by Gus Lee
He pulled a stethoscope out of his overcoat pocket. “Ah listened, and heard conversin’.”
He appreciated my gaping mouth. Then he leaned forward.
“Y’all gonna think this is an ignorant question. All Asians creep in the night like you?”
“But you saw me, sir.”
“But Ah couldn’t catch you. Ah pride mahself on that.” He smiled crookedly at me, rubbing his tongue against an eye-tooth, his eyes hooded and half shuttered, the gator before his meal.
“Ah’d be honored if ya’ll called on me if ya need he’p with yo’ situation. No need ta drive two-dash-ones to mah office. Y’all taught me a lesson in city warfare, an’ that means the Tactical Department owes you one.”
I saluted him. He smiled, snow wet on his face, and returned it. I stood at attention in the hall as he walked away.
“Hey, great news,” I said. “We’re not getting written up.”
I looked at Mike’s ashen face.
Sonny’s eyes were wet and he was shaking his head. “It’s big,” he said. “We got fifty classmates in this, easy. All the regiments and most of the companies. But no names.” He looked at me. “God help us all.”
33
BENEDICT ARNOLD
Post Gym, February 1967
The memory of the siren floated nauseatingly in the empty spaces in my mind where Juice equations could never roost. We had lost to G-1 in water polo by a goal, and the defeat emphasized my fatigue. I worried about Spanner’s math grades. I was ready for the end of Gloom and Operation Benedict Arnold, and ready for Pearl to return from Singapore. Every February and March, she went to the Far East, which was why she was still at Vassar after six years.
Mr. Irkson, one of my Plebes, gave me an envelope. Inside were lists of Cows who, according to the Plebes and Yearlings, studied across the regimental line, and who seemed cool on honor. There were sixty-two names, including Faubus, McWhiff, and Nocksin.
“KAI!” I jumped. It was Arch Torres. “Sonny got hit by a car!”
We came out from the Post Gym and Arch pointed. Next to a wide area of badly stomped black slush and dead sidewalk grass were streaks of bright red blood. We sprinted through Central Area, down Thayer past Old and New South, slipping on the salt-encrusted street, grabbing our hats as they sailed off in the wind, sliding on the old, smooth, underlighted hospital corridors to Emergency. Alphabet Burkowski, Nash Matea, Nichols Harrington, and Carroll Blythe were in the hallway. They were some of Sonny’s many pals. “Head injury, broken leg,” said Alphabet. “He got hit by the damn Newburgh bus. Just took him into surgery.”
“Was it an accident?” I asked.
“What?” asked Nash. “Like, did the bus try to hit him?”
“Who saw it?” I asked.
“Plebes,” said Arch. “Arguing afterward.”
“See any upperclassmen? Any Cows?”
“No,” he said.
“Arch, find out what those Plebes know. Sonny might have been pushed. A Cow may be involved—I gotta warn Benjamin. If he shows up here,” I said to the others, “tell him that Sonny was pushed into the bus and to watch his backside. No MPs. We do it.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Arch. “What’s the deal?”
“Honor,” I said. “Arch, I need you. Get those Plebes. Alphabet, Nash, Nichols, Carroll—make sure one of you stays with Sonny all the time. Pretend someone’s after him. And keep this right here, deep and dark. There’s a cheating ring, and Sonny knows about them. That’s all I can say right now. Gotta buzz.”
They cranked the data. “Do what you have to,” said Alphabet, as the others nodded. “We’ll cover the Rap.”
I found a house phone and dailed C-3. “This is Second Classman Ting. Get Mike Benjamin to the phone, right now!” I smelled ether, the scent of death and failed surgeries. I hated hospitals.
We slogged through the black snow of midwinter toward East Barracks. Mike looked left while I looked right.
“I’m looking for Troth,” said Mike.
“Look for buses,” I said. “This is the crap the Grande Armée marched through, leaving Moscow and watching for cossacks. This sludge is god-wretched stuff. I hate it. Really hate it.”
“Good to be in a positive mood,” Mike said, looking behind us.
We were in Second and Fourth Regiment country, the other West Point under the old clock tower. “Up there,” I said, pointing to the broad stone walls, laced with dead ivy, echoing with shouts fading in the cold higher air. In the First and Third, the mortal screams of Plebes were as normal as foul weather in the East.
“Mike,” I said, “ask the CO’s blessing to crawl some of his Plebes. That we know it’s not our regiment, that it’s Honor.”
“Oh, fine,” he said. “Give me the easy job.”
I followed the shouts. It was a cold day, and Arch had nine crots sweating against the hallway walls on the third floor.
“MISTER! WHAT’S THE BLOND PLEBE’S NAME AND COMPANY?!” He was nose to nose with a quivering Fourth Classman I remembered from Beast last summer. Basset.
“SIR, I BELIEVE YOU ARE USING MY HONOR AGAINST ME!”
“Me allegro mucho,” said Arch. “Got me a gringo barracks lawyer who hasn’t seen the fighting end of an electric razor.”
“Mr. Basset,” I said, “do not fatigue us with your thoughts. You are a Plebe. You are a tool of the United States Government. You are outranked by small animals that poop in the woods.”
“Using your Honor, mister,” said Arch, “is when a superior asks a body of men for the perpetrator to identify himself.”
“No self-incrimination here,” I said. “Answer the question.”
“Sir.” he said, “the other Plebe was Mr. Fors.”
“Do not employ vernacular,” I said. “And pop off, Mr. Basset.”
“SIR! THE OTHER FOURTH CLASSMAN WAS MR. FORS! SIR, HE IS IN THIS COMPANY!”
“Oh, you smoothie,” said Arch to me.
“Any of you beanheads speak or understand Spanish?” No hands.
“Arch. ¿Por qué tán pesado? Quizá sería mejor usar una mano liviana.” Why heavy? Use the light hand.
“De verás. Cuando empezé, estos jotos eran pero bien ‘Be-Jota. ’ Me caian como una petada en el culo.” True. When I started, these ruffians were BJ. This gave me a colossal pain in the rump. He shrugged his shoulders. “Adiós, suave,” he said.
“CRACK YOUR PUNY LITTLE NECKS IN!” Arch roared. “WE’RE GOING—”
Knuckles rapped sharply on the door. It was Mike.
“Basta,” I said. Enough.
“Can we talk?” asked Jed Devon, star end of the 150-pound football team, member of the Class of ’67, and company CO.
“May my classmate continue to haze your Plebes?” I asked.
“Oh, please, if you would,” he said, with grand largesse.
“Shining your shoes with RAT CRAP? USING THE TOWER OF PISA FOR ALIGNMENT? THE LINE OF YOUR CLASS SHIRT HASN’T MET THE COINCIDENT EDGE OF YOUR BUCKLE! THERE ARE DOORSTOPS MORE MILITARY THAN YOU! BANG THOSE NECKS IN! I’M HERE SO YOU’D HAVE ONE DAY AT WEST POINT!”
“If this is Honor,” asked Jed, “why are you hazing them?”
“We’re representing the real West Point, the one with a Fourth Class System and esprit, and we don’t know better. Jed, you might have a Cow in your company who ordered a Plebe to push Sonny Rappa, one of our classmates, into the Newburgh bus after Intermurder today. Sonny’s in the hospital. He and I were doing an Honor investigation.” I looked at Mike. “And Mike, too.”
Jed made a face. “Sounds ugly. Okay. What about him?”
“That’s Arch Torres, Brigade welter champ. He’s giving your crots memories to share with their grandkids.” I smiled. “Jed, it’s music—Plebes in Gloom harmonizing with Sylvanus on a perfect Thayer day, bringing a touch of old American military tradition into Easy Country. And, for your troops today, it’s free.”
“You’re a clown. At least use Mr. Basset’s room,” he said
, nodding toward it. “Our lads aren’t used to this. Might cause the stock market to crash. Need anything else besides gutting some of my best Plebes?”
“I need Mr. Fors to join the party. I’d like to invite him to our gracious digs for AI.”
“No problem. Fors is Basset’s roommate. Wipe your slimy Third Regiment dogs before you enter any of my rooms, wash your hands before you touch doorknobs, and let ’em go in time for supper. By the way, clown, we have the best Plebes in the system.”
“Okay, Jed,” I said. “What can you tell me about Fors?”
“Hard case,” he said. “Appointed from the ranks, buck sergeant, Infantry. He boxes for us, light heavy. From a line of men with no mirth. Bad attitude but very tough. You’ll see him in Brigade finals. You’re still a middle, right?”
“I’m doing water polo this year,” I said. I hated dieting to make weight.
When Jed Devon left, Mike hit me hard on my arm. “You ought to do engineering like you do cadet captains. You let Juice squeeze you by the nuts! What’s the difference here?”
“Math,” I said.
Mike and Arch hazed Mr. Fors. Mr. Fors had the look of a hungry lizard, acquisitive, bursting with the urge to take in the middle of a year when taking was not authorized. Young Caesar with a poor military appearance. Then I recognized him: the Plebe in the sally port who wrote down the names of the re-test cadets—Rappa and Ting.
“Creo que él es el reo,” I said. I think he’s our boy.
“Seguro,” Arch whispered back. “Lo recuerdo.” I remember him. “Everyone except Mr. Fors, print and sign your name and your company on the pad of paper on the desk, and vamoose,” said Arch. “You too, Basset.”
Their collective sigh could have lifted a dirigible.
“ ‘Vamoose.’ Damn, Arch, your Spanish is good,” said Mike.
As the sun set and the lights of the Academy were illuminated, and as we looked at the grand old clock tower, Mr. Fors continued to face the elephant. Mike and Arch crawled him with a deep-immersion hazing routine, full of sound and fury, signifying doom.
Despite the impassivity required of Plebes, Fors had an active, expressive face. He did not submit to superiors or accept a team. He was here for himself, and the Corps could go throw rocks. He was like me with Edna. But someone had gone far beyond sullen resentment. Someone had closed in on bone-weary Sonny Rappa and, from the safety of a crowd, pushed him into the bus. Fors wouldn’t have had to push hard; he was a large, big-boned man.
Fors resisted the hazing. He shouted back, angry but not desperate, in the face of an expert crawling.
“Mr. Fors,” I said, “you are being asked simple questions by compassionate men. Do not make me get up and join this fray. Which member of the upper classes is your patron? Your buddy?”
“I don’t have a patron. And no buddies. Sir.”
“Mr. Torres, Mr. Benjamin, may I?”
“By all means, Mr. Ting,” they said, and left, smiling.
“You sir,” I said, “are inappropriate, impolite, and given to the habits of snakes. We require cooperation and you spout rank bull. This room stinks of you. You defile the Corps. You lack skill in the military life. Tell me where you learned this.”
“I WAS IN THE REAL ARMY, SIR!” he shouted.
“Who is your squad leader, Mr. Fors?”
“Sir, my squad leader is Mr. Bader.”
Billy Bader. I was in luck. “Who was Mr. Bader’s Buckner and Recondo mate. Whose butt did Mr. Bader save in the Pit?”
“Sir, I do not know.”
“You’re talking to him. Based on your sterling, helpful performance as a member of the Fourth Class, do you think Mr. Bader will intercede in your behalf, and save you from me?”
Fors hesitated. “No, sir,” he said.
“Do you, sir,” I said, “believe a cadre of upperclassmen can drive you out by imposing its military will upon you?”
“NO, SIR!” he shouted, trying to spray me with his spit.
“How long, sir,” I asked, “can you survive cross-Corps signature calls. How long can your military decorum survive close inspection by the Second Class of the Third Regiment? How long can you endure a deluge of sharp quill upon your poor, stinking, disreputable, selfish, unmilitary, unwashed knob body?”
“Sir, I do not know.” His hard features quivered in anger.
“Mister, you’re awful lucky, because I do. By the grace of every poor Plebe who ever tried his hardest for the Corps, I’m going to share it with you. You’ll last till June. You’ll endure the whole pleasure of Plebe year residing de jure in the Fabulous Fourth and living de facto in the Thayer Third. In June, you will have received an excess number of demerits and be found for conduct, separated from the Academy after completing the hardest year, at the very gate of upperclass status.”
I removed a pad of Forms 2–1 from my shirt pocket, rebuttoned it, and clicked my pen. “First name and cadet number. Sound off.”
“SIR, MY FIRST NAME IS GABRIEL. SIR, MY CADET NUMBER IS C-7079!”
“Uniform lacking alignment,” I said. “Brass unshined, collar stay showing, shoes unshined—generous understatement—and improperly tied, stain on trou, stain on class shirt, fingerprints on name tag, name tag not aligned with shirt seam, hair unmilitary in appearance and touching the ear. Seven demerits.” Seven was the maximum allotment for personal appearance.
I signed the quill for forwarding to the TD. “This didn’t take long. I can smell your rifle, your locker, your rack, and your uniforms from here.” Each of them could bring another seven. “You are remarkably gross for a man who’s been in ‘the real Army.’ I could ruin your entire year in the next five minutes. How many demerits did you have before I entered this crot cesspool?”
“Sir, I had ten demerits.” Resentment.
“Mr. Fors, I was wrong. You do possess skill—skill in quill. You are over the top.” I held up the two-dash-one. “You have earned a free pass to the Area for a game of Concrete Fandango. You will be inspected closely prior to serving your punishment tours. Your poor habits will produce more quill, which in turn will generate more hours, and more inspections, which will generate more quill. I might ask for guard duty when you’re on the Area, so I can provide AI. I might find lint in your bore, grease in the butt plate, a lack of alignment in your selfish soul. This would have to be reported. It is an ineluctable truth that a Plebe cannot withstand an intention to dismiss him from the Corps on a carpet of poop. How long do you think you can last, Mr. Fors?”
“Sir, I can beat you,” he hissed. Fulminating anger, bristling muscular tension. He was very angry. No one had spoken to him like this since Beast. I was picking on him and he wanted to fight.
“You calling me into the ring?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said, barely repressing a smile. Triumph.
“I admire that, Mr. Fors. Must I employ further demonstrations to secure your understanding of the jeopardy of your cadet status?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“If we fight tonight, no full meal for me. Damn you,” I said. “Sir, Mr. Fors thanks Mr. Ting with all his heart for the warning,” he said, smiling through his big teeth.
“Oh, it’s great,” said Sonny. “Food probably comes from C-rats, mostly ham ’n’ eggs. Bedpan’s special.” He sighed and tried to shift his body, wincing everywhere. “Nurses are good. Competent.”
“What happened?” asked Mike.
“After wrestling. Had my ears bound up. Wind was hard. Think I slipped. Don’t remember much. Woke up here. Guess no concussion. Leg’s busted in two places, had to pin it.” He shook his head wearily. “Was havin’ a good season.”
Mike also liked wrestling. I detested its chance encounters with a sweaty foreign armpit in your nose. Boxing was clean and sanitary. There was a fundamental decency to it. Fors had boxed in the ranks. I was in shape and I had Tony’s rosary for good foo chi.
Three other cadets were in the ward, all Plebes, uncommonly pleased to be fracture
d or ill. No bracing, full meals, and nurses.
“What can I bring you?” I asked.
“New head,” he said.
“That’s your prescription for me,” I said.
“Get yourself a new head too.”
“Want me to call Barbara?” I asked.
“No. You’d try to lure her west, be a California girl, an’ promise her lots of Chinese food. Loves … food.…”
“Who can blame her?” I asked. “Can you talk?”
“Grog,” he said.
“Gotta move, Kai,” Mike said. “Or we all end up here.”
“You ready, Sonny?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled. “Ready. Readier. Gnorp.”
Mike and I looked at each other. He motioned me away.
“Kai,” he whispered, “forget the bus. Sonny’s too banged up. Let’s get them for the cheating. That’s what this is about.”
I shook my head. “Can’t let them get away with this.”
“Can you prove it?” he asked.
Recitations at math boards began with the words, “Sir, I am required to prove …” So far, I had proven that mathematics and I were not meant for each other, and that I could anger Plebes who were as surly as Mongols after someone had burned their huts.
“Don’t know, Mike. Think so.”
“Love your confidence. It’d be great to have more time,” he whispered, “but let’s do it Saturday.”
“Saturday … Sonny.” No reaction. I shook Sonny gently.
He opened an eye. “Ow,” he said.
“Saturday night 1900 hours. Colonel Smits’s Q, the Poker Society. Arch’ll help you line up your ducks.” I hoped we wouldn’t need them, because he didn’t have them yet. It wasn’t a matter of ducks. We needed artillery or Chinese gods, or both.
He squinted at me, then at Mike. “Saturday night, Smits. Be there … be square.…” He drifted off. Mike picked up Sonny’s uninjured right hand and placed it on top of his. He gestured to me, and I put my hand on top of Sonny’s. “Go, Rabble,” Mike said. “Rabble” was the nickname for the Corps. Sonny was silent. I thought of our friendly forces: Pearl, the perennial Vassar senior who made my heart pound, Elmer Scoggin, the scarred armor veteran, Captain Mark Martin, the Chicago JAGC, and Major Szeden, the modern version of Chingis Khan. “Go, Rabble,” I said.
