by Gus Lee
“No mystery,” he said. He looked at me as if I were as normal a fixture in his Q as his books. “My best pal was Jewish. I celebrated Seder with him every Passover and could sing with him in Hebrew. When Dad was assigned to Paris, I learned French. Had friends from all over Europe, on both sides of the Iron Curtain, from Ethiopia, survivors of the Holocaust. Each language, each new friendship, each cuisine—and some pretty amazing delicacies—opened a wider world for me. I saw the world as having all the colors, all the faiths, so many tongues, and all one face.
“When I reported to the Academy on R-Day in 1952, during the Korean War and in the wake of the cheating scandal, I had already seen a world larger than West Point.
“In Vietnam, I got to serve with selfless patriots fighting for their country.” He put his head down and his voice caught. “I saw courage to make the songs of Homer pale.” His eyes were moist. My heart pounded, caught between discomfort and wonder. Schwarzhedd, man of men, crying?
He raised his right forearm, shaking the watchband, making a noise like the small black ammunition links falling from the ejector in a chattering M-60 machine gun.
“Good men died for a noble cause, their sacrifices slandered by our countrymen who know no better.” His eyes narrowed in pain and wisdom. “My father taught me to know what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it. Leaders have to know that. People should know that.
“Cadets should consciously know why they’re here. A lot are here because their fathers sent them. This,” he said, waving at the world outside his window, “is a whole lot of horse hooey to put up with for your father. Is that why you’re here?”
I put my head down, looking at my empty plate. Major Schwarzhedd filled it with the other franks.
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I hate the engineering. But I really love it here, more than any place I’ve ever known. But somehow, my father always wants it more than I do.” I scratched my itching neck. I wanted a drink. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“I never met your father. Dad told me that Colonel Ting’s son was in the Class of ’68. When I saw that you were part of Alonzo Smits’s pirate crew, I backed off.” He looked down. “I thought if I introduced myself, you’d be caught between conflicting loyalties, between Smits and me. If you needed to walk the dark side of Doctor Death, as he calls it, well, having the son of your father’s best friend trying to intercede would not have been instructive.”
“You know, sir, I went to his Q for most of Yearling year. Killed brain cells. But I was never really part of it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Smits is a good man, but he’s an injured soul. He’s trying to heal the wrong way. Well, Dad told me a lot about your father. He’s obviously a very special man, using willpower to change from a Confucian to an American at the age of thirty-five.” The major stood, stretching his back. He was in obvious pain, and it was also obvious that he did not want to discuss it. I saw his tunic with the Purple Heart in a small armoire. “If I tried to even understand what it means to be a Buddhist or a Zoroastrian now, I don’t think I could do it.”
It struck me that Major Schwarzhedd might know more about my father than I did.
He grunted in pain. “How could you hold to ‘submission of self and honoring ritual,’ and to individual ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’? It would be war, Sherman’s kind of war. I know about war, now. I did it for a year.” He contemplated the view. “Imagine your father, fighting a war of values, every day.”
I saw him sitting in his chair, reading books in English, forcing them into the lobes of his mind. He had given me to Edna to make me American, make or break. He had pointed me to the Academy to give me true American citizenship. I lacked his willpower, his drive, his skills, his confidence.
I looked at Major H. Norman Schwarzhedd as he tried to stretch an obviously wretched back. I liked this man. I admired him. I wanted to be like him.
A realization came to me and I scrunched my eyes shut and lowered my face as I measured the truth of it.
For all the gahng and shiao, the math and Confucius, the hunger and hard times, I just wanted my dad to like me.
23
PEARL
New York, October 1966
I had three life goals: to study solids; to give up on Christine, who was dating others; and to bench-press three hundred pounds.
“What’s your max?” asked Duke Troth.
The last time I had spoken to him, at Smits’s BOQ six months ago, I had considered killing him. “Two-eighty-five,” I said.
“Put up two-ninety. I’ll spot,” he said.
We loaded the forty-fives, twenty-fives, fives, and two-and-a-half plates. I lay flat, loading up on oxygen. I had already worked out. I wondered if he’d drop the bar on me.
I lifted and lowered it slowly so it would not bounce, and pressed upward. My shoulders complained under the load as I kept my back flat. The plates rattled against the collars as my arms shook. The first four inches above the chest represented the most difficult lift zone, and I cleared it, my face feeling red. Just before I straightened my arms, everything I had in my arms quit, and I could go no further. Duke helped me finish the press.
“Umph,” I gasped, “thanks for the spot.”
“Didn’t lift an ounce.”
“Bull,” I breathed, “I was stuck.”
“Anyone asks me, you benched two-ninety clean.”
I stood up. “Hope no one asks you.”
“You’re not one of them Honor freaks, are you?” he asked.
I breathed deeply. “What brings you to Iron City?”
“Want you to join our study group,” he said.
“English? Social sciences? Psych? Tactics?”
“Juice,” he said.
I chuckled. “Duke, goats are supposed to study with hives, not other goats. What good could I do you in Juice?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a way to schmooz. You’ve dropped outa the Society.” His ice-cold eyes looked perfectly sincere. I studied his strong, hard, adult face. My own face was hardening with time. I picked up the eighty-pound bell and did tricep presses.
“Can’t figure you,” I gasped. “Being in a goats’ Juice group’d be like eating crepes at a dump.” I thought of that April night, when Schwarzhedd appeared and Smits and Troth announced themselves as bigots. “Which, on occasion,” I said, “I have done with you.”
“Tonight, fourth-floor reading room, after call to quarters,” he said. “Good group. Sonny Rappa’s our smart man.”
I had trouble imagining them together. I didn’t like it. He was forming a team. “Thanks, but I don’t study Juice that much.”
Juice depended on integral and differential calculus, whose intricacies I had barely learned and instantly forgotten in the previous academic years. Calculus employed sentences without English. It was a dark art, described in graphs rampant with round and sharp-edge squiggles, ancient totems of thunder dragons and small symbols of Egyptian hieroglyphs, black lines which took erratic perpendicular turns, boxes within rectangles filled with vicious glyphs, nonsensical gates, and legends with arrows which pointed to incomprehension. So much for studying more.
That left Christine. I had seen her for Christmas and summer leave. Her opposition to the military, and my commitment to it, had hardened like an old and treasured wound equal to the scarring of her physical rejection of me. I still loved her, devastated by the pain of being separated. Last spring, we had met in New York for six glorious days of sightseeing and restauranting. I spent all my money and had to borrow some from Deke and Arch. We stayed in separate rooms in the Manhattan Hotel. She kissed me passionately when she arrived, and when she left I watched her plane lift off from La Guardia and knew that there was to be no romance between us. I had been given my chance, and she had said no, but I did not know how to end it in my heart.
It was after midnight, Deke “Ping” Schibsted and I had split the winners’ pot in our barracks Friday-night poker game, wher
e I had won despite the distraction of William “Moon” Shine’s endless playing of every album cut by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos.
“Hey,” Moon had said to a chorus of hoots. “This is real music, not that weak crap that comes from the coasts.”
We were sacked in our racks, communing with our brown boys. Clint and Bob were snoring like M-113 diesel engines. Deke was another disgustingly handsome, athletic white guy with a lantern jaw and a fine mind. He had whipped me in every wrestling match we ever had. Prisons have riots; the Academy had wrestling RFs—rat fornication parties—free-for-all, no-sides, everyone’s-my-enemy pandemonia of flying elbows and fists that were imitations of “the Pit” at Camp Buckner. Deke and Bob “Big Bus” Lorbus were RF champs, able to toss bodies from the mound of cadet humanity like farmers husk corn. In the midst of a hyperaggressive, super-male environment, Deke remained at heart as kind and mild mannered as a divinity student. He was a great roomie. Deke and I had been squad leaders for First Detail Beast and had taken leave at Fort DeRussey on Waikiki, where I had healed my heart by developing a world-class tan. “Life is good. This is home.”
“Ho boy,” he said. “Gray hog alert!”
“Naw, it’s just cool. We’re all going to make it. What can go wrong from here? Haven’t you always wanted to be part of a great band of brothers, committed to doing the right thing? It’s like the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, this old story about three best friends who swore in a peach orchard to be brothers, always.”
The harvest moon looked down over Cadet Hilton, casting shadows from battlement rooftops. “I worry about Vietnam,” he said.
“Forget Vietnam—this is special. Never be this good again. Think about Captain Mac, kids to feed, bills, debt. We’re single, no kids or wives or families to pull us down, hold us back, make us worry. Never had so much food or freedom. So many friends. All we have is each other, pulling together. Football games. Walking back from the mess hall, through the snow, after fourths on Wednesday steak.” I even enjoyed singing Christmas carols in the chapel.
“Dream about Vietnam,” he said. “About dying. Punji stakes, land mines, bouncing bettys, tripwires, AK-47s, snakes, RPGs, lost airbursts. Wake up and think I’m dead. Or a POW.” Bouncing bettys were land mines that sprang up to groin level before detonating.
I thought of Asians holding my roommates prisoner. I imagined what the VC would do to me. “You’ll make it, Deke. You’re smart and quick and run like the devil. Hey, you think you’d have buddies like this if you were in college?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I just wish we had more privileges.”
“You should’ve joined the Spanish Club.”
“I hate taking the bus back,” murmured Mike Benjamin. Mike and Sonny Rappa were starmen, in the top 5 percent of the class. They hived 3.0 writs while the rest of us fell asleep during punishing nuclear-physics lectures on de Lorentz and the nuclides, which I thought should be the name of a rock group. My notes degraded from elegant calligraphy into ever-diminishing spirals until there was a wild skid mark down the notebook as the Rack Monster conked me in the head and took my depleted consciousness from the lecture hall. Once, I fell instantly asleep, my head crashing backward into the desk behind me, scattering papers with a huge sonic clap, making me lurch upward with the noise, standing while still snoring, wondering why everyone was seated and staring at me.
“Static equilibrium,” said Sonny. “The wind blowing outa West Point is equal in force to the wind that sucks inside it. Despite the stasis, returning still sucks.”
“Oh, man, that is so negative,” Arch said. “We’re goin’ to New York, we’re not even there and you’re moonin’ about comin’ back.”
“I like to be prepared,” said Mike.
We were going to New York in our finest threads. We had folding money and matches for the society women we might meet. Some of us had condoms as good-luck charms designed to influence outcomes. Others carried them for their intended purpose. I had none. A panoply of watching spirits, and Edna’s enduring presence, expected me to be above the testosterone message. I wondered how I could persuade a girl into something I didn’t really understand.
“Describe your perfect girl,” said Arch to Big Bus.
“Feed me, drive me, tuck me in at night,” he said, grinning.
“Zoo Keeper?” said Arch. No one was handsomer than Clint, but he never had a steady girlfriend.
“Three-oh in looks,” said Clint, “hornier than a Texas toad and responds to the orders ‘Drive me in your car’ and ‘Don’t scream so loud.’ ”
“Mike?”
“She’s at Smith or Vassar. Dark hair, dark eyes. Has read Willa Cather, prefers Thomas Mann. Writes great, long, deep letters. Very funny. Thinks I’m funny. Can stay up late, talking.
There were loud boos from all but Pee Wee McCloud, who said, “Rabble. If you find her, let me know if she has a sister.” Pee Wee had been named to the all-East team as a guard. Sports writers found it hard to believe that someone who was built like a human anvil and talked like Goofy could be a top scholar, but he was.
Mike grinned. “Yeah, but you’ll want the smarter one.”
“Kai?” asked Arch.
“Feed me, burp me, feed me,” I said.
In last year’s Armed Forces Day Parade, war protesters had thrown garbage at us. The year before, New Yorkers had thrown ticker tape. I couldn’t believe that a war protester would think that West Point had started the Vietnam War. We were the servants who fasted for a year, went to school six days a week, did nothing but follow orders, without any sex, and would be the first to die.
“Hay que hablar español, chicos,” said Mike. “Es un requisito del club.” We have to speak Spanish. It’s a club rule.
“Yo, forget it, Mike,” said Farren McWhiff, our main soup chef. “We’re gonna be talkin’ spic all night. Owwww!” he cried as Arch, Mike, and I rubbed our knuckles in his scalp while Pee Wee held him still in his uncontestable mass.
“Farren,” said Mike, “this method of behavior modification is admittedly primitive. But you are a base character, evidenced by your ignorance of race relations. This is a reminder to never underestimate the leadership potential of a well-placed noogie.”
We were on an Army club bus, embarking on a West Point Good Deal—getting out of the Academy. We had all joined for a variety of reasons. For me, the most important was Sonny and Mike were members. Only Big Bus had joined in error; his mother was Irish. In the rush of activity sign-ups, he had mistaken the Iberia for the Hibernia Society, and was taken aback when everyone began speaking Spanish. (“Hey, buddies, this is a joke, right?” he had asked).
“Mike, I was a little wrong about the next war.”
“Oh, you might say that,” he replied. “You picked Eastern Europe. Berlin, à la Budapest. You said it would not be Indochina.”
“Okay, so I was a little off,” I said.
“Had to be Indochina,” said Sonny. “Look at the world’s weather systems. It’s the only other place outside the Point where the wind doesn’t blow, it sucks.”
“Static equilibrium?” I said.
“Negative,” said Sonny. “Dynamic imbalance. Nothing but suck.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“The country’s not behind the war. That’s like studying Juice without believing it.” He looked at me, hard.
“Whoa. That bad?” I asked. He nodded.
“Kai. This is an Asian war. What do you think?” asked Mike.
“We gotta be ready to stay for a long time. My father said that Vietnam fought the imperial Chinese armies for a thousand years. The Vietnamese never gave up. In the end, they won. The French lasted eighty years. If we want to win, we’re going to have to pick the winner, instead of trying to get the loser to win. And the winner is whoever most of the people want. You know, like in a democracy.” The bus hit a bump on the Palisades and all of us imitated pogo-stick commuters. “My dad’s army didn’t do that. Tried to win with logisti
cs; didn’t work. We help Tito in Yugoslavia.” I took a deep breath. “Oughta pick Ho Chi Minh. The guy hates the Red Chinese.”
“I can’t believe you said that,” said Farren. “The South Vietnamese are real patriots.”
“But they don’t have the masses. They crapped on their own democratic movement.”
Mike rubbed his chin. “If Ho hates Peking, then you’re right. Realpolitik.”
“Who cares,” said Clint. “We’re gonna wipe their butts.” I nodded. It was true. For a moment, I felt sorry for the VC.
The bus was taking us to New York City today; later, a similar bus would take us to Saigon. There was a silence.
“Yo, I’ve been a good cadet. I want to get laid tonight,” said Farren. “Who’s got a tip for me to score the big one tonight?”
“Use someone else’s methods,” said Bob.
“Use someone else’s personality,” said Mike.
“Use somebody else’s dick,” said Arch.
“I’m going to take a chance with life,” I said.
“Oh, no,” said Mike. “You’re going to try to dance again.”
“Michael! It’s okay!” said “Astaire” Arch. “I’ve been giving him some AI. Giving him some of that original El Paso el paso. The man is beginning to look absolutely Latino.”
“Man oh man!” said Clint. “I’m so sick of that song they use. If I hear ‘My Girl’ one more time I’m gonna puke. You know that Kai and Arch play that for about three hours every damn night!”
We hesitated two counts. Then we all belted out, “I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day…,” while Clint cursed us energetically.
A clutch of brightly dressed girls watched us as we trooped through the grand lobby. “Look,” someone said, “West Point cadets!” I saw her, amidst all the girls, next to the black, nine-foot-tall, two-ton Waldorf-Astoria clock. Her eyes were large and alert in a very pretty face, a pretty figure in a blue chiffon gown. She looked like Lana Turner. The girls were called first; we followed them to the mezzanine for the reception line. They studied us over their bare shoulders. She looked in my direction, and I reversed field down the stairs and ran from the hotel. I sprinted back, joining the reception line breathless. The hall was immense, gaudy, and high ceilinged, filled with men in tuxedos and women in formals, dark-suited waiters with trays full of champagne flutes, and VIPs in red cummerbunds. An ensemble played classical music. I made sure my fly was zipped.
