I was fortunate enough to find myself in Washington DC earlier this month as part of a tour during my Pre Command Course that began at Ft. Lee, then to Ft. Eustis, with a day reserved at the National Guard Readiness Center before proceeding on to Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland. However, the winter weather forced a cancellation of the Aberdeen part of the trip, leaving me an extra day in D.C.
If you only had time to visit one place in Washington DC that one place should be Arlington National Cemetery. Every hero you have ever read about rests here. Everything you couldn’t stand to hear about in that boring History class is all laid out here in what used to be, more or less, Robert E. Lee’s front yard. I already knew how I would spend the remainder of my time before I flew back to my beloved Macon on Friday. I finished up my work at almost lunch time and got the rental car and headed for Arlington, only a mile or so as the crow flies, but a good 15 minutes when you drive there from the hotel we were staying at. The night before, I had entertained two of my new friends I met in the course at dinner with the SCOTTY FAN CLUB story—I do that anytime I get the chance—and since one of the guys was from Maine, I had also been using the Scotty line he told to the upperclassmen at West Point during his hazing—which went something like this:
Upperclassmen: Where you from Cadet Scott?
Cadet Scott: Maine, Sir!
Upperclassmen: MAINE?!? How can you be from Maine with that accent?!?
Cadet Scott: The Main part of GEORGIA, Sir!
Naturally, anytime someone asks me where I am from, my response is MAINE--I have derived a tremendous amount of pleasure from that line and anytime I am in the company of Yankees, I always get ‘em with it.
But I digress.
I have only been to Arlington twice before, the most recent was in June of 2006 when General Scott was interred. Arlington National Cemetery is hallowed ground. The first sign you read when you get there says the same thing, but quite honestly they don’t need the sign. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you get goose bumps just going in there.
On this day, the winter storm has left two-three inches of ice and snow on the ground and the entire cemetery is covered in a blanket of white, which somehow makes it more hallowed, even heavenly. I check in with the two employees in the main building. They direct me to a computer where I can look up SCOTT, ROBERT L. and get a map printed to show me where to go. I thought about that for a second and hesitated at the computer as I typed in the letters S-C-O-T-T. I thought about the day that I was in the library at McKibben Lane Elementary and first saw the picture of Scotty in front of the P-40 and after having found out that he was from Macon, had gone home to the Macon telephone directory and looked up SCOTT, ROBERT L. Here I was thirty three years later doing almost the same thing.
I had printed my map and the section—66/1003. I was smart enough to wear two coats—my leather A2 complete with the leather 23rd Fighter Group patch that Scotty had signed for me and my Army Black Fleece jacket over that. Realizing that Scotty was both Army and Air Force, it only seemed appropriate.
The tour busses are all lined up outside but no groups of people are anywhere around due to the weather. The place is all but deserted. I am convinced no one besides the employees and the Guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier are here today. The route to the gravesite takes you from the main building up to Eisenhower Drive and then left. Eisenhower Drive to section 66, which is bordered between Bradley and Arnold Drive. It is a nice walk on a spring or summer day, but on the 15th of February about half way there I thought my ears and nose were going to fall off. As always, my trusty ball cap kept the remainder of my head from freezing. I am not used to being in the cold. HOW COLD WAS IT? Let’s put it in terms we can all understand. It felt that there was nothing between me and the North Pole except for a barbed wire fence—with the fence being blown down. Even being from MAINE I can’t handle the cold.
I turn left on Bradley and think back to June, when we were up here for Scotty’s interment. It was gorgeous up here then, and it was quite moving as we proceeded behind the Caisson and the family members and friends of Scotty. On that day there had been more than one military funeral being conducted, in each of the services, and it was a bit strange now to be walking up to General and Mrs. Scott’s final resting place all alone. The quiet was deafening. There weren’t even any airplanes flying around from nearby Reagan Airport, as had been the case last June. These were very much indeed hallowed grounds and you just about have to take an extra breath to finish the thought.
I went by my memory of last June to see how close I might be before I began counting the numbers on the headstones. I had remembered a tree being nearby and turned up at approximately where I thought it would be located. I stepped as gingerly and quietly as possible and was surprised to find that my weight didn’t break through the white blanket of ice and snow. While I was pretty close (I was one row behind and about ten graves over to the right), I found myself on the backside of the row of graves until I found #1003.
Interestingly enough CATHARINE RIX GREEN was the first name I saw. On the traditional gravestones at Arlington the wives names are engraved on the back. I proceeded around to the front of the stone and read the words:
ROBERT
LEE
SCOTT JR
BRIG GEN
US AIR FORCE
WORLD WAR II
APR 12 1908
FEB 27 2006
DFC & 10 OLC
SS & OLC
AM & OLC
There were thousands of markers just like this one and I finally found the one I was looking for.
Scotty. My Scotty. My Friend, Hero and inspiration since I was eleven years old. Why, this man had been as much a part of my life as my own parents, as much as my two best buddies Guerry and Dave, my Grandparents, all my other friends and relatives. Since I was a kid not much conversation passed without the question being asked, “Have you heard from General Scott”, or “How’s the General doing?”
I took another pause and a deep breath of that frigid Washington DC air. As I stared at the final resting place of the Greatest Fighter Pilot in the World, all was calm and peaceful. In my minds eye, I saw clearly a little kid running to the mailbox hoping he would get a letter from Sun City, Arizona, 85351. I saw my buddy Guerry running hell-bent for my patrol boy post in 1975 waving frantically a brown envelope with that return address on it and opening the contents containing a letter, picture and book called God Is My Co-Pilot. I recalled three boys in an absolute frenzy as they began an odyssey of sorts, in their hero worship of the hometown Macon Georgia Hero who took time to write each of them a letter.
Then too, I saw a 66 year old man running hell-bent up my buddy Guerry’s driveway in the first meeting. In subsequent meetings I saw all our parents and grandparents become just as excited and awestruck by Scotty as we had become. They embraced it as well as we three boys did. I saw my Grandmother pull out the good tablecloth and put it on the dining room table. I saw my Dad tell me how one is supposed to address a General and how to shake hands like a man.
In my thoughts I could see the effects from an eleven year old boy to an almost 45 year old man. It came in letters, pictures, stories, books, meetings and later on in frequent visits, going to lunch, to the movie, or just talking on the phone.
It was taking Eisenhower fishing, walking the Great Wall, flying the hump, telling white lies, and even an occasional “Piss on Bissell”—it was oatmeal cookies, blood oranges, and chicken and rice soup from the China Palace. It was Glen Livet single malt 12 yr old scotch, hippoglossus hippoglossus (Latin name for Halibut), and Robin and the Grandchildren (Linda, Laura, Susan, and Scott)---it was going to the gym to work out, even if it meant exceeding the speed limit on the highway named after you. It was also about getting older, realizing mortality, fighting depression, and remaining true to the greatest girl in the world, who had to tolerate “living with a stick of dynamite.” It surely would have been a wonderful experience to meet Mrs. Scott.
I seemed to remember everything all at one time, the memories so thick and racing through my mind so fast it made me dizzy. I realized how lucky I am. I also realized how I am but one of THOUSANDS who feel the same way about Scotty. It didn’t seem as cold now and I had a smile on my face despite a tear in my eye. I took a few pictures and started to leave. I stopped a moment and then turned around for one last look at the grave site. I did what a soldier should do at Arlington. I snapped to attention and saluted. I turned once more and began the walk back to my car.
It’s been almost a year now. I miss him very much. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. The internet website transformed a three person Fan Club into a three hundred person Fan Club (with a 15% discount at the Museum of Aviation gift shop). Scotty is everywhere-- in my house, in my office and in my thoughts. Not just on a cold wintry day at Arlington, but always. It’s been that way since 1974 and there’s really no need in changing that now. I will always be a Scotty fanatic. He is part of who I am.
Precious memories—how they linger.
Me and my buddies were the luckiest three friends in the world and we know it. Scotty bonded us together forever. Guerry and Dave are family. If Scotty did nothing else for me he had a hand in that.
Of course, God had a hand in it all.
George L. Fisher
Original Founder and President
ROBERT L SCOTT FAN CLUB ASSOCIATION
