by Ed Ruggero
“My first detail team leader was from Wisconsin [Friesema’s home state]. All the plebes hated him because he was tough and could be mean. He wasn’t that way to me. He used to ask me what kind of music I liked, and he’d have that on when I came around to his room for some duty.”
Even though he was the benefactor of this small kindness, Friesema thought the favoritism was wrong.
“You shouldn’t have favorites or different ways of treating people. He did look out for me, though. He made sure I was squared away and knew my stuff so that I didn’t get in trouble with the squad leader or platoon sergeant. He used to ask me if I was getting enough to eat, not because he wanted to be my buddy, but because he knew that plebes sometimes don’t get enough. Sometimes he’d have these little boxes of cereal in his room, from the Mess Hall, and he’d give me some.”
His second-detail team leader was more laid-back and interested in Friesema’s intellectual development. He had Friesema read A Clockwork Orange, Lord of the Flies, and Blackhawk Down (an account of the disastrous American military operation in Mogadishu, Somali in 1993), then they’d discuss the books. Although he enjoyed the dialogue, he also recognized that the second-semester team leader was extremely cynical about West Point, about the endless rules and requirements.
Friesema tried to take a longer perspective. “This stuff just gets old if people don’t know why they’re doing something. I mean, some things you hate wouldn’t be so bad if you knew why you were doing them. I’m sure someone somewhere thinks there’s a reason for it.”
Friesema has lunch in Grant Hall, where the little snack bar is preparing for the onslaught of graduation week visitors. They’re building sandwiches assembly-line fashion, stacking them in shiny plastic boxes in the cooler. Afterwards he walks around Trophy Point, with its displays of cannons captured in the nation’s wars. At the foot of the flagpole, a couple of dozen pieces lie on steel rails. They range from a few feet long to fifteen-foot monsters; some are shiny with fresh black paint. Sunlight drifts downstream on the river’s surface. The weather is perfect, with just enough clouds to show a contrast with the blue sky. The hills are touched with green, the air light and dry and still, so that the view up the river is unobstructed.
There are graduating firsties everywhere, escorting visitors, strolling around the Plain. They wear a uniform peculiar to this week: white shirt over gray trousers, red sash, no hat. They are all smiling, taking their time. Friesema’s walk is leisurely, too. Like Jacque Messel, he seems happy here. Part of the reason things have been looking up for him is that he started seeing a young woman who lives in nearby Connecticut. He met her through a friend and plans to invite her to the formal dance at Camp Buckner during the summer.
There are other reasons for his optimism: he’ll soon be on leave, and he’ll spend the time at home with his family. He is also looking to the next set of challenges the Academy will throw at him.
“I can’t wait to meet my plebe in the fall,” he says.
Early on Friday morning a thousand first class cadets drag themselves up the steep hill to Michie Stadium for graduation practice. At 8:00 the sun is already bright, promising a hot day. A lieutenant colonel stands at the microphone, speaking rapidly about the sequence of events for the graduation ceremony.
“Do not move beyond this line until the graduates ahead of you have reached the bottom of the ramp,” he says, pointing to the speaker’s dais. “Do not let your sabers bang against the seats. Turn to the center of the stage when you get your diploma. If the guest of honor wants to shake your hand, do not walk by him.”
The litany goes on, and the firsties slump in their seats. Captain Gillian Boice, Jacque Messel’s Tac, suggests that more than a few of them are hung over from celebrating the night before.
Colonel Adamczyk, the brigade tactical officer, takes the microphone and reminds them to be careful.
“Don’t do anything stupid that would cause you to miss your graduation. Look out for each other tonight, take care of each other.”
He does not tell them, “Don’t drink and drive.” They’ve heard that admonition plenty of times. Instead, he talks about consequences. The prize, so close, can still be yanked away. He also mentions that he’ll be in the back row of dignitaries on the stage, “So your chances of hitting me with a hat are pretty slim.” The joke draws only a few chuckles.
Down in the cadet area, the end of one year merely means a transition to the next. In Grant Hall, five juniors sit at a long table with a major; each has a file folder holding plans for the summer. The officer points out something on one of the sheets, the cadets follow along.
In the basement of Washington Hall, in the uniform shop, a stack of winter dress coats sits on the floor. The tailors will add a stripe to each sleeve, indicating that the coat’s owner has moved up a class.
A line of firsties waits outside another room. They hold pillows and sheets and telephones and saber belts: all government-issue material which must be returned before they can leave post. With twenty-five hours to go until graduation, they are standing in line, which is probably what they were doing twenty-five hours after becoming new cadets.
The graduation parade is scheduled for 10:00 Friday morning, which is earlier than in the past. Someone in the Commandant’s office did a little research and found that most spring thunderstorms at West Point occur in the late afternoon, which was when the graduation parade was traditionally held.
At Captain Brian Turner’s graduation parade in 1991, dark clouds rolled in and drenched cadets and spectators. The downfall was so intense that some seniors broke ranks and slid along the flooded grass. They wore their summer whites for the next day’s graduation ceremony, after a heroic effort by the cadet laundry to dry-clean all one thousand dress coats failed.
Today there is no threat of rain; the sunlight is already strong and hot as the stands begin to fill around nine. One family uses the pages from the post newspaper, folded into paper hats, for shade. Officers in heavy dress greens—most are on escort duty—cluster in the shade of some trees behind the reviewing stands.
The president of Cambodia is here because his son is graduating. A dozen U.S. Secret Service agents, looking like movie typecasts with their dark glasses, boring suits, and curly wires in their ears, stand around behind the Superintendent’s reviewing stand. They look very relaxed; one of them smokes a cigarette as he stands by a dark sedan.
Not every cadet is marching. Lynn Haseman and Meghann Sullivan, Shannon Stein’s roommates from first semester, got off all-night guard just before the parade. They are excused from marching, but want to watch because they never see the ceremony from this end.
“This is really cool,” Haseman admits.
Sullivan’s hair is dyed a pretty blond. The two young women look healthy, a little tanned, eager for their summer assignments. When Stein’s name comes up, Sullivan shakes her head, finds something to look at on the field.
“Shannon got in a little trouble,” Haseman says. “She’s going to get an award this afternoon [her varsity letter], then she goes to see the Tac to get punished.”
Stein is accused of fraternization with a plebe man.
“Shannon is a real type-A personality,” Haseman says. “She doesn’t take criticism well, so you really can’t tell her much. She has some issues she needs to work out. She makes some bad decisions, but no one wants to confront her because she’ll attack.”
Haseman knows what she’s talking about: She also made some bad choices first semester. She had come back from a bar and gone to a plebe’s room to “bum a smoke.” A little bit of flirting, a little bit of being where she wasn’t supposed to be, and she was also accused of fraternization.
“It was no big deal,” she begins. “But I can see why the Tac thought it was a big deal. I decided I had to make better decisions.”
The Graduation Parade, the last parade for the class of 1999, takes place the day before graduation. The ceremony is the reverse of the Acceptance Day Para
de, which was their first as cadets. In that parade, at the end of Beast Barracks, the new class stands near the bleachers. When the rest of the corps assembles on the Plain, the new plebes leave the reviewing line and join their new companies. Four years later, the same cadets march onto the parade field with the rest of the corps. Then, on command, they leave their companies and march to the reviewing line, the same spot they occupied four years earlier.
The stands are packed. Most of the people in the press section give up their seats to senior citizens. A little thrill shivers through the crowd as ten cadets march briskly out onto the field, stopping at what look like random points in the huge space (there are markers on the ground, like stage marks, that are invisible from the stands).
These are the adjutants. The rest of the corps will emerge and use them as guides. A bugle spits out four or five sharp notes: “Adjutant’s Call.” Then in a moment, the entire band starts playing, and the music rolls across the bright grass, sending little shivers through the families gathered in the bleachers and standing five deep on the sidewalks around the field.
The companies come out of the sally ports in solid blocks of gray over white; hands and arms swing just so, legs bend at the same angles. The sun cracks into splinters on bayonets, sabers, shiny brass breastplates.
The reviewing line, just in front of the stands, is marked with metal replicas of the company guidons. Every few feet, another pole, another gray and gold-metal pennant, starting with Company A-1 on the far left, to Company H-4 on the far right. Many of the families have positioned themselves behind the guidon where their son or daughter will stand. After the corps has gone through the ritual salutes, after the singing of the National Anthem, the first class is ready to leave.
“For-ward …”
The commands echo down the long line.
“March!”
They approach the crowd in a long rank. As they get close, people in the stands call out to them; the firsties are only yards from the spectators.
The Class of 1999 reaches the mark, then, company by company, they execute a sharp about-face and remove the big tarbuckets. They hold their hats in the crook of the left arm, like a trophy. The pose, the plumed hats and shiny brass, looks like something from the eighteenth century.
The three classes left on the field salute the graduating seniors, then prepare to pass in review. Instead of large staffs at the head of each unit, there is now a single second class cadet.
Lynn Haseman and Meghann Sullivan begin a joking, sotto voce commentary on their classmates who lead the formations.
“He’s so cute,” Haseman says of one. “What a great guy.” Then, “What a loser.”
In the strong sunlight, the tight cotton pants the cadets wear are nearly transparent.
“Looking good in your boxers,” Haseman says to another classmate. Only Sullivan can hear her.
The graduating class stands in a long rank just in front of the bleachers. The rest of the corps marches in front of them. Each company of firsties puts their hats back on and renders a hand salute as their own unit passes by. Shoulders back, heads up, they watch as the next class takes charge.
The corps, reduced by nearly a quarter, disappears back into the sally ports; the band plays “The Army Song,” which ends all ceremonies here. The firsties look a little surprised to find themselves still on the field after it’s over.
A voice on the loudspeaker asks spectators to please keep off the Plain, a request that is immediately ignored as family members pour across the chain to find sons and daughters, to form little bands for pictures: now with the grandparents, now with a brother, now with Mom and Dad. One cadet protests when his mother asks him to put his tarbucket back on for a photo, but most of the graduating seniors take all the attention in good humor.
Dave and Madge Bradley make it to Trophy Point just as Kevin does. He pulls the gleaming saber from the cloth sash, hands it to his mother, tells them it is a gift for them. (It is not the government-issue saber he has worn all year, but one he bought from the same supplier.)
Madge doesn’t quite know what to do with it. She kisses her son on the cheek, cradles the shiny saber in her arm the way a pageant winner might hold a bouquet of roses. She is overwhelmed by it all.
Dave Bradley is a bundle of excess energy. He paces and looks for Kevin’s brother and sister and great aunt, who are driving up from New Jersey this morning. He worries about where they will park, if they got lost, if they will hold up Bradley, who has another assembly to attend. Madge spends her nervous energy talking, telling stories about her brothers and children. She moves the saber from one arm to the other.
Kevin Bradley is a bit overwhelmed, too, or perhaps just exhausted. There has been no time for him to rest, to take a break. Even as his body was engaged in the most mundane tasks—standing in line to turn in a telephone—he has been very much aware that he will soon leave his friends.
There is another family posing for pictures at this high point, with the river in the background. A sailboat appears below, its sail on fire with sunlight, as if put there by some set director to make the scene even more perfect. The cadet’s mother orchestrates the photo session; she is beside herself with emotion.
“You must be the mom,” she says, hugging Madge. “I can tell by how proud you look.”
“My son gave me a saber at Christmas,” the woman confides. “It’s nice to know that after all these years, they finally appreciate what you’ve done for them.
Cori and Madge talk about the dance that night: dinner in the Mess Hall followed by a formal at Eisenhower Hall. Cori, who is fifteen, has a new dress. Madge says she paid particular attention to her shoes, so that she wouldn’t be taller than her big brother when she danced with him. Bradley’s brother, Sean, will be at the hotel to meet the rest of the group coming in for graduation: relatives and friends and some of Bradley’s coaches from high school.
The Bradleys take a few photos. Kevin tells his parents that he needs to be at Eisenhower Hall in an hour to receive his academic award; he will graduate number twenty in his class. Dave Bradley, still energized, and now with his other son, daughter, and great aunt in tow, organizes and briefs everyone. They’ll meet in front of the Thayer Monument after Bradley changes uniforms yet again. Dave pushes his aunt’s wheelchair; the family threads its way through the crowds taking pictures on Battle Monument. Kevin is in some quiet zone, as if trying to memorize every moment. He goes ahead, into the line of cadets headed back to the barracks.
That evening the firsties fill the Mess Hall, a last dinner for the Class of 1999, after thousands of meals here. The hangar-sized space, dark as mid-winter, is transformed by the company: by the new suits and gowns, the white uniforms, the smiles and glitter and excitement.
After dinner, the crowd streams out into the warm evening air, past MacArthur’s statue, past the Superintendent’s house, down to Eisenhower Hall and the ballroom with its twenty-foot-high windows that overlook the river. The evening is clear, the lights of Newburgh and Cold Spring reflect on the water. Tonight it all seems part of a romantic adventure, an elaborate stage set of youth and beauty. Tonight, everything is possible, and the great adventure awaits them. For a moment beneath the lights and the music, alongside this river, the graduating seniors reap their rewards. They have paid their dues.
GRADUATION DAY
No one is glittering at 5:15 on Saturday morning as the cadets spill out of their barracks for formation. Major Rob Olson, however, is already in full form.
“Here we go,” he says in a voice that’s much too loud for the hour. “They went to bed at zero two, up at zero-four. Oh, yeah, and tonight they’re gonna drive all night to see that girl in Ohio.”
He steps in and around the cars that pack Central Area. The firsties have been loading their belongings. Most of the cars and trucks and sport utility vehicles are filled to bursting.
“Somewhere around western Pennsylvania that Motel Six is gonna start looking real good,” Olson says.
The sleepy cadets are startled by the sound of his voice, which carries loudly through the area. He may be the only person speaking. Olson keeps up his running commentary, teasing cadets as they stumble forward to find their companies.
“Looking real good there,” he says to one, who salutes without looking up. “You sleep under a rock?”
Out on the Plain, where Second Regiment is forming up, the grass is covered with a thick morning fog. The cadets in white over gray look ghostlike as they wade through the mist.
This morning’s ceremony is a promotion for the under classes. The second, third, and fourth class cadets wear the insignia of their new rank on their epaulets; the epaulets are turned upside down. During the ceremony, they’ll spin the shoulder insignia over, so that the new rank shows.
Captain Brian Turner is here, his arms crossed against the morning chill. He smells of mouthwash and soap; his uniform, as always, is perfectly pressed. He salutes Olson, gives a perfunctory greeting. Olson goes off to join his own company.
Firstie Nick Albrecht, one of F-2’s cheering section for the Sandhurst Competition, is in class uniform in the rear of the formation. He wears a name-tag and the black shield of a senior, but no insignia of rank and no branch insignia. This is the same configuration the recently dismissed Chad Jones wore, the almost uniform of those on their way out.
“He’s graduating, but maybe he shouldn’t,” Turner says angrily.
He says this for Albrecht’s benefit. The cadet, who is only a few feet away, pretends not to hear. “He can’t even get the uniform right. A bunch of these guys got carried away and threw away their white over gray. Then they say, ‘Sir, nobody told me to keep my white over gray’ ” He imitates a childish whine as he says this.
