by Gus Lee
I had brought Arch Torres and Bob Lorbus along tonight to bring the Society to a perfect seven for poker, joining the colonel, Clint Zoo Keeper Bestier, Duke Troth, and Miles Brodie. Bob and Arch had observed the aftereffects of the Society’s temperance habits. They wanted to “see the elephant” and his dark, bohemian den. In the stairwell of the Q, we felt the vibrations of a stereo system and heard the words to “Secret Agent Man.” We were all tall, fit, trained as killers, and dark to varying degrees. We identified with Agent 007, James Bond, the Man of our time. His enjoying the favors of many women I recognized as fantasy; that only happened to Arch and Bob. I liked James Bond because he ate like a starving restaurant critic wherever he went.
When we came through the door, Smits seemed to be seeing me for the first time. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was looking at the spic and the Chinaman.
Arch looked at him steadily. “Too many of us, sir?”
“Hell no,” he growled in a voice abused by yelling over artillery, imbibing over the limit, and living past reason. “Siddown. Whaddya drinkin’?”
Arch’s skill at seven-card stud lifted the level of play. We had finished the Velvet Hammers and had been at the Schlitz for a couple hours. I was drinking Bushmills and feeling no pain.
“Three, no help,” Arch said. He flipped up the fourth card for Clint with the sharp dealer’s snap that cracked like a dry branch on night patrol. Snap. “Club, flush,” he said to Duke. Snap. “Nine, straightening,” to the colonel. Snap. “Pair of eights up, four to the flush,” to Bob. Snap. “Ace, no help,” to me. I had stayed in to show guts and help the pot, but now I had two aces. Snap. “Pair of fours,” to Miles. “Ten, no help,” to himself. Arch led and Clint followed. I lagged with my average hand.
“Down and dirty,” Arch said, dealing the seventh card.
I intermixed the cards and fanned them: three aces, two down. Maybe two full houses, Arch showing three jacks and Lorbus with three eights and no flush. Duke had no flush. My bet. I threw in a modest I-am-still-here bet. Lorbus bumped again. I sweated his flush, feeling full houses.
“The problem is, no one’s getting laid,” Colonel Smits said. I couldn’t tell if he was complaining or cheering.
“The problem is,” said Arch, “I see the five, the five, the five, and ten more,” tossing in red chips the way Tony used to throw garlic, onion, sugar, and oregano into the vat of gurgling spaghetti sauce during the YMCA sleep-overs on the gym floor. The bets went around again, leaving Arch, Bob, Smits, and me.
“Oughta bet on women,” said Duke. Duke had set drags, or dates, for many in the Poker Society. Arch and Bob needed help with women the way Tony Barraza needed boxing lessons.
“Three aces,” I said, laying them out and waiting for the full houses. Smits’s two pairs were the only threat, and he looked at me balefully as I gathered the chips. We had two decks, and Clint began dealing five-card stud while Arch shuffled.
“Arch,” said Miles Brodie, a wiry man from West Virginia, “that was a fine dish y’all dragged to the hop.”
“I’d low-crawl a mile to sniff her bicycle seat,” said Troth, who always handled his cards before the deal was completed.
“Uck,” I said.
“Makin’ Ting airsick again,” said Colonel Smits. There was laughter. My expertise with women was limited.
“Don’t like bicycles,” I said. Miles had king high showing and led the betting, everyone in.
“Her name’s Jill, and I think I’m in love,” said Arch.
“She ask about me?” asked Clint.
“Well,” said Arch. “When she was helping me unhook the bra, she broke a nail. She said ‘son of a Bestier!’ ”
“Don’t mind being associated with her bra,” said Clint.
“She was thinking of female dogs, Zoo Keeper.”
Clint was our zoologist. At Buckner, I had spent precious time coating all the movable metal in our gear with masking tape. In our final problem, I led the night patrol into an aggressor camp slowly and silently, creeping a few feet a minute in the final assault past their listening post. The paratroopers had been startled by our silent rising from the grass, our weapons on them. Clint had been on the right flank, but now he was missing. Billy Bader had been assistant patrol leader, and we both ran a one-eighty on our attack line. Several hundred meters back I saw the faint glow of a red-lens flashlight. Clint was on the ground, the earth about him uprooted. He had a baby starling in his hand and was feeding it parts of an earthworm, then dripping water from his canteen into its beak. “Little guy fell from the nest, and I crawled over him,” he said. “Made this peep. Damn near killed him.”
“You missed the attack, Clint. The lane grader’s busted you.”
“Damn worm’s no good—help find me another, Kai, quick.”
Duke was low man, with a deuce and a seven, close to folding. He turned to Miles, now with a pair of kings. “Lay your girl yet?”
Miles frowned. “What kinda bool-shit question is that?”
“Didn’t ask if she was good,” he said. “Asked if she put out.”
“Screw you, dirtbag,” said Miles, looking hard at Duke.
“Hey, pretty fuckin’ touchy, Brodie,” said Duke.
“It’s none a yore business. Ever hear a privacy?”
“Privacy!” snorted Colonel Smits, who also had a bad hand. “What the screw you know about privacy! You’re in the goddamned Army! Get a fartsack dream ’bout your squeeze, every swingin’ dick in the Corps knows her name. Shit—whadyya think this is, the British Army?” He blew smoke. “So, Miles. She any good?”
Miles jerked. “Hey, it’s nothing, Miles,” said Bob Lorbus.
“Bullshit it’s nothin’,” Miles said. He glared at Smits, who looked back with dead, hooded eyes. I thought he was restraining a smirk. I looked at Bob and Arch for guidance. They looked at Smits. Clint dealt the last card, down. I had nothing and folded as Miles led the betting and angrily took the pot with two pairs. Duke began dealing five-card draw as Clint shuffled.
“Listen, women are standard issue,” said Smits, betting heavily. “Same layout. Don’t need a doctorate to know that shit. Greeks, they got it right. Women’re slaves. No brains, no guts, just handy. Don’t go nuclear, Brodie—you wouldn’t care if people talked about your car, would ya? Ting—don’t Orientals treat women like chattel?”
“I don’t,” I said, my cheeks blushing with anger. Confucian teachings focused on the moral man, and said little about women. Women appeared in the Wu-lun only as wives owing duty to their husbands. What would Uncle Shim say to someone like Smits?
“You ever been married, sir?” asked Arch, matching the bet.
“Do I look like an idiot?” asked Smits. “Pot’s right. I’ll take three,” he said, throwing his discards hard into the table, blaming Duke with a glance for his bad hand as he stood. He cranked the stereo volume up as it played “Seventh Son.” The pictures on the wall rattled, humming harmonically in accompaniment to the alcoholic buzz in my brain. The pictures were of the temples of Angkor Wat, of Cholon, the Chinese district of Saigon, and of a firebase somewhere in Vietnam, which showed a hairy, smoking, barechested Smits. He had a flat butt and a large gut.
“And them Oriental women in their ao-dais,…” he said, sitting and smiling falsely at me with all his teeth. “They’re sooo fine! What kinda stuff ya want most, Scrounger?” Smits asked Duke. Duke disliked the nickname; I disliked the question. I took three cards, needing all kinds of help. I felt Arch had the cards.
“I’d like a stuck-up Hebe with lots of money,” said Troth.
I looked at Duke. “Jesus, you sorry—,” I said.
“Like to lay a darkie,” said Smits.
“Oh, man,” said Duke. “I wouldn’t even wanna touch one a them. They’re all like—”
“Like WHAT?” I exploded.
“Fuckin’ A, Ting, cool it!” said Duke. “Don’t go ape on me again. God, you are so fucked up! You’re not a kike or a ninny!”
&
nbsp; I stood, the chair scraping sourly. “Go to hell, Troth.”
“Get a handle, man,” said Duke, frowning and leaning back.
I wanted him to take it back, and I wanted him to say it again so I could hurt him. I was hot with booze. Nameless angers raged.
“Shit, Ting,” said Smits, “you got a black momma, or what?”
The room went out of focus. There stood Momma LaRue, in the faded purple down-to-the-floor, with her smooth, handsome face, touching my cheek.
“Yes,” I said, in a gravelly voice I didn’t recognize as I moved. Lorbus grabbed my arm and I tore it free, liking the action, the room turning red. I didn’t know math worth crap, but I knew this. “Cool it,” hissed Bob. “You’re in a Q and if you brawl you’ll get booted. I heard you almost did this as a Plebe! Now can it!”
I blinked, heart still pounding, blind, raging, homicidal adrenaline surging through my arms and fists. I couldn’t think, my mind full of unworkable ooze. I wanted to hit Troth’s and Smits’s dirty, ugly, white mouths. There had been no physical contact and I tasted blood in my mouth and Toos and I were backed up against five white boys and no joke or smart remark could end this. I moved for Troth.
A fist pounded on the door and I hesitated. “Screw ’em,” said Smits.
The door opened. A bearlike man in an Army athletic shirt and sweats filled the doorway. He made Smits look small. The red dissipated and my vision returned, details announcing themselves. The rotating fan had a bullet hole in its base. My cards were on the floor and I had a large number of red chips, neatly stacked. Through the upbeat and mourning voice of Johnny Rivers, I heard the bearlike man say, “Sir, please turn down the music.” His voice was thinner than his frame, but it was crystal clear.
Colonel Smits looked up. Smirking, he walked slowly. BOQ rooms were small. He took his time. He turned the volume down slightly.
“More would be great, sir,” said the bear at the door.
Smits turned the volume back up, grinning at us as eardrums popped and the pictures shimmied. Smits grinned.
“Less,” said the bear, and then he smiled hugely, his teeth glinting in the light of the cheap crimson Japanese table lamps. It was the smile of a man who would never be troubled by the minutiae of life. He was younger than Smits, a lot bigger, with more blood in the brain, more vinegar in his fists, judgment in his stance. He had a barrel chest, broad, well-defined shoulders, thick arms, and a reddening face—Guan Yu in the flesh. A new tension, older and sharper than the one sparking between me and Troth and Smits, filled the room. There was a link between Smits and this big man. Like the one between the Capulets and the Montagues.
Smits turned the volume down. I blinked, and took a deep breath against my hammering heart. I had been ready to screw things up. I was in my stance, as stupid as stupid could be. I quietly sat down.
“Just playin’ cards, Major,” Smits said. “Saturday-night R&R in the privacy of our shitty Q too rich for your blue blood?”
“Not at all, sir,” he said. “Good to play cards. Good to be a good neighbor. Need sodas or hot dogs, sir? I got extra.”
“Negative. Don’t need a goddamned thing, Major,” said Smits. “Hope we didn’t fuck up your beauty sleep.”
The bear smiled. “Good night, sir.” He closed the door.
“Who was that?” asked Clint.
“That,” said Duke, “was Major H. Norman Schwarzhedd.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Ohhh,” said some.
H. Norman Schwarzhedd, the same name as the renowned Na-men—he was the son of the general, the son of my father’s wartime friend. I looked at the door, wanting it to reopen. But I had seen him, and heard him, felt his presence. I looked at Troth, emptily.
Duke looked away from me as he spoke rapidly. “He got put in for the Medal of Honor but got a second Silver Star. Gotta be one of the Point’s most decorated graduates, just reeking of contacts. Damn, is he big?” Trying to be cheerful.
“I heard he was coming,” said Bob, who patted my shoulder. “Calm down, buddy,” he said.
“He’s a fuckin’ blowhard,” growled Smits. “Jerk thinks livin’ in a mousetrap is all right. He’s a suckin’ mouse chaser. I got boh-coo bad-mouth for this Q. This Q is number ten! This Q sucks. Had better in Nam—can you believe that shit? You boys see where married officers live? Up the hill? Squeezeville! They live like the damn Queen a Sheba. Treat us like number-ten dogshit. Goddamn Army scrags your ribbons and gives you a goddamn house cuz you were sucking stupid enough to marry two legs joined in the middle. And he fucked up our game. Shit! I woulda taken this hand, too.”
A silence came over the table. An officer bad-mouthing another officer? Duncing all women? And calling a war hero a blowhard?
“Yeah, married idiots got it licked, boh-coo,” affirmed Duke.
“Let me tell you boys something,” said Smits. “The world’s an anus. It’s all that it’s cracked up to be, and it’s out there, ready to come di di mau and get you in the cheeks. Can’t trust one butthole in the setup,” he said. “Asshole careerists in charge are only out to do you. Don’t even waste your time tryin’ to figure it. No suckin’ answer. You’re gonna be Airborne Ranger engineers, the best and the brightest, and they’re gonna fart you boys out and zip you up in body bags before you can say ‘Slope City.’ ”
I stared at Smits. The more he drank, the more he had a black meter to his speech, the placement of emphasis not the pattern of a white man’s speech.
“Win this shit, gotta take the offensive, not pass gas in the fuckin’ hurricane. We’re just fartin’ in the wind, so the whole thing eats it big.” He pulled down more Bushmills.
“Like that song,” he said softly. It was “The House of the Rising Sun.” “Many a poor boy …” He leaned forward and belched wetly, his red eyes searching our faces, looking for friends.
“Build defilades, brothers. Do your own rules. Run up the Jolly Roger.” He held up two fingers. “Two standards. Two suckin’ worlds. You gotta be cool on this West Point shit, and be cool in a big suckin’ boh-coo hurry or it’ll eat your livin’ guts.”
Only Duke nodded his head. I shook mine. Lorbus and Torres were tight-lipped. I thought of the smiling, bearlike major who also had returned from Vietnam, but could not be more different from Smits. In the silence, Miles collected the cards, returned bets, and dealt seven-card, no-look sweat.
I bet blindly, wondering what Major Schwarzhedd was doing. I wondered if he looked like his father. The major was probably about the same age as the first Major Schwarzhedd was when he was running around in the bush with Major Ting of the Chinese Army. I was ready to leave.
Arch bet harder and won with three kings. “That’s it for me, hombres,” he said, “Gotta book. You want to get some air, Kai?” he asked.
I cashed out. Smits was staring into the bottom of his glass.
“Thanks again, sir, for inviting us,” Arch said.
“Then don’t leave early, soldier, takin’ our winnings,” he said thickly, looking at me quizzically, the booze changing him.
“Gotta go. I’m a goat,” I said.
“What’s your excuse, Torres,” mumbled Smits.
“Aim low, hit low,” said Arch.
“So leave already,” said Duke.
“Turn up the volume on the way out,” said Smits.
I went to the stereo, Arch and I putting on our dress-gray tunics. The dial was set at three. I moved the dial to three and a half and left a ten in the cup.
21
BEAR
West Point Library, September 7, 1966
Major H. Norman Schwarzhedd became my P in the mechanics of solids, yet another break-my-heart Cow engineering course. He taught the second-from-the-cellar section, where I was the second-from-the-bottom man. He gave no hint of knowing about my father.
Legends followed Schwarzhedd like iron filings after magnets. He had been the first cadet since MacArthur to break down the reveille cannon and reassemble it atop
Central Barracks, and had succeeded in turning back the clock tower in East Barracks thirteen minutes in distant salute to George Orwell. In Vietnam, he had fought like Napoleon in fatigues. Reportedly, he possessed a fulminating anger.
“You’re NOT AUTHORIZED to be indifferent to this course!” he shouted, crashing the classroom pointer on my desk, fragmenting it and raining splinters on the blackboard and his carefully drafted bridging diagrams while my heart seized in imitated infarction.
In a faculty composed of war heroes, canal architects, all-American athletes, nuclear engineers, nation builders, espionage masters, Heisman Trophy winners, Rhodes scholars, and rocket scientists, Schwarzhedd drew an affectionately romanticized reputation among the Corps. Wild rumors abounded to explain the sources of his many nicknames—“the Bear,” “the Blitz,” “Hannibal.” In a school where Honor was all and honesty was presumed, we relished tall tales about the man with the pretzled name. He had graduated high, played football, lettered in track and field, and been a member of the Dialectic Society, founded in 1816. I joined the society, as those without charisma seek its growth through association. I helped write the system-razzing skit for the Hundredth Night Play, held a hundred days before graduation.
The major was of a size that suggested the bigger-than-life statues that populated West Point like penguins at the South Pole. He had a large torso, big feet, and a booming voice. His head was the result of geometry at work. The square jaw, sheer-sided cheeks, and wide temples suggested he had been formed by a large-bladed hatchet wielded by a sculptor who had focused on the big parts. His fierce, penetrating eyes under strong, animated brows seemed at odds with his neatly linear mouth, which teased at the edge of an outlaw smirk, a nighttime-raiding smile that could crawl up your drainpipes and leave laughter in the middle of a bad storm. I liked that part. I didn’t like the burning eyes, the brows beetling with muscular intent.
