Honor and Duty

by Gus Lee

  En route to the library, I passed George Patton in bronze, his pearl-handled revolvers on his hips. In an air pocket within the hands were four of his stars—small secrets held inside, like a Taoist spirit. River winds keened through his profile. I always thought it was because he had spent five years at the Academy; he had flunked a course and been given the “turnback” option—repeating an entire year.

  I was reading a pristine copy of Fairbank’s East Asia: The Modern Transformation in the third-floor reading room when a deep voice said, “None of that is on tomorrow’s writ.”

  I looked up. Major Schwarzhedd was sitting serenely, as if he were a part of the library, waiting for pigeons to alight. I was surprised by his presence and by his silence; in my experience, there was little he did without ample dynamism. I, who prided myself on my silence in the woods, had been surprised by a man as large as South Aud and as quiet as a tactical atomic weapon.

  The banked lights in the tall ceiling illuminated the brightly burning eyes of Ulysses S. Grant and H. Norman Schwarzhedd. The four orbs fixed me in dark, steely gazes. I wasn’t happy to see the major. I knew this because I had stopped breathing, sweat was on my upper lip, and my shoes and Jockey shorts had shrunk. He had come by to check on the halt, the lame, and the dumb, and had found all three in one body, studying Chinese history.

  “Hi, sir,” I said, blushing a little.

  “And a very cheery good evening to you,” he said, his mouth smiling for an instant. “Is this how you pass your time?”

  “No, sir. Usually, I’m in the military section. This is a new book from Harvard’s Yenching Institute. My uncle recommended it.”

  He looked at me, expressionless, and I was reminded of my dababa. Actually, it was like looking at three Uncle Shims while sitting in a pool of water as live power lines sparked, which aptly described my progress in engineering as well as my success in adhering to the ancient ways of my heritage. I heard the high wind whistling over Patton’s statue outside the granite walls.

  “What does the book tell you?” he asked politely.

  “Sir, China is all families, in ritualized relationships, based on obligation and duty. Duty is done by honoring others.”

  I looked at him. He was still listening.

  “Here, we try to make money, be successful, and look good.”

  He smiled.

  “K’ung Fu-tzu, Confucius, said, ‘Subdue the self, honor the rituals, and benefit society. Do not work for individual gain.’ ”

  “Interesting,” he said. “Perhaps the sages knew something we rediscovered a couple hundred years ago. Or perhaps there are life principles which transcend times and nations.”

  I surveyed the colorful collage on his chest: the sky blue Combat Infantryman’s Badge; the bright silver U.S. Master Parachutist wings; the red, white, and blues of the Silver Star and Bronze Star, each with bright gold, oak-leaf clusters; the green and white Army Commendation Medal with gold “V” devices for valor; the deep burgundy and bright white of the Purple Heart; the blue and gold Air Medals; and the greens, yellows, and reds of the Vietnam service medals. On the right were golden Vietnamese Jumpmaster wings. On his shoulders were the black, gray, and gold USMA patch with the Helmet of Athena, the bright yellow and black Ranger Tab, and the bright red, double-A patch of the all-American, 82nd Airborne Division. The colors of brass, and courage. I looked at them and imagined their cost in fear, pressure, and anguish.

  As Plebes we had memorized the ribbons. They sold for a nickel in the post exchange, but to wear them, we had learned in tactics, one had to have protected his men, served his mission, confronted fear, and conquered the tendency for disorganization while the Grim Reaper called the tune, enemy steel filled the air, and men screamed from the hideous carnage done to their bodies and souls.

  I thought I knew him from the eloquence of his awards and the force of his lectures. Now, alone with him, it struck me that I didn’t know him at all. His large, rectangular face was still, his sunburned complexion darkening through a very short scalp.

  “You have done what Sun Tzu recommends,” he said. “You have confused your enemy with misinformation.”

  “Who’s my enemy, sir?”

  “Engineering,” he said. “Half the academic departments think you’re gifted. The other half want to send you back to elementary school. Your classmate Mr. Benjamin says you spend sixteen hours a day not studying, and the other eight avoiding books.”

  “Scurrilous innuendo, sir. I read books,” I said.

  “Yes, but nothing you read is examinable. Mr. Ting, prepare to receive a reprimand. Ready?”

  I nodded, gulping loudly. “Yes, sir.”

  His large, squarish hands were quietly crossed in front of him. There were little blond hairs on them. “We’re giving you an excellent work protocol to sustain you all your life. But you’re not receiving; you spend study time on rec reading. You’re slacking off. THAT,” he said loudly, his body seeming to rise from the table, “gives me a pain in my Southern neck. It oughta give YOU cause to use Preparation H. Now, absorb that.” He sighed, his large chest relaxing into its normal barrel expansion, his tunic no longer straining against his shoulders.

  “This was an excellent reprimand. It was short, concise, and sincerely delivered. I expect our discussion to change your ways, for all time. Do you agree?” he asked flatly.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Feel better, now that your life has been restructured into a model that future leaders of America will be inspired to emulate?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” I said.

  “Let me ask you a riddle,” he said. “Why don’t you study?”

  “Sir, I don’t really know,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “You surprise me. I’d expect a person who gets such fine grades in the other subjects, someone as well read as you, to provide something creative.”

  “Sir, maybe my slide rule was damaged in a fall. So the cursor doesn’t read on a true axis, and this skew creates a disparity in, and a uniqueness to, my answers. So, meanwhile, I should avail myself of one of the best military libraries in the world.”

  The corners of his mouth rose slightly. “WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE—ON A CRUISE SHIP, PLAYING SHUFFLEBOARD ’CAUSE YOU THINK BINGO HAS TOO MUCH MATH? Does it make sense for you to be in the top sections in nonengineering and then get found in solids?”

  Jeff “Tree” Bartels, Buns Butte, and Moose Hoggatt were next to us. When they saw who was yelling, Moose said “Oh, boy” and scooped his papers and books. Buns and Tree cleared their throats, slammed books shut, and they all moved smartly out of the room, as if they had just set short det cord into a brick of C-4 plastique and amatol at the base of an enemy bridge.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “You’re not sure why you don’t study,” he said.

  “No, sir.” I licked my lips, my face warm, trying to swallow.

  “Think that might be an issue of some interest, given that this institution’s underlying motto is ‘Work, Labor, Sweat’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a noise-sensitive artilleryman, a palsied demolitionist, a misanthropic minister. Want a classic internal contradiction? Lazy cadet. That’s because there are only former lazy cadets. Think you can pass solids without hiving it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Want to flunk out?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m confused,” he said quietly. “Help me out. Do something extraordinary: make your incomprehensible condition understandable to an amateur in the listening arts.” His eyes opened wide in an effort to understand whatever I might say and I wanted him to stop this so I could laugh with him and he could tell me about his life.

  I sighed. “Sir, I’m blocked. I sit down with the texts—and I open them, and I don’t see anything. Nothing sticks. My mind goes blank.” It was like writing with a hard piece of chalk that makes noise but leaves no mark. “Then the whufers come. I stay up all night,
sitting with my books.” I licked my lips. “I probably pray to Chinese gods more than study. I memorize parts. I take the writs, I pass. I’m still here.

  “Early in Yearling year I found the Mil Sci Reading Room. That’s why I came to West Point. To learn that. Gettysburg, Midway, Chosin Reservoir, Dien Bien Phu, Blenheim. That’s the part that I’ll need when I get out of here. I don’t think that villagers trying to decide between us and the VC are going to care if I can figure out a Thevenin circuit.” I stopped, knowing I had gone too far. The young turtle’s neck was offered to the hunting eagle.

  Silence. He wanted more neck.

  “I’ve read most of the series works there, sir,” I said.

  “Like History of the United States Army?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Karig’s Battle Report, Morison’s History of U.S. Naval Operations. The Study of U.S. Strategic Bombing in World War II. Stilwell’s Letters. Eisenhower’s Crusade in Europe. Foreman’s A History of the U.S. Military Academy. I’m doing The West Point Atlas of the Napoleonic Wars now.”

  “Unfortunately, they have nothing to do with Cow curriculum. What will your family say when you get found in academics?”

  It was the question of my life, enhanced because it was posed by the professor who could be the supervisor of the outcome.

  “My father will disown me, sir. I mean, there’s no money—it’s a relationship thing. But, well, he won’t be able to handle it. The disappointment. The dishonor, the shame.”

  “Can you?”

  “I’ll have to, sir,” I said.

  “You may, at that. Character building.” He looked at me. “You accept defeat too quickly, Mr. Ting. I don’t like that one bit. It’s an unattractive condition in a soldier. You enjoy losing?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  He studied me. “How do you think Lee felt after Gettysburg?”

  “Bad, sir. Like Pompey at Pharsalus, Kimmel after Pearl Harbor, Yamamoto at Midway, Navarre after Dien Bien Phu, von Rundstedt at Normandy. They all knew they had blown it.”

  “Damn me for a monkey in tights. You keep a list of all the damn losers, excuse my French … why are you smiling?”

  “Sir, a coach said ‘Excuse my French’ to me for ten years.”

  “I don’t wonder. You irk him by refusing his training, too?”

  “No, sir, I did it. That was boxing. It wasn’t math.”

  “Ah, of course. Math’s only sixty percent of the curriculum. What will you do in Vietnam, DECIDE IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE NATIVE TONGUE YOU’LL TALK TO EVERYONE IN PIG LATIN?”

  I stood up, the chair dragging screechingly along the smooth floor. High mu, coefficient of friction.

  “Sir, I have no excuse for my lack of diligence in your course, or in any of the engineering subjects.”

  “That’s a start. I’ll make you a deal. Study solids tonight. Don’t just sit there, chanting you can’t do it. Use your mind and cut through the resistance in your spirit and do your duty with the assignment.” He peered at me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Later, after you show progress, report to my quarters. I’ll teach you tactics, to never underestimate your foe. That’s Sun Tzu. So, if you get found, causing the Academy deep remorse for losing a Second Classman, and a corporal at that, you’ll at least have some specific tactical poop when we make you a sergeant of infantry and send you to Vietnam to see the elephant.”

  I brightened. “Roger that, sir. And thank you, sir!”

  “You seem very chipper about what I would term a bad outcome.”

  “Sir, I really hate engineering. I don’t mind the field.”

  “You’re not worried about that? Going to Vietnam as an NCO?”

  “No, sir!” I said emphatically. A question about heart.

  “Well, you OUGHTA BE!” he shouted, hitting me with his wind. “My section room may be hard, but it won’t kill you. Of all the miserable, knock-brained people in the world—I get a guy who can’t tell a nuclear family from a hydrogen bomb! YOU THINK COMBAT’S JUST ANOTHER ACADEMY COURSE?” With great athletic grace, he snapped out of his chair, seized his briefcase, and was in the main aisle leading to the doors, striding away.

  Then he stopped and turned, his mouth compressed into a small, tight crease of stored energy. “KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN!” he roared, causing the lights to buzz while I jumped in place.

  “THIS IS A DAMN LIBRARY!” His voice echoed through the room.

  A librarian came running, worry creasing her face. I looked at her as she glanced at me and then stared at the major as he marched with long strides down the hall.

  She smiled broadly at him, showing all of her pretty teeth. It was obvious that, with his back turned to me, he was smiling hugely.

  22

  LAIR

  West Point, October 8, 1966

  It was Saturday after parade. I was dressing after the shower, studying my squad book before the Plebes reported.

  “They’re afraid of you,” said Clint.

  “Hey, I’m their big, manly chested squad leader.”

  “They’re afraid ’cause you’re Chinese. What’s the name of the tall, skinny crot with pimples?”

  “Owen Spanner,” I said.

  “Spanner’s never seen an Asian in his life. First one he meets is his hard-core, Third Regiment squad leader. He’s freaked.”

  “You were the first animal nut I ever met. I wasn’t scared.”

  “I wasn’t your squad leader,” he said.

  They reported and filed in. It was true; they were scared.

  “Know how lucky you are that I’m your squad leader?” I asked.

  Half heard it as a spirit question and shouted, “YES, SIR!” The other half thought it was Socratic and shouted, “NO, SIR.”

  I laughed. “You’re lucky. To me, you all look alike.” I smiled, which authorized them to smirk. Most of them grinned.

  They were so young—just kids. Mr. Spanner was taking to West Point like the Titanic adjusted to icebergs. Mr. Parthes made John Calvin look like a beachboy. Both continued to frown.

  “Small joke,” I said to them, quietly.

  “Very small,” offered Clint.

  “Fall out. Tell me in which area,” I said, “you are doing best, and worst—academics, athletics, and Tactical Department. Conclude by stating what worries you most about your Plebe experience. Mr. Schmidt.”

  “Sir, I am doing best in earth, space and graphic sciences. Sir, I am doing poorly in boxing. Sir, I worry I am going to get bone disease or rickets from not eating. I think about food, sir.”

  Schmidt had come in overweight by ten pounds, but I nodded in sympathy. I hated hunger. They each reported, not wanting to confess performance weaknesses or to admit to anxiety; but everything they had already accomplished, and all that lay before them, had been, and would be, no less difficult.

  Mr. Zerl, a presidential scholar and high school all-American, was headed for starman, a status reserved for the top academic 5 percent. He would probably start next year at halfback, was validating all his courses, had mastered spit-shining, and now struggled to admit a concern. He may have been fretting about his tan. At the other end of the spectrum was Mr. Spanner, who was trying to flunk mathematics and English and drown in Mr. Flauck’s pool. He was the company’s shit magnet, and was getting porcupined with quill even from hard-core First Regiment upperclassmen as he braced his way to ES&GS in distant Washington Hall. With ample cause, he was worrying about everything.

  Mr. Parthes was average in all aspects, which, when I thought about it, was hardly average. “Sir,” he said, “I worry about Mr. Spanner. Sir, he does not brush his teeth. Sir, he picks his toes instead of studying. Sir, I believe he is urinating in our sink at night to avoid contact with upperclassmen. Sir, I worry that I am going to attack Mr. Spanner and hurt him.”

  “Who’s responsible if Mr. Spanner doesn’t make it?” I asked.

  They all twitched.

  “That is right,” I said. “We all are. I
, as his squad leader. You, because he’s your classmate. His habits are different than yours, and he’s not doing great, but he’s your classmate. He may in fact be revolting and disgusting, but he’s your classmate.

  “There is a basic principle here. The Army is not a pickup game where you choose up sides and some do not play. You play everyone. You bring as many through as possible. Not because they are like you, or because you like them. Do it because this is the Army and you are not alone. You are a team or you are nothing.

  “Mr. Zerl, I want you to tutor Mr. Spanner in math or English. What’s your pleasure?”

  He took math. “Sir,” he said, “I can also teach Mr. Spanner how to spit-shine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Zerl.” My spit-shine AI had failed. I asked Mr. Caleb to tutor Mr. Spanner in English, and told him to stay behind with Mr. Spanner. I would impart what I’d learned with Joey Rensler, Clint, and Captain Mac. I would tutor the boxing goats. Mr. McFee, who was doggedly combative in all he did, would help me tutor the Rock Squaders in survival swimming.

  “Mr. Spanner, if Mr. Parthes suspects you of abusing the sink, I will require you to memorize a MacArthur speech. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Spanner.

  “If, however, you respect the sink, I will escort you to ES&GS to keep the First Regiment from quilling you to death. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Clint and I looked away from him. “Long after you’ve forgotten your grade in some course,” I said, “you’ll remember that you helped someone else, or that someone helped you.”

  “Mr. Ting helped me pass Plebe English,” said Clint.

  “And Mr. Bestier helped me pass Beast,” I said. “And taught me Zoology 101. For which I have never forgiven him.”

  Murphy, author of the famous law, was alive and well, routinely fed, steadily pampered, and in command of human affairs. I wanted to avoid Colonel Smits, and had now received an invitation to enter his country once again.

  Cadet Ting:

  I would appreciate the honor of your presence in my Q, Bldg. 149 #39 (extension 2591), after Parade. I have popcorn, hot dogs and sodas. Call only regrets.