FIRST AND LAST
Two newpaper columns.

The first of the following two newspaper columns was published when Robert was 23 years old, just out of the Navy. The second was published, by chance, on the last day of his life, and was passed around in the hospital waiting room by the dozens of people who had gathered there. These articles reveal in his own words Robert's brave and generous spirit.


Accident takes the Bravado from a Man

Does aught befall thee? It is good; it is that fragment of fate which the universe hath ordained for thee since the beginning of time, and comprises part of the Great Web.
-Marcus Aurelius, "Meditations"

The final year I spent in the Navy was one of harsh physical training, abstinence from rich foods and alcohol, and mental conditioning, all for the sake of returning to Auburn to walk on as a football player.

I was brash, cocky, hell-for-leather in relationships, and didn't treat my fellow shipmates as cordially as before. My intimate friends became few in number, and I patronized them shamelessly, I recall.

As a result, when I left the squadron in the spring of '85, I don't believe I was sorely missed. To be certain, in any crucial circumstance I was an able diver and team player, but the magical relationships I had enjoyed in earlier years were gone. Something bad had happened to me along the way, and I feel it may have been a kind of overbearing egotism--foolish pride in things I should have taken for granted.

My plans for the future were large. I intended to try out for the football team here, play a stellar four years, graduate, and return to the Navy as an officer and fly helicopters. The world was my oyster, I thought as I drove eastward, back to Alabama and a most humbling fate.

I was one hell of a physical specimen then. At six-two and 230 pounds, I had a 32-inch waist and 17-inch biceps. In restrooms I would often linger in front of the mirror, flexing my muscles and admiring the fine line of my jaw. God I was vain. I think at that time I would gladly have cloned and married myself.

A few days afterward, on a balmy evening in May, I performed my final dive from a tiny platform in a tree at the Kappa Sigma house. Moments earlier, I had been talking with a fullback named Bo Slaughter, a transfer player from Georgia. We had been discussing practice, and how hard Monday's was going to be. A minute or two later, I lay gasping for breath, paralyzed forever from the chest down.

No more rugby, football, hero-dreams or chopper-flying. At the ripe old age of 22, I was a cripple. Recovery was slow, but thanks to the prime physical condition I'd been in, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

And it was also time to eat a big ol' chunk of humble pie. And during the course of digestion, I became a kinder, more thoughtful person. My parents, my sister Mary, and friends stood by me through the long recovery, and I re-entered the mainstream of society a more educated man, though college still lay before me.

I embraced Stoicism as my pet philosophy, Raggae as my music, and learned that a kind word goes a hell of a lot farther than bullying and badgering.

Paul Davis at the Lee County Eagle gave me a chance to work in the journalism field and gave me a future; and life resumed normalcy.

And the one thing I learned most forcefully, and now understand as absolute truth, is that physical prowess is a privilege, not a right. I'm not trying to sell you Amway, but with warm weather right around the corner, consider the consequences of your recreational activities. For although Fate may have in mind a single course, She may always be tempted by a brash young fool's shenanigans!
-Rob Mount

Billy Stelpflug

Remembering Billy Stelpflug

Another Oct.23 has passed, and as usual, I took note, recalling the horrific explosion on that day in 1983 which brought down a building at Beirut International Airport housing a large number of U.S. Marines and sailors. The suicide bombing was a particularly successful operation in the small minds of the hate-filled militant terrorists who carried it off, resulting in 241 dead American servicemen.

At the time, I was in the Navy, aboard the USS John F. Kennedy, the carrier on station there. I was just starting my day when news of the bombing reached the ship. The carrier immediately turned out to sea, fearful of other suicide attacks. With the skyline of Beirut visible from our position, we watched the pall of red dust from the explosion grow until it practically covered the entire western horizon. I was shocked, angry, and saddened by the event that day, but was relieved to know that Billy Stelpflug, a childhood pal and a brand new Marine from Auburn, was safely stationed in Spain. This proved to be an erroneous belief.

There was little information about the dead Marines and sailors in the days immediately following the explosion, and it was a full three weeks after the bombing that our battle group received a list of the dead. To my horror, Billy's name was among them. My little pal had earned a Purple Heart the hard way.

In the days following, I volunteered to man one of the many 50-caliber machine guns positioned around the carrier in response to intelligence reports that guerillas using speedboats and ultra-light aircraft might attack the ship. My gun was mounted on the stern of the ship, and night after night I peered into the darkness through night vision goggles, hoping against hope that I might be lucky enough to blow a terrorist out of the water or the air to avenge Billy. These watches were six hours long, exhausting addtions to the 12-hour days one works at sea. By the time the Safety Officer noted my haggardness and ordered me off my gun station six weeks later, I was little more than caffeine and fury.

Billy Stelpflug was a great friend and a great guy. He was, in equal parts, compassion, fast twitch muscle and mischief. He had a lively imagination and was so full of restless energy that it took all my strength to keep up with him on our jaunts out into the woods in his neighborhood. In the most memorable years of our friendship, Mark MacEwen (now a former Marine himself), Peter Patton, Jim Nunn and I
would strike out into the woods behind Willow Creek subdivision, where we drank Budweisers and usually ended up dueling with long tree branches. It was to your advantage to keep Billy, a rangy 150-poundeer, at bay with a stick, because direct hand-to-hand combat with him was an invitation to disaster, he was so sinewy and strong.

In the Marine Corps, Billy was trained to operate the "Dragon," an extremely complex high-tech weapon requiring patience and extremely disciplined, clear, resourceful minds in the Marines who operate it. I was surprised to learn this, because I'd never really thought of Billy as overly "cerebral," but that was not the only surprise I would discover about young Billy.

In the rubble of the bombed out building in Beirut where he died, a dark poem entitled "The War King" he had penned was discovered and sent to his parents. They showed it to me, and this poem afforded me a rare glimpse into an introspective and complex mind of which I had been ignorant.

Here is another, earlier poem by Billy:

Alabama Night
The air is still,
Thick and hot,
Drenched with the fragrance
Of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass.
The dull yellow lights
Of the fireflies
Dance to the constant tune
Of the crickets.
A dog barks, somewhere.
Small, invisible animals noisily
Make their way through the scrub and pine.
Lazily,
We sit back,
And listen to the music
Of an Alabama night.

Billy was the much-loved youngest child of Peggy and William Stelpflug, and in addition to his brother Joe, had three sisters, Laura, Kathy, and Christy. His death caused the family immeasurable sadness.

I would be remiss here if I neglected to address the omission of Billy Stelpflug's name on any war memorial in this area. The only memorial I can think of, actually, is in front of the Lee County Justice Center. And although it was installed years after the Beirut bombing, it lists only the local casualties up to the Vietnam War. I appeal to the powers that be to correct this oversight.
-Rob Mount, guest columnist


(Note: At Robert's memorial service only a few days later, his friend Scott read Alabama Night. And soon afterward, the town of Auburn built its Veterans Memorial, which honors all servicemen and women, including Billy and Robert.)