Duty First

by Ed Ruggero

  “You can just say, ‘Pay attention to detail,’ but that isn’t going to sink in. For a kid on the jump team, I relate it to a well-packed parachute. For a kid on the mountaineering team, it’s tying knots. For a football player, it’s blocking assignments; for a kid who’s prior-service, you talk about other things. I’m so much better at communicating because I’ve had to do those things.”

  This came as something of a revelation to Olson.

  “[When] they invited me back here to get an MA, and I was petrified, given the pain associated with getting that bachelor’s degree. Four years of being told I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and then I’m going to check in for more schooling and get my ass whupped at a whole new level? But I found I could do these things.”

  The most obvious result of Olson’s confidence was that he was willing to let the cadets take charge, willing to let them learn from experience. Not all Tacs have bought into this approach, and that is understandable. It is the Tac, after all, who is answerable to his chain of command. And while cadet mistakes may cost them reprimands or room confinement, all those marks go away on graduation day, like a juvenile record that is sealed when the offender turns eighteen. An officer’s performance, in the form of annual fitness reports, stays with him or her.

  “But letting the cadets see what goes on, by letting them run the system, that extra 10 percent of insight they get in how things work—they’re going to be way ahead. In fact, I’d put any of my firsties up against Rob Shaw [the first captain].”

  Olson is criticized by peers who say he doesn’t have to worry about his career because he’s married to a doctor; his kids aren’t going to starve. He knows that people whisper that he can afford to be daring because he was selected for early promotion and further schooling even before he started work as a Tac. But the question for him isn’t whether or not Rob Olson would have operated differently if he were the only breadwinner in his family or whether it would have made a difference if he were still in competition for a slot at Command and General Staff College. The question that guides Olson is: How does his style affect cadets? Does it make them better leaders?

  The first drill period of the day on Wednesday is at 7:15. It is cool enough so that several cadets, sitting in short sleeves in the Superintendent’s box, have goose bumps on their arms. The chain of command practices, then heads back into the barracks as the rest of the corps filters out for the full rehearsal. Firsties in class uniforms wearing tarbucket hats, sabers, and white gloves mill about as the underclassmen spill out of the barracks. In spite of the hour, in spite of the fact that many of them were out late the night before, they joke around and enjoy their last hours together in this group.

  Around the parade field, the first families to arrive for the week are making their appearances. One middle-aged couple is decked out in full souvenir regalia: the man is wearing a West Point T-shirt and hat; he has a camera bag around his neck. The woman has on a sweatshirt that says “West Point Mom.” She carries a cloth bag with a full-color Academy crest. They smile happily.

  The corps is finally assembled. The sky is mostly sun, although a few clouds skid by. The cadets are in class uniform: short-sleeved gray shirt, gray trousers with black stripe. They wear the uncomfortable tarbucket parade hats. The under class carry rifles, the firsties carry sabers.

  Nearly four thousand cadets march out to the final line. They execute a series of commands: saluting with their rifles, coming to attention, to parade rest, to present arms and back again, practicing the sequence. There are now second class cadets in charge, thrust into roles they aren’t used to, moving the entire corps across the parade field.

  Colonel Joe Adamczyk, the Brigade Tactical Officer, strides across the parade field and takes the microphone from the cadet announcer. He tells the cadets that they don’t look sharp, that they’ll be out here until they get it right. There are some groans in the ranks, but the cadets, especially the seniors, want the parade to look good for their families.

  Round and round they go. The companies wheel off, one by one, into a long line that snakes east, then two left turns, then close by the reviewing stand where the Superintendent’s party will stand, and toward Quarters 100. Instead of going back into the barracks, they return to their starting positions.

  The cadets still look happy and relaxed, even the plebes. The Class of 2002 has just returned from two days at Camp Buckner, where they moved in, cleaned the barracks, set up their field gear. For them, the year is already over, and they are, mentally at least, already on summer leave. For the yearlings, most of whom are headed out to take a long look at the real army, there is the promise of adventure. For the firsties, there is the almost unbelievable realization that this is their week, that the ceremonies are finally for them. Only the second class seem to have no fun as they struggle with their new roles running the corps.

  After they march forward, the graduating class stands in loose ranks just in front of the bleachers. They remove their tarbucket hats, showing hair pressed with perspiration. A few of them already look exhausted from the week’s celebrations, the last late nights in the barracks.

  Kevin Bradley stands with F-2, his black hat under one arm, his saber belt hanging loosely on him. He looks a little bleary-eyed after a late night with friends. On the way back to the barracks, one of them announced, “Well, that’s one day of graduation week over.” They rode quietly the rest of the way. Although much of a cadet’s life is about anticipation—a four-year recitation of “The Days”—the firsties still don’t seem prepared for this. The entire week is a mixture of elation and melancholy and the more pedestrian concerns of playing host. Bradley’s parents are due in around 11:00.

  “I’m shipping them off on the tour of Constitution Island,” he says, smiling and pointing at the historic site in the river.

  “My mom has been waiting to see that for four years; I thought we should get her over there. Then we have the Supe’s reception this afternoon; that’s when things are going to start getting crazy.”

  But the week has already gotten off to a rough start.

  Cadet Chad Jones was Bradley’s roommate first semester by nature of their jobs. Jones was the commander of the Second Regiment, one of the five highest-ranking cadets in the corps; Bradley was his executive officer, the second-in-command. Jones, who was also class president, was outgoing, friendly, and confident. Part of that was probably a function of his age; he had served as an enlisted soldier before attending the USMA Prep School and is several years older than most of his classmates.

  Jones had branched infantry. During the graduation ceremony, he was to present a gift, on behalf of the class, to the guest speaker. He was to be given his diploma by the guest speaker, along with the honor graduates and the first captain. Jones was due to be married a few months after graduation; Kevin was planning on going to the wedding.

  At the beginning of graduation week, the Superintendent, Lieutenant General Christman, separated Chad Jones from the Corps of Cadets for cheating on a history paper.

  Jones used the entire bibliography from another cadet’s paper, as well as the same quotations. But he did not document the work or indicate that it wasn’t his own, and the professor caught the plagiarism. Jones, brought in front of an Honor Board in the late spring, denied that he had done anything wrong. His defense was that he had been sloppy in his scholarship; he should have noted his sources.

  The investigations lasted for several weeks. When the hearings finally started, Bradley attended. “I saw the people on that board,” he says. “And I knew they were trying to do the right thing. But they also felt a lot of pressure to make an example of him.”

  Jones was hardly a struggling student; Bradley thinks his GPA was about a 3.2. “He almost always had his papers done ahead of time,” Bradley says. “I don’t know what could have happened.”

  The class officers removed Jones as president.

  Behind Bradley, the parade announcers read the names and hometowns
of the second class cadets who now command the formations passing by. It’s a travel map of America. Aspen, Colorado; Idaho Falls, Idaho; San Antonio, Texas; Bridgeton, New Jersey; Malibu, California; Pleasant Garden, North Carolina; Elberton, Georgia; Pelican Rapids, Minnesota.

  Later, Bradley sits in Grant Hall. Families are gathering here, with their West Point guidebooks, cameras, and walking shoes. They study the life-sized paintings of MacArthur, Marshall, Eisenhower. An elderly couple, speaking Japanese, has their photo taken in front of MacArthur. The general is not smiling in the picture.

  “This was a lose-lose situation,” Bradley says of Jones’s case. “If the Supe gave him discretion, everyone would say, ‘Oh, as long as you’re a regimental commander you can do pretty much anything and still graduate.’ If the Supe throws him out, people will say, ‘But he gave discretion to all those other people. They’re still here.’ ”

  In Bradley’s own company, a member of the class of 2000 was caught using a fake ID card while at Fort Benning, Georgia. “That’s not something you do accidentally,” Bradley says.

  Yet Christman used his discretion. The cadet, found by an Honor Board, left the Academy during the first semester and will rejoin the class of 2001. He was suspended for less than a year, sent back to the next class.

  The Superintendent’s wide use of discretion has saved some cadets who will no doubt be fine officers. In fact, it could well be that these men and women will be the best officers, having learned their lesson about honor the hard way.

  But all of this has happened at a cost to the corps and to the Honor Code. As Colonel Peter Stromberg of the English Department said, Christman has “hoisted himself on his own petard.” His wide use of discretion has led some cadets to think, not that there are cases that must be decided individually, but that some lies aren’t as bad as others.

  “It’s made the Honor Code something of a joke,” Bradley says. “It breeds cynicism because people look around and say ‘worse people than him have stayed.’ ”

  Another aspect of the problem, as Bradley sees it, is that the use of discretion will vary from Superintendent to Superintendent. His memory of General Graves, Christman’s predecessor, is that more cadets were separated. And whether or not this is true doesn’t really matter; the corps believes it’s true.

  Bradley feels that part of the problem with the Honor Code is that most cadets think of it as an institution, rather than a set of values, as something that exists—or does not exist—inside each of them. “We don’t have a lot of interaction with the Honor Committee. They could be living right down the hall and you wouldn’t know it unless they put a little sign on the door. How do we know they represent us?”

  But the aspect of the Jones case that weighs heavily on his mind is the non-toleration clause. Discussions of the incident in his company, among his classmates, have focused on that again and again.

  “It’s not a hard question,” Bradley says, “unless it’s a close friend.”

  The honor system calls for someone who believes another has violated the code to confront that cadet. Bradley says he would have confronted Jones immediately if he had known of the plagiarism. The tough part comes if the accused cadet refuses to own up; the other cadet is bound to report the incident to the Honor Board. This critical aspect of the code is contained in its last words, “or tolerate those who do.”

  “I don’t know what I would have done in that situation,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s always a question on emerging leader boards.”

  “Emerging leader boards” are interviews with cadets being considered for high-ranking positions.

  “I told my board that it was the right thing [to turn someone in] and that I hoped I could do the right thing.”

  Bradley is miserable. He is everything West Point tries to produce, a thinking man, a person of character, dedicated to his profession, thoughtful and articulate and selfless. The epitome of the Academy product.

  “I wouldn’t be able to turn in my best friend,” he says at last.

  In Central Area, cadets in BDUs haul heavy duffel bags to waiting trucks. A sign at the head of one line reads “PCS.” The PCS line is for graduating seniors, who will do a permanent change of station. The other sign reads “TDY,” for temporary duty. This line is for underclass cadets headed to Army posts around the world for summer training.

  The cadets walking through Central Area give each other elaborate handshakes. They hug and call out duty stations and promises to stay in touch. For the under class, this is better than a football Saturday. For the seniors, it is also stressful.

  Kris Yagel says he wants to spend time with his friends, and he feels a little guilty because he’s thinking of his family as another responsibility to juggle. The Academy grounds are not designed for entertaining; the cadets are not used to having dozens, even scores of visitors to drag around post.

  Still, West Point puts on its best face for graduation week, and the formal garden beside the Superintendent’s quarters is clipped and swept and pruned to perfection for the reception. Roses bloom along the ornate brick wall. There is a wooden guardhouse, about the size of an old-fashioned telephone booth, painted white and green. During the nineteenth century, cadets used it to stand guard during summer encampments on the Plain. The formal garden is a showcase for plants and flowering shrubs donated by parents’ clubs from around the country: azaleas from California, climbing hydrangea from Michigan, tulips from Arkansas, grape holly from Oregon, bluebells from Virginia.

  The receptions are organized by battalion; the first class cadets from three companies at a time are to show up with their families at the appointed hour. With twelve battalions in the corps, it is a long two days for the Superintendent and Susan Christman, who greet every single guest in a receiving line.

  Military social gatherings are peculiar in that everyone shows up at the hour specified on the invitation. In Army units, it is customary for the commander to have the officers and spouses to visit. If the invitation says fourteen hundred, all the couples are on the front steps of the commander’s quarters at a few minutes before two. These may be the only parties in the world where there are fifty guests and only one knock at the door.

  True to form, cadets in their starched white uniforms gather in front of Quarters 100 at the appointed hour, waiting for their families who must contend with the shortage of parking. Many of the cadets look impatient. One young man scans the distant sidewalks for his family, doing everything but tapping his foot.

  “They’re running late,” he tells me. “I told them it would be tough to park.”

  Kevin Bradley looks a little nervous, too. It isn’t that anyone is checking off names at the gate, but a command performance is a command performance.

  Bradley once stood up his family in a similar circumstance. During his plebe parent weekend, he was to meet his parents for a reception. He went to his room, got dressed and, noticing that he had a few minutes to spare, did what any cadet would do: he took a nap. Forty-five minutes after he was supposed to have met his family, a cadet was shaking him awake.

  “Dad was really pissed,” he says now, smiling at the memory.

  Dave and Marge Bradley make it on time, and they line up with the other families. At a table set up on the lawn, women from the Officers’ Wives Club are selling West Point memorabilia and homemade crafts: Christmas tree ornaments made to look like cadets, note paper and postcards and cookbooks and pins made out of cadet buttons.

  At the head of the receiving line, a cheerful sign in gold with black lettering instructs the cadets on the proper way to negotiate the receiving line. (They’ve had this lesson before, in etiquette classes.)

  The sign tells the cadet how to arrange his or her family: mother and father first, then grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings. No helpful hints for firsties who show up with mom and dad, and mom’s new husband and dad’s new wife. They’re supposed to be able to think on their feet by this time.

  Most firsties have been
in the Supe’s house at least one time (there was a reception earlier in the year for first class cadets). Most of the parents have only seen the home from the parade field. Some are clearly in awe of the surroundings.

  The Christmans stand under a leafy arbor. The Supe’s aide, at the head of the line, learns the first names of each guest from the cadet and passes it along. Dan Christman gives each family the same big smile he passes around so generously to cadets, the same hearty handshake. (He has removed his class ring for these trials, so that his fingers don’t get crushed.) Then Christman leans over and passes the name to his wife, Susan, who smiles charmingly and offers a few pleasantries, just as she will do for thousands of other guests.

  “Welcome to West Point, you must be so proud. This is a great day for your family.”

  Just off the sunroom where the Christmans eat lunch is Sylvanus Thayer’s sundial, ordered from London and installed here in 1831. In the 1850s, when Robert E. Lee was Superintendent, the grounds had a pond and a boathouse.

  Under a white tent fly, the families gather and eat cookies and drink punch. There are officers from the staff and faculty here, along with their spouses. It is one of the social duties that come with high-ranking positions at West Point.

  Ann Stromberg, whose husband Peter is the senior member of the academic board, confides that this is must be her “ninety-seventh appearance” at one of these.

  “And the only really dreadful ones were when they served Jello punch.”

  A full colonel introduces himself to the Bradleys after noticing that their son wears armor branch insignia. The colonel was an armor officer before becoming a professor. His wife tells stories of moving about from post to post, of their favorite assignments and best quarters. The couple doesn’t talk about the moves in terms of endless uprootings. And although the newspapers are filled with speculation about intervention and a possible ground war in eastern Europe, no one mentions Kosovo.