THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, October 4, 1995 TAG: 9510040038
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: LAWRENCE MADDRY
LENGTH: Medium: 79 lines
I WAS AFRAID to write too soon about Lt. Col. Lester T. Gayle Jr., who died last month at age 104.
It seemed prudent not to write about the widely admired and oldest graduate of Virginia Military Institute and Norfolk Academy until the report of his passing had been confirmed.
The ``colonel,'' as everyone called him, took a dim view of journalists. And, he had escaped death before.
The grim reaper should have claimed him way back there during World War I when his Newport plane crashed, burrowing its nose into a French field. He suffered two broken legs but managed to crawl from the plane. He had commanded 100 men until the crash. The leg injuries prevented more combat flying, but he returned to military service in World War II, serving as an inspector general with the U.S. Air Transport Command.
I was once shown a photograph of the colonel in his World War I gas mask. He looked like a preying mantis decked out in uniform and puttees. A lean, wiry, bug-eyed fearful presence not to be taken lightly. But he had a great sense of humor. And was capable of great kindness.
I last saw him around the time of his 100th birthday. He showed me his driver's license when I visited the Gayles' Virginia Beach home. Staring from the photo on the license was a balding gentleman of extraordinary toughness with a raffish moustache and a head as tough as the knob on his cane. A friend described his driving style as similar to his style of teaching when he was a mathematics professor at VMI, ``ranging from the determined to the unforgiving.''
Yes, of course, he was driving, he said. To the health spa, to his bridge club meeting - where he played cards without glasses - and any place necessary. But he avoided the interstates and expressways because they were ``madhouses.''
Next came a touchy subject. ``Do you still drink?'' I asked.
``I have only one drink a day, a scotch and soda.''
``When?''
``After dinner, of course!'' he replied. ``When do people usually drink? Good grief, what a question!''
He turned away toward a televised Washington Redskins game, complaining of a referee's call that penalized the Skins. ``He's an idiot,'' the colonel muttered.
You wanted to be very careful around the colonel. He seemed to be a walking time bomb who might explode at any second. He retained that vigor until his final days.
At age 101 he broke the hip of his wife, Clare, by swinging her too hard as they were dancing a fox trot, one of the colonel's specialties. And she was 25 years younger.
``You've got to lighten up, Lester,'' his wife said.
Some people live their entire lives without really getting senile, geriatric specialists say.
The colonel was that way. Once, while attending a party given by the Gayles when they lived in the Boush-Waller-Tazwell House in Norfolk, I fell ill from a rare strain of flu transmitted by the vineyards in France.
I appeared the next day at their second home in Virginia Beach, with flowers, to offer an apology. I expressed regret for my conduct for 15 minutes. The colonel, in his 90s then, listened silently in another room.
When I finished, he walked to the doorway of the parlor where we sat and thumped his cane on the floor three times before pointing it at me.
``You were the drunkest man I ever saw!'' he thundered, before disappearing up the stairs.
I don't know how the colonel is getting along in that great upstairs beyond this Earth. I hope there are bands up there that can crank out fox trots and Sousa marches. And someone who can mix a decent after-dinner drink. And that it's a place off-limits to reporters asking stupid questions.
If so, I'm sure he's happy. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
At age 101 he broke the hip of his his wife, Clare, by swinging her
too hard as they were dancing a fox trot, one of the colonel's
specialties. And she was 25 years younger.
by CNB