Duty First

by Ed Ruggero

  “Saddle up!”

  The command brings some groans, and a cadre member reminds them of one of Greg Stitt’s favorite expressions: “Pain is just weakness leaving the body!”

  The platoons form up on the unpaved road, then wind uphill, one file on each side, ten meters between new cadets. Friesema marches holding his rifle in one hand and a sweaty, tightly folded piece of paper in the other. “I’m memorizing ‘The Days,’” he says.

  “The Days” is a bit of plebe trivia the new cadets are responsible for, a list of a dozen or so events for the coming year and the number of days remaining until each. Each sentence must be recited exactly as it is spelled out in the plebe knowledge booklet. No contractions, no word substitutions, no missteps or mispronunciations, nothing left out.

  “Sir, there are fifty-seven and a butt days until Army beats the hell out of Navy in football at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia!”

  Because the list is long—it includes major sporting events, Ring Weekend for the first class, Christmas leave, spring leave, Graduation Week—and because the numbers change every day, it is difficult to keep straight. That makes it one of the more popular pieces of plebe knowledge the upperclass cadets will demand. And Friesema knows that those upperclass cadets—all of them strangers—wait by the hundreds back at West Point. As he has done all summer, he turns his anxiety into action, memorizing the numbers as he marches.

  The new cadets have been told that the first impression they make today, their first day in the new company, will likely stay with them for the rest of plebe year. A new cadet who gets a reputation as a screwup in the first few hours after the march back from Lake Frederick is simply going to have a tougher year than one who does well. Part of the elusive “doing well” means knowing fourth class knowledge, and knowing it cold. As part of that store of knowledge and skills, the new cadets are supposed to know how to perform the intricate plebe table duties. Stein’s squad does not feel prepared for that test. Friesema isn’t going to get caught short on anything else. He looks around, notices he is the only one studying. “I guess I’m pretty nervous,” he says.

  Just ahead of Friesema, Stein marches at the head of her squad, dark eyes fixed straight ahead. She is a small woman, and the frame of the rucksack extends from above her shoulders to below her waist. Her legs work like pistons as she tears at the uphill slope; she has trouble on the down slope because the rucksack, which weighs nearly half what she does, threatens to send her flying downhill. She keeps her eyes on the ground a steady three feet in front of her as she considers this leadership lab that’s about to come to an end. “You have to be confident and intelligent,” she says between deep breaths. “You have to set the example so people will want to emulate you.” Pant, pant. “You have to work as a team.”

  Suddenly Stein is passing a new cadet who is falling behind a squad farther up the line. Her helmet is sideways on her head, and she looks as if she’s about to cry.

  “Let’s go, Reece!” a cadre member shouts from somewhere ahead. But Reece is downshifting on the big hill; her squad is pulling away from her. Suddenly her platoon sergeant comes jogging back. It is Lisa Landreth, the second class who spent part of yesterday afternoon reading Mademoiselle outside her tent. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Landreth yells. “One more hill until the ski slope!”

  Reece makes an effort, manages to keep it going. Landreth runs forward again for forty or fifty yards, the length of the platoon, to check on the lead squads. She is not much bigger than Stein, and as she runs, her helmet and rucksack bang up and down.

  Two minutes later and Landreth is back, still running, still being pummeled by her equipment. She carries her rifle at port-arms, holding it diagonally across her chest. Winded, she still manages to shout encouragement. “Let’s go, Reece! Let’s go!”

  Colonel Joe Adamczyk, the Brigade Tactical Officer, catches up to Stein. He is unfailingly polite and even friendly, but he has a reputation among the cadets as something of a martinet, a nit-picker who is fond of rules and regulations. He is thin, like an overworked longdistance runner. Adamczyk also served as a company tactical officer in the early 1990s. He has a lot of experience on the ground at West Point, and has also commanded an infantry battalion and served in a variety of other jobs around the world.

  “When I came back here as a Tac and realized all the things we used to do wrong, especially to plebes, I was embarrassed,” he says. “All that yelling and hazing; you just can’t treat people like that. And we weren’t teaching good lessons to the upperclass cadets, either.”

  When Adamczyk leaves, Stein says, “What a bunch of bullshit. He’s always yelling at cadets.”

  At mid-morning the Class of 2002 starts assembling on West Point’s ski slope, just outside Washington Gate. They sit in the bright sunlight and congratulate themselves. There are only two miles to the cadet area and the end of Beast.

  Barry DeGrazio pulls his clean BDU shirt from his rucksack and puts it on; the one with the hole in the back goes into the ruck. He doesn’t look relieved. Bob Friesema and a few others frantically study their plebe knowledge. They take turns reciting the “General Orders” for guards. A few cadets have brushes and shoe polish, which they use to clean their boots.

  On the ski slope, two figures in full gear move straight uphill. One is second class cadet Brad Marvin, the company first sergeant; the other is Jacque Messel. She is only two or three hundred yards short of doing the same march her classmates did, and she wants to get credit. Marvin invited her to tackle the steep slope, and she took the challenge. By the time the two reach the bottom, they are both completely drenched in sweat. Messel smiles like a lottery winner.

  Alisha Bryan, the Alpha Company “milk and cookies lady,” is happy that Messel made it through Beast. “When you go through something like this, you can look back and see how far you’ve come. That helps you get through whatever is next.”

  She looks out over the new cadets in the few minutes of quiet celebration allowed them. “They’re a little cocky. Re-orgy week will take that out of them.”

  The new cadet companies form for the last leg of the road march, the parade onto West Point proper. They march in a tightly packed formation; a cadre member walks alongside, calling cadence, and the new cadets join in the marching songs.

  My girl has a wooden leg

  That’s why I call her Peg

  I’d buy her anything

  To keep her in style!

  The companies squeeze through the gate at the top of Washington Road, then down the hill in front of the Keller Army Hospital, where the USMA Band waits to join them. As they pass the first sets of quarters, the cadets can see whole families turned out to watch. The parade is a major event for the community. It marks the clear line between summer activities and the school year. (The calendar of the West Point elementary school, an on-post school for the children of staff and faculty, coincides with the cadet school year. Everyone starts at once.)

  The adults along the route sit in lawn chairs or stand talking to neighbors while the children play on the manicured grass. Near the teen center, three little boys hug a large tree beside the road. Their faces are painted in black, gold, and gray, and they hold a hand-lettered sign, “Welcome ‘02!”

  Now the band plays, and the cadence callers lower their voices to an almost conversational tone. Left, right, left, right, left. In ranks, the new cadets keep head and eyes to the front. With their helmets pulled low, their faces and uniforms sweat-soaked, rifles at sling-arms, they are reminiscent of newsreel photos of World War II GIs on parade in Paris or Rome. The formations pass the cemetery, with its concentric rings of white headstones, its several dozen outsize monuments: an obelisk for George Custer, a football-shaped stone for Army coach Red Blaik.

  Closer to the cadet area, families of new cadets stand on the curbs and sidewalks, checking the guidons for the company letter, then scanning the ranks for a familiar face. Some of the families have been warned, by others in their local
parents’ clubs, that they shouldn’t put the names of their new cadets on the signs. No new cadet wants to be singled out, especially on this day, when battalions of upperclass cadets await them.

  “Peoria, We’re Proud of You!” one sign says. The parents holding it are decked out in West Point hats and T-shirts.

  “Welcome Back, Ohio Buck!”

  Another sign seems designed for the whole class. “I’m so-o-o proud of you! Love, Mom.”

  One family, from Syracuse, New York, is dressed in the orange of Syracuse University. “We told him what to look for when we talked to him on the phone,” the mother says. There are two little sisters in orange T-shirts, one with a huge foam rubber hand (also orange) in a “#1” gesture. The other sister holds a sign with “#5” on it; it was her brother’s number when he played sports in high school. Mom has an American flag. Dad is busily video-taping everything. Nearby, another family from neighboring New Jersey has turned out in force: Besides the parents, there are two grandmothers, several aunts and uncles, and some neighbors from home. Scores of officers from the faculty stand along the route, also. The West Point graduates in the group talk about their memories of the march back from Lake Frederick.

  Two new cadets march in front of the regiment, holding a long banner with the class motto: “Pride in All We Do: 2002.” Behind the banner, General Reimer, the Chief of Staff, and the Superintendent are in the front rank of officers.

  As the new cadets turn the corner in front of the Dean’s quarters, they can see ahead of them a wing of MacArthur Barracks and a dark sally port leading to North Area. On this short stretch of road in front of Quarters 100, the crowd changes. The civilians give way to uniforms, and just past the reviewing stand both sides of the road are lined with upperclass cadets.

  All summer long the ratio has been three new cadets for each upperclass cadet. And yet there were enough cadre around to make the new cadets feel as if they were always being watched (they were), always being corrected (ditto), always doing something wrong (definitely). Suddenly there are three times as many fault-finders. The sidewalks are full of them; the road is lined with them. They smile because they know what’s about to happen. The new cadets only know it’s going to be unpleasant.

  The cadre has been talking about this day all summer long. Most of the stories have been in the tradition of the boogeyman tales used to scare children around the camp fire. Under the stars at Lake Frederick, surrounded by classmates, the new cadets could still joke about it. No one is laughing now.

  “Why aren’t they smiling?” one of the grandmothers asks. “I mean, they’re finished, you’d think they’d be happy.”

  Reimer and Christman mount the temporary reviewing stand in front of the Superintendent’s quarters. From there they return the salutes of the passing companies.

  The new cadets companies form on the apron—the same spot they’ve been occupying all summer—ground their gear, and head into the Mess Hall for their last meal in Beast Barracks. When the new cadets disappear into the big doors of Washington Hall, upper-class cadets in razor-sharp white-over-gray uniforms gather on the grass in front of the phantom formations of gear left behind by the new cadets. They plant the guidons of the thirty-two lettered companies (the organization of the corps for the school year) in a long line that stretches around the edge of the concrete apron. There are a half dozen upperclass cadets from each company come to collect their contingents of new cadets. By the time the Class of 02 comes out of the front doors of the Mess Hall, the wide stretch of green that had been empty fifteen minutes earlier is now filled with upperclass cadets at rigid attention. It is a bit of theater, heavy-handed but effective.

  “Let’s go, new cadets. Move out, move out, move out!” The Beast cadre shouts. They are eager to turn over their charges, let them be someone else’s problem. Let someone else worry about getting their weapons clean and turned in, their gear moved to new barracks and stowed.

  “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE, MOVE MOVE MOVE!”

  The new cadets hurry down the big steps of the Mess Hall and scurry to their equipment. Over in Alpha Company, the platoon sergeants shout gleefully, “Get it on!” The new cadets strap on their helmets and equipment, then hold their weapons at their sides. In front of them they can see the silent cadets in white-over-gray, standing at attention. Waiting.

  Bob Friesema stands in the back rank of his platoon. His notes and plebe handbook are tucked away in his rucksack or in his pockets. He knows what company he’ll be joining, and he has already moved some of his gear. But there is a long day ahead of him, when he’ll jump to the commands of a new chain of command.

  The new cadets come to attention, and there is a silent moment as the two sides face each other across a few yards of empty concrete. The families on diagonal walk-shuffle nervously. Friesema chews his lip.

  The commanders of the CBT companies turn to their new cadets, who sound off with their company mottoes. Then the firsties give their last instructions of the summer.

  “When I call your company fall out and fall in on your new company guidon.”

  “Alpha one!”

  “Bravo one!”

  “Charlie one!”

  As each company is called, new cadets assigned to that company lift their M16 rifles to port arms, step out of ranks, and run to the guidon of the new company.

  “Delta one!”

  “Echo one!”

  During the academic year, the Corps of Cadets is organized into a brigade of four regiments. Each regiment has eight lettered companies. Companies A-1 through H-1 make up the first regiment, then A-2 to H-2, and so on through to the last company of the last regiment, H-4. New cadets are not assigned at random; Academy officials use a computer program to give each company a cross section based on academic performances, varsity sports participation, race, and gender.

  As the new cadets run toward their new company guidons, the upperclass cadets in white-over-gray begin shouting orders. “Fall in! In a file, new cadet! You know what a file is? What have you been doing all summer? I can tell you right now the vacation is over!”

  The white shirts circle the sweaty new cadets, correcting their posture, criticizing their uniforms, finding fault with the way they stand at attention, the way they hold their rifles.

  Bob Friesema is one of the last to leave his squad. He stands at attention as he is, quite literally, abandoned by the team he has worked with all summer. He admitted to being nervous about what the next few days hold, and it is all visible on his face. When his company is called, he brings his rifle up smartly and runs to meet his next challenge.

  When the new cadets fall in behind the guidons of their new companies, cadet basic training is over. During the few days that remain before the beginning of classes, they will be issued books and computers; they will receive schedules and classroom assignments. The luckiest among them will have some third class team leader march them into each academic building to show them how to find their classrooms.

  They may even spend a few minutes reflecting on what they have accomplished in the few short weeks since R-Day. But they won’t pause; they’re on a fast-moving train that isn’t about to slow down.

  LEARNING TO FOLLOW

  The smothering humidity of August gives way to a mild September and a crisp October as the academic year gets rolling. From the parking lot on the roof of Thayer Hall, it’s easy to know why so many artists come to this valley. The Hudson changes costume many times in a day with each subtle shift in the light. It knows dozens of blues and grays. Its surface is often ice-choked in winter; a strong wind coming down the valley can whip up whitecaps; a full moon makes it look silver-plated.

  Cadet life changes from the summer’s emphasis on military requirements to the bookish demands of the fall. The cadets’ world shrinks, too. Upperclassmen return from far-flung summer assignments with the Army to spend their days shuffling the short distances between the academic buildings, the gymnasium, the Mess Hall, the barracks, and the chapels.

>   At 6:00 on an October morning, Pershing Barracks, with its tower, gargoyles, and crenellated roofline, looms out of the darkness like a dream of some castle. Its big windows are still mostly black; the few lights clicked on are in plebe rooms. Just inside the enormous oak doors stands Cadet Third Class Barry Huston, who is already dressed in his class uniform. Huston is Bob Friesema’s team leader, the first line supervisor in a long chain of command. He is responsible for teaching Friesema much of what the plebe needs to know to get through this first year. It was Huston who, during Re-orgy Week, showed the plebe where his classrooms were; who took him to issue points for his books and computer; who showed him how to wear the parade uniform of full dress gray, with its spiderweb of white belts. Huston monitors Friesema’s grades, his command of fourth class knowledge (the requirements change every month), and his duties in the company (such as delivering dry cleaning and laundry to the upperclass cadet rooms).

  Huston heads up the wide staircase with its ornate banister. All around, cadets are stirring. Some are dressed in gym gear, walking to the showers, towels and razors and soap in hand. A woman in a long cadet bathrobe shuffles from the latrine, her shower shoes squeaking on the shiny floor, her hair dripping. Huston approaches a door; one of the paper name-tags says, “FRIESEMA R D 02.”

  West Point even teaches cadets how to knock: two sharp raps. Here a polite tap is the equivalent of a weak handshake.

  Friesema answers the knock by shouting, “Enter, sir!”

  Huston looks in the room, then retreats. Friesema goes back to his morning rituals. He has lost the deer-in-the-headlights look he wore during Beast. His hair has grown out, his face is not as drawn as it was over the summer. The slight adolescent acne, exacerbated by the sweat and grime and camouflage paint, is also gone.