by Dennis Foley
“Glad to see you are with us and awake, Hayes,” Russell said, looking over Hayes’ head at the others above and behind him.
Again, Scotty didn’t know what he should say to Russell’s remark. Or if he should say anything at all. He started to say a mollifying “Yes, Sergeant,” and then checked himself for fear sure to create more problems for him.
“Hayes,” Russell said, shifting his focus to Scotty. “I think we just might be able to keep you awake if we give you a little added responsibility.” He looked at the others and added, “Not like your day’s already filled with it.”
The others laughed nervously.
Scotty didn’t know what Russell was getting at, but he knew it wasn’t going to be good. Again, he opted to say nothing.
“Turn around, Hayes.”
Scotty turned to face his platoon, still standing at attention in the small bleachers.
“Hayes, I want you to take charge of this gaggle here. Then, get them into a marching formation behind the bleachers—ready to double-time home.”
Scotty stood mute.
“You got that, Hayes?”
Scotty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t know anything about giving drill commands to soldiers. What was Russell trying to do? Was he just trying to find new ways to embarrass him? That had to be it. But why? Up till then he’d been sure Russell was just singling him out to ridicule him or amuse himself. But asking him to give drill commands was sure to make him look like the biggest fool in the training regiment. Why couldn’t he just yell at Scotty? Or make him do pushups? Why did he have to make him perform like a trained seal?
“Well?” Russell asked. “What are you waiting for, Hayes? You’ve been in and out of enough military formations by now to know how it’s done. So do it, Hayes. Just do it. And do it now!”
Scotty felt panic clamp onto his chest. More sweat ran from his armpits down his sides to his beltline inside his fatigue shirt. He’d never been in charge of anyone, and certainly not a group of soldiers. He’d never even spoken to any group other than a book report he had to do in the ninth grade. And then the fear of public speaking almost caused him to throw up before the class.
They were all looking at him. Everyone in the training area was watching to see him make an idiot out of himself. Nearby, NCOs were elbowing each other to make sure no one missed Hayes’ performance. And Scotty knew in a fraction of a second Russell was sure to yell at him again.
He tried to gather his thoughts. He tried to remember what the commands were to get the job done. Attention? No, that couldn’t be it. They were already at standing at attention. Fall out? No. That couldn’t be it either. That would only get them out of the bleachers—then what? They were still looking at him, daring him to screw up again.
Russell leaned forward, his face mere inches from Hayes’ ear and whispered, “Try ‘At my command, fall to the rear of the bleachers and reform for movement.’”
Scotty’s mouth was dry. He felt his tongue thicken. He repeated Russell’s words. But they did nothing.
“Louder! They can’t hear you, Miss Hayes.”
He tried it again. Louder, this time. “At my command, fall to the rear of the bleachers and reform!”
Still nothing.
Russell leaned over to Scotty again and added: “Now, give them the command to fall out.”
Scotty took a deep breath and forcefully bellowed, “Fall out!”
The platoon leaped out of the bleachers and ran to the rear where they quickly reassembled into a platoon formation of four uniformly neat ranks all standing at attention, one man precisely behind the man in front of him, waiting for the next command—just as they had been taught since the very first week.
Scotty was stunned. They did it. They did what he told them. And they did it perfectly. And they did it because he gave them the command.
“Hayes?”
Scotty didn’t know what Russell wanted and he expected harsh criticism. He ventured a neutral reply, “Yes, Sergeant.”
“What are you waiting for, son? They’re over there—behind the bleachers. And you’re here. Now get your ass over there and take command of my platoon so you can march them back to the company area.”
Chapter 3
IT WAS STILL WEEKS BEFORE the colors would burst and the New York rolling hills overlooking the Hudson River would put on a display of golds, reds and brilliant yellows. It wasn’t cold enough for a top coat, but those days were coming soon as the academic year had began to spool up in earnest.
Preoccupied by his thoughts and barely aware of those around him, Major Eldon Haywood Pascoe exited Thayer Hall. He started his walk home, to his Army quarters on the other side of West Point’s huge manicured parade field known by every cadet and every graduate as The Plain.
His regular path to and from work took him along the concrete walk overlooking the river, around Trophy Point and past the flagpole holding the huge Post Flag still up until the end of the duty day.
The sidewalk outside the building was awash in the bodies of cadets in motion and faculty members all rushing to be somewhere else. To the man, they all moved with a purpose, as they had been trained to do from the first day they entered West Point as lowly new cadets.
The mass of student cadets and a few junior officers he passed each snapped sharp salutes to the tall, angular Army major. Pascoe returned the salutes as if on autopilot but failed to utter the appropriate responses to the frequent, “Good afternoon, sirs” from those saluting him. It was the first time he had failed to do so since his own cadet days thirteen years earlier. Neither did he make eye contact with more than a few of the dozens of officers and cadets rendering him the traditional courtesy.
As he let his gaze drift downward from the faces of other officers passing him he was reminded of the disparity evident in the number of combat ribbons on the blouses of many of his peers and the absence of any on his own chest. Each day since graduating from the Military Academy he had regretted taking the option of going on to graduate school while his classmates went directly to the Korean War.
So many of their blouses were brilliantly colored by decorations for gallantry in battle, wounds received in combat and awards for excellence in the most demanding of leadership roles. His own ribbons were for meritorious service—none of it in combat. His proudest insignia of accomplishment was the silver aviator’s badge he had earned at flight school.
He had often rationalized his actions, his less than aggressive efforts to join his classmates in Korea, by telling himself he couldn’t have known Korea was going to turn out to be a war instead of a police action. Neither could he have known the level of respect shown to his classmates who had distinguished themselves there.
He distanced himself from the crowd that thinned as he got farther from the center of the campus on his way to his quarters. On The Plain cadets were already formed up in rehearsals for the coming Saturday’s parade—a weekly ritual. For a moment he was reminded of his time on the same grassy field. It didn’t feel all that long ago. Suddenly, he was aware of the cadets who had stopped as had the cars along the road encircling The Plain—each driver getting out and standing at attention alongside his car turning his attention to the Post flag.
It was the end of the duty day. The six-man color guard at the base of the flagpole began the ritual of firing the salute cannon and lowering the flag as the bugler played Retreat.
Pascoe stopped to join the others standing silently, saluting while his country’s flag moved slowly down the mast to the waiting hands of soldiers dressed in pressed, polished and perfectly fitting uniforms.
He held his salute, listened to the bugle call and felt a tingle of patriotism in his chest which always accompanied such ceremonies as old as soldiering itself. If someone were to tell him within three years that very same flag would be burned and spit upon in the streets of America he would have laughed at them.
Only a six-minute walk took him the rest of the way to his quarters. The
Retreat ceremony was completed, the flag perfectly folded and retired for the day.
He entered his antebellum quarters by crossing the white column-flanked porch, which took him through the heavy and ornate front door. Immediately inside the door something on a small table caught his eye. He was irritated to find Karen’s dirty gardening gloves tossed carelessly on the table. This served to lower Pascoe’s mood even more. It wasn’t just the gloves. It was the fact she just tossed them on that table. The table holding the tray—the silver tray where official visitors left their calling cards.
Calling cards were another tradition in the old Army and still lived on at West Point. But again the symbolism was lost on Karen. The gloves were just another reminder of how he kept failing to impress upon her the importance of decorum and tradition at West Point. A major’s wife did not leave gardening implements in the foyer. And Eldon Pascoe’s wife certainly wouldn’t leave dirty tools there.
It bothered him the way she always treated the Army as if it was just a part-time job he would soon leave and go on to find a real career. She didn’t get it. He had always wanted to be a West Point grad and an Army officer. He had told her many times the Army was where he intended to stay and where he would excel. It was his career, his calling and not just a job for him until something better came along. At least those where his goals until that morning.
His arm on the oak balustrade, he leaned across it and craned his neck toward the second floor landing, “Karen?”
No answer.
Still trying to set an example, he took off his service cap and carefully placed it squarely on the top of the hall tree on his way past the bead-board skirt of the sweeping staircase to the butler’s pantry tucked behind it.
The pantry was an early 19th Century relic of a time when servants staged entire dinner parties from its cramped confines. The pantry separated the kitchen from the large formal dining room. The service area was complete with glass cabinetry to hold the family’s china and silver, good linens and serving dishes.
In those earlier days the household staff readied meals on the new oak surfaces and lined up everything to be served, cleared or refreshed from the long narrow room lit only by gas lamps and a single window at one end.
Pascoe scanned the cluster of liquor bottles crammed into the corner of the countertop. He had told Karen more than once they looked disorganized and to him—sloppy.
As much as he wanted a drink, he was compelled to rearrange the bottles, taller ones in the back, shorter ones in front, equal spacing between them, labels all facing him and readable. He took half a step back and checked his work before pulling his favorite brand of single-malt scotch from the huddled collection.
The top unscrewed, he reached for a glass and was pleased to find the tumblers on the shelf above in neat rows and ranks, upside down, ready to be pressed into service—just how he had left them the night before. He poured half a tumbler full of scotch. No ice, no water, no soda. He gulped most of the contents in one swallow.
Pascoe leaned against the counter and dropped his head, his chin nearly touching his chest. Deep in thought, enjoying the warming feeling of the scotch, he was unaware Karen had entered the far end of the pantry.
“Eldon, honey. What’s wrong?”
He looked at her. She stood confidently, wearing a light turtleneck sweater under her bib overalls. The baggy form of the denim couldn’t conceal her tiny waist—a cheerleader’s body. A body which would never suggest she had just passed her thirty-third birthday.
His peers and superiors thought she was cute, perky and playful. He’d heard the word delightful used too often for him to feel comfortable about it. They considered her an asset. He refused to accept the notion that her sex appeal and personality might have added some modicum of job security to his career. He preferred to think that all he had achieved was the fruit of his hard work and dedicated performance of duty. He had appreciated how once outside their home she had never embarrassed him, but she still didn’t consider herself part of the Army’s family.
Pascoe had known officers whose careers ended because of completely inappropriate behavior on the part of their wives. And there were those who failed to get promotions because their wives didn’t fit the mold. Field grade officer’s wives were defined by very strict standards. Those who didn’t meet them could compound the problems of a mediocre officer’s career.
Karen’s appeal was not how he wanted to become tenured. The fact she had a cute little behind other men admired had ceased being a source of pride to him and often provoked feelings of jealousy. He had to guard against his growing compulsion to confront other officers who stole a desirous glance at her for fear it could be blown out of proportion. Once out of proportion, an incident could end up mentioned in a performance report where any negative comment could be career ending.
He knew her appearance alone didn’t guarantee him a place in the Army, but he suspected there were instances where her attractiveness might have resulted in invitations they might not have received had he been married to a woman with a less attractive body. Anyone who didn’t know him well would assume their frequent appearances at social and official functions were a sign he was on the right track and was someone to watch, someone on his way up.
He took another drink and refused to put the thought out of his mind. He was convinced he was young to be a major and selected to teach at West Point because of his competence, not because of the size of her breasts. “Karen, you left your gloves on the hall table.”
She ignored his comment and offered a neutral reply. “Honey, I didn’t hear you come in. I’m so glad you’re home.” She raised a small basket. “I’ve decided what we should do this weekend is go have ourselves a nice picnic before the weather gets ugly again.”
He refused to reply to her silly suggestion. He picked up the bottle. “I don’t suppose you want a drink.”
“No,” she answered. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
He tilted the bottle, pleased to find the amount he poured stopped exactly at the point he had intended it to—at the glass’ midline. He raised the drink to his lips and sipped slowly, controlled, focused.
“Well, when you want to tell me whatever’s bothering you, I’ll be in the kitchen, Eldon.”
“Harris showed me my fitness report today. He crucified me. That worthless bastard!”
“Your what?”
“My Efficiency Report.”
She waved her hand as if shooing his comment away. “Oh, don’t be silly. Nobody cares about those kind of things. I used to get them all the time when I worked at Kroger’s, before we were married. It was just a joke around the store —”
“Karen, we’ve been married ten years and you still don’t know a goddamn thing about the Army. Would it kill you to learn something about what I do? You and your picnic baskets and flower arrangements. Don’t you ever pay attention to anything? Don’t you know what this means? How important this is to my future?”
“Well, I may not know everything about the Army, but I don’t see how a silly old supervisor’s rating can be all that bad.”
“Because it isn’t a max report! Because it isn’t first tier. Because it doesn’t say I walk on water. I don’t get anything but the highest ratings. I won’t settle for less. And I won’t accept less from him or anyone else.”
She always did know the point at which it was better for her to be silent and he had crossed the mark. “I’m sorry, Eldon. I didn’t know you and Colonel Harris weren’t getting along.”
“Neither did I. Asshole. Who does he think he is giving me a report like that? He’s a goddamn campus rat. He’s been here what, six years, teaching history and he’s going to give me a shitty report?
“We’ll see about this. I’ll shove my report up his ass before I’m through.” He poured still another drink and Karen left the pantry without saying another word or making a sound.
Pascoe sat in the straight-back chair in front of Leggett’s desk and waited for
him to get off the phone. Pascoe looked around the office to fill the time. Offices for instructors at West Point were interesting amalgams of academic and military trappings.
Leggett’s was no different. Bound volumes of classic books related to instruction stood in regimented, perfectly arranged bookcases flanked by colorful enameled wall plaques representing the unit insignia of some previous posts Leggett held. His desktop sported a pipe rack holding Meerschaums and handmade briars in precise upright ranks near a large brass ashtray crafted from a spent artillery shell.
An umbrella stand held pointers and rolled maps since officers never carried umbrellas by custom. The coat rack which might otherwise hold woolen suit coats and tweeds with leather elbow patches on civilian campuses held only Leggett’s Army green uniform tunic, hung precisely, the left shoulder facing out, this too by custom.
Each office projected the military and academic resume of its occupant complete with framed awards, certificates and degrees. Only a few small, inconspicuous framed family photos revealed a personal life.
Lieutenant Colonel Paul Leggett was a bull of a man with a proud reputation as an All-American fullback in his cadet days—when West Point had a winning football team. He had been an upperclassman when Eldon Pascoe arrived as a new plebe. They had known each other since then and had even been assigned to the same stations twice since Pascoe graduated.
Leggett hung up and Pascoe plowed headlong into the conversation without so much as even a passing effort to measure Leggett’s mood or to determine if Leggett was even the slightest bit interested in his problem with Colonel Harris. Nothing was more important to Pascoe than safeguarding his chances for advancement. Still, he tried to conceal the extent to which Harris’ report had shaken him. Holding his cards close to his chest was a habit he had developed early—as a cadet.
Concealing as much as he could always seemed to work to his advantage. Over the years he had tried to perfect the art of withholding information about himself. In his mind, it was the other side of the caution—information is power.