Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “My name is Irit Dov,” said the woman. She spoke crisply, with that weird accent.

  “Is it Jewish, your name?” He smiled, embarrassed. He was reversing his sentences, something he did when he was tired. The woman laughed, sipped her beer, leaving a thin film of dark red lipstick on the green neck of the bottle.

  “Yes. I am an Israeli.”

  “Can’t get much more Jewish than that, I guess,” said Slaight.

  “Are you really from Kansas?” she asked.

  “Yeah. From Leavenworth.”

  “I guess you can’t get much more Kansas than that,” said the woman. They both laughed and walked over to the window overlooking the river.

  “And you are here in New York on business?” Oh-oh, thought Slaight. Here it comes.

  “No. I go to school near here.” The dodge.

  “And where do you go to school?”

  “West Point,” said Slaight, looking across the river at the lights of Queens.

  “Ah,” said the woman. “We have a place similar to West Point in my country. In Israel, everyone serves in the army. I am a corporal in the women’s reserves.” Slaight swiveled and looked at the woman. She smiled, revealing tall straight teeth.

  “You were expecting a lecture about your military?” she asked rhetorically. “I am an Israeli. My father is a general, commanding tanks on the border with Jordan. I have no love of the military. In Israel, the army is something with which we all must live. Here …” She gestured about the room where the party showed no signs of ebbing at 1 A.M. “Here things are different. But I can see you know this. You do not belong here.” She said it matter-of-factly, and Slaight didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  “You learned to play the game pool in your town in Kansas?”

  “Yeah. I used to play a lot. I don’t play much any more.”

  “You play well,” she said, touching his arm with her ringers, tipped by nails the color of her lips. It occurred to Slaight that the woman was coming on to him, but he thrust the thought aside.

  Jesus, the fuckin’ guys in the barracks are never going to believe this one.

  “You told the man in the white hat with whom you played pool you were staying in a hotel on Eleventh Street,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come. You needn’t stay in this hotel. I have room for you.”

  They took a cab back to her place, had a drink, climbed in bed, and fucked. It made a strange kind of sense. She was lying there on this incredible bed in the soft yellow light from a lamp across the room, saying … fuck me … fuck me … fuck me … fuck me … fuck me … over and over again. And he was up there humping away, just like the code among cadets said you were supposed to, humping and humping and sweating, and he’d copped the ultimate good deal, bed, board, and body for a weekend leave. Jesus, there wasn’t anything more fuckin’ gray-hog than this.

  In the early hours of the morning they lay in each other’s arms. She was sleeping, but Slaight … he couldn’t sleep for some goddamn reason. Couldn’t get it out of his head that there was something … missing … something … wrong…. What she was chanting was right. It wasn’t love-making, it was fucking. First time he thought about the difference. They’d rushed ahead, reaching desperately for some imaginary edge which just hadn’t been there. They coupled like headlights of oncoming cars, passing each other in darkness at speed. The whole thing, the whole night, passed under them like a flat stretch of two-lane blacktop back home, white lines flickering. Gone.

  13

  The clock radio read 1:30 P.M. when the phone rang.

  Jesus. First day of leave, and the day’s already half gone.

  Irit fumbled on the floor, found the receiver. Her voice was husky, scratchy from sleep and sex.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Mr. Slaight, please. General Hedges is calling.” Irit reached over and shook him. Slaight was facing the other direction, trying to ignore the ringing phone.

  “Ry, it’s for you. Some woman. She says a general is calling for you. Someone called Hedges.”

  “Jesus. Hedges. Give me the phone.” He sat up straight and took the receiver. First day of leave, now this….

  “Mr. Slaight speaking, sir.” The approved cadet telephone procedure. Say “sir” whether it’s a woman or not. Never can tell.

  “Mr. Slaight. Just one moment, please. General Hedges is on the other line. I’ll get him.” Slaight waited, shifted the receiver to his other ear, covered the mouthpiece.

  “Get me a glass of water, will you, Irit? My throat feels like …”

  “Mr. Slaight. General Hedges. How are you, young man?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “My secretary traced you through your leave form, on file with your regiment. I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. Slaight.”

  “Nosir. Nosir. No problem, sir.” Slaight pulled the quilt over his naked form against the chill from the air conditioner. Irit handed him the water, and he took a sip.

  “Fine. Damn fine, mister. That’s what I like to hear. Listen to me now, Mr. Slaight. Can you hear me clearly?”

  “Yessir. Clearly, sir.”

  “Something’s come up. I need you up here. Right away. This afternoon. You understand me, Slaight?”

  “Yessir.”

  “We do not normally interfere with a cadet’s leave time. You know that, Slaight. But this is different. We have a … very serious situation on our hands, Slaight. I need to see you … today. Can you make it up here before close of business this afternoon?”

  “Yessir. I believe so, sir.” Slaight remembered to say believe. He’d been taught never to say, I think … always to say … I believe.

  “Outstanding. Damn fine, Mr. Slaight. I knew I could depend on you. Oh. Yes. You will be compensated for your lost leave time. I will personally authorize an extra day of leave. Is that understood … er … agreeable?”

  “Yessir.” It was funny. The general’s voice sounded official, but informal … relaxed. There was a note in his voice … Slaight couldn’t place it.

  “What time you think you can be here, Slaight?”

  Slaight glanced at the clock radio. It was 1:35. Thirteen thirty-five, military clock lingo.

  “Sixteen hundred, sir. I can be there by 1600.” Four P.M.

  “Good enough, young man. One more thing, Slaight. Wear your uniform. Khakis will do. Won’t be necessary to get into Sierra.” Sierra. One day into leave, and Slaight had almost forgotten the word. It meant the cadet summer dress uniform, gray trousers, white dress shirt with epaulets … Slaight focused.

  “Yessir. Khakis, sir.”

  “Sixteen hundred, then.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good man, Slaight. See you then.” The phone clicked and went dead, the long-distance line whizzing into silence. Straight flopped back on the pillows, his forehead perspiring despite the air conditioner.

  “Who was it, Ry?” asked Irit, looking sleepy and confused.

  “The commandant of cadets. General Hedges, that’s who. Jesus.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wants to see me in his office this afternoon up at West Point. I’ve got to be there by four. You think we could drive up in your car?”

  “Of course. If it’s really necessary, Ry.”

  “Oh. It’s necessary, all right. When a goddamn general calls you personally on the telephone and tells you to drive around to his office, it’s goddamn necessary. Necessary! Christ. What a grim note.”

  “What’s the matter, Ry? Why does he want to see you?”

  “He didn’t say. It was all very official, but kind of … chatty, almost. He was telling me to come up to his office, but he made it sound like he was asking a favor. But he was insistent … no doubt it was an order. Strange. A general kind of … playing games that way.”

  “He didn’t say why he wanted to see you?”

  “No. But I think I know why.” Slaight
paused, staring across the room. The drapes glowed from the midday sun. Irit touched his arm. Her hand was cold, icy from holding the glass of water.

  “Remember that plebe I told you about? The one they found floating up in lake Popolopen in May, drowned?”

  “Yes. You had known him.”

  “He was in my Beast squad last year.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well. He was murdered. I found out about the autopsy they did on the kid.”

  “Murdered! Ry! You never told me that!” She recoiled, grabbing the edge of the quilt. Slaight put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Yeah. I know. I was walking the area when I found out, then I went on the Firstie Trip … I didn’t want to get into a thing with you about it over the phone, Irit.” Slaight paused again. That wasn’t it, at all. He’d told her this much … he was going to have to tell her everything.

  “Truth is, Irit …” He paused, breathing deeply. “It was like, you know, one of those West Point things, you know?” He watched her face. No sign of recognition.

  “What can I tell you? What I mean is …” he was fumbling for words. “What I mean is … it was between me and Leroy Buck. This major told me about it, a doctor, a guy I’ve known since I was a plebe. He did the autopsy. He asked me not to talk to anyone about it. Of course I … of course I told Leroy. You know. He’s my roommate.” Irit nodded.

  “I didn’t figure you needed to know. I figured the whole thing would be investigated, and it would all come out, you’d find out … soon enough. I should have told you, Irit. Jesus. I’m sorry.” Slaight looked down at his feet. There he was … holding back … always holding back seemed like all he did was hold back … from this woman he loved. Now she’d gotten involved … she didn’t deserve being treated like this. He was ashamed. He felt her hand on his arm again.

  “I understand, Ry.” He looked at her. She did, goddamn her!

  “So tell me,” she said, “why do you think the general—what is his name?—why do you think this commander wants to see you?”

  “The commandant. General Hedges. A real cool one, Hedges. Stainless steel, that fuckin’ guy. Cold.”

  “General Hedges. Yes?” She was prodding him.

  “Well, he probably wants to talk to me about the kid, David Hand. Which means one thing: They got to the doctor.”

  “What do you mean, ‘They got to the doctor’?”

  “They got to him, that’s all. Found out he talked to me. I’m just guessing, Irit. But this is bad news. Let’s get up. We’ve got to hurry. I got to get into my goddamn uniform, and I’ve got some calls to make before I see Hedges. This is bad news, and it could get to be worse news real quick.”

  In the office of the commandant of cadets, Brigadier General Charles Sherrill Hedges replaced the telephone on its black cradle, tugged at the knot in his tie, and looked at the man seated across the desk from him.

  “Terry, you’ve done one hell of a job here,” he said slowly, leafing through a stack of papers on his desk.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Colonel Phineas Terrance King, Third Regimental commander.

  “One hell of a job, Terry. This is more than I expected. Much more.” Hedges was quiet for a few moments as he glanced through the report on David Hand he had requested of Colonel King a month ago. It had taken two weeks longer than expected to arrive, but considering its contents, the extra fourteen days had been worth the wait. Here was the life of Cadet David Hand just as he wanted. He could see the kid, he could feel him breathe, smell him. Terry King hadn’t been conscientious, he’d been obsessive. He hadn’t missed a thread. This kid was laid as bare as the day they fished him out of Popolopen. The report had everything: friends, squad leaders, enemies, Aptitude Reports, 2-1’s, contacts with civilians. Only thing would have yielded any more data than this would have been a wiretap on the kid’s brain—a direct connection through his temples to his frontal lobe! This was it.

  “So I’ve got this man Slaight coming this afternoon,” said Hedges, without looking up from the report.

  “Yessir,” said King. “He’s in the report a couple of times, I believe.”

  “Terry.” Hedges looked up. “Terry, I can’t emphasize to you the sensitivity of this thing. You’ve done an outstanding job here. Just outstanding. And the job you’ve done only underscores what a damned sensitive thing we’ve got here.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Cadet Slaight is due at 1600, Terry. I’m going to need the rest of the afternoon to go over this report before he gets here. Won’t be necessary for you to be present when he reports.”

  “Yessir. I understand, sir.”

  “Now, let’s get this thing straight. You’ve got Fitzgerald, the provost marshal, under control. Is that correct?”

  “Yessir. He understands the gravity of our situation here, sir. If this business got into the wrong hands … well, we all saw that kind of thing happen once or twice in Nam, sir, with those damn reporters around all the time. Fitzgerald understands, sir. He was in Nam, Checkpoint Charlie … Sir, if anyone knows how to handle himself in a situation like this, it’s Evans Fitzgerald.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Terry. But understand this. Fitzgerald is your man on this. You are responsible for him.”

  “Yessir. Got you.”

  “And this doctor … what’s his name?”

  “Consor, sir. Major Class of ’59.”

  “Yes, the one who talked to Slaight the day of the autopsy. You’ve got him straightened out?”

  “Yessir. I was as shocked as you, sir, to find we’d had that leakage when we did. I didn’t find out about it until yesterday. This man, Consor, took leave after June Week, three weeks. Had to take it then, before preparations for Beast. Just returned from his home-of-record yesterday. I had the post duty officer call me when he signed in from leave.”

  “Damn fine work, Terry. Damn fine.” Hedges leaned back in his chair, tugging the edge of his uniform jacket. King eased forward to the edge of his chair, preparing to be dismissed.

  “Let me see. You figure this Consor talked to Slaight by chance, Terry? Is that your sense of it?”

  “Yessir. He was the duty doc that day. Slaight went over there to get his feet bandaged. He was walking off a slug I gave him. A fifteen and twenty. The doc was working on Slaight’s feet in his office, and they were shooting the breeze. Slaight was curious. Consor told him he thought the kid had been killed.”

  “And you got all the copies of the autopsy?”

  “Yessir. I made him go through his files. I got all the copies the day he did the autopsy, you remember, sir. The ones we retyped that night.”

  “Yeah.” Hedges paused, gazing across the area of barracks.

  “Terry, what in god-hell was Slaight doing getting his feet bandaged at that time of day?”

  “Know what you mean, sir. I asked Consor the same thing … wish I hadn’t, as a matter of fact. He got hopping mad, really red-faced all of a sudden. Said it had something to do with Slaight’s tac not allowing the men in his company to be medically excused from the area. He said Slaight’s feet were completely wrecked, that he’d have hospitalized him, but Slaight was afraid of reprisals from his tac, and swore the doc to secrecy. Consor said that was the only reason he didn’t file a report to his superiors on the tactical officer. This is one place he’s really got us, sir. He was angry. I mean mad as hell. You know how these doctors get….”

  “Who is Slaight’s tac?”

  “Grimshaw, sir. That’s the strange thing … he’s one of my best men, sir. I didn’t know a damn thing about this order of his. It’s obviously illegal. There’s no way a tactical officer can keep a man from being medically excused….”

  “Goddammit, Terry, I want a piece of Grimshaw’s ass! That stupid son of a bitch! Hadn’t have been for his thing about medical excuses, Slaight would never have been over there talking with a doctor in the first place.”

  “I can understand your anger, sir. But I think we’d better
hold off on Grimshaw. This is another one of those areas where … well, sir, if we come down on Grimshaw about this in the middle of the summer, heads are going to turn, sir. The heads of other tactical officers. They’re going to wonder what’s up. Grimshaw, for one, will know precisely who was involved. Slaight. Consor. It’s just too close to the quick, sir. Too close for right now, anyway.”

  “See your point, Terry. Indeed.” Hedges rocked forward, resting his forearms on his desk. His eyebrows rose, and the thin smile formed on his lips.

  “Indeed. Terry, we just might be able to turn this thing to our advantage. Let me give it some thought and have a good look at your report here. Slaight’s due in just over two hours.” King rose from his chair.

  “Yessir.”

  “I’ll let you know what comes of my meeting with this young man, later. Terry, you’ve done one hell of a job for me. Keep it up. We’ll have this thing under control yet.”

  “Yessir.” King watched as Hedges did what he always did to signal dismissal of his closest confidant. He turned his chair sideways to his desk, facing Central Area, his left hand atop the desk, fingering his binoculars. It was like Hedges had entered another world, a little world all his own. The way he stared across the area … staring out the window … he didn’t say “good afternoon,” or “good day,” or “see you later,” or “you’re dismissed” … any of the conventional parting words between officers. The general simply went away.

  Somewhere out on the West Point golf course, Major General Axel W. Rylander was taking in the June sunshine, beginning his second eighteen holes of the day. He was pleasantly unaware of the conversation between Hedges and Slaight on the telephone, the conversation between Hedges and King in the office of his commandant of cadets. General Rylander was playing golf, his mind at ease. Hedges had been dealt with.

  Sunday, May 26, at exactly 1300 hours, Hedges had walked into his office and delivered his report on the death of Cadet David Hand. Death by drowning. Accidental. Autopsy showed water in lungs. No signs of struggle. No other bodily traumas or internal injuries. No signs of drugs or alcohol. One more tragic accidental cadet death, and they all seemed to happen at once, within a couple of weeks of June Week. It was all he had needed.