by Gus Lee
“My stinkin’ star’s like a signature.” He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. “Look,” he said, “I’m your tutor. This falls in your lap, looks like it’s from me. You use it, bust the Code in the chops and pass. Otherwise, ya gotta turn in a buddy. And that’d be tough, right? Hey, right?”
“I’d hate to see you go. Can I have your meal tickets?”
He smiled wanly, rubbing his whiskers. They rasped.
I rubbed mine. I would’ve sworn I heard something.
“You didn’t leave this thing, right?” I asked.
“God, no. We gotta report this.”
I sighed in relief. I looked at my watch. “Fifteen minutes before the buzzer.” False dawn freshened the sinks.
“Kai. Chad Enders’s your company Honor rep. Report it to him, get in sync with the Code. Ask him to meet us ASAP.”
“He’ll know that Bob couldn’t be part of whatever this is.”
“That’s not the test. Can’t go to Chad with that load. He’s got his duties, we got ours. All of us are in it deep. Including Bob, sweet Mary and the Son of God love him.”
“Some expression,” I said.
“That’s no expression. Want to pray with me?”
I laughed. “No. I’ll get Chad. Gotta see my P, Major Maher. Meet me in the A-3 orderly room after breakfast.”
We looked at our watches. “Let’s meet at oh-six-fifteen,” he said. “Scrag breakfast.”
I cleared my throat. “I’ll eat fast.”
“Cheez, forgot who I was talking to.” He squirmed, then looked at me. “What would you’ve done if I cheated for you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Been up all night, mucking it. Turned my brain into tapioca. What would you’ve done?”
He looked at me, eyes narrowed, as if he were saying goodbye to me. “I’d follow the Code.”
Sonny and I retraced the march to the graves, up the high hill of Washington Road, past the Old Cadet Chapel. It was a crisp and clear morning, and we looked upriver at the wall of the long and loamy space of the West Point Cemetery. Here members of the Long Gray Line had been interred since 1817. With so many famous generals buried there, and so many campaigns fought and won, it was strange how we tended to think first of George Armstrong Custer, his brash tactics, unique obelisk grave marker, and his wife, Libby, buried next to him. Now, I would think only of Marco Matteo Fideli’s simple white gravestone. How could he be gone? Nothing was worth his loss.
Residents of these quarters could sit on their railed porches on summer evenings and watch the river, thinking about the strange nature of the soldiering profession, where violent death was a player, with the grand cemetery always waiting, stage left.
Sonny looked at the quarters. “Used to be the Old Soldiers Hospital. Inspiring view for old, shot-up vets,” he said, looking at the cemetery and the Old Cadet Chapel, where Benedict Arnold was remembered with a cryptic plaque that only said, “Maj Gen b. 1740.”
A woman in a red suit opened the door to Quarters 126A. She was athletic, of medium height, with light brown hair and warmly attractive. I thought: Polly Bergen. I heard children and smelled an invitingly robust breakfast. I hadn’t eaten for twelve minutes.
“Good morning. I’m Kai Ting; this is Sonny Rappa. I called about seeing Major Maher. Please excuse our intrusion.”
“How do you do, Kai and Sonny,” she said, shaking our hands. “Please call me Ann. Come in. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I said, following her into the entryway. A large living room was to the right.
“Great thundering balls of fire!” announced Major Maher thickly, chewing aggressively. He was in greens, holding a breakfast plate. A large tan dog panted by his leg, licking up an earlier spill and hoping for an accident. “What’s up?”
We showed the major the problems that had appeared on the top of my bunk while he scooped his entire breakfast plate into his mourn and closed the dining room doors. It was a technique I knew.
“I didn’t study them, but I know the writ, sir,” said Sonny.
The major looked at me, chewing fast with ballooned cheeks.
“I saw them, too, sir. I looked at them a lot.” I shook my head. “Can’t remember anything about them. I of all people hate to say this, but they all looked alike to me.”
“This WFR,” he said, his normally eloquent voice mushy, “was in my office safe. Disappeared between 1900 hours Tuesday and 0800 yesterday, when I opened it. This is the only copy except for the one in my wallet.” He checked it.
“Sir, are you the writ officer?” Sonny asked.
“The Academy has great thinkers. In time of need, however, the forces of good customarily call on me. I don’t want to brag.” We laughed. “You can’t take this writ. I’ll write a new one for you.”
“Sir,” I said, “can we bring Mr. Rappa into the situation?”
“Mr. Rappa, I’m expected to bring the international Communist conspiracy to its knees, mentor the next generation of nuclear Army leaders, and grade some whufers, all, preferably, within seven days. I can use your help. Welcome to a counterconspiracy to save the Honor Code of the United States Military Academy. Doing anything for the next few weeks?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Sonny. “Just tryin’ to get Huck Finn here to eat his vegetables and do a little studying.” He looked at me.
“Good, Rappa. I have authority to conduct an investigation. I need you gents to have your Honor Rep contact me. We can use help, but remember, we’re up against a cheating ring. You’re in charge, Ting. Use your discretion and use whom you wish.
“But I promise you this,” he said, leaning forward and wiping his mouth with a napkin and showing his teeth. “This mission is going to end up with Honor taking one hellacious, shit-kicking bite out of the southports of the ratscum who are doing this. When we’re done, they’re gonna walk funny for a long time.”
“Chase, please” said his wife from around the door.
30
PERFECTION
West Point Museum, January 11, 1967
Chad Enders paced past the glass display of Fort Putnam. His footfalls echoed through the empty, hollow museum in the basement of the Administration Building.
“Maher’s the Juice WFR exam officer. He detailed you to find the planners in a cheating ring. Honor belongs to the Corps, not the greensuits. The Committee can win a jurisdiction contest, but that’d waste time. Maher’s on to something. I think he’s square with the Corps.
“I’ll report it to the Committee. Keep me posted. You’re working for the Corps, not Maher. I’ll talk to him about that.”
“He’s expecting you,” I said.
“Good.” Chad rubbed his chin. “Damn, whoever did this has to be nuts. They’ve crossed a line in the sand. Be careful.”
Sonny and I nodded as he left.
“Let’s presume a ring,” said Sonny. “How’d they do it? Wonder what happened in ’51, with the football team. It was a big scandal.”
I had heard of that. “Tough to reconstruct something that old,” I said. “We can’t even talk about guys found on Honor.”
“I don’t care about who,” said Sonny. “Let’s sweat the how.”
“Okay,” I said. “How would you get into Maher’s safe? Pretend you’re a lousy student. And a cheat. How would you get in?”
He closed his eyes, sighing. “Kill myself first,” he said.
“For being a bad student? Or a burglar?”
“Hey,” he said. “I’ve been a lousy student. Survival swim and boxin’ almost killed me.” Boxing was one of the few things I could help him with. He shuddered. “First, let’s get into Bartlett. The doors are push locks, with a retracting bar.” He went to the museum door. He pushed on it, opening it. “See—the bottom tongue goes into a hole in the floor. The top into that one, above. Fill ’em with epoxy, and the lock would look good, but wouldn’t work. Find a guy with epoxy … naw,” he said. “Too inconclusive.”
“Hi
de in Bartlett until closing hours,” I said.
“Okay, but you’re still not into Maher’s office. It locks, too.”
“I got it,” I said. “A UFO lands on the roof of Bartlett. The UFO driver whammies the locks for the cheating ring.”
“Can’t believe I missed that one,” said Sonny.
“Here you go,” I said. “A lock pick. San Francisco’s lousy with them.”
“Know how ta pick a lock?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“And you’re smart. How many cadets can pick locks?”
“All you need is one,” I said.
“Not a cadet skill. We blow things up, not open ’em. Keys, Kai. Whoever did this had keys to Bartlett and the office.”
“Who has them besides profs and department heads?” I asked.
He laughed. “They didn’t do it. Who makes the Schlage or Taylor keys? Ah—BPs,” he said. The civilian janitors.
“BPs wouldn’t give keys to cadets,” I said.
“Might if they thought it was innocent,” he said.
“That still leaves the safe,” I said. “How’d they do that?”
“Oh, easy, Kai, it was a lock pick,” he said. “West Point’s lousy with lock picks.”
“You’re a lot of help. Let’s ask Mike,” I said.
“We have four topics to hive,” said Mike Benjamin while I ate. “One, the ’51 cheating scandal, for method. Two, keys, for getting into Bartlett and Maher’s office. Three, the safe. Four is checking out our classmates who are coming up with canned answers in Kai’s section. From these four we derive the planners—Maher’s Big Dick and Hive. Maybe, we even get to know why. What’s your pleasure?”
Mike, Sonny, and I were drinking cherry Cokes and I was eating burgers in the far corner of the Weapons Room, our cadet corporal stripes large and prominent on our lower sleeves. I took reflected pride in the bright bilateral gold stars on their high, black, dress-gray collars. Sonny was sixth in the class and Mike was eighth. By graduation, they’d switch. I was 350th, dead center.
“I’ll take keys,” said Sonny. “Kai, you oughta take ’51—you like history. Mike, why not take the safe.”
“Each of us should start watching one of the guys in the section,” I said.
“And log contacts,” said Mike. “For cross-referencing.”
“What are you guys talkin’ about?” asked Fritz Palmer, a reserve pitcher from Fourth Regiment.
“How to get the bullion out of the Silver Depository,” I said. “We figure that’ll keep us in burgers and Cokes till ’73.” That was when our class would complete its military obligation.
“You’re not serious,” he said.
“C’mon, Palmer! How’d I afford these drinks if I didn’t already dig a tunnel into the silver?”
Sonny and Mike hooted, a simian Greek chorus.
“Don’t hurt Doubleday Field during your dig,” Fritz said.
“Know what I like about you, Kai?” Mike asked.
“Nothing?” I said.
“You like it here,” he said. “You know how many don’t like it here? I look at you and think, If he likes it, maybe it’s okay.”
That made no sense at all, and I frowned at him. He was the starman; I was the court jester. “So what if I like it?” I said.
“You like people,” said Mike. “I’m too judgmental of the bigots, the anti-Semites, the nonintellectual athletes.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re my kind of people,” I said.
“No, they’re not. But you accept everyone.”
“Wish you’d accept Juice,” said Sonny.
“It’s dumb,” I said, “sweating stuff we’ll never use. We oughta be learning Vietnamese. Engineering isn’t West Point. You guys, the Code, the leadership, the system—that’s West Point.”
“You still got doubts about the war?” asked Sonny.
“Man, anyone who takes HMA 273”—Rev War—“has doubts. All Juice does is make me doubt myself. Air Force zoomies graduate into supercomplicated jets that run on juice and wires, right? They take engineering for two years. We graduate into mud with M-16s, which have no electrical parts, and get stuck with four years of it Five percent of us go into Engineers and ninety-five percent don’t. The 273 course teaches that if we can relate to the Vietnamese, we’ll win. If we don’t, we lose. So it pisses me off that we keep bustin’ our chops on Juice when we oughta be hiving Vietnam.”
I looked at them, waiting for the applause.
“So, Soapbox Man,” said Sonny, “ready to interview the Class of ’51, and learn the meaning of relating?”
I reviewed the Register of Graduates, which listed each grad by GOM, general order of merit. Buzz Aldrin, the Gemini 12 pilot who was scheduled to fly to the moon next year, graduated third in the Class of 1951. Most who had served as faculty had already left the Academy between the years 1962 and 1964. The majority of the current faculty had graduated in the mid-1950s.
The Class of ’51 graduated almost two hundred fewer than the class before it and fifty-two fewer than the class after it. In the middle of the Korean War, with an acute need for junior officers, USMA graduated a class that was 30 percent under strength. I read on, into the Class of 1952. Some members were currently on faculty. One in Physics and Chemistry, another in the Tactical Department. One name, near the bottom of the class, jumped out at me.
Franz Alonzo Smite B-CA 8Sep30:FA:7Div 53–54:97 ADA Gp Oki 54–57: 4Msl Cmd Kor 57–59:4Div 59–62 (CM):1 Cav Div RVN 62–63(PH-CI): USMA Supe 63-
Born in California, commissioned in Field Artillery, served a year with the 7th Infantry in Korea, three years in Air Defense Artillery in Okinawa, two more years in Korea with the 4th Missile Command. He had spent an inordinate amount of time in hard Asian assignments. Either he was hiding from the world, or he had an awesome enemy in assignments branch. After his first tour, he had been transferred to ADA. He had spent three years with the 4th Infantry in Colorado, for which he received a modest award, an Army Commendation Medal, or Arcom. Then the 1st Cavalry in Vietnam, where he won the Purple Heart and the Combat Infantryman’s Badge. Then West Point. Those two and a half lines in the Register described a military career sparkling in its modesty.
The hallway buzzed with a mélange of unpleasant noises. I passed number 39, Major Schwarzhedd’s quarters. I wanted to knock and hear his voice. I imagined the smell of popcorn. It was just after supper. All the noise was coming from the quarters next door.
I knocked on number 40.
“Yeah,” said Colonel Smits.
I opened the door, and the Animals’ “We Gotta Get Out of This Place” erupted in my eardrums. I entered and closed the door fast, trying to control the sound contamination.
“Screw me to tears. Boy Wonder, sniffin’ around Greenwich Village. Ain’t this off limits for Boy Scouts?” He was at the table, watching The Huntley-Brinkley Report and playing solitaire. I stared; televisions were not part of our world.
“The Black Power Movement,” said Chet Huntley, “is opposed to integration, and seeks a separate Black Nation.…”
“Buncha crap,” he said, rising and turning down the volume and allowing the voice of Moose Hoggatt, Radio KDET’s most renowned DJ, to begin competing with the Animals.
“Want a drink?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Get any Chinese food lately?” He laughed and savagely punched open a Burgie with a punch key that he kept in his pocket. He switched off the turntable, making the Animals’ tune die while the rotation slowed, as if the band were being strangled. He turned off the radio. Now it felt as if there were only two of us in the room.
“Yes, sir,” Pearl brought Chinese food to me.
“Okay, Boy Scout. Shit, talk, or go blind.”
“Sir, I want to learn about the cadet cheating ring of 1951.”
He looked at me, surprised in the act of sitting down, making him crash into his chair. “The hell you say.”
“Sir, you’re the only member of the
Class of ’52 I’ve met.”
“I’ll be the last. We don’t talk about that shit.”
“Sir, it’s in the best interests of the Military Academy.”
He barked a hawking laugh. “Listen, child of West Point. Don’t use that crap on me! Don’t be completely stupid.”
“Sir, it’s your alma mater.”
He snorted and banged his can on the table, beer frothing out of the keypunch holes. “Screw you! This goddamned place ratcheted one of Army’s best teams. Coulda been as good as the Davis and Blanchard days. Had the horses. How the hell they expect players doin’ long practices in Notre Dame week to pass Juice and physics? Hell, we all needed help with that goddamn course.”
I blinked. That scandal, sixteen years ago, was also in Juice?
He stopped, catching his breath. He looked at me, gathering himself. “Why the hell do you want to know?”
“Cheating’s going on. It’s organized. I want to know how it works. I want to know how the first one worked.”
“So you can nail the cheaters?” he asked flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Give you a big charge to do that?”
“No, sir.”
“Doin’ it for ‘Duty, Honor, Country’?”
“Something like that.”
“What the hell can you give me in return?”
I looked around. “New poker chips. Burgermeister. Lysol.”
The TV presented a cartoon fish advertising tuna.
“Mouseshit,” he said. “Bid higher.”
I stood, heart pounding. “Sir, talk is, something bad happened to you in Southeast Asia—something bigger than missing out on the Medal of Honor. I think you got a higher purpose than drinking and swearing and belching in front of cadets and making us go deaf.
“You think cheating’s cool, I can’t bid what you want. If you don’t want cheating here, you’ll tell me, ’cause the Academy needs your help.”
He looked at me, those cold snake eyes still struggling with the vision of a cadet in dress gray with an Asiatic face.
“You got the brass balls of a bronze ape,” he said slowly. “Comin’ in here, givin’ me the bullshit. I ate that burger, you slope-headed monkey.… Ahh—didn’t like that, did you? You’re like Charlie … sniffin’ on my wire, creepin’ in my AO.” He smiled crookedly, his head jiggling.
