Robert Patrick Jordan brought his warm and friendly ways to us by way of Wayzata, MN, on the outskirts of St. Paul. The son of two outstanding representatives of the “greatest generation”—his father a World War II combat veteran who served with the Army Air Corps in Italy and his mother a woman who raised 10 children to adulthood in a warm and nurturing home—Bob never forgot his roots and the deep traditions of family, patriotism, and friendship imbued in him since birth. He was a big man, recruited for his athletic prowess (he was a wrestling and football standout in high school) and strong academic record (although never a “star man,” Bob saved many a classmate from being turned out through his personal and practical tutoring). He was happy to at­tend West Point, with all of its constraints on his independent nature, not least of all because it meant greater opportunity for his nine younger siblings to meet college expens­es as they came of age.

A model cadet Bob was not. Indeed, it amazed many of us among his class (not to mention the tactical department and the up­perclassman charged to “develop” him) that he survived the West Point experience—and especially Plebe year—to see graduation. To Bob, neatness was anathema, punctuality a pointless exercise, and subordination to se­nior authority a silliness to be ever so slightly accommodated. The many affectionate nick­names bestowed on him as a cadet reflected caricatures of the era from comic strip and fable that denoted absolute rejection of or­derliness and regimentation. Bob was a free spirit whose quick mind and good humor kept him barely a step ahead of the lethal quill that would have done in those of us less sure of foot. He seemed to move around our Hudson home in a bubble that neither tacti­cal officers nor zealous upperclassmen could penetrate. Indeed, for years afterward, Bob could rightly claim (and he did, with pride) that he was present when Company F-2, in which he resided all four years, got its notori­ous (to the Establishment) but beloved (to the cadets) appendage of “zoo,” as in “F-2 Zoo.”

If Bob gave the appearance of being an indifferent cadet, it was merely an illusion. Bob loved the camaraderie of the Corps, took great pride in being a part of “Army,” and cherished the deep friendships forged with so many of his classmates. Whether wrestling (in the heavyweight division) or appearing at football games as “A-Man” (his powerful physique lent an imposing air to the competition at hand), he beamed with joy at representing West Point. The central values developed in his youth and deepened at the Academy—steadfast loyalty, complete selflessness, and absolute commitment to country—showed through in everything that he did then and throughout his life, all on display in concert with his one over­whelming trait, absolute kindness to others.

Bob was, at his core, at West Point and in all his years that preceded and followed it, big family. The oldest brother who guided his nine younger siblings during his boy­hood—in school work, in finding jobs for them within their youthful capacities (and then ensuring they were each paid a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work), and in life’s lessons—Bob always was teaching, always mentoring. He continued this with his class­mates and, later, with the soldiers under his charge. His credo, never stated (his humil­ity was too great for such pronouncements) but always practiced, was “others first.” There were reports of Jordan sightings in Vietnam of a large-framed man emerging from, by comparison, a small helicopter to check on his air defense soldiers (for that was his branch of choice), holding a perimeter around yet another forlorn firebase, talking, caring, and quietly giving orders that would help keep them alive and their mission se­cured. As always, he gave every impression of indifference to those things that might hurt him but every concern for others. In those mannerisms, he never changed.

The anomaly he was as a cadet contin­ued throughout his life. Although Bob never married, no one could have been more of a family man. To his many brothers and sisters, and to the many more nieces and nephews, Bob remained a loving, giving sup­porter. Each one of them received his end­less attention and devotion, as did his life’s partner Peggy. He was their greatest fan, their mentor, their protector, and their cor­rector, as the occasion required. And though he never apologized for his own mistakes, he did not refrain from using them to teach those he loved how to avoid the same errors.

West Point—and especially his class­mates—remained forever in his heart. A late night phone call or a sudden, surprise visit was always a delight, for him and the ben­eficiary of his attention. Whenever it seemed Bob had dropped out of sight, he suddenly would re-enter our lives with all the gusto of the first meetings so many years ago. At the 35th reunion of the Class, after years of his absence from all things West Point, Bob startled us all by appearing—if not at the parades and other tradition-steeped Academy events—at our sides at the hotel, at the meals, and at informal gatherings, once again the friend he always was, ever the free spirit making the rounds via motorcycle with Peg riding gaily in the sidecar.

Bob was unique, to say the least, yet he was “All-American” in every way. At first sight, he overwhelmed with his great size and strength. But that physical impression was in turn overwhelmed by an even greater size and strength—that of a heart with boundless love for each of us who had the privilege of entering his life. A true son of West Point, he did his alma mater—and his family—proud.

—-Jim McDonough ’69