Honor and Duty (56 page)

“Hey,” Sonny gasped, sweat on his brow. “I was doin’ the obstacle course for practice. Good,” he said, as he collapsed in Mike’s chair. “Came here ta test my faith in a loving and forgiving God.” He looked at Duke. “You’re it.” He put down the crutches.

Duke snorted. “Break my fuckin’ heart. Rappa, unass this party and fuck you, in that order. No one invited you.” I moved toward Duke, and Mike stopped me in an iron grip. “Hey—you can invite him to dance, but I can’t?” “Look at Sonny, Kai,” said Mike.

Sonny, who felt like hammered cow feces, was smiling at me. He was doing it sincerely. Sonny had hived the problem. I might never get to dunce Duke Troth, but I smiled, too.

A hard-boned, humorless older man stepped into the room and took off his baseball cap. He looked around sternly, like it was his room and we were all uninvited transients.

“Well, fuck me to tears!” said Smits. “It’s really Joe Schmoe the ragman. Who comes after
him
, Ann-Margret, or the Pope?”

“Evening, sir,” said the man politely to Colonel Smits, then reached over and gently patted Sonny. “Hey.” He had a deep voice.

“Meet Mr. Sam Marse,” said Sonny thinly. “Senior BP for Bartlett and keeper of the keys. Mr. Marse is a decorated combat veteran of the European Theater of Operations, where he was a tank commander, credited with three Panther and one Tiger tank kill. Mr. Marse, this is…,” and Sonny introduced him to each man.

“Recognize anyone, Mr. Marse?” asked Sonny.

He shook his head. “No, sir,” he said.

I looked at Sonny. Sonny was frowning. He looked confused, then said, “Mr. Marse, you lend any cadets keys to Bartlett last month?” The radio played the Hollies’ “Bus Stop.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “But I wouldn’t lend ’em to anyone but a Plebe. No one in this room,” he said.

Sonny was thinking. “Why’s that, Mr. Marse?”

“Well, with Yearlin’s takin’ physics an’ chemistry, Cows takin’ Juice, an Firsties with or’nance, all them tests in there, wouldn’t be kosher. Plebes don’ have no tests there in January.”

“But you lent them to someone,” said Sonny.

Sam Marse nodded, looking around the room. “Yes, sir. But I don’ see ’im.”

“Fuckin’ dago bug-pecker bullshit!” muttered Duke. “That’s all this is! Get this janitor outa here before someone gets hurt!”

Mr. Marse stiffened. “I’m a barracks policeman, sir, not a janitor.”

“Way to go, Scrounger,” said Smits. “Now you got BPs on your butt.”

“There he is,” said Mr. Marse. “Him.” He pointed.

Mr. Fors entered the room. I stood. “Come in, Gabe.” He entered the Q, as if drawn by Sam Marse’s pointing digit.

“That’s him,” said Marse, studying Fors. “But he looked a lot different.” He looked at Sonny, and at the rumpled room. “Seems you young men are havin’ a great number of accidents.” Marse looked at Sonny again, found an old folding chair, and sat down.

“What happened, Fors?” asked Colonel Smits.

“Sir, I challenged Mr. Ting to meet me in the ring.”

“You go three rounds?” asked Smits.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Good for you. Why’s he callin’ you by first name?”

“Sir, after the bout, Mr. Ting recognized me.”

Smits nodded and lit another cigarette. “Interesting.”

Fors looked at me and I tossed him a can of pop. I started
to speak and Sonny waved me off. “Gabe,” said Sonny, “you ask Mr. Marse for keys to Bartlett and Major Maher’s office?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Back off!” cried Troth at me. “Gabriel, don’t let these douchebags screw with you! They’re
using
you! They don’t give a
crap
about you. C’mon, buddy! You gotta stick with the Duke. I’ll see you through this.”

Gabe Fors tried to hold his face still.

“Don’t screw this up,” said Troth. “Screw
them
!” His eyes left Fors and sat on me. “SHUT UP!!” he screamed, fearing I would argue. His jaw muscles articulated, struggling to control his mouth, his breathing. “Look,” he said, his voice quiet, reasonable. “It’s been a helluva day in a long fucking week. Gabriel, we gotta patch you up. We can take care of that back at the company. I’m sorry if this asshole hurt you. We’ll take care of
him
later.

“Why don’t we all confess to something?” He ran his hand through his dark hair, disturbing the wedge that pointed into the center of his forehead. “We’ve all been sweating rumors about something not square in Juice. Guys, I haven’t done anything wrong. Gabriel here, he hasn’t, either. Now Kai Ting here can run a little parade of horribles, and you can meet civilians in tans, and you can meet old men who are BPs and shot up German tanks, and he’ll probably have Ed Sullivan and Topo Gigio and dancing girls in here next who’ll sit on your lap for a quarter.” He smiled broadly. I thought one of his teeth gleamed.

“Ting’s a little confused. He’s flunking Juice. Can you beat it? A fuckin’ Chinese, flunkin’ Juice. For some reason, he wants to take me down with him. Do I deserve this
shit
? Negative!
I
introduced him to the Society. Now I couldn’t get him
laid
, but face it—some things you gotta do for yourself.” He looked around the room, smiling, teeth brighter. He was warming up.

“We drank too much,” he said. “Let’s call it a fuckin’ day. Kai, go push your Disneyland crap someplace else.” He paused. “I want all of you to think real hard about what’s coming down here. Let’s give it a rest. Then we’ll meet and talk it over.” He laughed softly. “I’ll give you this. You Chinese people sure have a—”

“STOP IT!” cried Fors in a high, piercing voice, the cords in his neck strained and taut. “STOP LYING! I got the keys
for a
prank
! You said it didn’t involve Honor. That BPs didn’t count—you were going to put the reveille cannon on top of Bartlett. That Rappa was setting you up as a cheat and that it was a ritual to knock a lying cadet into the Newburgh bus and to beat a colored person in the ring—that a Chinese would count.”

He wiped his eyes. He honked loudly into a tissue as he cleared his pipes, unable to look at me or at Mr. Marse. The corners of Fors’s mouth turned violently downward, his lips quivering as he tried to gain control.

“Well,” I said, “I did have a black mother.”

Mr. Marse raised his eyebrows at me.

“Gabriel, Gabriel,” said Duke. “Why do you believe them? Rappa
was
after me. The asshole wired my room, right above my rack. They were the ones who came over to our company and fuckin’ crawled your ass—and then beat you up. The keys
were
for a prank.”

“Right, Troth,” said Fors. “The whole goddamm Second Class showed up at the hospital, watching him around the clock. Kids brought Mr. Rappa cards and wives brought him flowers. Shit! They cried when they saw him. You jerk! He’s their Sunday-school teacher. Father Fiala thinks Rappa’s God’s gift. He’s one of those guys in your class who helps others. I keep hearing the bus. This was no prank. You set me up good. Damn near killed one of the best men in the Academy.” He squeezed the can in his hand, baring his teeth, grunting, and the tab popped and soda exploded from it to spatter his uniform and his face and he kept squeezing until it was crushed in his grip. I was glad he hadn’t done that in the ring.

Duke’s left eye developed a tic. He was breathing fast with his mouth open, his expression changing like litmus being subjected to acids. It went from shock and dull hurt to a shining, regal hate. “You fucking asshole knob—you can’t shit on me!”

“Ave Imperator,”
I said. “You flinched.”

Fors felt Duke’s words, absorbing them. His big fists formed, his neck cording, adrenaline gathering for the kill.

“Don’t get into that,” I said. “Hey!” He jerked and exhaled.

“Good man,” I said. “You don’t do this kind of crap anymore.”

Duke rubbed his face. He turned to Colonel Smits, hissing to him while the radio played a song none of us could remember later. We breathed like penitents viewing Hades from the hot edge, hearing tridents scraping coals and names being
called. Bob took notes with a great continuous scratching, trying to catch up in the silence.

Smits bared his teeth and pushed Troth back to his chair. “I told you,” he said in his hoarse, scratchy voice, “the story a ’51 so you’d see the system.” He ground out his cigarette and lit another. “You dumb shit, you figured you’d do it again. You’re such a
tool.
I told you the story so you wouldn’t get what the team got. Shit. Instead a walkin’ away, you copied the fucker!” He leaned forward, close to Troth’s face, his eyes wet and darting, remembering other cadets in other days, peering harder. He sighed and sat back.

“The point to ’51 is that Red Blaik saved my young ass. He told me, ‘Son, don’t do it.’ That’s the story of ’51 and that’s what I told you,” he growled. “Now you’re gettin’ kicked out!”

“They can’t!” cried Duke. “Not me! I’m smarter than any of ’em! Shit! Some of these guys aren’t even
American.
”

“You’re history,” said Smits. The words settled into the room.

“They can’t prove that UCMJ shit,” Duke pleaded. “They won’t believe a fuckin’
Plebe
over a Cow.” Please. Please agree.

“Screw the UCMJ. You’re dead on Honor,” said Smits. “No one gets saved from that, or it ain’t West Point. Don’t be an asshole.”

A small, twisted sound came from Troth’s throat. He contorted like a man with a burst appendix. “You
hate
the Honor Code!”

“It’s a screamin’ bitch, but it’s the Point,” said Smits. “I hate the Honor freaks.” He took a deep inhalation of smoke, looking sideways at me. “But you can’t screw with the Code.

God, you’re stupid.… Aw, shit, Troth, it ain’t like your dick got cut off. You weren’t right for this place, and this place ain’t right for you. This place sucks. Stand up like a man and kiss it goodbye.”

“You said, make your own rules,” said Duke.

“You got
that
right.” Smits shook his head. “Don’t be totally stupid,” he said. “Honor doesn’t have any stinkin’ rules. It’s Honor. Rules is all that other plastic world shit. Jesus Christ, Scrounger—you couldn’t tell a barbecued Porky Pig from an incoming eighty-one-mike-mike. Son, you tied this one up by the numbers. You stepped on your dick so many
ways it’s gonna take a piccolo player to help you take a leak.” Smits hit Duke hard on the arm.

“Square yourself away,” he growled. “West Point doesn’t like your stinkin’ dingleberried ass. Don’t get sentimental for somethin’ that doesn’t like you! For chrissake,” he snorted, “get outa here and go make some money.”

Duke sat down and put his head into his hands.

“Aw, shit! Don’t cry, Scrounger! Stand up like a man and kiss it goodbye. If you can’t smile, spit at ’em. C’mon, man! You’re embarrassin’ me.”

I looked at Clint, and his chair was empty. Mike never took his eyes off Troth. Sonny and Bob were silently praying. I shook my head. They were as superstitious as Taoist monks.

Sam Marse slowly rose to his feet. He surveyed the room. It was a BP’s nightmare. He loudly cleared his throat.

“You oughta spiff up these here quarters, Colonel,” he said. “This here place is militarily disreputable.”

34

West Point, Late Winter 1967

The Honor Boards convened. I remembered Mr. Alsop’s room, fourteen of us sweating, hungry, thirsty, tired, and scared, hearing him tell us that we had to be perfect in Honor.

For two months cadets reported to the Committee in Building 720, to stand in front of the long table of twelve Honor representatives in chilled and austere midnight and mid-morning hearings. Some were witnesses; too many were suspects. Classmates began disappearing. No one knew how many, but each of us had our own count. Those charged with Honor violations could testify, refuse to testify, seek officer and attorney counsel, or resign. Those who went through with evidentiary boards reported to the Twelve at the end to face the saber. If the sword point of the Committee’s saber pointed at
him, the Committee had returned a unanimous finding of guilt, and the cadet was found on Honor and dishonorably separated from the Corps, with immediate effect. If the hilt was offered, the cadet had been acquitted, the result of at least one dissenting vote. Those called before the Committee were ordered not to discuss their testimony. Those dismissed were not to be discussed, ever again.

I had squared away my uniform with particular care.

“Plebes fall out,” I said to the squad. “Honor Boards are in session. These are sad days for the Code and the Corps. A lot of emphasis has been placed on things you cannot do. I want you to remember that we busted our rears to get here, to be part of this school, and that this squad protected the Code. We’re unified by our pledges to Honor. That will never change. Plebes stand fast, squad dismissed.

“Guys,” I said to the Plebes, “thank you again for your help. I want to continue the Fidelis. But if you want a break, put out a fist. Majority rules.”

Eight Plebes, no fists. I smiled. “Then give me a Fideli.”

“Sir,” they said in unison, “Who says, ‘My stomach, right or wrong’?
Mr. Schmidt, sir!
Who’s got the sweetest disposition?
Mr. Parthes, sir!
Who’d never dream of picking a fight?
Mr. McFee, sir!
Who prays to live in a steeple with a whole buncha Chinese people?
Mr. Spanner, sir!
Who turns left when the squad turns right?
Mr. Quint, sir!
Who makes a big rock look like Esther Williams?
Mr. Caleb, sir!
Who thinks English is a foreign tongue?
Mr. Irkson, sir!
Who in the flock’s the dumbest on the block?
Mr. Zerl, sir!
”