Remembering Robert

He was cool.

Cool in that New York, big city way, with a sense of humor that took its time to land. You knew without his boasting that he was one who has experienced life in ways you’ll never know. A guy who is wise, but not wised-up.

Robert had a musician’s cool — which he’d been as a teenager, a proud member of the Musicians Union #802, playing trumpet in big bands during the Swing era — a musician confident in his talent, but making no show of it.

An example of that cool charm: At a birthday party at Islola last February, organized by his five daughters (his beloved Mollie was absent recovering from an illness) someone asked how it felt to be 100 years old.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Robert said, that characteristic hint of a smile in his expression, before letting you know that the following day was his actual birthday.

And the secret of a long life? “Keep breathing,” he said, which at first seemed to be a way of avoiding the question — which it was — but later, when I thought about it, I realized it was all Robert. Ask me a stupid question, requiring a response that will sound sappy or virtue-signaling, and I’ll reject both and answer with the most obvious reason a body stays alive.

Robert Strugats died peacefully on Nov. 28. I miss him.

I first met him in October 2012, when I went along as a reporter on a Shelter Island Honor Flight to Washington, D.C., organized by Tom Cronin. Honor Flights are paid for by nonprofits to bring veterans to Washington to tour the war memorials, at no cost to the veterans.

Speaking with him on the bus taking the group from the Island to MacArthur Airport, I was immediately charmed by his interest in me, asking me questions as I was trying to get him to answer questions about his service.

Thinking about his experiences during World War II in the Pacific, I saw that cool wasn’t an attitude, but a method to stay alive, to keep panic at bay, to protect those with you, when an enemy was doing its best to kill you.

Courage, with no chest beating, was summed up by Ernest Hemingway as “grace under pressure.” Anyone whoever met Robert would see immediately what a graceful man he was, in speech, in appearance, in his engagement with others.

His grandson, Matthew Weitzman, said he would often ask his grandfather to tell him about his service. “He always said, ‘I’d rather not.’” He preferred talking to his grandson about fishing, which they often did, and beach combing for colored glass. Other special times he enjoyed with Robert included “watching old movies and talking about them.”

One time fishing, the young Matthew got a hook caught in his eye, and remembered  his grandfather’s “calm and caring demeanor,” which helped him through the ordeal.

Later I’d learn more about Robert’s service.

The summer he was 20 and a bombardier in the U.S. Army Air Force, he flew 15 combat missions over Japan from an airbase in Guam, some taking 12 to 15 hours round trip, where he’d be alone in the Plexiglas bubble of the bombardier’s station at the front tip of the B-29, flying low, while they dodged heavy enemy artillery fire and Japanese aircraft.

And later, when I’d visit him and Mollie at their home on Gardiner’s Bay Drive, he’d talk about his service. He’d describe looking through a Norden bombsight for targets. The Norden was also a navigational tool, he said, “But if I had a dollar for every time it didn’t work, I’d be rich.”

Robert remembered the night flights, with searchlights illuminating the sky, anti-aircraft fire coming up and Japanese fighters scrambling to attack, as a live-or-die exercise, night after night. “We’d see the searchlights ahead coming up from the ground,” he said. “We’d fly right into them.” That didn’t mean it became routine. “We were hit at times, but we made it back.”

“Back” was the airfield at Guam, where the first thing each crewman received on disembarking in the hangar was a shot of whiskey. Good whiskey? he was asked. “No. Four Roses or some cheap [expletive],” but it did the trick, he added with a smile.

Many memories of Robert remain strong, and always will. I think of that day years ago touring the war memorials in D.C. with the Island vets. We went to the most visited memorial in Washington, the one that honors veterans of Vietnam. Large crowds were descending to the center of the V-shaped wall, where the names of more than 58,000 Americans who died in Vietnam are etched in the polished stone.

It’s the most popular and also, at times, the setting for the most visible emotions. Joseph “Butch” Klenawicus, James “Mac” McGayhey, and Charles Wyatt, looked for the name on the wall of James Wilson Jr., a fallen comrade for whom the Route 114 traffic circle in the Center is named. All three men served in Vietnam, with Charles wounded in action and losing his right leg.

The name was found. The men paid their respects with silence. Then, with some catches in the throat, the stories began. Butch, originally reluctant to come on the trip, thanked Officer Cronin for encouraging him to join his fellow veterans.

“It’s unbelievable,” Mac said quietly. “All these names.”

“You know what bothers me?” asked Butch. “You look down this wall and think, 58,000 men died, and for what?”

Robert stood by, nodding, and said in a voice just above a whisper, “For what?”

This memory came back when I covered an event at the American Airpower Museum in Farmingdale, where Robert and other veterans of the war in the Pacific were interviewed by a Japanese film crew for a documentary film.

In a briefing room of a hangar, a Japanese journalist asked Robert what his reaction was when he heard the news about the attack on Pearl Harbor. Robert said one word, “Sorrow.”

Not anger. Sorrow.

He served four years and was discharged in 1946, but was recalled to active duty in 1950 at the beginning of the Korean War. Between 1946 and 1950 he returned to school, passed the New York State Bar exam and became an associate with a New York City law firm, specializing in trial practice. He retired to Shelter Island in 1995 when throat cancer robbed him of his voice.

Although he was able to speak again after two years, he and Mollie decided to continue their retirement on the Island.

I remember those visits on Gardiner’s Bay Drive and Mollie’s and Robert’s welcoming hospitality and conversation. Also, Robert would sometimes stop by to chat in our old office on North Ferry Road. One day we were talking about some legal issue and he spoke a little about his career as an attorney.

“I was unique at the end. A lawyer who couldn’t speak,” he said, and gave that slight smile, drawing you in. “But I could still hear.” He was halfway out the door as he delivered the punchline. “Hear the cheers in the courthouse when they got the news.”

Leaving us laughing as he made his exit. Cool.