Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  The cadet’s parents had to be notified, of course. The father, a restaurant owner in New Orleans, the mother, some kind of city social butterfly down there. The whole business had been sad and rather unpleasant, especially since the family had been looking forward to seeing their son for the first time since he’d been home for Christmas. It was too bad the kid had to die so close to June Week. The parents had been offered the opportunity to bury their son in the West Point cemetery, but the offer had been made discreetly, through the superintendent’s aide, with a kind of … institutional frown, intended to discourage them in a gentle, but firm way. It was June Week, after all, old grads all over the place, visiting the gravesites of classmates killed in World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam. A funeral for a cadet, a plebe, an accidental death, no matter how tragic, would be, well … a funeral would have just upset the flow of things.

  It was never stated in so many words, but the father of Cadet David Hand understood. The superintendent’s aide had helped him arrange to have his son’s body shipped by air to New Orleans. The aide had learned the boy had been interred aboveground in a tomb along-side that of his grandfather. Sad. Very sad. But necessary.

  And Hedges. The week following, the superintendent had ordered his commandant to begin reporting twice each day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, to the building across Thayer Road, walking up those stone steps, through the aide’s office and into the huge chamber of the superintendent of West Point. It was symbolic. Hedges was a cocky bastard, and he was obviously going places in the army—up—the man was ambitious. Hungry. But as long as he worked for Axel W. Rylander, he’d damn well act like he worked for Axel W. Rylander. After two weeks of twice-daily personal reports from Hedges, the superintendent had worked out a system by which the commandant could leave a Disposition Form with the supe’s aide in the outer office, if nothing significant had transpired since his previous report.

  Those silences … the two generals standing there in the huge office overlooking the Hudson with that huge desk between them, Sylvanus Thayer’s portrait staring down at them from the wall … those silences, when Hedges really had nothing to report, well, the meetings had become too much for both men. They were getting old, after all. And there were only so many minutes in each day. Rylander felt secure that he’d made his point. Hedges knew he was working for someone besides himself now. He still made the twice-daily trek across Thayer Road, to drop off the DF and announce his presence, in case the supe had something to say to him, if nothing else.

  Rylander lined up his shot in the third tee and squinted into the sun. It was about 2 P.M. In three and a half hours, at 5:30 P.M., Hedges would walk across Thayer Road again and deliver a Disposition Form to the supe’s aide. Rylander stroked, satisfied at the resonant crack as the head of his driver hit the golf ball, watched it disappear over a low hill in the general direction of the green, northwest, toward Camp Buckner.

  14

  Ry Slaight and Irit Dov moved silently around her penthouse as they prepared for the drive to West Point. That was the way she wanted it when Slaight finally roused himself from bed: quiet. If he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he was snappish, brusque, quite unlike himself. Getting up, getting out of bed, clearly did not agree with him. He wasn’t mean … he was efficient to the point of compulsion. Even the way he moved was abbreviated, spare. He moved in a truncated trance, with his head lowered slightly, as if he were afraid to raise his eyes and face the day. Irit couldn’t imagine how it was to get up in the morning at West Point, 6 A.M., dark at that hour most of the year, cold winds howling up the Hudson all winter as the cadets stood in their barracks areas, waiting to march off to meals. But she knew how it was to get up with Ry Slaight at Eighty-second and Madison. Damned unpleasant. Slaight was machinelike in the morning, and that quality about him—efficiency to the point of seeming inhuman—bothered her. So she kept to herself, stuffing necessary items in her purse, waiting for him to emerge from the bathroom like a bull moose, headed for the door, soundless yet … frightening.

  Once he told her about the squad leader he’d had when he was a plebe, some guy named Gary Lyons. Every day the plebes had to report to the squad leader’s room fifteen minutes before each formation: reveille, breakfast, dinner, and supper. This meant the plebes reported to Lyons at 5:45 A.M., 6:15 A.M., 11:45 A.M., and 5:45 P.M. The function of these four fifteen-minute periods (amounting to a total of one hour each day), he explained with some difficulty, was “Special Inspection,” or SI for short. Now, the true purpose of SI was unclear to Irit, but she knew it had something to do with the squad leader checking his plebes before they were permitted to face the rest of the company at formation

  Special Inspection, however, was rarely an inspection at all. It was harassment, pure and simple. Everyone knew it, the plebes, the squad leaders—everyone. Yet it went on every day, four times a day, on and on because it was driving around, it was an unreasonable order obeyed without question. It was tradition.

  So it’s 5:45 A.M., fifteen minutes before reveille, the plebes file into the dark room of the squad leader, Lyons, and arrange themselves against his wall in a line. They are bracing, even in the darkness. Once Lyons had caught one of the plebes with his “neck out,” failing to brace, and really reamed him. Lyons could see in the dark. The plebes brace. So there they stand in darkness and silence, as the squad leader and his roommate get in their last few minutes of racktime. Time passes. The plebes fidget and scratch. New-mown haircuts itch. Outside the door, the five-minute bell rings and the plebe minute caller begins his insistent screaming, the Calling of the Minutes … SIR THERE ARE FIVE MINUTES UNTIL REVEILLE FORMATION THE UNIFORM IS AS FOR CLASS UNDER SHORT OVERCOATS UNDER DRESS GRAY CAPS THERE ARE FIVE MINUTES SIR! … screaming the words in staccato bursts, on down the minutes to the two-minute bell, the last minute the minute caller must scream.

  Most of the time, the squad leader, Lyons, slept through the five-minute bell, the four-minute bell, the three-minute bell, old Lyons stayed under the covers in the rack until the two-minute bell had been called and the minute caller’s footsteps could be heard disappearing down the hall and down stairs on his way out to formation. Then like a great machine, Lyons threw back his Brown Boy, swung his legs over the side of the bed, stuffed his feet into his shoes (he wore his socks to bed), reached with his right hand for his trousers (draped over the tubular metal head rail of the bed), pulled them over his shoes … then shuffling across the room and out the door, stuffed his arms into class shirt and short overcoat (the former already inserted into the latter), slipped his pretied necktie noose over his neck and under the collar of his shirt, rested his cap on the back of his head, gray scarf over one shoulder, and in one fluid motion—a ballet is what it was, shuffling out the door and down the stairs toward the area, composing himself in a slow dance of scarves and buttons and wool—old Lyons zipped his trousers, buttoned his shirt, tightened his tie, wrapped his scarf, buttoned his short overcoat, reached in its pockets for his gloves, everything coming to a neat pile just as Lyons stepped into company ranks to hear the company commander call the assembled cadets to attention. Slaight had told her that often Lyons would complete the entire exercise, from bed to formation, without ever opening his eyes. More than two years later, Slaight was still awed by the total economy of motion and preservation of racktime represented by Cadet Gary Lyons getting himself out of bed.

  “Irit? Irit! Where’s my garrison cap? I was wearing it when I came in last night. I know I was.” Slaight’s voice was tinged with tension, anxious. He was down on his hands and knees behind one of the sofas when Irit handed him the cap.

  “Here it is, Ry. Settle down. How long does it take to drive to West Point? An hour? A few moments more? We have plenty of time to get you there by four.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Slaight took the cap and tucked it under his web belt. “I’ve got to make some calls.”

  “So sit down and make some calls. The telephone is here, in front of you.
Call. Sit still. I cannot stand it when you …”

  “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, Irit. It’s just … you know … this General Hedges is no pushover. I’m uptight.”

  Slaight dialed Leroy Bucks’ number in Burning Tree, Indiana.

  “Yeahello,” came Buck’s voice, thickly accented over the line, sounding more like “yellow,” than “hello.”

  “Hey, Buck,” said Slaight.

  “Slaight, goddammit. I just left you at that goddamn bus station in D.C. yesterday. What you doing calling me the next day for?”

  “They’re digging into my shit on the goddamn Hand thing, Buck.”

  “Whatayamean?”

  “I mean I just got a call here—I’m at Irit’s in the city—I just got a call here from fuckin’ Hedges. Hedges. He wants to see me this afternoon at four o’clock, told me to get up there to his office in my Class A’s, my khakis.”

  “Well goddamn-goddamn. He say what he wanted?”

  “Nope. Just told me to come up, that’s all. Said I’d be compensated for the lost leave time. You believe that?”

  “Shit. That’s unbelievable. What do you figure happened?”

  “They must have gotten to Consor. You didn’t get any weird calls from Woo Poo today, did you?”

  “Nope. Been home all day, too.”

  “Well, I’m the only one Consor talked to. That’s why I figure they got to him.”

  “Yeah. I see what you mean. What are you going to do, Slaight, goddamn?”

  “I’m going up there to see Hedges. What you think I’m gonna do?”

  “Well, goddammit, don’t go bitin’ my head off. I was just askin’. You gonna talk to that doc, Consor?”

  “I was going to call him right after you.”

  “I bet they got his shit wrapped up tight in a sling, if what you say is right. Old Hedges probably got a fix on his nuts with his binocs, know what I mean? You’re not going to get much out of Consor, with fuckin’ Hedges vice-gripping his ass.”

  “Maybe not. But I’ve got to tell him I’m going to see Hedges. And I want to know what they asked him about … and how much he told them.”

  “Yeah. Listen. Slaight, goddammit! I just had an idea. You remember that law ‘P’ we had last year, that real weird one, kind of roly-poly guy, balding, with the squinty eyes and the glasses with gold frames? I think he was a Harvard guy. Nongrad.”

  “Yeah, I remember him. Captain T. Clifford Bassett.”

  “Remember how he was always comin’ down in the army’s shit, explaining your rights under the UCMJ, and civil judicial rights? Other P’s used to call him the commie of the law department.”

  “Fuckin’-A, Buck. Old Bassett. Sure.”

  “Yeah. Well, I think you ought to give old T. Clifford a call when you get up there. Stop in and see him after you talk to Hedges. Can’t hurt. He sure isn’t gonna be the one to go rattin’ on you.”

  “Goddamn, Buck. I’ll do it. I knew I should call your worthless ass about Hedges. Goddamn, I’m glad I did. I never would have thought of old Bassett, sitting down there in his little cubbyhole in the basement of Thayer Hall in the Law Department. Good fuckin’ idea, Buck. Say hey. What are you up to?”

  “Nothin’. Loafin’. Got to get on the tractor and do some plowing next week. Corn’s up good. Listenin’ to the radio. Same old shit, man. You heard that new one by Loretta Lynn? ‘Don’t Come Home a-Drinking with Lovin’ on Your Mind’? Classic.”

  “Haven’t heard it. New York City. No country station. You know that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Buck. Gotta be going. Have to talk to Consor, then get up to Hedges’ office, man. Thanks.”

  “Slaight. Gimme one minute, goddammit….”

  “Shoot.”

  “First, I seen some real nice black Tony Lama’s with a radical boot heel in your size up in Shawneetown yesterday, and I seen some of them Acme rough-outs you been lookin’ for. You want me to pick ‘em up for you? I got the money to cover you, till you get a check this way.”

  “Yeah. Jesus. Buy the rough-outs, but hold off on the Tony Lama’s—I’d have to see them. They run about seventy dollars, don’t they?”

  “Yep.”

  “So get the Acme’s. And thanks.”

  “Slaight. Number two. Don’t let that fuckin’ Hedges trap you, when you get in there, a-talkin’ with him, you hear? Fucker’s liable to try to box you into an honor situation, use your honor against you. Be careful. He done it before to a guy, remember hearin’ about it?”

  “Yeah. Buck, thanks, man. See you.”

  “You bet. Say howdy to that fox, Irit. See ya.”

  Slaight hung up. Irit was out on the terrace, watering her ginkgoes. That was something he liked about her … she was independent, always seemed to have something to do, some project to chase after, a book she was reading or a design she was working on. And she had this sixth sense for those moments when it would have bothered him if she was just sitting there across from him, staring, while he talked on the phone or read or just sat and thought.

  “Hey, Irit. Buck says howdy.”

  “That’s nice. What is he doing? Is he on leave?”

  “Yeah. Farming. You know. Indiana.”

  “It’s two-thirty, Ry.”

  “I know. I just got to make one more call.”

  He dialed the main number for West Point, got the operator, and asked for Major Consor’s quarters … that’s right … C-O-N-S-O-R … only one in the book. The line went blank, then he heard a soft electronic connect, and it rang.

  “Major Consor’s quarters.” It was his wife.

  “It’s Mr. Slaight calling, ma’am. Is the major there?”

  “Oh. Hello, Ry. Yes, he’s here. Just one moment.” Slaight could hear a muffled voice in the background saying, just a minute. He was going to another extension.

  “How are you, Ry?” said Mrs. Consor. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”

  “Fine, ma’am.” Good. Consor hadn’t let on to his wife.

  “You’ll have to come by for supper sometime, when the academic year begins again.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’d like that.”

  “Oh. Here’s George.” One phone picked up. Hers went dead.

  “Major Consor.”

  “Sir, it’s Mr. Slaight.”

  “I figured I’d hear from you today, Slaight. Where are you?”

  “I’m calling from New York, sir. I’m coming up to the academy this afternoon. General Hedges called me. He wants me in his office at four.”

  “Aren’t you on leave?”

  “Yessir. He wants me up there anyway, sir. I kind of thought he might be wanting to talk to me about this David Hand thing, sir. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Yeah. That’s it, all right. Colonel King called me in yesterday. I just returned from leave. He’d been waiting for me for two weeks, apparently. I’m not surprised they’ve got you coming up today. There seems to be some sort of crash program on.”

  “What’s up, sir? What did Colonel King want?”

  “It’s the David Hand drowning. He wanted to make sure he had all the copies of the official autopsy, made me check my files. Came over to my office personally. He acted strangely, very … nervous. He has a tic, he flares one nostril, wrinkling his nose and his brow. He was doing it over and over, the whole time he was in my office.”

  “Yessir. I’ve noticed the same thing.”

  “I went through my files. He insisted on watching me. Anyway, when he was satisfied that nothing existed in writing on the matter of Cadet David Hand, he asked if I’d spoken to anyone about the autopsy. I told him I had. I gave him your name. He asked for it. I didn’t want to … I considered doctor-patient confidentiality for a moment … but obviously, Slaight, the Hand matter had nothing to do with your feet. I had to tell him.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “He was extremely agitated. Very worked up. He told me not to discuss my findings with anyone else. Said I might jeopar
dize a sensitive situation. He didn’t elaborate. But he did ask me why I was talking to you, and I told him about your feet, that I was treating you.”

  “You mention Grimshaw, sir?”

  “Yes, I did. He wanted to know why I hadn’t medically excused you from the area, if they were bad enough to require a doctor’s attention. I told him your tac wouldn’t allow medical excuses. He didn’t say anything after that.”

  “Oh, Jesus … I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Grimshaw, Slaight. I told King I’d go to the wall with Grimshaw if I ever saw another pair of feet like yours from his company. Colonel King just nodded. But he got the message.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Slaight …”

  “Yessir.”

  “Slaight … you would be well advised to, ahh … watch your step when you’re in there with General Hedges. I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but it doesn’t … feel right to me. You understand?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “The whole business is being handled very queerly. No pun intended. For instance, I have yet to see Colonel Fitzgerald, the provost marshal. King was the only person I saw when I did the autopsy, and he came alone to my office yesterday. There have been no more questions about the autopsy. From anywhere. Anyone. I have this feeling … the whole thing has hit some sort of bottleneck, maybe for reasons of secrecy or security, I don’t know. One thing is clear to me now, anyway.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “You’ve hit the bottleneck. King obviously reported to Hedges.”

  “Yessir, I knew about that.”

  “You did?”

  “Yessir. I saw him going into headquarters that day I talked to you after the area. I asked around. He went to see Hedges that afternoon, the day you did the autopsy.”