“No, Sir,” McCarron said.
“Sir, may I make a statement?” Jan asked.
“Yeah, go ahead, Miss Wishart.”
“Sir, we just returned from the lecture at Thayer Hall and we don’t know where the rest of the platoon went.”
“Oh, that’s easy. You’ll find them in the dayroom,” Trane said, before sauntering off.
The four women filed along the wall, pinging and squaring off until they reached the basement. They barged into the dayroom, Wright first, followed by Plowden, McCarron and then Jan.
The entire platoon sat on dilapidated couches and on the floor throughout the room. Dogety and the other Squad Leaders leaned against one wall. Jackson stood in the center of the room. “Oh look, men, it’s your female classmates, back from their special lecture,” he announced. “Nice of you females to join us.”
Jan saw Dogety shift his weight from one foot to the other. Jackson kept going, “But because you are late to MY lecture, you will have to wait outside in the hallway until we are finished.”
Hambin furrowed his brow. It was hard to tell what anyone else was thinking. She saw a mixture of satisfaction, confusion and perhaps distress on some faces.
“Did you hear me, females? OUT!” Jackson shouted.
Plowden exited immediately. But Jan, Wright and McCarron all stood fast for a moment longer before leaving. When Jan turned to go out of the door, she did her best “screw you” face and made sure everyone saw it.
The rest of the week dragged, with PT every morning, followed by room organizing, cleaning and inspections which resulted in more room organizing, cleaning and inspections. They reported to many formations every day for uniform, shoe, boot and personal hygiene inspections which resulted in more uniform, shoe, boot and personal hygiene inspections. They marched everywhere: to lectures at Eisenhower Hall, to the Mess Hall three times a day, and to The Plain for almost everything else. They were taught to disassemble, clean and reassemble their M-14s, and march with these heavy wooden rifles. “Right Shoulder, Arms!” “Order Arms!” “Port Arms!” and “Present Arms!” became familiar commands in less than one week.
Jan still wasn’t making the morning runs, but Jackson seemed to be unaware of it or just too busy harassing someone else. Either way, Jan didn’t mind the break from “Jackass,” as she began calling him.
The first weekend wasn’t a weekend. Every minute continued to be under the control of the cadre with only a couple of free hours Sunday morning for those who wanted to go to church. Jan never went to church before, so she didn’t see the point in starting that habit. She regretted the decision, however, when Cadet Dogety ordered the non-churchers to assemble in the day room for a boot shining lesson.
Jan’s luck with Jackson ran out when she fell out of another run in the second week, which made her late again to breakfast formation. He was waiting for her. “Wishart, you will begin remedial running tonight. Report to my room at 2100 hours in PT uniform.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And what’s for dinner?”
“Sir, for dinner we are having steak, baked potatoes, green beans, rolls, lemonade and Martha Washington Sheet Cake.”
“Wishart, you didn’t make the run again this morning. You better give careful thought to how much you eat.” His gaze moved down her body. “Running is much easier for thin people.”
Is he saying I’m fat? I’m not fat. Am I? “Yes, Sir.”
At dinner formation that evening, Dogety walked down the squad line, stopping in front of each new cadet. He asked them all the same question and wrote the answer on a clipboard. “Did you have a bowel movement this week, New Cadet?”
Why does he need to know that?
Everyone responded in the affirmative until Dogety reached her. “Wishart, did you have a bowel movement this week?” He didn’t look up from the clipboard.
Oh my God! “No, Sir.”
“No?”
“No, Sir.”
“Wishart, it’s been seven days.”
And what exactly do you want me to do about it?
“Wishart, you need to have a bowel movement. If you don’t have one in the next few days, you will have to go on sick call. And you don’t want to go on sick call. Sick call is for sissies.”
Are you shitting me?
“So, I expect to hear a ‘yes’ next time. Understand, Wishart?”
“Yes, Sir.” Jaysus.
Jan sat in the Dessert Corporal chair, the left end seat of the ten-person table. While holding up the cake, she announced, “Sir, the dessert for tonight is Martha Washington Sheet Cake! Does anyone not want Martha Washington Sheet Cake, Sir?”
“I don't want any,” Dogety stated. Jan could cut nine slices, one for each remaining new cadet at the table. However, because it was always easier to cut an even number and because Jackson implied she was fat, Jan chose to cut only eight slices.
Many new cadets designed a template for this task, but Jan eyeballed it. Each piece had to be exactly the same size and the cuts had to be smooth. She took her time knowing Dogety would inspect it. “What's taking so long, Wishart? Haven't you finished yet?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well, hurry up. We haven't got all night.”
“Yes, Sir.” She made one slice all the way down the center, cutting the cake in half. Then another cut right through the center of that line, making fourths. Then two more lines down the center of each quarter, making eight perfect pieces. The lines were straight, the pieces were even, but small pieces of cake had come up with the knife on each slice.
Can’t help that. She held the cake up and announced, “Sir, the dessert has been cut and is ready for inspection, Sir!” She passed it to the new cadet to her right who passed it to the next one and so on until it reached her Squad Leader.
Doegty’s face contorted as he inspected the cake. “New Cadet Wishart, you just butchered my Martha Washington Sheet Cake! How did you screw this up so badly?”
“No excuse, Sir!”
“Gawd, it’s been raped!” The table was silent as Dogety showed the Martha Washington Sheet Cake to Jackson at the next table. “Look what Wishart did to this poor cake.”
Cadet Jackson made a disgusted face and said, “Glad she’s not on my table, man.”
“Wishart, what were you thinking?”
“No excuse, Sir!”
“Damn straight, there’s no excuse. It's a good thing I didn't want any! Otherwise, I'd really be pissed off.”
Jan knocked twice on Cadet Jackson’s door at 2100 hours. “ENTER!” Jan opened the door but stood in the hallway.
She saluted and said, “Sir, New Cadet Wishart reporting as ordered.”
Jackson had been sitting at his desk. He stood up wearing the black shorts and white Academy crest t-shirt. Then he sat back down on his bed to put on his socks and running shoes. He stood up again, walked to the sink counter and combed his hair. Then he brushed his teeth. He finally whisked past Jan and said, “Follow me, Wishart.”
In darkness, he led her across Central Area, past The Plain, onto the road that runs all the way up to Lusk Reservoir. He stopped just past the statue of Eisenhower. “Wishart, we are going to run every night until you start staying in the morning formations. This will not only build your stamina, it will give you incentive to finish the runs with the platoon. And it may help with your weight problem.”
They began running. Jackson talked about the great ones of West Point: Grant, Lee, Pershing, Patton, MacArthur and Eisenhower. “They are turning in their graves now,” he said, “because you are here.”
Jan said nothing, thinking about her classmates shining their boots, memorizing poop, or finishing other duties.
“These great ones who came before us—their honor, their sacrifice and their spirit—are still here,” he continued, “but you are tarnishing that legacy.”
Jan remained silent.
“And it’s my duty now, and the duty of all of us in the Long Gray Line, to ensure that thi
s legacy remains unsullied.”
Not a word.
“You will not make a mockery of this great institution.”
Silence.
“Do you understand me, Wishart?”
Damn. A question. “Yes, Sir.” And she did understand. She understood that Jackson was a freaking asshole.
They ran for three miles and returned the back way, coming to a walk at the underpass behind the Mess Hall. This was a noisy, bustling hub of activity during the day, but at that time of night, it was deserted and dimly lit. They reached a spot between the streetlights where it was completely dark.
“Halt, Miss Wishart.”
Jan stopped. Uh-oh. She couldn’t see a thing. Not Jackson, not the loading docks which were on the right, nor the solid rock wall on her left. But she heard him circling around her.
“It gets dark in battle, Wishart.” He continued to circle in a wide arc, probably five feet away from her. “Sometimes you won’t be able to see anything. You can’t see the battlefield, you can’t see your commanders, you can’t see your troops and you certainly can’t see the enemy.”
No question. No response.
“This is what it’s going to be like, Wishart,” he continued. “You’re gonna find yourself all alone in the dark.”
No question. No response.
“Are you scared, Wishart?”
Dammit. “No, Sir.”
“No?” He stopped circling. He remained silent for what seemed like a minute but might have only been twenty seconds. Then she felt him right behind her and she tensed. He leaned toward her left ear and whispered, “because in the dark you have no idea who’s gonna sneak up on you.”
No question. No response.
“ARE YOU SCARED, WISHART?”
She jumped. “NO, SIR!” But she was, actually.
He stepped back away from her. “Well, you should be, Wishart. You should be very afraid. Because in the time it took to have this little chat, you would have been killed in combat. Or worse.”
Then she heard him take off running. He left her there alone in the dark to contemplate the worse part.
7
Thursday, May 6, 1982
2140 hours
Jan pinged back to her barracks, straight to Cadet Trane’s room. She knocked twice, not loudly, not softly.
“Yeah!” A masculine voice yelled from inside. Jan opened the door but stayed standing in the hall.
“Sir, may I ask a question?” Trane sat on his bed in gym shorts and a white t-shirt. He was older than most firsties, very old in fact. He left enlisted ranks to enter West Point at the age of twenty-one. Now, at twenty-five, he was considered the “Grandfather” in H-3. But what made him special to Jan was that he openly dated a female cadet.
Her name was Cadet Williams, from Company I-3, another tall redhead. But Williams had curly hair, almost fuzzy, unlike Jan’s straight hair. Williams also had enormous breasts. Too big, Jan thought, for a woman in uniform. And while Williams was mildly attractive, Jan didn’t like her. Probably because she felt Cadet Trane could do better. Cadet Williams probably has a great personality. Then again, it could be the boobs…
Jan wished she had been in Trane’s class. She felt certain she could have turned his head away from Cadet Williams, even without the boobs.
Trane was about six feet and probably weighed in the vicinity of one hundred and eighty pounds. He had the face of a thirty-something year old: seasoned, strong, yet a little soft around the edges. His hair was light brown, perhaps even slightly gray at the temples. He had a muscular build, without being over the top. It seemed he just came with that strong, wide chest, as opposed to having earned it in the gym. His lovely chest narrowed down to a perfectly tight waist. Funny, women look for similar traits in men—big chests and small waists. Yet, the most attractive thing to me is kindness.
Cadet Trane was kind, Jan could tell. Even when he hazed plebes, he did it with a slight smile. He never seemed to enjoy the yelling and screaming, as if hazing was beneath his personal standards of decorum.
Dating Cadet Williams, openly and unabashedly, gave him the most credibility. In Jan’s estimation, he must have some sympathy or understanding for female cadets.
“Have they acquitted you yet?” he asked.
“No, Sir. Doesn’t look like that will happen.”
“Well, then, what can I do you for?” He often sounded like an old First Sergeant, the way he said things.
“Sir, I am allowed to have one cadet of my choosing to sit with me on the Honor Board, to provide support and advice, but I cannot ask anyone who is involved or will testify, so that rules out McCarron and Trane, and I cannot ask Cadet Hambin either, so, Sir, that leaves you.” She took a deep breath.
“Whoa, there, Kemosabe. Slow down and run that by me again.” Jan made her request again, calmer and slower. “Wait, are you asking me to be your cadet counsel at your Honor Board?” Trane asked.
“Yes, Sir. I think you would be very helpful to me.”
“You do realize, Miss Wishart, that we are about to enter final exam week?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you do realize that being on an Honor Board takes a considerable amount of time?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And do you realize that if I become your cadet counsel for your Honor Board, there is a good chance I will not study adequately for my final exams and therefore jeopardize my own grade point average and put my own graduation in peril?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So you are asking me to sacrifice my well-being for your well-being, is that it, Miss Wishart?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. I hate goddamn exam week anyway. When do we start?”
“0800 hours tomorrow, room 413, Mahan Hall.”
“Great, let’s do it.” This is why she was in love with Cadet Trane.
Jan returned to her room, changed into her shower uniform—gray polyester bathrobe over flip-flops with towel folded over one arm—and proceeded to the latrines. Alone in the white-tiled room, she turned on one of the six shower heads, removed her bathrobe, and hung it on one of the six hooks lined up on the opposite wall. She stepped under the hot spray of water and let it soak through her thick, short, straight, red hair. She opened the shampoo bottle and squeezed a dollop onto her palm and rubbed the gelatinous substance all through her hair until it became a big wad of foam. She massaged her scalp, neck, ears and face before tilting her head back under the water spray. The white bubbles cascaded down her face and neck, over her breasts, stomach, hips and thighs. She watched as the foaming stream continued its journey down her long legs and onto the white tiled floor where it swirled around in circles until it found the drain. The churning bubbles seemed to say, “There’s an inevitability to things.” Jan sensed the bubbly flow speaking to her, “Water flows downstream, not up. Gravity pulls objects to the earth, not away. Honor Boards bend toward finding guilt, not innocence.”
The laws of the universe were not going to change for her. Two hundred years of brotherhood would not step aside so she could pass. Only one thing could change the tide. Jan wept huge, silent tears of anger, frustration and defeat, for she knew she didn’t deserve a miracle.
“Kristi, no matter what happens, just tell the truth tomorrow,” Jan said after Taps had played over the Corps-wide PA system. The three roommates lay awake in bed with the lights out.
“I will, Jan. I just wish I had looked more closely at you Monday morning. I wish I had noticed something was wrong and asked you about it before the day slipped away,” Kristi said.
“You had no way of knowing anything. Hell, I had no idea he would bring honor charges on me. I should have. He had to cover his ass.”
“Jan, if they find you guilty, I’m going to talk to my dad.” Kristi meant her step-dad, the man who raised her.
“Okay. I’m sure he will be helpful.” Jan figured Kristi would seek his counsel, comfort, or wisdom as any good father would provide.
“Y
eah, I think he will be able to do something. What good is a presidential appointment if you can’t use it once in a while?” Kristi said.
Jan hadn’t fully computed Kristi’s last sentence when Angel chimed in, “Kristi, is your dad in politics?”
“Not really. He was a business man before being appointed as an ambassador.”
“Your dad’s an ambassador?” Jan asked the question, but it came out more like a shocking statement.
“Yeah, didn’t I ever tell you guys that?” Kristi asked.
“Uh, no, you neglected to mention that fun little fact,” Jan said.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you knew. My real dad died in Vietnam. I told you that, right?”
“Yes, you told me that, but you never mentioned that your step-father is a freaking ambassador? To Germany, I suppose?” Jan couldn’t believe it.
“Yup.” Kristi said like it was no big deal.
“Jesus H. Christ, Kissy, all this time I had no idea you were so high up the food chain,” Jan said.
“Well, it’s really not that glamorous. But still, I do hope he can help out if things go badly here,” Kristi said.
“Thanks, Kissy, but if I am found guilty, there’s NO way I would stay, with or without your dad’s influence. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but think about it, Kissy.”
A guilty verdict from an Honor Board was rarely overturned, although the Superintendent had the authority to do so. The few cadets who did return to the Corps after being found guilty of an honor violation basically lived in solitary confinement. Most other cadets would not have anything to do with the dishonored cadet. The “get-over” would room alone, eat alone and study alone. It was only slightly milder than the old silencing when cadets found guilty of honor and returned to the Corps, for whatever reason, were segregated completely into separate barracks, classes, formations and meals. “There’s no future for me here if this thing goes badly,” Jan said.
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