Honor and Duty

by Gus Lee

  “I don’t see him in front of me, Mike.” I let out a lot of air. “He’s above me. And he’s behind me. That’s where Chinese fathers stand. In our pasts, guiding the future.”

  “Just before Cold Max took me down,” Mike said, “I thought of Dad. How pissed he’d be if I got pinned when I was up so many points.” He licked his lips, sprang up, and paced.

  “Here’s the hard part. See, we’re supposed to be number one, beat the hell out of everyone. Smartest, toughest, fastest. Dads teach that. West Point gives you letters, stars, and patches for being the best, for beating everyone, for developing the habits of victory.”

  I nodded. ‘Upon the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that upon other fields, on other days, will bear the fruits of victory.’ It was a MacArthurism.

  “But Kai, fathers are—they’re like gods. You can’t, shouldn’t beat them. Best them. Be the best, but don’t beat Dad.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

  “It makes sense if you’re doing something your dad couldn’t do. My dad was a great runner. Lousy wrestler.”

  “But my dad’s an engineer. Good at math,” I said.

  “But he was an immigrant, like my grampa. Your dad couldn’t come here. This was the unattainable dream for them.”

  I didn’t like the argument. “Naw,” I said.

  “I don’t know, Kai. Dad’s still as big in my mind as West Point. I keep getting them mixed up.”

  I looked at the chapel, the hard hills, the granite buildings. They stood above us. They were so huge, so inescapable, casting long shadows, so damnably old, reaching back, behind us. The Hanlin, older than time; Himalayan peaks, embracing clouds.

  “West Point’s the biggest freaking father in the world,” he said. “I hate to lose. I mean, I hate to lose,” he growled. “But I lost that match—the most important in my life—when I had it won. Just before Cold Max hit me, I had a feeling I shouldn’t win.”

  “Okay. So you had a random thought that distracted you. That’s all that was. Bad luck.”

  He shook his head. “Look at you. You love West Point more than the rational mind should permit. You love it. I don’t. You do. You’re a permanent corporal and the darling of the tac. You got friends in all the regiments and departments—even in Juice. Maher wants to adopt you. You’re popular. Friends with Schwarzhedd. Everyone’s buddy and good to Plebes, the only squad leader who’s prepared his boys for Buckner. You joke all the time, never down, always cheering up the ones who are down. People love that. You never complain, except about Juice. You’d be perfect if you didn’t eat off of other people’s plates.”

  I smiled, but Mike was intently serious. “You’re crazy about West Point. And you might flunk out. And you’re in this wrestling match with your dad, over math.”

  Major Schwarzhedd asked me to meet him in the West Point Room on the fourth floor of the USMA Library on a Saturday afternoon.

  He smiled and sat in a gray chair, a gift from an earlier class. “What do you think of these Immortals?” he asked, pointing to the portraits of Edgar Allen Poe and James Abbott McNeill Whistler.

  “I guess they weren’t meant to be Grads, sir,” I said.

  “Do you think you are?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said.

  Major Schwarzhedd stood, his size casting shadows from the bright portrait spotlights onto the dark-wood table, “You belong here. You love what the Academy stands for. Idealism. Service. Honor. You’re not one of them,” he said, waving at Poe and Whistler.

  “Not entirely bad company, sir,” I said.

  “No question about their talent, but Poe was troubled.”

  I nodded. Cadet Poe had trooped out with the Corps for a Saturday parade and had marched off stark naked, without any of his clothes, which he left hanging like a scarecrow’s costume, on his rifle, bayoneted into the Plain.

  “Both he and Whistler were answering other calls. They weren’t soldiers. They didn’t leave here to wear the uniform without lieutenant’s bars.” I thought of Marco Matteo Fideli’s gold bar in my valuables box. “You’re a soldier, Kai. You care about your people. If they got hurt, you’d wear the scar.

  “Use your talent. Remember Napoleon at Austerlitz, and Norm Cota on Omaha Beach, Dowding during the Battle of Britain, Chamberlain at Gettysburg. They almost lost, but when the skies were darkest, they rallied to win the day. They never lost faith.”

  He leaned on the chair, his shoulders swelling. “Make sure you do the same.” He smiled, his face animated, brightening the whole room. “Why do you think I’ve spent time with you this year?” Marco Fideli had asked me that question. Marco had picked me out because I frowned.

  “Sir, you were badly oversupplied in hot dogs and popcorn, and needed someone to help reduce inventory.”

  “We all face our special lessons. There’s a little bit of you in all of us. Wanting to be special, also wanting to be just like everyone else. Being good at some things, bad at others. You are unnaturally poor in math, but have a good grasp of history.” He smiled. “I love history. All our lessons are in it.

  “Your father really wanted you here, didn’t he?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “My father never dictated my future,” he said. “I had two noble professions to consider—the ministry, which is what my grandfather followed, or the military, my father’s calling. Both require leadership. The military art, though, spoke to my soul.”

  He stood by the window, his hands joined behind his back. “I wanted to be a general of a great army, filled with all the men of the earth, facing an implacable foe of ultimate and unreasoning evil in a noble war. It would be the dedication and belief of our troops against the hate and acquisitive greed of the enemy, and it would be my military art, that I learned here, at West Point, against the enemy general. We would have to win, and I would have a chance to serve truly.

  “I would feint him, confuse him with rages of doubts and bouts of confidence, and envelop him. It would be the second of August, 216 years before Christ, again, at Cannae on the Aufidus River, ten miles inland from the Adriatic, and he would be destroyed, utterly.”

  I knew Cannae. Hannibal’s masterful, unmatched battle of total annihilation in which his polyglot, multiethnic army out-maneuvered the massive, better-trained Roman legions of Paulus and Varro. Cannae changed warfare for two millennia by placing maneuver and tactics above mechanical discipline and redundant drill.

  He sighed. “But the age of the great campaigns is past. If we fight one of those huge, sprawling wars, it’ll be the end of us all.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Wanting to be a Great Captain, I’m an Infantry officer in an era of brush and guerrilla wars, wars of national liberation where remarkable patriots fight on both sides. It’s unfamiliar terrain. Our country’s fighting itself, burning its own cities and debating the war while the government commits the troops, one by one. It’s the best of times, and the worst of times, to be an American infantryman.”

  “My father’s biggest nightmare,” I said. “An army not supported by the people.” The fate of his army in China.

  “Your father’s nightmare,” he said, “is you flunking out of West Point.” He stood up. “You’re ordered to take and to pass it. We do the best we can.” He put his hand out. “Do your best. That’s all that’s ever asked of anyone. You have the brains to make it, to be a damned good West Point graduate, someone everyone will be proud of. You’re a good squad leader. You take care of your people. I am also convinced, if you have to see the elephant, the one in Vietnam, before your classmates do, that you will acquit yourself admirably.

  “Your Honor is not at stake. It’s yours, clean and pristine, polished, in fact, beyond the shine of your average West Pointer. So keep your eyes on the objective, and go get ’em.”

  37

  DREAMS

  West Point, May 1967

  We entered whufer country as the delirium of June Week approached. Sonny wa
s encouraged as he built small engineering learning blocks and tried to squeeze them into my little brain.

  Some stayed, but when analog computers crept in one ear, transistor amplifiers fell out the other. Power-supply circuits replaced tuned circuits on the creaking, short-cycled conveyer belt of my brain.

  “Sonny,” I said, “too much. Let’s gamble on the likeliest exam areas and bulk up on them. Like analogs and digital circuits.”

  He shook his head. “Rather do principles. Risky to spec Juice. Spec an’ you’re playin’ Russian roulette with three or four rounds in the cylinder.”

  I remembered the eerie quiet of the pistol range. “I can’t hold it all. Solids, fluids, thermo, nuke physics. Too much.”

  Mike talked to me about honoring our fathers’ expectations. Both of us were extensions of our fathers’ ambitions, toting unbearable rocks. “Hey, it’s as simple as the inclined plane,” he said. “Do what you’re told until you do what he wants, or until you go insane.” Mike was more Chinese than I, and had a better brain.

  English, social sciences, military psychology and leadership, tactics, revolutionary warfare, Spanish, and economics were breezes. I squeaked by nuclear physics, did all right in fluids and thermodynamics, and finished strongly in solids.

  Chinese legend had it that successful candidates for the imperial civil service examinations made sacrifices to the watching god of scholarship. Guan Yu could bring success in any enterprise, but Wen-ch’ang, K’uei-hsing and Chu-i were the exams gods. I got oranges from the mess hall, but had no incense. On a starry Saturday night, when I felt a double ache from missing Pearl, I walked up to Fort Putnam, where Kosciuszko used to watch for the British fleet, and left the oranges on the hill as I watched the Big Dipper, the Chinese Stars of Literacy Arc.

  According to lore, any cadet who appears at exactly midnight before John Sedgwick’s statue, north of the Plain, in full dress under arms, and turns the rowels of Sedgwick’s spurs, will obtain a passing grade. I did not think I was that superstitious.

  I did not plan to rack early that night. I was going to review my sheets of multicolored equations and diagrams like Schliemann searching for the keys to Troy. At 2347 hours, thirteen minutes before midnight, I found myself desperately throwing on my white trousers, FD, crossbelts, breastplate, waistplate, bayonet, and tar bucket, and unracking my rifle. I was moving with the inner panic of a new cadet in a clothing formation.

  I unmarked my absence card, left the room, stopped, and ran back. I grabbed matches and Clint’s Cow collar brass, the metallic, light blue shield with the helmet of Athena, and ran down the hall, out of the building, behind Central Area to avoid the Guard Room, across the Plain, to John Sedgwick.

  Panting, I came to attention, turned his spurs, and looked at my watch. It was 0002 hours. “Damn!” I was two minutes late.

  I covered my bets. I dug a hole at the base of his statue, inserted the brass into it, and covered it. I lit the matchbook and held it to the heavens. “Wen-ch’ang,” I whispered, awed by the contrast in shadows and light that flickered across Sedgwick’s stolid form from the flaming matchbook. “You wouldn’t want a Chinese guy to flunk out of West Point in math, would you?” I asked. “Where’s your pride?”

  I looked for a shooting star, a good omen. There was none. I shuddered in the cold night air. I imagined that it was Chu-i, the funny little god who occasionally dispensed good luck to the unworthy, unprepared student, who looked down at me. Wen-ch’ang was occupied with guarding the fortunes of the starmen and the hives.

  The heat burned. Sedgwick was a dark shadow again. His statue had been formed from melted cannons captured by his VI Corps in the Battle of the Wilderness. I felt no scholastic warmth emanating from this figure cast from the fires of hell. A sniper had killed him, at the height of his popularity, at the very edge of victory. “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist—” were “Uncle John” Sedgwick’s last words, while studying enemy lines at Spotsylvania, one hundred and three years ago almost to the day.

  In the remains of that night, I dreamed of Leo Washington, who called me names as he died of gut pain. I awoke at 0400. I sat at my desk and gazed at Pearl’s photograph. She wore a dark turtleneck and looked directly into the camera with large, shining eyes full of confidence. I imagined her taking my Juice whufer. I imagined being alone with her now in the Waldorf.

  After breakfast, the room filled with well-wishers. The Plebes reported and lined up in the room.

  “Mr. Ting, sir, the Fourth Classmen in your squad request permission to be BJ.”

  “It would be my honor, Mr. Spanner. Fall out.”

  Owen Spanner pointed at McFee.

  “GO GET ’em, SIR!” bellowed the combative Mr. McFee. “You can do anything, sir!” cried Mr. Spanner. “Can’t be upstart Yearlings without you, sir,” said Mr. Caleb. “Sir, who else would give us marching orders in Chinese?” asked Mr. Quint, smiling. “Need you to tutor me in English, sir!” said Mr. Irkson. Mr. Schmidt, the chowhound, said reverently, “You’re my patron saint, sir. It won’t be the same without you.” “Please, sir,” said Mr. Parthes, economically.

  I nodded. I couldn’t say anything, and could never forget what they said. As I tightened my tie for the exam, the guys came in.

  “Didya see Sedgwick?” asked Meatball Rodgers.

  “Yeah,” said Deke. “But Kai says he was two minutes late.”

  “Ah, no sweat,” said Meatball, worry creasing his face. “Sedgwick doesn’t wear a watch. Kai, good luck, man.”

  “Knock ’em dead, Caruso!”

  “Just do the El Paso, compañero. Aim high, hit high.”

  “Play the platters, ice the grooves, max the wax.”

  “Hey, good luck, man. Ya got ’em where you want ’em!”

  “Save some tenths for your section leader.”

  “C’mon, Kai, pin that whufer!”

  “Thanks Meatball—Curve Wrecker—Arch—Moose—Moon—Buns—Cold Max—Handsome—Spoon—Pensive—Tree. Hey, guys, thanks to all of you,” I said. “Hey, good luck to all of us in the low sections—and God bless us, every one.”

  It was a marvelously sunny May morning, the type that causes birds to sing even on empty stomachs. I took this as a positive omen. I figured that Chu-i hadn’t received many American military offerings lately. Be with me now, I thought. You helped Uncle Shim sixty years ago. Help me now as I enter the kaopung, the testing cubicle, devoid of sun and moon.

  I hung my hat on the hook outside the door, carefully centering it, seeking balance, and grace. Major Byron Maher looked up when I entered the classroom, and nodded.

  “Top o’ the morning, sir,” I said.

  “And the same, a course, ta you,” he said in brogue.

  We took seats. The bell rang. The section reported in. The first of five daily writs composing the 60.0 WFR was distributed.

  “You have tried very hard this semester, and you all deserve to pass. Good luck and good hunting. Are there any questions? Gentlemen, begin work.”

  I turned the writ over. None of it dealt with analog computers or digital circuits—it was electromagnetic forces and torque. I was on the tenth problem of fifteen when the cease-work order was issued and we dropped our pencils.

  Major Maher looked at me with concern as I left.

  I didn’t enter the approved solution room.

  I was almost insensate while Sonny tried to prepare me for the second day of tests.

  Grades were posted in the north sally port three days after the fifth and final whufer. Because I had entered the WFR eight-tenths deficient, I couldn’t afford to be negative on the finals. I needed to pass and to pick up eight tenths.

  A passing grade on the whufers would be 40.0; a max would be 60.0. I needed to score 48.0 to pass Juice, to become a First Classman, to wear the ring, and to be a West Pointer.

  I shined my shoes and brass for my walk to the sally port. I found the section sheet and ran down the list. All but one person in the bottom section had pas
sed—“Ting, Kai NMN … 34.0.”

  I had flunked Juice. I had been turned out.

  Sonny prepared me for the turnout. I had a week, and both of us missed much of the frivolity and joy of the end of the year as we created an enclave of Juice and calculus in the Omar N. Bradley Reading Room on the fourth floor of the library.

  I held a final meeting with my Plebes.

  “I cannot tell you how proud I am of you. Each of you has made it through the most challenging year of your life. You’ve done it by supporting each other. You’ve learned things this year that will sustain you all your life.

  “This is the final mimeo on how to excel at Buckner. Read it on the way home, and read it again on your return. Have a blast on leave but promise each other that you will recover a good physical conditioning. Fifty push-ups, twenty pull-ups, run four eight-minute miles in boots, lots of fluids, and you’re ready.

  “Turn to page three. On your final Recondo patrol, be silent. Silence is the key. I want each of you to carry three feet of masking tape in your first-aid pack, and wrap all your movable steel before you cross the line of departure. We’ve done it before, but I diagrammed how you tape your LBE and your rifle. When you come out of tree line, move like old ghosts. Your mnemonic is ‘FORTY-EIGHT STEPS,’ for four eight-minute miles, Silence steel, Tape, Exercise Pull-ups, push-ups, Silence again. Gentlemen, I’m going to recognize all of you now.”

  I shook their hands, enjoying their smiles. I put my hand out and eight slapped on top. “Forty-eight steps. If you say it, do it.” They repeated it. I couldn’t look at them. I looked down. “I was honored to be your squad leader. I will miss you.” I took a breath. “Never forget how you pulled for each other. Never forget a brave lieutenant named Marco Matteo Fideli, a name that should always be a code to you to have good cheer under pressure. Good luck.”

  Owen Spanner came by my room after Graduation Parade to say goodbye. “First time I saw you, I thought you were a Chinese devil,” he said. “I was so scared. Man, I couldn’t believe you were gonna be my squad leader. I thought I’d died and gone to hell.” He licked his lips. “I think you saved my skinny Arkansas butt. I want to thank you.”