Gray Girl

by Susan I. Spieth

  Cadet Seymour, the Fourth Regimental Honor Captain spoke up. “Casey, I would prefer to ask questions as we hear the witness testify. Should we wait until after dinner before Markus continues?”

  “Well, we need to get as much done as we can. If a question cannot wait until later, then of course, ask it. Otherwise, let’s allow Cadet Jackson to speak uninterrupted.” Conrad nodded to Jackson. “Markus, please continue.”

  Jackson took another deep breath and resumed his testimony. “Sam and I waited in the CQ room for Cadet Wishart. When she reported, we asked her about the routing envelope. Did she open it? Did she read our messages? Where are those pages now? Did she write the new note? Or did she know how the new note came to be in the envelope?”

  Jan remembered it a little differently. Jackson continued, “She replied in the negative to all our questions. She didn’t open the envelope. She didn’t read our notes, she didn’t write the new note, and she didn’t have any idea how our messages were replaced by the new note. She denied knowing anything about it.”

  “Of course, we thought she HAD to have known something.” He went on, “so we continued to ask her questions. Did she have the routing envelope in her possession at all times? Did she leave it at any point, at any place, in between trips to our rooms? Could she think of anyone who might have been able to open the envelope?” Jan saw a slight smirk on his face as he spoke.

  “She said she had the envelope at all times, she did not have it out of her possession at any point. And no, she could not think of anyone who had access to the envelope.” Cadet Jackson took another deep breath. “So you see, she denied having any knowledge of what happened to our messages and she denied writing the new note. YET, the envelope was in her custody the whole time. Obviously, something wasn’t quite right.”

  Finally Cadet Seymour interrupted, “Was anyone else in the room to witness this questioning of Cadet Wishart?”

  “Sam Dogety was there.”

  “I mean anyone else?”

  “No, just us,” Jackson said.

  “What time did this questioning occur?” Seymour asked again.

  “This was, oh, about 2100 hours, I guess,” Jackson admitted.

  “Okay, so it’s an hour and a half after study hours have begun,” Seymour clarified.

  “Yes, but…”

  “And did you consider that Miss Wishart might need to be studying, instead of being interrogated by two firsties during study hours?” Jan hoped Seymour was on to something.

  “Yes, I have already said we were wrong on that account. But that doesn’t excuse her for lying!” Jackson had raised his voice.

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right, is that it?” She began to like Seymour right then.

  “Look, we were wrong. But we did not lie about it,” Jackson reiterated more calmly.

  Conrad interrupted, “I think we need to stop for now. We will meet back here at 1930 hours and continue to hear testimony until 2200 hours this evening. I want to remind everyone that these proceedings are strictly confidential. You cannot and will not speak to anyone about anything that has transpired in this room. If there are no further questions,” he didn’t wait for anyone to ask any, “dismissed.”

  Jan turned to her legal counsel, Major Hastings, “Any advice, Sir?” Legal counsel at Honor Boards could not speak during the “trial.” He could only offer guidance and advice to the accused cadet.

  Hastings said, “Well, you have already admitted that the routing envelope never went out of your sight, right?”

  “Well, I did write that in my statement, but….”

  “Then I’m afraid there’s not much more I can say.”

  Well, that’s helpful. Jan waited until he turned to leave before rolling her eyes again.

  Jan’s roommates waited anxiously while she removed her Dress Gray hat and flopped down on her bed. They had fifteen minutes before dinner formation.

  “Well? How’s it going?” Kristi asked.

  “Swimmingly.” Jan closed her eyes. “It’s not good, Kissy.”

  Kristi McCarron, the long-haired, new cadet Jan saw in the barber shop on R-day, also ended up in Company H-3. They became roommates second semester along with Jan’s first semester roommate Angel Trane. “If it comes down to his word against yours, they can’t find you guilty. He doesn’t have proof that you lied, just as you don’t have proof that you’re telling the truth.” Kristi always saw things in the best possible light.

  “He has proof that the original notes are missing and a new note showed up in its place,” Jan said. “He has proof that only I had the envelope between his room and Dogety’s. He has proof that I was previously insubordinate. But most importantly, he’s a firstie, about to graduate, and five of his classmates are on the Honor Board.” The plebe women sat in silence, contemplating “winning” against these odds.

  Kristi practically shouted, “Well, don’t go down without a fight. When I testify, I’m going to tell what assholes they have been to you. I’m going to tell everything they have done to mess you over. I’m going to insinuate, very subtly of course, that they schemed this whole thing up just to get rid of you.”

  “Oh good, because subtlety is your strong suit.” Jan watched Kristi’s face fall. “I’m sorry, Kissy. I just don’t feel very positive right now.”

  “It’s okay,” Kristi said softly. “This has to be killing you.”

  “You know, I had to talk myself into not quitting all year and now that I’m in jeopardy of being kicked out, I’m trying like hell to stay.” She paused before adding, “I mean, I could accept failing out or even getting booted for breaking too may rules or something cool like that. But getting kicked out for an honor violation? That would mean a life sentence of shame. I can’t go home that way. I could never face my father again.”

  Angel, a petite black woman from somewhere in New York City, chimed in. “This is a spiritual battle, Jan. You have to fight it with prayer.” Jan looked at Kristi with her lips slightly askew. “Jesus will give you the strength to fight the demons.”

  Despite Angel’s religiosity, Jan felt deeply grateful for two roommates who still believed in her. Other classmates had already started distancing themselves. She could feel their avoidance and their abhorrence—a common reaction to anyone undergoing an Honor Board. Most would never know what really happened, but simply being “charged with honor” caused most everyone to back away. An honor charge at West Point gave you social leprosy.

  “Gee Angel, I knew Jackson and Dogety were jerks, but I didn’t realize they were demons,” she smiled and winked at Kristi.

  The plebe women rushed outside to dinner formation. As soon as Jan fell in her squad line, Dogety marched up and stood directly in front of her. Barely above a whisper, he asked, “What’s happening at the Honor Board, Miss Wishart?”

  “Sir, I cannot talk about it.” She kept her eyes straight ahead, focusing on his chin.

  “I know you can’t tell me specifics, but how’s it going in general?” His voice quivered slightly.

  “It’s an Honor Board, Sir. It’s going.” She refused to give him one ounce of information, especially because he refused to make a statement. “But, Sir, I would feel more hopeful if you would submit a statement.”

  He paused. Breathed in, then out. “I wish I could do that, Miss Wishart, but I can’t.”

  Why? Because you’re a coward? Or because you want me gone?

  “Well, Sir, I will cross examine everyone who testifies.” He would have to answer her questions in person if not in writing.

  “I know, Wishart. I know,” Dogety said softly before walking away.

  After dinner, Jan brushed her teeth while standing over the sink in her room. As she rinsed the toothpaste from her mouth, a folded piece of paper flew under the door. She turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and dried her hands before stooping down to pick up the paper. It said “Jan” on one side in familiar handwriting. She flung open the door and looked up and down the hallway. The courie
r was gone.

  SKIP, an anonymous pen pal of sorts, and Jan had been corresponding all year. She didn’t know SKIP’s identity, which drove her crazy sometimes. She had narrowed him down to a male cadet in her battalion, one out of about four hundred. She was getting close.

  She unfolded the paper and read,

  Jan,

  Please, please tell me what the honor charges are. I HAVE TO KNOW…no details, just the basic charges—when and what date. All I’ve heard is that Jackson accused you of lying. Please give me a little more information—ASAP! This cannot wait. Write it now and tape it to your door. I’ll come get it later.

  I’m praying for you. Please be careful and keep me posted.

  SKIP

  Jan knew speaking about the details of the Honor Board was forbidden. But what about writing? Was that also not allowed? Probably. But shit, what’s the worst they can do to me?? Still, she would not say or write too much.

  SKIP,

  Jackson says I lied about what happened Sunday night and again Monday morning in his room. That’s all I can tell you. I didn’t do anything wrong, but he seems to have the better case. Dogety won’t back me up. I am screwed. You will probably need to find another pen pal.

  Jan

  4

  “Experience has shown that a few new cadets will find the initial days of West Point a difficult period of adjustment, and a very small number may lose sight of their goals and decide to resign.”

  From Candidate Letter by Commandant of Cadets, May 1981

  Jan received orders to have a Full Physical Exam at Fort Devens in February. The paper said she would receive a “pelvic exam,” which she interpreted to mean someone would check that her hips worked properly. Her mother tried to clue her in, saying they would take a peek “down there” and maybe feel for anything abnormal.

  When she felt a cold metal thing opening her vagina and pushing up inside her, she realized she had been woefully misinformed. Two assistants, acting as official knee holders, kept her legs apart. They told her to relax, but she certainly could not relax, not while the man in the white coat was down there. Jan tightened every muscle in her body, trying to relax. And just when it felt like her ovaries were being ripped out, the only other woman in the room snapped, “Quit moving! The more you fight it, the longer it will take!”

  The white coat man finally withdrew the gut apparatus, but then inserted his fingers down there, with one hand, and used the other to press more on her lower abdomen. Then, he stuck another thing in her ass.

  The awful ordeal finally ended, but Jan seemed to be in some sort of trance as she dressed. She could feel something seeping out of her, like a period, when she stood up. But it wasn’t a period.

  She waddled slowly back out to the waiting area and met her red-faced parents. They seemed embarrassed by what they all knew had taken place. For the first time in her life, she realized that there were many things they had not told her.

  Beast barracks served to further Jan’s education in the harsh realities of life. On the day after R-Day, well before sunrise, Cadet Dogety slammed open their door open and screamed, “GET UP, BEANHEADS! You got five minutes to get dressed and report outside for PT formation!”

  Jan and her new roommate flew into their Physical Training uniforms—black shorts, white t-shirts with a black Academy crest over the left breast and brand new black Army boots over tube socks. The cadre wore the same outfits; only their black shorts, black Academy crest and black Army boots had all dulled to gray.

  After rushing to pee and brushing their teeth, the new cadets pinged outside to The Apron. “Pinging” was the term for speed-walking that all new cadets were required to do wherever they went. Imagine Charlie Chaplin in fast, fast forward.

  A gray, morning mist lingered among the ranks as they stood at attention on this large concrete slab facing The Plain. Jan wondered if everything was either gray or turning gray at West Point.

  Squad leaders reported to Platoon Leaders, who reported to Company Commanders, who reported to Battalion Commanders who reported to the Beast Commander: “All present or accounted for.” Apparently no one left in the night. The Stars and Stripes rose to the top of a flagpole while someone played a bugle. It sounds kind of like a rooster which would make sense this early in the morning. She took a deep breath, smelling the mixture of freshly mowed grass and the new leather of her boots.

  Jan stood in the center of Fourth Squad, Second Platoon, Sixth Cadet Basic Training Company. She could see her roommate, New Cadet Wright, ahead in Third Squad. First and Second Squads also had one female each.

  “Second Platoon! Right, face!” Everyone turned crisply to the right in one quick move. “Forward, march!”

  “Left, right, left! Left, right, left.” Cadet Jackson, Second Platoon Sergeant, called cadence and kept everyone in step while marching onto The Plain. Four-foot tall platforms had been evenly dispersed on the huge, flat, grass field between the Hudson River and the grand, gray, gothic, Washington Hall. Sixth Company stopped in front of two platforms. “Right, face!” “Open ranks, March!”

  The new cadets unceremoniously spread out across The Plain, screaming and shouting as they separated about five feet from each other in all directions. Sixth Company centered on the two platforms and Jan stood smack in the middle, front row.

  Firsties leaped onto the platforms and began instructing the new cadets in Army exercises. “The Side Straddle Hop!” they shouted in unison before demonstrating what looked like Jumping Jacks. “One-two-three, ONE! One, two, three, TWO! One, two, three, THREE!” the firsties shouted as their arms went up, legs apart on counts one and three. Their arms came down, legs together on counts two and the last number.

  “Sixth Company! Side Straddle Hop, in cadence, exercise!” The new cadets began doing jumping jacks in unison. “One, two, three, ONE! One, two, three, TWO!” Jan figured they’d do about twenty-five or so and then move on to the next drill. “One, two, three, THIRTY!”

  Okay, I think we got it now.

  “One, two, three, FORTY!”

  Ah, shit, that’s enough already.

  The firsties’ count changed tone, signaling the last Side Straddle Hop, “One, two, three, FIFTY!”

  Thank God! That was just the first exercise.

  The firsties led Sixth Company in many more drills, using the same two for one count. Just when the new cadets seemed sufficiently worn down, a new set of firsties took over the platform duties. The non-demonstrating cadre patrolled up and down the ranks making sure no one slacked off. This rotation ensured the leaders never got tired, while every ounce of energy drained from the new cadets.

  Sit-ups, push-ups, leg lifts, body twists, side straddle hops, followed by more of the same. Almost an hour of non-stop, in-place drills—intended to build the body—by wearing it down completely.

  Jan was in fairly good physical shape. She was an athlete—having played field hockey, basketball and softball throughout high school. Yet, she never experienced anything like West Point PT. Just when her body could not do one more leg lift, they formed back into squads by platoons by companies. “Who’s gonna carry my Guidon?” Cadet Jackson asked.

  “Guidon?” Jan wondered as her roommate’s hand shot up.

  “New Cadet Wright, post!” Wright stepped out of Third Squad and ran to the front of the platoon. Jackson handed her the pole with Second Platoon’s flag.

  Apparently that’s a Guidon. And apparently, “post,” means “get your ass over here!”

  In one long line, all ten companies marched off The Plain and onto Thayer Road. Once on the pavement, they heard, “Quick time, march!” Everyone started running in step. The new cadets echoed Cadet Jackson’s singing cadence. Like a drumbeat, it kept everyone in step.

  Mama mama can't you see, what the Army's done to me?

  They put me in a barber's chair, spun me ‘round, had no hair.

  Mama mama can't you see, what the Army's done to me?

  They took away my favorite jeans
, now I'm wearing Army greens.

  Mama mama can't you see, what the Army's done to me?

  I used to date a beauty queen, now I love my M16.

  Mama mama can't you see, what the Army's done to me?

  I used to drive a Cadillac, now I carry it on my back.

  Jan did not sing. She needed all her breath just to run. She ran all the time playing field hockey and basketball in high school, but distance running in formation was an entirely new experience for her. Dammit. I didn’t prepare enough for this. She felt herself losing pace. Please, please hang on. Just stay with the herd.

  The self-talk didn’t help. She kept falling out of step with the platoon and the guy behind her began slapping at her heels. He finally ran around her, taking her spot.

  “Wishart, move out of the formation if you cannot keep up!” Jackson shouted. She saw Cadet Dogety at the front of the squad shake his head in seeming disgust.

  Oh God, not this. Not on the first run! But it was too late. She veered off to the right, just beside the formation. The platoon passed her. Then the rest of the company rushed by her. She kept running on the sidewalk, hoping to catch back up, but then Seventh Company began passing.

  Now she was the worst kind of new cadet—a “Straggler.” Jan felt her cheeks redden with shame as she hung her head and hoped no one would remember her face. Standing out for the wrong reason at West Point was the last thing anyone ever wanted. While she plugged away on the sidewalk, another passing platoon began singing a variance of the previous cadence.

  Mama mama can't you see, look at that Straggler next to me?

  Leave her behind, we don't care, go on home, you don't belong here.

  Mama mama can't you see, the Army ain't your cup of tea?

  They took away your favorite jeans, and you ain’t fit for Army greens.

  Mama mama can't you see, what the Army's sent to me?

  She used to be a beauty queen, but she can't shoot an M16.