingly powerful. "It's an honour to be able to do this, sir. My father brought us all up on stories about his war days. That's why I'm at West Point, sir, because he taught me that heroes aren't born; they're made."
Hogan recognised the words; they had, after all, come out of his mouth once, long ago. "I said that once," he mused softly.
"I know, sir. My father told me," the boy answered, releasing his firm grip. "Thank you, sir."
There was something about the young man's bearing, about his voice, his face, that Hogan recognised. But it couldn't be. The war had ended almost forty years ago. And here was this boy, already scurrying up the stairs of the auditorium and out the door. He was gone before Hogan could get past the word, "Cadet."
So instead he turned to his younger brother. "Matthew, who was that cadet?"
"James Kinchloe."