USMA Class of 1889. Cullum No. 3299.
Sixty-Fifth Annual Report of the Association of Graduates of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York, June 11, 1934, The Moore Printing Company, Newburgh, New York.
Ralph Harrison
No. 3299. Class of 1889.
Died December 6, 1933, at Santa Monica, California, aged 67 years.
Ralph Harrison was born, March 24th, 1866, in Richmond, Missouri. His father was John Harrison, who traced his ancestry back to soldiers of the American Revolution and who himself fought as a soldier from Missouri in the Civil War. His father as well as his grandfather, George W. Harrison, was a harness and saddle maker. Ralph Harrison's mother was Mary Elizabeth Foushee, the daughter of Judge William Foushee, of Richmond.
Ralph was one of a family of seven sons and two daughters. With his brothers and sisters, he attended the public schools of Greenfield to include high school and later had several terms at Ozark College, of the same locality. For one facing the strenuous curriculum of West Point, his preparatory schooling was not as extensive and advanced as Ralph might have desired. However, at the age of nineteen, he secured appointment to the Academy from his native state, reported to the Adjutant, on June 14, 1885 and forthwith was assigned to beast barracks with a lot of other green and awkward plebes, drawn from all quarters of the United States. He passed the entrance examinations and entered upon his military career.
I can see him now - a smiling, good natured country boy, whose chubby cheeks, touched with the rosy bloom of the Ozark hills, im¬mediately earned him the affectionate nickname of Fatty, a soubriquet which he carried throughout his life, even when, in later years, it had become a misnomer.
It seems to me that Fatty's first roommate was Danny Webster, also hailing from Missouri, who had the advantage of a year at the Naval Academy. At all events and considering that he had had no special preparation for West Point, Ralph did remarkably well, academically, in his strenuous four years and on June 12, 1889, he was graduated Number 18, in a class of forty-eight survivors of nearly three times that number. He was known to be studious, industrious to a degree and, except in acquiring demerits for lates at formations, had an excellent disciplinary record. Among his classmates and contemporaries at the Academy, he was exceedingly popular and well liked. Always outcropping was his keen sense of humor, a quality which he retained as long as he lived. Nothing pleased him more than to hear or recount a good story and as he was an excellent mimic, he caused many a laugh within a class group by his apt imitations of professors, instructors and tacs, as well as of fellow cadets. Proctor and Sam Reber of 1886, Littebrant and Peter Harris of 1888 and Weelly Kenly and Wap Phillips of 1889, were his especial favorites in sub rosa imitations of their well-known modes of address. For four years he daily chuckled over his experiences as a plebe and I believe he enjoyed his reminiscences of plebedom throughout life. His sense of humor carried him through many vexatious trials.
I well remember his temporary discomfiture and dismay, one beautiful, star lit evening in our first Class Camp. I happened to be the hop manager for one of the usual, smaller hops and dressed for the occasion, I was leaving camp early, to see that all preparations had been made for the dance. Suddenly, from the direction of the Hotel came Fatty Harrison, red in the face, perspiring and out of breath.
Guess what's happened, he gasped. Here I am, hooked up for the hop with Miss Black and along comes a message from the Hotel that a man and woman from my home town have just arrived with their daughter. Only going to be here 'till tomorrow! I can't take two girls to the same hop, like Billy Harts and somebody has just got to take that Ozark girl to this dance! Why! She and I used to make mud pies together!
Gently, for I feared the relief might cause a fainting spell, I broke to him the news that, as senior hop manager of the evening, I had asked no young lady to accompany me. Also, and this was more to the point, I would be delighted to save Fatty from a spell of sickness and loss of prestige in the Ozarks, by taking his lady to the hop.
It is needless to say that Fatty fell on my neck and wept tears of gratitude. The young girl and I went blithely to the dance, she danced every dance in a long program and I have reason to believe she has never forgotten that enthralling night at West Point, when she was, nearly at least, the belle of the ball! Fatty never forgot that episode and his gratitude knew no bounds.
Harrison loved a horse and in accordance with his preference, was assigned upon graduation, to the 2nd Cavalry and joined that fine regiment at Fort Walla Walla, Washington and later served with it at Fort Sherman, Idaho, in what was then frontier country. With the transfer of his regiment to the southwest, he again saw interesting service in Arizona and New Mexico. There, at old Fort Wingate, New Mexico, he met the future Mrs. Harrison, Helen Edith Wallace, sister of the popular Bruce Wallace, Class of 1890. And here, November 1, 1892, three years after graduation, they were married to the accompaniment of clanking sabres and waving guidons. The union, continued for over forty years, was a most happy one. There, at Fort Wingate, came their first born, a son, Wallace Harrison, who was lost to them. Harrison was transferred from Fort Wingate to Fort Riley in 1895 and here, in 1896, was born Ruth, now the wife of Major Carl Spatz, Air Corps, United States Army.
After an interesting period of duty in the genial climate of New Mexico and at Fort Riley, Harrison secured promotion to first lieutenant of cavalry, late in 1896 and the next year 1897 was detailed to the military department of the Kansas State Agricultural College at Manhattan, where he remained until outbreak of the war with Spain. Here was born their third child, a son, Robert Bruce Harrison, who, like his baby brother, did not long survive.
Early in 1898, after busy period buying horses and mules for the troops mobilized at camps, Harrison was appointed major of the 2nd Missouri Volunteer Infantry; but in spite of the young officer's earnest effort to be given active service, he was held by the War Department to a long period of mustering in and of mustering out duty which ended only with his honorable discharge from the volunteer service, March 3, 1899.
During this somewhat monotonous period, when he was smarting to have duty with troops, he told the amusing experience he had in Kentucky, mustering in a group of hillbillies, so remotely located in the mountain region and so inaccessible from railroads, wagon roads, or even mule trails, that Major Harrison had to float 'em down to the Ohio River in flat boats! And when at length, he had his wild mountaineers safely within an enclosed camp at Louisville and Harrison hastened to change their daily meat ration of salty bacon to fresh Chicago, beef, he found one morning, his tent surrounded by a mob of excited remonstrant mountain lads, who implored him in no uncertain terms, to let them go back to their mountain sowbelly. He did so, forthwith and absolute contentment followed.
There followed short periods of service - at Matanzas, Cuba, with his regiment; on recruiting duty in Missouri and service as Squadron Adjutant, 2nd Cavalry, until, February 2nd, 1901. He was promoted captain and ordered to Fort Myer, Virginia, where was born Katherine, who, many years later, married Edgar G. Tobin, of San Antonio, Texas. There followed a period of duty in the Philippines, mostly commissary duty in and about Manila, his service earning for him the praise and commendation of his superiors and gaining for him detail as Assistant to the Chief Commissary, Philippine Division (1905) and Chief Commissary, Department of Mindanao (1905-1906). He was at length relieved from duty in the Commissary Department and assigned to the 7th Cavalry; detailed as post quartermaster, Fort Riley; promoted major, 4th Cavalry, (1912), lieutenant colonel of cavalry (1916) and colonel of cavalry (1917).
With entry of the United States into the World War, Harrison found himself detailed in the office of The Adjutant General at Washington (1918-1919) and like many others who longed for active service abroad, was kept upon highly important administrative duty, forwarding replacements overseas to the battle lines. He never quite got over his keen disappointment and so expressed himself to me at Bordeaux in the spring of 1919, when he was allowed as a partial reward for his enforced officer duty in Washington, to visit the war area for observation and study. He was no whiner, but he pointed out to me how, after graduation his regiment was ordered to the southwest to watch the Navajos and Apaches, hysterically excited by the so called Messiah Craze and the Ghost Dancing and so he missed the last of the Indian Wars, the Brule Sioux insurrection of 1890-1891. Then, when we broke with Spain and Harrison became a boy major in a state volunteer regiment, he was kept on mustering duty until all hostilities were over. Again, when the Philippine Insurrection and China Relief Expedition gave opportunity to many of his classmates for duty in the field, Harrison's regiment was not ordered to the Orient until everything was over. And finally, with the advent of the greatest war in history, the War Department, with obdurate disregard for his repeated requests for duty in France, kept him at a desk! No wonder that it required all the resources of his sunny temperament, to laugh it off. After the World War, he served as Adjutant, Central Department, at Chicago and of the Eastern Department at Governor's Island until 1920, when he transferred to the Finance Department. On November 20, 1926, he was retired at his own request, after more than forty years of active service and appreciating the importance of building up his rather impaired health, he made his home at beautiful Santa Monica, California. Here, surrounded by wife, children and four grandchildren, he confined his activities to his favorite pastime of gardening, with an occasional quiet fishing trip. His love for his flowers and his fruit trees, which was appealing and compelling, was reflected in his correspondence with me in this semi-invalid period of his life:
I have the most glorious flowers this season I have ever raised, snap dragons and stock suitable for exhibition purposes. I should have peaches from my own trees by the end of May. My trees produced good oranges and grapefruit this spring and are now in full bloom. My alligator pear trees are also in blossom. I am getting lots of sweet peas now and have some glorious poinsettias, the blossoms of which are fifteen inches in diameter by actual measurement.
And throughout his last years, his thoughts were so often of his Class of 1989.
I regret, more than I can tell you, what a disappointment it is to me not to be able to join with the Class at the reunion in June, but I do not feel equal to it. I have to be so careful of what I eat, that I have to stick close to home. Please write me all about the reunion; I shall me anxious to hear.
And without ever forcing his ill health to the front, his letters show, between the lines, what a cross he had to bear:
I have not been fishing for some time. The weather has been a little too raw for open boat fishing in the bay, but I hope to be at it in a couple of weeks. The 1889'ers are passing rapidly, but there should be a goodly number left to 'reune' on the 50th Anniversary of our graduation. I tell you, we old boys must watch our step and keep well. If we can have good health, nothing else matters!
And, in May 1933, he penned me these sadly ominous and prophetic words:
My traveling days are over, as I have to be very careful of my diet and do not go into high altitudes. I want very much to take a motor trip to Death Valley, but there is too much altitude on the way there.
The unhappy end came December 6, 1933 - painlessly, instantaneously, peacefully. A close member of his devoted family circle has told of it:
He had improved in general health and we had him with us much longer than we had dared to hope. He was contented and the home gave him great satisfaction, as he loved pottering around in his garden. The end came suddenly on the streetcar, as he was coming home from Los Angeles. He greeted the motorman cheerily as he boarded the car, was reading his newspaper and the man sitting in the same seat did not know anything was wrong. The conductor made the discovery while collecting the tickets. It was tragic that it happened as it did, but he had prayed to pass on just that way and we cannot but be thankful there was no awful suffering. Truly, when we are in life, we are in death.
It has been my experience in war, as well as in peace, that among ordinary Americans, it does not require extraordinary qualities of courage, physical and moral, to face bullets, shell, shrapnel, gas and even the bayonet. In fact, among our splendid soldiers in France, courage was one of the commonest, as well as one of the finest qualities in evidence. But to face, day by day, week after week, month after month, the prospect of sudden and instantaneous death, from a well-known, fatal malady and yet to look the world in the face, smilingly, uncomplainingly, unselfishly, requires unflinching courage of the highest order. Ralph Harrison, 1889, possessed it to a degree. Quiet, unassuming, patient, cheerful, he did his full duty in that state of life, unto which it pleased God to call him.
C.D.R.
Sixty-Fifth Annual Report of the Association of Graduates of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York, June 11, 1934, The Moore Printing Company, Newburgh, New York.
Ralph Harrison
No. 3299. Class of 1889.
Died December 6, 1933, at Santa Monica, California, aged 67 years.
Ralph Harrison was born, March 24th, 1866, in Richmond, Missouri. His father was John Harrison, who traced his ancestry back to soldiers of the American Revolution and who himself fought as a soldier from Missouri in the Civil War. His father as well as his grandfather, George W. Harrison, was a harness and saddle maker. Ralph Harrison's mother was Mary Elizabeth Foushee, the daughter of Judge William Foushee, of Richmond.
Ralph was one of a family of seven sons and two daughters. With his brothers and sisters, he attended the public schools of Greenfield to include high school and later had several terms at Ozark College, of the same locality. For one facing the strenuous curriculum of West Point, his preparatory schooling was not as extensive and advanced as Ralph might have desired. However, at the age of nineteen, he secured appointment to the Academy from his native state, reported to the Adjutant, on June 14, 1885 and forthwith was assigned to beast barracks with a lot of other green and awkward plebes, drawn from all quarters of the United States. He passed the entrance examinations and entered upon his military career.
I can see him now - a smiling, good natured country boy, whose chubby cheeks, touched with the rosy bloom of the Ozark hills, im¬mediately earned him the affectionate nickname of Fatty, a soubriquet which he carried throughout his life, even when, in later years, it had become a misnomer.
It seems to me that Fatty's first roommate was Danny Webster, also hailing from Missouri, who had the advantage of a year at the Naval Academy. At all events and considering that he had had no special preparation for West Point, Ralph did remarkably well, academically, in his strenuous four years and on June 12, 1889, he was graduated Number 18, in a class of forty-eight survivors of nearly three times that number. He was known to be studious, industrious to a degree and, except in acquiring demerits for lates at formations, had an excellent disciplinary record. Among his classmates and contemporaries at the Academy, he was exceedingly popular and well liked. Always outcropping was his keen sense of humor, a quality which he retained as long as he lived. Nothing pleased him more than to hear or recount a good story and as he was an excellent mimic, he caused many a laugh within a class group by his apt imitations of professors, instructors and tacs, as well as of fellow cadets. Proctor and Sam Reber of 1886, Littebrant and Peter Harris of 1888 and Weelly Kenly and Wap Phillips of 1889, were his especial favorites in sub rosa imitations of their well-known modes of address. For four years he daily chuckled over his experiences as a plebe and I believe he enjoyed his reminiscences of plebedom throughout life. His sense of humor carried him through many vexatious trials.
I well remember his temporary discomfiture and dismay, one beautiful, star lit evening in our first Class Camp. I happened to be the hop manager for one of the usual, smaller hops and dressed for the occasion, I was leaving camp early, to see that all preparations had been made for the dance. Suddenly, from the direction of the Hotel came Fatty Harrison, red in the face, perspiring and out of breath.
Guess what's happened, he gasped. Here I am, hooked up for the hop with Miss Black and along comes a message from the Hotel that a man and woman from my home town have just arrived with their daughter. Only going to be here 'till tomorrow! I can't take two girls to the same hop, like Billy Harts and somebody has just got to take that Ozark girl to this dance! Why! She and I used to make mud pies together!
Gently, for I feared the relief might cause a fainting spell, I broke to him the news that, as senior hop manager of the evening, I had asked no young lady to accompany me. Also, and this was more to the point, I would be delighted to save Fatty from a spell of sickness and loss of prestige in the Ozarks, by taking his lady to the hop.
It is needless to say that Fatty fell on my neck and wept tears of gratitude. The young girl and I went blithely to the dance, she danced every dance in a long program and I have reason to believe she has never forgotten that enthralling night at West Point, when she was, nearly at least, the belle of the ball! Fatty never forgot that episode and his gratitude knew no bounds.
Harrison loved a horse and in accordance with his preference, was assigned upon graduation, to the 2nd Cavalry and joined that fine regiment at Fort Walla Walla, Washington and later served with it at Fort Sherman, Idaho, in what was then frontier country. With the transfer of his regiment to the southwest, he again saw interesting service in Arizona and New Mexico. There, at old Fort Wingate, New Mexico, he met the future Mrs. Harrison, Helen Edith Wallace, sister of the popular Bruce Wallace, Class of 1890. And here, November 1, 1892, three years after graduation, they were married to the accompaniment of clanking sabres and waving guidons. The union, continued for over forty years, was a most happy one. There, at Fort Wingate, came their first born, a son, Wallace Harrison, who was lost to them. Harrison was transferred from Fort Wingate to Fort Riley in 1895 and here, in 1896, was born Ruth, now the wife of Major Carl Spatz, Air Corps, United States Army.
After an interesting period of duty in the genial climate of New Mexico and at Fort Riley, Harrison secured promotion to first lieutenant of cavalry, late in 1896 and the next year 1897 was detailed to the military department of the Kansas State Agricultural College at Manhattan, where he remained until outbreak of the war with Spain. Here was born their third child, a son, Robert Bruce Harrison, who, like his baby brother, did not long survive.
Early in 1898, after busy period buying horses and mules for the troops mobilized at camps, Harrison was appointed major of the 2nd Missouri Volunteer Infantry; but in spite of the young officer's earnest effort to be given active service, he was held by the War Department to a long period of mustering in and of mustering out duty which ended only with his honorable discharge from the volunteer service, March 3, 1899.
During this somewhat monotonous period, when he was smarting to have duty with troops, he told the amusing experience he had in Kentucky, mustering in a group of hillbillies, so remotely located in the mountain region and so inaccessible from railroads, wagon roads, or even mule trails, that Major Harrison had to float 'em down to the Ohio River in flat boats! And when at length, he had his wild mountaineers safely within an enclosed camp at Louisville and Harrison hastened to change their daily meat ration of salty bacon to fresh Chicago, beef, he found one morning, his tent surrounded by a mob of excited remonstrant mountain lads, who implored him in no uncertain terms, to let them go back to their mountain sowbelly. He did so, forthwith and absolute contentment followed.
There followed short periods of service - at Matanzas, Cuba, with his regiment; on recruiting duty in Missouri and service as Squadron Adjutant, 2nd Cavalry, until, February 2nd, 1901. He was promoted captain and ordered to Fort Myer, Virginia, where was born Katherine, who, many years later, married Edgar G. Tobin, of San Antonio, Texas. There followed a period of duty in the Philippines, mostly commissary duty in and about Manila, his service earning for him the praise and commendation of his superiors and gaining for him detail as Assistant to the Chief Commissary, Philippine Division (1905) and Chief Commissary, Department of Mindanao (1905-1906). He was at length relieved from duty in the Commissary Department and assigned to the 7th Cavalry; detailed as post quartermaster, Fort Riley; promoted major, 4th Cavalry, (1912), lieutenant colonel of cavalry (1916) and colonel of cavalry (1917).
With entry of the United States into the World War, Harrison found himself detailed in the office of The Adjutant General at Washington (1918-1919) and like many others who longed for active service abroad, was kept upon highly important administrative duty, forwarding replacements overseas to the battle lines. He never quite got over his keen disappointment and so expressed himself to me at Bordeaux in the spring of 1919, when he was allowed as a partial reward for his enforced officer duty in Washington, to visit the war area for observation and study. He was no whiner, but he pointed out to me how, after graduation his regiment was ordered to the southwest to watch the Navajos and Apaches, hysterically excited by the so called Messiah Craze and the Ghost Dancing and so he missed the last of the Indian Wars, the Brule Sioux insurrection of 1890-1891. Then, when we broke with Spain and Harrison became a boy major in a state volunteer regiment, he was kept on mustering duty until all hostilities were over. Again, when the Philippine Insurrection and China Relief Expedition gave opportunity to many of his classmates for duty in the field, Harrison's regiment was not ordered to the Orient until everything was over. And finally, with the advent of the greatest war in history, the War Department, with obdurate disregard for his repeated requests for duty in France, kept him at a desk! No wonder that it required all the resources of his sunny temperament, to laugh it off. After the World War, he served as Adjutant, Central Department, at Chicago and of the Eastern Department at Governor's Island until 1920, when he transferred to the Finance Department. On November 20, 1926, he was retired at his own request, after more than forty years of active service and appreciating the importance of building up his rather impaired health, he made his home at beautiful Santa Monica, California. Here, surrounded by wife, children and four grandchildren, he confined his activities to his favorite pastime of gardening, with an occasional quiet fishing trip. His love for his flowers and his fruit trees, which was appealing and compelling, was reflected in his correspondence with me in this semi-invalid period of his life:
I have the most glorious flowers this season I have ever raised, snap dragons and stock suitable for exhibition purposes. I should have peaches from my own trees by the end of May. My trees produced good oranges and grapefruit this spring and are now in full bloom. My alligator pear trees are also in blossom. I am getting lots of sweet peas now and have some glorious poinsettias, the blossoms of which are fifteen inches in diameter by actual measurement.
And throughout his last years, his thoughts were so often of his Class of 1989.
I regret, more than I can tell you, what a disappointment it is to me not to be able to join with the Class at the reunion in June, but I do not feel equal to it. I have to be so careful of what I eat, that I have to stick close to home. Please write me all about the reunion; I shall me anxious to hear.
And without ever forcing his ill health to the front, his letters show, between the lines, what a cross he had to bear:
I have not been fishing for some time. The weather has been a little too raw for open boat fishing in the bay, but I hope to be at it in a couple of weeks. The 1889'ers are passing rapidly, but there should be a goodly number left to 'reune' on the 50th Anniversary of our graduation. I tell you, we old boys must watch our step and keep well. If we can have good health, nothing else matters!
And, in May 1933, he penned me these sadly ominous and prophetic words:
My traveling days are over, as I have to be very careful of my diet and do not go into high altitudes. I want very much to take a motor trip to Death Valley, but there is too much altitude on the way there.
The unhappy end came December 6, 1933 - painlessly, instantaneously, peacefully. A close member of his devoted family circle has told of it:
He had improved in general health and we had him with us much longer than we had dared to hope. He was contented and the home gave him great satisfaction, as he loved pottering around in his garden. The end came suddenly on the streetcar, as he was coming home from Los Angeles. He greeted the motorman cheerily as he boarded the car, was reading his newspaper and the man sitting in the same seat did not know anything was wrong. The conductor made the discovery while collecting the tickets. It was tragic that it happened as it did, but he had prayed to pass on just that way and we cannot but be thankful there was no awful suffering. Truly, when we are in life, we are in death.
It has been my experience in war, as well as in peace, that among ordinary Americans, it does not require extraordinary qualities of courage, physical and moral, to face bullets, shell, shrapnel, gas and even the bayonet. In fact, among our splendid soldiers in France, courage was one of the commonest, as well as one of the finest qualities in evidence. But to face, day by day, week after week, month after month, the prospect of sudden and instantaneous death, from a well-known, fatal malady and yet to look the world in the face, smilingly, uncomplainingly, unselfishly, requires unflinching courage of the highest order. Ralph Harrison, 1889, possessed it to a degree. Quiet, unassuming, patient, cheerful, he did his full duty in that state of life, unto which it pleased God to call him.
C.D.R.
USMA Class of 1889. Cullum No. 3299.
Sixty-Fifth Annual Report of the Association of Graduates of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York, June 11, 1934, The Moore Printing Company, Newburgh, New York.
Ralph Harrison
No. 3299. Class of 1889.
Died December 6, 1933, at Santa Monica, California, aged 67 years.
Ralph Harrison was born, March 24th, 1866, in Richmond, Missouri. His father was John Harrison, who traced his ancestry back to soldiers of the American Revolution and who himself fought as a soldier from Missouri in the Civil War. His father as well as his grandfather, George W. Harrison, was a harness and saddle maker. Ralph Harrison's mother was Mary Elizabeth Foushee, the daughter of Judge William Foushee, of Richmond.
Ralph was one of a family of seven sons and two daughters. With his brothers and sisters, he attended the public schools of Greenfield to include high school and later had several terms at Ozark College, of the same locality. For one facing the strenuous curriculum of West Point, his preparatory schooling was not as extensive and advanced as Ralph might have desired. However, at the age of nineteen, he secured appointment to the Academy from his native state, reported to the Adjutant, on June 14, 1885 and forthwith was assigned to beast barracks with a lot of other green and awkward plebes, drawn from all quarters of the United States. He passed the entrance examinations and entered upon his military career.
I can see him now - a smiling, good natured country boy, whose chubby cheeks, touched with the rosy bloom of the Ozark hills, im¬mediately earned him the affectionate nickname of Fatty, a soubriquet which he carried throughout his life, even when, in later years, it had become a misnomer.
It seems to me that Fatty's first roommate was Danny Webster, also hailing from Missouri, who had the advantage of a year at the Naval Academy. At all events and considering that he had had no special preparation for West Point, Ralph did remarkably well, academically, in his strenuous four years and on June 12, 1889, he was graduated Number 18, in a class of forty-eight survivors of nearly three times that number. He was known to be studious, industrious to a degree and, except in acquiring demerits for lates at formations, had an excellent disciplinary record. Among his classmates and contemporaries at the Academy, he was exceedingly popular and well liked. Always outcropping was his keen sense of humor, a quality which he retained as long as he lived. Nothing pleased him more than to hear or recount a good story and as he was an excellent mimic, he caused many a laugh within a class group by his apt imitations of professors, instructors and tacs, as well as of fellow cadets. Proctor and Sam Reber of 1886, Littebrant and Peter Harris of 1888 and Weelly Kenly and Wap Phillips of 1889, were his especial favorites in sub rosa imitations of their well-known modes of address. For four years he daily chuckled over his experiences as a plebe and I believe he enjoyed his reminiscences of plebedom throughout life. His sense of humor carried him through many vexatious trials.
I well remember his temporary discomfiture and dismay, one beautiful, star lit evening in our first Class Camp. I happened to be the hop manager for one of the usual, smaller hops and dressed for the occasion, I was leaving camp early, to see that all preparations had been made for the dance. Suddenly, from the direction of the Hotel came Fatty Harrison, red in the face, perspiring and out of breath.
Guess what's happened, he gasped. Here I am, hooked up for the hop with Miss Black and along comes a message from the Hotel that a man and woman from my home town have just arrived with their daughter. Only going to be here 'till tomorrow! I can't take two girls to the same hop, like Billy Harts and somebody has just got to take that Ozark girl to this dance! Why! She and I used to make mud pies together!
Gently, for I feared the relief might cause a fainting spell, I broke to him the news that, as senior hop manager of the evening, I had asked no young lady to accompany me. Also, and this was more to the point, I would be delighted to save Fatty from a spell of sickness and loss of prestige in the Ozarks, by taking his lady to the hop.
It is needless to say that Fatty fell on my neck and wept tears of gratitude. The young girl and I went blithely to the dance, she danced every dance in a long program and I have reason to believe she has never forgotten that enthralling night at West Point, when she was, nearly at least, the belle of the ball! Fatty never forgot that episode and his gratitude knew no bounds.
Harrison loved a horse and in accordance with his preference, was assigned upon graduation, to the 2nd Cavalry and joined that fine regiment at Fort Walla Walla, Washington and later served with it at Fort Sherman, Idaho, in what was then frontier country. With the transfer of his regiment to the southwest, he again saw interesting service in Arizona and New Mexico. There, at old Fort Wingate, New Mexico, he met the future Mrs. Harrison, Helen Edith Wallace, sister of the popular Bruce Wallace, Class of 1890. And here, November 1, 1892, three years after graduation, they were married to the accompaniment of clanking sabres and waving guidons. The union, continued for over forty years, was a most happy one. There, at Fort Wingate, came their first born, a son, Wallace Harrison, who was lost to them. Harrison was transferred from Fort Wingate to Fort Riley in 1895 and here, in 1896, was born Ruth, now the wife of Major Carl Spatz, Air Corps, United States Army.
After an interesting period of duty in the genial climate of New Mexico and at Fort Riley, Harrison secured promotion to first lieutenant of cavalry, late in 1896 and the next year 1897 was detailed to the military department of the Kansas State Agricultural College at Manhattan, where he remained until outbreak of the war with Spain. Here was born their third child, a son, Robert Bruce Harrison, who, like his baby brother, did not long survive.
Early in 1898, after busy period buying horses and mules for the troops mobilized at camps, Harrison was appointed major of the 2nd Missouri Volunteer Infantry; but in spite of the young officer's earnest effort to be given active service, he was held by the War Department to a long period of mustering in and of mustering out duty which ended only with his honorable discharge from the volunteer service, March 3, 1899.
During this somewhat monotonous period, when he was smarting to have duty with troops, he told the amusing experience he had in Kentucky, mustering in a group of hillbillies, so remotely located in the mountain region and so inaccessible from railroads, wagon roads, or even mule trails, that Major Harrison had to float 'em down to the Ohio River in flat boats! And when at length, he had his wild mountaineers safely within an enclosed camp at Louisville and Harrison hastened to change their daily meat ration of salty bacon to fresh Chicago, beef, he found one morning, his tent surrounded by a mob of excited remonstrant mountain lads, who implored him in no uncertain terms, to let them go back to their mountain sowbelly. He did so, forthwith and absolute contentment followed.
There followed short periods of service - at Matanzas, Cuba, with his regiment; on recruiting duty in Missouri and service as Squadron Adjutant, 2nd Cavalry, until, February 2nd, 1901. He was promoted captain and ordered to Fort Myer, Virginia, where was born Katherine, who, many years later, married Edgar G. Tobin, of San Antonio, Texas. There followed a period of duty in the Philippines, mostly commissary duty in and about Manila, his service earning for him the praise and commendation of his superiors and gaining for him detail as Assistant to the Chief Commissary, Philippine Division (1905) and Chief Commissary, Department of Mindanao (1905-1906). He was at length relieved from duty in the Commissary Department and assigned to the 7th Cavalry; detailed as post quartermaster, Fort Riley; promoted major, 4th Cavalry, (1912), lieutenant colonel of cavalry (1916) and colonel of cavalry (1917).
With entry of the United States into the World War, Harrison found himself detailed in the office of The Adjutant General at Washington (1918-1919) and like many others who longed for active service abroad, was kept upon highly important administrative duty, forwarding replacements overseas to the battle lines. He never quite got over his keen disappointment and so expressed himself to me at Bordeaux in the spring of 1919, when he was allowed as a partial reward for his enforced officer duty in Washington, to visit the war area for observation and study. He was no whiner, but he pointed out to me how, after graduation his regiment was ordered to the southwest to watch the Navajos and Apaches, hysterically excited by the so called Messiah Craze and the Ghost Dancing and so he missed the last of the Indian Wars, the Brule Sioux insurrection of 1890-1891. Then, when we broke with Spain and Harrison became a boy major in a state volunteer regiment, he was kept on mustering duty until all hostilities were over. Again, when the Philippine Insurrection and China Relief Expedition gave opportunity to many of his classmates for duty in the field, Harrison's regiment was not ordered to the Orient until everything was over. And finally, with the advent of the greatest war in history, the War Department, with obdurate disregard for his repeated requests for duty in France, kept him at a desk! No wonder that it required all the resources of his sunny temperament, to laugh it off. After the World War, he served as Adjutant, Central Department, at Chicago and of the Eastern Department at Governor's Island until 1920, when he transferred to the Finance Department. On November 20, 1926, he was retired at his own request, after more than forty years of active service and appreciating the importance of building up his rather impaired health, he made his home at beautiful Santa Monica, California. Here, surrounded by wife, children and four grandchildren, he confined his activities to his favorite pastime of gardening, with an occasional quiet fishing trip. His love for his flowers and his fruit trees, which was appealing and compelling, was reflected in his correspondence with me in this semi-invalid period of his life:
I have the most glorious flowers this season I have ever raised, snap dragons and stock suitable for exhibition purposes. I should have peaches from my own trees by the end of May. My trees produced good oranges and grapefruit this spring and are now in full bloom. My alligator pear trees are also in blossom. I am getting lots of sweet peas now and have some glorious poinsettias, the blossoms of which are fifteen inches in diameter by actual measurement.
And throughout his last years, his thoughts were so often of his Class of 1989.
I regret, more than I can tell you, what a disappointment it is to me not to be able to join with the Class at the reunion in June, but I do not feel equal to it. I have to be so careful of what I eat, that I have to stick close to home. Please write me all about the reunion; I shall me anxious to hear.
And without ever forcing his ill health to the front, his letters show, between the lines, what a cross he had to bear:
I have not been fishing for some time. The weather has been a little too raw for open boat fishing in the bay, but I hope to be at it in a couple of weeks. The 1889'ers are passing rapidly, but there should be a goodly number left to 'reune' on the 50th Anniversary of our graduation. I tell you, we old boys must watch our step and keep well. If we can have good health, nothing else matters!
And, in May 1933, he penned me these sadly ominous and prophetic words:
My traveling days are over, as I have to be very careful of my diet and do not go into high altitudes. I want very much to take a motor trip to Death Valley, but there is too much altitude on the way there.
The unhappy end came December 6, 1933 - painlessly, instantaneously, peacefully. A close member of his devoted family circle has told of it:
He had improved in general health and we had him with us much longer than we had dared to hope. He was contented and the home gave him great satisfaction, as he loved pottering around in his garden. The end came suddenly on the streetcar, as he was coming home from Los Angeles. He greeted the motorman cheerily as he boarded the car, was reading his newspaper and the man sitting in the same seat did not know anything was wrong. The conductor made the discovery while collecting the tickets. It was tragic that it happened as it did, but he had prayed to pass on just that way and we cannot but be thankful there was no awful suffering. Truly, when we are in life, we are in death.
It has been my experience in war, as well as in peace, that among ordinary Americans, it does not require extraordinary qualities of courage, physical and moral, to face bullets, shell, shrapnel, gas and even the bayonet. In fact, among our splendid soldiers in France, courage was one of the commonest, as well as one of the finest qualities in evidence. But to face, day by day, week after week, month after month, the prospect of sudden and instantaneous death, from a well-known, fatal malady and yet to look the world in the face, smilingly, uncomplainingly, unselfishly, requires unflinching courage of the highest order. Ralph Harrison, 1889, possessed it to a degree. Quiet, unassuming, patient, cheerful, he did his full duty in that state of life, unto which it pleased God to call him.
C.D.R.
Sixty-Fifth Annual Report of the Association of Graduates of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York, June 11, 1934, The Moore Printing Company, Newburgh, New York.
Ralph Harrison
No. 3299. Class of 1889.
Died December 6, 1933, at Santa Monica, California, aged 67 years.
Ralph Harrison was born, March 24th, 1866, in Richmond, Missouri. His father was John Harrison, who traced his ancestry back to soldiers of the American Revolution and who himself fought as a soldier from Missouri in the Civil War. His father as well as his grandfather, George W. Harrison, was a harness and saddle maker. Ralph Harrison's mother was Mary Elizabeth Foushee, the daughter of Judge William Foushee, of Richmond.
Ralph was one of a family of seven sons and two daughters. With his brothers and sisters, he attended the public schools of Greenfield to include high school and later had several terms at Ozark College, of the same locality. For one facing the strenuous curriculum of West Point, his preparatory schooling was not as extensive and advanced as Ralph might have desired. However, at the age of nineteen, he secured appointment to the Academy from his native state, reported to the Adjutant, on June 14, 1885 and forthwith was assigned to beast barracks with a lot of other green and awkward plebes, drawn from all quarters of the United States. He passed the entrance examinations and entered upon his military career.
I can see him now - a smiling, good natured country boy, whose chubby cheeks, touched with the rosy bloom of the Ozark hills, im¬mediately earned him the affectionate nickname of Fatty, a soubriquet which he carried throughout his life, even when, in later years, it had become a misnomer.
It seems to me that Fatty's first roommate was Danny Webster, also hailing from Missouri, who had the advantage of a year at the Naval Academy. At all events and considering that he had had no special preparation for West Point, Ralph did remarkably well, academically, in his strenuous four years and on June 12, 1889, he was graduated Number 18, in a class of forty-eight survivors of nearly three times that number. He was known to be studious, industrious to a degree and, except in acquiring demerits for lates at formations, had an excellent disciplinary record. Among his classmates and contemporaries at the Academy, he was exceedingly popular and well liked. Always outcropping was his keen sense of humor, a quality which he retained as long as he lived. Nothing pleased him more than to hear or recount a good story and as he was an excellent mimic, he caused many a laugh within a class group by his apt imitations of professors, instructors and tacs, as well as of fellow cadets. Proctor and Sam Reber of 1886, Littebrant and Peter Harris of 1888 and Weelly Kenly and Wap Phillips of 1889, were his especial favorites in sub rosa imitations of their well-known modes of address. For four years he daily chuckled over his experiences as a plebe and I believe he enjoyed his reminiscences of plebedom throughout life. His sense of humor carried him through many vexatious trials.
I well remember his temporary discomfiture and dismay, one beautiful, star lit evening in our first Class Camp. I happened to be the hop manager for one of the usual, smaller hops and dressed for the occasion, I was leaving camp early, to see that all preparations had been made for the dance. Suddenly, from the direction of the Hotel came Fatty Harrison, red in the face, perspiring and out of breath.
Guess what's happened, he gasped. Here I am, hooked up for the hop with Miss Black and along comes a message from the Hotel that a man and woman from my home town have just arrived with their daughter. Only going to be here 'till tomorrow! I can't take two girls to the same hop, like Billy Harts and somebody has just got to take that Ozark girl to this dance! Why! She and I used to make mud pies together!
Gently, for I feared the relief might cause a fainting spell, I broke to him the news that, as senior hop manager of the evening, I had asked no young lady to accompany me. Also, and this was more to the point, I would be delighted to save Fatty from a spell of sickness and loss of prestige in the Ozarks, by taking his lady to the hop.
It is needless to say that Fatty fell on my neck and wept tears of gratitude. The young girl and I went blithely to the dance, she danced every dance in a long program and I have reason to believe she has never forgotten that enthralling night at West Point, when she was, nearly at least, the belle of the ball! Fatty never forgot that episode and his gratitude knew no bounds.
Harrison loved a horse and in accordance with his preference, was assigned upon graduation, to the 2nd Cavalry and joined that fine regiment at Fort Walla Walla, Washington and later served with it at Fort Sherman, Idaho, in what was then frontier country. With the transfer of his regiment to the southwest, he again saw interesting service in Arizona and New Mexico. There, at old Fort Wingate, New Mexico, he met the future Mrs. Harrison, Helen Edith Wallace, sister of the popular Bruce Wallace, Class of 1890. And here, November 1, 1892, three years after graduation, they were married to the accompaniment of clanking sabres and waving guidons. The union, continued for over forty years, was a most happy one. There, at Fort Wingate, came their first born, a son, Wallace Harrison, who was lost to them. Harrison was transferred from Fort Wingate to Fort Riley in 1895 and here, in 1896, was born Ruth, now the wife of Major Carl Spatz, Air Corps, United States Army.
After an interesting period of duty in the genial climate of New Mexico and at Fort Riley, Harrison secured promotion to first lieutenant of cavalry, late in 1896 and the next year 1897 was detailed to the military department of the Kansas State Agricultural College at Manhattan, where he remained until outbreak of the war with Spain. Here was born their third child, a son, Robert Bruce Harrison, who, like his baby brother, did not long survive.
Early in 1898, after busy period buying horses and mules for the troops mobilized at camps, Harrison was appointed major of the 2nd Missouri Volunteer Infantry; but in spite of the young officer's earnest effort to be given active service, he was held by the War Department to a long period of mustering in and of mustering out duty which ended only with his honorable discharge from the volunteer service, March 3, 1899.
During this somewhat monotonous period, when he was smarting to have duty with troops, he told the amusing experience he had in Kentucky, mustering in a group of hillbillies, so remotely located in the mountain region and so inaccessible from railroads, wagon roads, or even mule trails, that Major Harrison had to float 'em down to the Ohio River in flat boats! And when at length, he had his wild mountaineers safely within an enclosed camp at Louisville and Harrison hastened to change their daily meat ration of salty bacon to fresh Chicago, beef, he found one morning, his tent surrounded by a mob of excited remonstrant mountain lads, who implored him in no uncertain terms, to let them go back to their mountain sowbelly. He did so, forthwith and absolute contentment followed.
There followed short periods of service - at Matanzas, Cuba, with his regiment; on recruiting duty in Missouri and service as Squadron Adjutant, 2nd Cavalry, until, February 2nd, 1901. He was promoted captain and ordered to Fort Myer, Virginia, where was born Katherine, who, many years later, married Edgar G. Tobin, of San Antonio, Texas. There followed a period of duty in the Philippines, mostly commissary duty in and about Manila, his service earning for him the praise and commendation of his superiors and gaining for him detail as Assistant to the Chief Commissary, Philippine Division (1905) and Chief Commissary, Department of Mindanao (1905-1906). He was at length relieved from duty in the Commissary Department and assigned to the 7th Cavalry; detailed as post quartermaster, Fort Riley; promoted major, 4th Cavalry, (1912), lieutenant colonel of cavalry (1916) and colonel of cavalry (1917).
With entry of the United States into the World War, Harrison found himself detailed in the office of The Adjutant General at Washington (1918-1919) and like many others who longed for active service abroad, was kept upon highly important administrative duty, forwarding replacements overseas to the battle lines. He never quite got over his keen disappointment and so expressed himself to me at Bordeaux in the spring of 1919, when he was allowed as a partial reward for his enforced officer duty in Washington, to visit the war area for observation and study. He was no whiner, but he pointed out to me how, after graduation his regiment was ordered to the southwest to watch the Navajos and Apaches, hysterically excited by the so called Messiah Craze and the Ghost Dancing and so he missed the last of the Indian Wars, the Brule Sioux insurrection of 1890-1891. Then, when we broke with Spain and Harrison became a boy major in a state volunteer regiment, he was kept on mustering duty until all hostilities were over. Again, when the Philippine Insurrection and China Relief Expedition gave opportunity to many of his classmates for duty in the field, Harrison's regiment was not ordered to the Orient until everything was over. And finally, with the advent of the greatest war in history, the War Department, with obdurate disregard for his repeated requests for duty in France, kept him at a desk! No wonder that it required all the resources of his sunny temperament, to laugh it off. After the World War, he served as Adjutant, Central Department, at Chicago and of the Eastern Department at Governor's Island until 1920, when he transferred to the Finance Department. On November 20, 1926, he was retired at his own request, after more than forty years of active service and appreciating the importance of building up his rather impaired health, he made his home at beautiful Santa Monica, California. Here, surrounded by wife, children and four grandchildren, he confined his activities to his favorite pastime of gardening, with an occasional quiet fishing trip. His love for his flowers and his fruit trees, which was appealing and compelling, was reflected in his correspondence with me in this semi-invalid period of his life:
I have the most glorious flowers this season I have ever raised, snap dragons and stock suitable for exhibition purposes. I should have peaches from my own trees by the end of May. My trees produced good oranges and grapefruit this spring and are now in full bloom. My alligator pear trees are also in blossom. I am getting lots of sweet peas now and have some glorious poinsettias, the blossoms of which are fifteen inches in diameter by actual measurement.
And throughout his last years, his thoughts were so often of his Class of 1989.
I regret, more than I can tell you, what a disappointment it is to me not to be able to join with the Class at the reunion in June, but I do not feel equal to it. I have to be so careful of what I eat, that I have to stick close to home. Please write me all about the reunion; I shall me anxious to hear.
And without ever forcing his ill health to the front, his letters show, between the lines, what a cross he had to bear:
I have not been fishing for some time. The weather has been a little too raw for open boat fishing in the bay, but I hope to be at it in a couple of weeks. The 1889'ers are passing rapidly, but there should be a goodly number left to 'reune' on the 50th Anniversary of our graduation. I tell you, we old boys must watch our step and keep well. If we can have good health, nothing else matters!
And, in May 1933, he penned me these sadly ominous and prophetic words:
My traveling days are over, as I have to be very careful of my diet and do not go into high altitudes. I want very much to take a motor trip to Death Valley, but there is too much altitude on the way there.
The unhappy end came December 6, 1933 - painlessly, instantaneously, peacefully. A close member of his devoted family circle has told of it:
He had improved in general health and we had him with us much longer than we had dared to hope. He was contented and the home gave him great satisfaction, as he loved pottering around in his garden. The end came suddenly on the streetcar, as he was coming home from Los Angeles. He greeted the motorman cheerily as he boarded the car, was reading his newspaper and the man sitting in the same seat did not know anything was wrong. The conductor made the discovery while collecting the tickets. It was tragic that it happened as it did, but he had prayed to pass on just that way and we cannot but be thankful there was no awful suffering. Truly, when we are in life, we are in death.
It has been my experience in war, as well as in peace, that among ordinary Americans, it does not require extraordinary qualities of courage, physical and moral, to face bullets, shell, shrapnel, gas and even the bayonet. In fact, among our splendid soldiers in France, courage was one of the commonest, as well as one of the finest qualities in evidence. But to face, day by day, week after week, month after month, the prospect of sudden and instantaneous death, from a well-known, fatal malady and yet to look the world in the face, smilingly, uncomplainingly, unselfishly, requires unflinching courage of the highest order. Ralph Harrison, 1889, possessed it to a degree. Quiet, unassuming, patient, cheerful, he did his full duty in that state of life, unto which it pleased God to call him.
C.D.R.
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