The Dougherty Clan: Memories of Dad as a Pershing Rifle

My Dad was in a military fraternity - the Pershing Rifles - at Seton Hall. They were a great group of guys, many of whom have been lifelong family friends. My Mom met my Dad while he was in this fraternity and they fell in love.

A number of these fine gentlemen took the time to write some stories down about my Dad. Dad was generally not loose lipped (Unless he was talking to his daughters in law), so some of these stories are brand new to me. Thanks to the PRs for sharing these remembrances!
Remembering Tommy Dougherty
Copied from here for prosperity - http://captainslogblog.typepad.com/companyk8/2008/11/remembering-tommy-dougherty-1.html
For sometime, I have wanted to do a piece on our brother, Tom Dougherty. Thanks to Lois Alexander for reminding me that one hadn't been done yet. As most of you know, we unexpectedly lost Tom earlier this year. I reached out to a number of his friends who were more than willing to share their remembrances of Tom.
I'll start. Like many of us, I lost track of Tom & Barbara after graduation. After they relocated back to NJ after 20 yrs.+, we were invited to one of their Holiday parties (I think it was in Lincroft). Entering their home, you immediately felt welcomed, and started answering the questions, beginning with, "So, where you been?" It was great reconnecting with them after so many years, along with several other brothers (and sisters). Fast forward a few years, Joe Dat was successful in convincing Tom to join us on our annual camping trip. Going camping isn't, neccssarily, everyone's cup of tea. But to the guys (and our kids and grandkids) that have been doing it for 27 years, it's something you just don't miss. Although we eat like kings, there is the whole grunge thing, weather issues, sanitary issues, animal issues and, on occassion, dealing w/crazy ass neighboring campers.
Right from the getgo you could see that, if Tom had a problem w/ the "issues", it didn't show. It was great opportunity to learn about about Tom (post graduation), his time in the service as a pilot, his career in the Secret Service, his current job with the FDA, family,etc. Like many of the PRs that we have reconnected with, he was equally interested in finding out more about what the rest of us had been up to since we left SHU. Sitting around the campfire, he was like a kid in a candy factory. Maybe, more like a sponge, sucking up as much information as possible. While Tom was only able to attend the last few years, he truly found something that he enjoyed and it seemed like he had been there from the start.
We even asked Tommy to be resposible for a very important duty -- bringing the "fixings" for the Friday night dinner at the campsite. The menu that year called for about 50 lobsters and a few hundred clams. Because most of the campers start the day off by leaving their homes early in the am to meet and play golf, there is no opportunity for anyone to pick up the fish. Enter Tommy D. He doesn't play golf. And we don't meet at the campsite until 3:00. Perfect!!!!! Tommy was promoted on the spot to Senior Procurement Officer of Fish (SPOF)! He even found a fish store near his house that could supply our needs!
Tom had a bit of trouble finding the campsite that first year, but with the aid of cell phone technology, we guided him in. With all that fish in the car, we knew of Tom's impending arrival when he was about a mile away. In fact, we knew where Tom was the entire weekend. The Friday night dinner on the camping trip will forever be known as Tommy's night.
This past July was our first camping trip without Tommy and Joe Dat. Paul Monacelli made a memorial in tribute to their memories. It was placed by the campfire and, while it certainly wasn't a substitute for them being there, it was a constant reminder of how much we missed them.
Irish
Most of us remember Tom Dougherty, with his Irish face, his insolentstride and pork pie hat, as a pretty tough guy, who did not suffer fools gladlyor otherwise. Certainly he was that. But there was another, gentler side, thatbelied the macho façade. Before I got shipped to Korea, I was suffering from the pain of anunrequited love affair. I was low and slack-jaw heartbroken. Unexpectedly, Heinvited me down to Barbara’s parents (they weren’t married yet) place inBricktown by the Jersey shore. They assuaged my misery with bad jokes, steamedclams and more than a little beer. For a weekend, I was joyful and for thatrespite I’ll never forget their selfless generosity. When I got out of theservice, he was the first one I called. We went to some gin joint and shotpool. When I mentioned that weekend to Tom and how important it had been to me,he didn’t know what I was talking about. He had just done what he had alwaysdone; take care of his friends. I’d been living in Los Angeles for a few years and when I moved back toNew York City somehow we got in touch. He was working for the DEA then, Ithink, assigned to the NYC area. It wasn’t unusual for him to call, out of theblue and invite me for a beer. He’d pick me up in his big old Chrysler sedan,or what ever it was, and drive to a bar of his choosing. Under the aegis of hisgovernment plates, he’d park pretty much anywhere he liked. Inside, a pitcher ofbeer between us, we’d talk about nothing and everything, and after an hour or sowe’d part, my sense of worth improved by his comradeship. It was this off handamiability that I remember most. Tom always seemed to know who he was and what he was doing. He wascomfortable in his skin and that comfort could transfer to those around him. Hehad qualities most men admire and would like to emulate, for he was a warrior, astraight shooter and an honest man. He had a sense of humor about the world andabout himself. I’m better for having known him and how many people can you saythat about?

John (aka Jungle Jack) Corey

It was a brisk autumn night, and for some reason I was at Tom Dougherty’s house in the Vailsburg section of Newark when I got a phone call from my mother. She said several young men from the Pershing Rifles had come to our door asking for me. She, of course, innocently told them that I was at Tom Dougherty’s house. It didn’t occur to my dear old Mom that they were pledges and that they might have evil plans in mind. So I told Tom that some pledges were on their way to his house and we were about to be kidnapped. There was a look of fear on Tom’s face – not at the prospect of being kidnapped, but because his father was home. “We have to get the hell out of the house before they get here and the old man finds out.” Tom’s Dad was a Newark cop, and several years later I had the privilege of working for him in the South District of Newark. He was a good cop and wouldn’t take any crap. I understood Tom’s concerns.
We met the pledges out on the street. They announced their intent to kidnap us and we, of course, put up a spirited but mostly symbolic fight. As we lay on the ground struggling with the pledges, who were intent on tying our hands behind our backs, a car raced down the street and screeched to a halt. The cops? No, worse than that – it was a vigilante patrol from Anthony Imperiale’s version of a neighborhood watch program. Two thugs jumped out ready to get rough and Tom and I, prostrate on the ground, had to reassure them that it was OK. We were only being kidnapped as part of a college ritual. Really, we didn’t mind.
Then we were hauled into the back seat of a pledge’s car and driven away, for a long, long ride. As we rode, we continued to work on our restraints and eventually were able to get our hands free. It would seem that the life of Pershing was emphasized in pledge materials, but knot tying was not. Once free, we started fighting again in the back seat of the car and the pledges, apparently deciding that we were close enough to whatever the final destination was supposed to be, pulled over and tossed us out.
Wherever we were, it was cold, pitch black, and very, very wooded. We could see the glow of some kind of light off on the horizon and started walking towards it. We knew the rules – we had to be back to the parking lot on campus by drill the next morning. The first sign of civilization we came upon was an all-night laundromat just outside of Fort Dix. Using the change that we’d previously secreted in various parts of our clothing, we called another P/R to come and get us. We got a couple of hours of sleep on the folding tables in the laundromat and made it back in time.
It’s kind of weird when you think about it, but we were flattered back then that we were selected to be kidnapped. But then, we also used to shave our heads and it was the friggin’ 60s, so what’s weird?
Over the years that followed I lost contact with Tom and most of my P/R brothers. But one day, out of the blue, I got a call from Tom. He suggested lunch and a couple of beers. We had that lunch and it was like, well, like nothing had changed. And I realized that the brotherhood we shared in those days at the Hall hadn’t changed. Thanks, Tom, for helping me realize that.
Harry Miller
Pledge Class of ‘66

A TRIBUTE TO TOM DOUGHERTY--IT’S ONLY WORDS
It’s 1962 and I’m a freshman sitting in class at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, NJ. Suddenly the kid behind me taps me on the shoulder and points to the guy in the back of the classroom who’s been trying to get my attention. He’s eating a sandwich and holding up a brown paper bag.
“Great sandwich. Thank Mrs. Cappello for me.”
That was one of my first encounters with my dear friend, Tom Dougherty. Of course, he wasn’t so “dear” at the time and I kept asking, who the hell is this guy and what am I going to eat for lunch?
But that was Tom. Always pushing the envelope for a laugh and making sure everyone was in on the joke. He relished being part of the group, whether cracking up the teachers with one of his classic Dougherty comments or assuring all the Irish students that they had nothing to fear from the wave of Italian immigrants that flooded the school that year. I can still see him waiting for the bus in front of the school, strands of hair hanging to one side of his face, his skinny tie loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone, his jacket open. He’d cup a cigarette in one hand and carry his books low with the other, even then resembling the “big time federal heat” (as he used to say) he would become later in his life.
We saw each other on and off for the rest of high school, but hooked up later at the Hall when we pledged Pershing Rifles. Tom was among 65 of us who pledged PR’s in 1966. He kept us together, always suggesting where we could meet to have a few beers, go over our general orders, have a few beers, study for a Military Science exam or just sit around and have a few beers. There were always gatherings at his house on Eastern Parkway behind the Hall, where I remember making our pledge rifles, practicing a cool trick drill move or just marveling at how great we looked with shaved heads.
I remember our freshman pledge football game, when we practically drew straws to see who would carry the ball. Tom was the unlucky one on one play and he took a hit so bad it left a welt on his forehead. He came back to the huddle dazed, but he never complained. (In the same game, I caught the ball on a kickoff and was promptly run over by a roaring, red freight train with the name “Joe D’Heron” emblazoned on it).
As we all know, pledging PR’s was a challenge; the 65 who started were whittled down to 17 for our Hell night. That night, we learned the many uses of such staple items as marshmallows, peanut butter, limburger cheese and, yes, who could forget being “up to our necks” in a certain appendage taken from a hapless four legged creature. It was great to be a full fledged PR and nobody was happier than Tom.
So began our association with the craziest, devoted bunch of guys I had ever met. A highlight for me was making the A trick drill team in my sophomore year (1967-1968) along with my fellow brothers, Harry Miller and Tom Dougherty. Tom was a classic PR, thriving on the discipline inherent in the drill team, yet loving every aspect of being one of the guys. It was during that time that he developed his desire to pursue a military career as a helicopter pilot, eventually serving in Viet Nam. That led to a stint on the Newark police department and eventually a career as a Secret Service agent.
But that’s not the whole story about Tom. He was a caring person, once you penetrated his tough exterior, and no one managed to do that better than his wife, Barbara. She was the missing piece in his life and I can still remember how happy he was when they started dating back at the Hall.
He was loyal to his friends and always there when you needed him the most. When I was kidnapped by a roving band of misguided freshmen, it was Tom I called to pick me up in the middle of the night in the wilds of Blairstown. When I was CO in 1969-1970, Tom was my XO and my rock; he might not have agreed with everything I did, but he backed me up 100%. I have always been grateful to him for that, and only regret that I never had the opportunity to tell him so.
Even now, I keep expecting to hear his voice on the phone, asking if I’m going up to the lake to John and Peggy Hogan’s place or if I want to come down and bike ride to Sandy Hook. He will always be the brash, fun kid to me, standing there, pointing his cigarette at you, his head cocked to one side, saying something funny or proceeding to tell you what the hell you were doing wrong. He’d shuffle along in those black combat boots that were as comfortable to him as a pair of featherweights to a Donald Trump. An army khaki shirt, dark trousers and a “Mugs McGuiness” hat completed the outfit as he walked away like John Wayne (or should I say John Wayne walked away like Tom Dougherty),
One of the last times we spoke, I told Tom I wanted to be a better friend, to spend more time with “The Three Musketeers”—him, John Hogan and me. He didn’t answer, but kept on eating his lunch. To Tom, it was simple: I was already his friend so there wasn’t much else to discuss. Tom never wasted words, but he had a way of letting you know how he felt.
That day, I heard him loud and clear.
I wish I had more than these mere words to give in tribute to our friend and our brother, Tommy Dougherty. But I take solace in the fact that it comes from my heart and that I will never forget the friend who has meant so much to me over the years.
Joe Cappello
Class of 1970
Captions for photos below:
“The Three Musketeers.” Left, to right, Joe Cappello, Tom Dougherty, John Hogan. We often met at John’s cottage in Sussex County to fish, talk over old times and share a beer. This was taken a little over a year ago. Tom appears to be “frisking” the fish before turning it loose in the lake.