Honor and Duty

by Gus Lee

  Duke’s left eye developed a tic. He was breathing fast with his mouth open, his expression changing like litmus being subjected to acids. It went from shock and dull hurt to a shining, regal hate. “You fucking asshole knob—you can’t shit on me!”

  “Ave Imperator,” I said. “You flinched.”

  Fors felt Duke’s words, absorbing them. His big fists formed, his neck cording, adrenaline gathering for the kill.

  “Don’t get into that,” I said. “Hey!” He jerked and exhaled.

  “Good man,” I said. “You don’t do this kind of crap anymore.”

  Duke rubbed his face. He turned to Colonel Smits, hissing to him while the radio played a song none of us could remember later. We breathed like penitents viewing Hades from the hot edge, hearing tridents scraping coals and names being called. Bob took notes with a great continuous scratching, trying to catch up in the silence.

  Smits bared his teeth and pushed Troth back to his chair. “I told you,” he said in his hoarse, scratchy voice, “the story a ’51 so you’d see the system.” He ground out his cigarette and lit another. “You dumb shit, you figured you’d do it again. You’re such a tool. I told you the story so you wouldn’t get what the team got. Shit. Instead a walkin’ away, you copied the fucker!” He leaned forward, close to Troth’s face, his eyes wet and darting, remembering other cadets in other days, peering harder. He sighed and sat back.

  “The point to ’51 is that Red Blaik saved my young ass. He told me, ‘Son, don’t do it.’ That’s the story of ’51 and that’s what I told you,” he growled. “Now you’re gettin’ kicked out!”

  “They can’t!” cried Duke. “Not me! I’m smarter than any of ’em! Shit! Some of these guys aren’t even American.”

  “You’re history,” said Smits. The words settled into the room.

  “They can’t prove that UCMJ shit,” Duke pleaded. “They won’t believe a fuckin’ Plebe over a Cow.” Please. Please agree.

  “Screw the UCMJ. You’re dead on Honor,” said Smits. “No one gets saved from that, or it ain’t West Point. Don’t be an asshole.”

  A small, twisted sound came from Troth’s throat. He contorted like a man with a burst appendix. “You hate the Honor Code!”

  “It’s a screamin’ bitch, but it’s the Point,” said Smits. “I hate the Honor freaks.” He took a deep inhalation of smoke, looking sideways at me. “But you can’t screw with the Code.

  God, you’re stupid.… Aw, shit, Troth, it ain’t like your dick got cut off. You weren’t right for this place, and this place ain’t right for you. This place sucks. Stand up like a man and kiss it goodbye.”

  “You said, make your own rules,” said Duke.

  “You got that right.” Smits shook his head. “Don’t be totally stupid,” he said. “Honor doesn’t have any stinkin’ rules. It’s Honor. Rules is all that other plastic world shit. Jesus Christ, Scrounger—you couldn’t tell a barbecued Porky Pig from an incoming eighty-one-mike-mike. Son, you tied this one up by the numbers. You stepped on your dick so many ways it’s gonna take a piccolo player to help you take a leak.” Smits hit Duke hard on the arm.

  “Square yourself away,” he growled. “West Point doesn’t like your stinkin’ dingleberried ass. Don’t get sentimental for somethin’ that doesn’t like you! For chrissake,” he snorted, “get outa here and go make some money.”

  Duke sat down and put his head into his hands.

  “Aw, shit! Don’t cry, Scrounger! Stand up like a man and kiss it goodbye. If you can’t smile, spit at ’em. C’mon, man! You’re embarrassin’ me.”

  I looked at Clint, and his chair was empty. Mike never took his eyes off Troth. Sonny and Bob were silently praying. I shook my head. They were as superstitious as Taoist monks.

  Sam Marse slowly rose to his feet. He surveyed the room. It was a BP’s nightmare. He loudly cleared his throat.

  “You oughta spiff up these here quarters, Colonel,” he said. “This here place is militarily disreputable.”

  34

  SWORD POINT

  West Point, Late Winter 1967

  The Honor Boards convened. I remembered Mr. Alsop’s room, fourteen of us sweating, hungry, thirsty, tired, and scared, hearing him tell us that we had to be perfect in Honor.

  For two months cadets reported to the Committee in Building 720, to stand in front of the long table of twelve Honor representatives in chilled and austere midnight and mid-morning hearings. Some were witnesses; too many were suspects. Classmates began disappearing. No one knew how many, but each of us had our own count. Those charged with Honor violations could testify, refuse to testify, seek officer and attorney counsel, or resign. Those who went through with evidentiary boards reported to the Twelve at the end to face the saber. If the sword point of the Committee’s saber pointed at him, the Committee had returned a unanimous finding of guilt, and the cadet was found on Honor and dishonorably separated from the Corps, with immediate effect. If the hilt was offered, the cadet had been acquitted, the result of at least one dissenting vote. Those called before the Committee were ordered not to discuss their testimony. Those dismissed were not to be discussed, ever again.

  I had squared away my uniform with particular care.

  “Plebes fall out,” I said to the squad. “Honor Boards are in session. These are sad days for the Code and the Corps. A lot of emphasis has been placed on things you cannot do. I want you to remember that we busted our rears to get here, to be part of this school, and that this squad protected the Code. We’re unified by our pledges to Honor. That will never change. Plebes stand fast, squad dismissed.

  “Guys,” I said to the Plebes, “thank you again for your help. I want to continue the Fidelis. But if you want a break, put out a fist. Majority rules.”

  Eight Plebes, no fists. I smiled. “Then give me a Fideli.”

  “Sir,” they said in unison, “Who says, ‘My stomach, right or wrong’? Mr. Schmidt, sir! Who’s got the sweetest disposition? Mr. Parthes, sir! Who’d never dream of picking a fight? Mr. McFee, sir! Who prays to live in a steeple with a whole buncha Chinese people? Mr. Spanner, sir! Who turns left when the squad turns right? Mr. Quint, sir! Who makes a big rock look like Esther Williams? Mr. Caleb, sir! Who thinks English is a foreign tongue? Mr. Irkson, sir! Who in the flock’s the dumbest on the block? Mr. Zerl, sir!”

  “Ya bring a tear to me eye,” I said in the worst brogue imaginable. “Ya make me so hoppy I want y’all to give me thirty push-ups. Count ’em out loud now, lads. Call ’em out to Mr. Fideli, sweetly, now.”

  I knocked. Farren said, “Yo.” He had packed the bag he had dropped on the Area on R-Day. He was gathering unused bandit soup ingredients.

  “Farren, I’m here to say I’m sorry,” I said.

  He didn’t look at me, waiting for me to leave, his face red. “Do me a favor,” he said. “If something really shitty happens to you, so bad you can’t laugh, call me. Like havin’ your leg ripped off by a frag or gettin’ gorked by a booby trap. Somethin’ so bad you can’t do your standard-issue happy-shit routine. Look me up, hear? Tell me about it. I’ll laugh my fuckin’ guts out.” He hurled the rest of the food into the waste-basket, knocking it over, all the contents spilling onto the floor. He liked the noise as the kosher soup cans rolled against the bunks. “Get the fuck outa my room.”

  “Why’d you do it?” I asked. “You didn’t believe that crap you handed me about doing it for your classmates.”

  He looked toward the rifle rack. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” I said. “You crap on the Code, screw your classmates, lie to Plebes, break into buildings, steal exams, and set Sonny and Big Bus up as cheaters. You follow a guy who used to beat up our smaller classmates, barters women, almost kills Sonny, and points a gun at someone trying to follow the Code—and you’re pissed at me?”

  “Hey, I was against the guns. I had nothin’ to do with the bus. I was one of the guys against it.”

  “Yeah, you did a great job of
being against it. What the hell was I thinking about? I’m not apologizing to you. Screw you!” I walked out, slammed the door, and drove a fist into it, splintering his nameplate. His paper tag waffled to the floor. I threw open the door.

  “Come and get it, McWhiff,” I said, trembling with anger.

  Farren looked at me with fear and hate. “Damn, you are seriously nuts. Troth was right about you.”

  Troth. I ran toward Fourth Regiment. Three years of eating his crap was enough. I was going to take him down.

  “Hey, Kai,” said someone.

  I raced up the stairs and Plebes recognized me and almost herniated themselves in an effort to get out of my road. I ran to the room that Sonny had wired for sound and I turned the knob and kicked it in like a Beast squad leader drawing attention, the door banging hollowly as I stepped in with a good stance with no one to stop me. All three beds had been rolled, and rifles placed in armory; the room was ghostly vacant. I looked at the door. There were no name tags where, not long ago, one of them had said in crisp black letters, “TROTH, LD 68.” My chest heaved. I had adrenaline and rage and no one to fight but his memory.

  Clint, Deke, and I walked to the north sally port, where our grades were posted, and our section assignments changed, to conform to our new class standings in each course.

  “You’re outa the basement in English,” Deke said to Clint. “And you’re in ninth section in solids,” he said to me. We were trying to pretend that the world had not changed, that the specter of Honor expulsions was not clouding all we did and all we said.

  We recorded our other section assignments. I remained in the bottom in Juice and in the upper five sections in econ, Spanish, social sciences, psych, and English. Clint was two sections from the bottom in Juice. Deke was rock steady in the upper ten sections in all courses. Sonny and Mike were in the first section in everything, and I smiled for them, wondering how two guys so close to being number one in the class could so consciously avoid competing for the honor. K’ung Fu-tzu had said that men of genius gather naturally but can never agree. West Point proved him wrong.

  “I’m staying a starman so I can get into med school,” Mike had said. Sonny was tutoring everyone in the regiment and still got to bed by nine-thirty most nights. “Early to bed, early to bed” was one of his mottoes. Sonny refused to be daunted by the hearings. He continued, through February and March, to operate as if it were normal for the class to be undergoing hardship and attrition.

  “Kai, hearts after class?” asked Arch en route to Bartlett the next day.

  “You’re on. Say, eleven-fifteen.”

  Plebes saluted as Deke and I approached the Hilton after thermo. Neither Airborne Rat nor Venus was on the window-sill.

  Clint’s rack was stripped, the mattress rolled on its wire springs. No shoes under the bed, and only two laundry bags hanging from the bedposts instead of three. Clint’s desk was empty. Clint’s rifle was gone from the gun rack.

  Deke unrolled the mattress and sat heavily on Clint’s bunk, dropping his books. “Oh, man,” he said. “He’s gone.”

  I opened the wardrobe where Mike Benjamin had resided during Major Szeden’s search, the night I thought Clint was asleep. On an empty hanger was Airborne Rat’s little parachute.

  Had Clint cheated directly or tolerated the cheating in others? I had suspected that the voice we heard on Sonny’s black-box receiver saying “screw ’em in the ear” was Duke’s, and that the voice urging clean speech was Clint’s. I might never know.

  I didn’t play hearts. A lot of us gathered in our room. We looked like modern art, immobilized by shock. I poured Java and reread To Kill a Mockingbird, staying in the room, no longer liking the library, where so much of the interregimental cheating had occurred. I felt as if I should stay near Clint’s bunk, out of loyalty. I wanted to read something that had given me joy, but I turned the pages and felt nothing. I saw Clint dancing with Pearl at the last hop. I saw him training Para-Rat to jump from the top bunk, his chute billowing, slapping his forehead as he wrestled with the Bard. Exhausted, I turned in early. When I put my head on the pillow, something crinkled. Inside the pillowcase was a letter.

  4 April 1967

  Kai

  You should not have done this to me. What did I do to deserve this? I laughed at your jokes, never made jokes that hurt your feelings or picked on your nationality. You saved my butt in English. Saved me in Shakespeare and turned me in on Honor. I walked into 720 at 0900 hours to face sword point.

  I don’t know what’s right, or ethical. After this, no one’ll ask my opinion. I feel like I’ve been shot, but I’m still alive and walking around. I never would’ve turned you in. Not you. Both of us have dads who live through us, who brought us up to come here. See, you didn’t kick me out of West Point. You got Dad. You told me that story about the Chinese soldiers in an orchard who made the pledges to each other. Didn’t the leader die for his buddies? I’m not a hot Christian, any more than you. You think West Point will ever forgive me? The hell it will.

  You guys can’t even talk about me anymore. Suddenly, I never even existed. Why the hell should I forgive you? I never did anything to you. You were like a brother. It’s like you weren’t different. I didn’t even think of you as Chinese. You talked about your uncle. He wouldn’t have done what you did. He was all for relationships. So was I. You do all this bold West Point shit with your Plebes about “taking care of your classmates” and look what you did.

  During the Honor boards, I didn’t say anything. I tried to maintain, even though I knew they were going to dump me. I feel like I don’t have a life anymore. I can’t face my dad. Know what’s funny? When we started the ring, it was to help guys like you—guys who don’t study—and me—who study but don’t get it You should know that Duke really tried at first to like you. He teased you about race and minorities because he didn’t think it meant anything to you. I mean, you are weird. You take offense when people make Jew jokes and you’re not a Jew. I understand about the black thing, cause you told me, but most guys here don’t get it. Duke wanted you to be part of it. He didn’t need help in Juice; you did.

  What we did was like a Widows and Orphans Society, helping those in need. Juice is just a harassment course. You don’t need Juice to lead men in combat. You put it best: it lacks “socially redeeming value—no idealism, no belief, just spec and dump.” Why’d you do it? You cashed me in for something you hate. You turned me in for bullshit.

  You want to know what’s really stupid? Duke tried to bring Pee Wee McCloud in as the smart man. Pee Wee was like you; he never liked Duke, and was very big on the Code. He tried to talk Duke out of it. Once we started the ring, Duke told Pee Wee about it. So Pee Wee knew. He turned himself in for tolerating Duke, and now he’s gone. He left this morning. I know you and I were buds, but think of what you’ve done here. Remember when the three of us stood by Lake Fredericks after that march? And did retreat together after Plebe year? You really got his dad, too.

  See if you can forgive old Clint the thief, your lousy, cheating roommate. I took your dad’s gun and Mrs. LaRue’s plastic cup and your Tony Barraza’s rosary. And I took the little Chinese god. Tell me, do you feel cleaned out?

  You can have Para-Rat’s chute. I hate heights, like you, and they’ll have to shoot me before I go to Jump School. But you’ll be a good West Pointer and go when they tell you to. Take the Rat chute with you when you jump. Your roomie,

  Clint

  I called Pee Wee’s company. The CQ told me that Mr. McCloud had been separated from the Corps and had left. No, he said, there were neither forwarding address nor notes for anyone. Again, I crossed over to East Barracks. Pee Wee’s bunkies were on bunks, silent and stunned, looking, I imagined, like Deke, Bob, and me.

  I got the storage-room keys from the CQ and verified that my service footlocker had been forced open. My father’s cherished Colt .38 super automatic and shoulder holster were gone. In its place was the blue shield with the golden helmet of Athena with
the sword rampant affixed, a name tag with “Bestier,” and the collar and epaulet insignia of a West Point Second Classman.

  Major Schwarzhedd and I walked from the mess hall across the Plain to his Q. Each of us carried a block of ice from the kitchen.

  “Mr. Bestier’s tragedy is not your doing,” said the major. “He’s blaming you for what he alone could dictate.”

  “Feels bad, sir. Two of them were Beast roommates. Both of them sons of generals. I keep feeling I did it.”

  “That’s understandable. Hard moral stands demand an extreme price. Consider the alternative. A cheating culture.” He shook his head, his mouth turned down. “Intolerable.”

  “Sir, you ever feel you’re split? I mean, with half of you feeling things, and the other half thinking, and they don’t fit? My mind says I did the right thing. But inside, it feels wrong.”

  “The dissonance between heart and mind, thought and impulse. It’s the struggle between a leader and a careerist. Did you protect your men by doing what you did?”

  I thought of my Plebes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Listen to your own answer. Think of this—did you enjoy taking down Duke Troth?”

  I nodded. It felt good to push Troth around that poker table, knowing that Sonny was going to be avenged. I had enjoyed getting inside Gabriel Fors’s guard, slipping punches and reshaping his face. Guilt had made me shake his hand after the fight.

  Ironically, it was my recognition of him that made him think I was different from Duke. Recognizing him had allowed him to tell the truth, while hazing had only alienated him from Honor. The whole damn thing worked because I opened my hand instead of keeping it closed. I didn’t understand; Gabe Fors had shown up at the Poker Society on his own.