Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  Suddenly all hell broke loose, mo-gas explosions going off all over the place outside the wire, the guys in the holes opening up with what must have been a division’s load of machine guns, loaded with 100 per cent tracer rounds, the air around the NDP blazing with red and yellow piss-streams of tracers, disappearing into the woods around them. Artillery started coming in. WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP, then more mo-gas going off, a dozen flame throwers snaking dribbly hoses of orange flame into the bush … a half-dozen F-4 Phantoms made a low pass, dropping napalm about two hundred meters outside the wire, lighting up the hilltop like a Broadway stage … then more machine guns and mo-gas and flame throwers, and the 50s on the APCs opening up, the tanks shooting into the woods from their defoilades right next to the bleachers … a hellish spectacle … no VC in his right mind would ever face such Total Firepower … this was winning the war … man … look at all those colors and listen to all that fuckin’ noise….

  As suddenly as it began it ended. All the explosions and firing were obviously cued from a central bunker, wired to every gun that had been shooting. Suddenly, total silence. The cadets just sat there, stunned, ears ringing, eyes blinded from all the fire and light and madness….

  Three of the M-60 tanks wheeled their turrets and switched on Xeon spotlights capable of throwing a million candle power of white light a mile. They switched on the spots and focused them on a little piece of ground, a little berm, a pile of dirt surrounding—what was it, anyway?—nobody could tell at first, but every eye swiveled toward the berm, waiting….

  Inside the berm could be seen another tank, in total defoilade, nearly buried. It was one of those engineer tanks, with a bulldozer blade across its front slope. Slowly, the blade swung up, up, up toward the vertical, until finally it was straight up in the air, directly over the tank, the surface of the blade horizontal, level with the edge of the berm….

  And suddenly there he was. Brigadier General Charles Sherrill Hedges, standing on the tank’s bulldozer blade, impeccably starched fatigues, spit-shined jump-boots, camouflaged steel-pot helmet … above his head, he held a pair of binoculars—his binoculars—waving them slowly back and forth, a recognition signal in the nearly blinding light of the Xeons. This wasn’t just any old infantry general. This was the commandant, down at Benning, with the troops. He was wired for sound, and from hidden speakers surrounding the bleachers, his voice boomed:

  “GENTLEMEN … GENTLEMEN … WHAT YOU HAVE JUST WITNESSED WAS AN EXERCISE IN NIGHT TARGET DETECTION. NIGHT VISION … GENTLEMEN. THIS IS THE KEY. WITHOUT NIGHT VISION … GENTLEMEN … THERE WOULD BE NO FIREPOWER. WITHOUT NIGHT VISION … GENTLEMEN … THERE WOULD BE NO DEFENSIVE PERIMETER. IF YOU CANNOT SEE THE ENEMY … GENTLEMEN … HOW CAN YOU SHOOT AT HIM?” All this time, the general is swinging his pair of Nikon binoculars back and forth above his head. As all cadets knew, binoculars had a way of gathering light at night, magnifying it, enabling the user to see more distinctly, even in near total darkness. And there was Hedges, binoculars in hand, delivering the Infantry School lecture on the one-million-dollar night defensive perimeter firepower demonstration.

  “GENTLEMEN … WHAT YOU HAVE WITNESSED TONIGHT IS A RE-ENACTMENT … AN EXACT RE-ENACTMENT … GENTLEMEN … OF THE NIGHT ACTION MY BATTALION WAS ENGAGED IN WITH A FORCE OF NVA REGULARS … A NORTH VIETNAMESE REGIMENT … GENTLEMEN … A FORCE THREE TIMES THE SIZE OF MY BATTALION. AND WITH GOOD NIGHT VISION … GENTLEMEN … WITH EXPERT TARGET DETECTION AND TRAINING AND ESPRIT … GENTLEMEN … WE DEFEATED THAT NVA REGIMENT … WE DROVE THEM FROM THE IRON TRIANGLE WITH THEIR TAILS BETWEEN THEIR SKINNY LITTLE PAJAMA-CLAD LEGS … GENTLEMEN … THE NEXT MORNING WE POLICED UP 250 BODIES … GENTLEMEN … A BODY COUNT OF 250 … IT WAS QUITE SOMETHING TO SEE … GENTLEMEN … GOOKS AROUND OUR NDP TWO AND THREE DEEP. NIGHT VISION … GENTLEMEN. REMEMBER IT. AND REMEMBER YOUR SIX P’S … GENTLEMEN … PRIOR PREPARATION PREVENTS PISS-POOR PERFORMANCE. I HOPE YOU’VE LEARNED SOMETHING HERE TONIGHT … GENTLEMEN. BECAUSE IN COMBAT … IN COMBAT … GENTLEMEN … THERE IS NO TIME TO LEARN. THERE IS ONLY TIME TO PERFORM. GOOD NIGHT … GENTLEMEN. I WILL SEE YOU AT THE ACADEMY IN THE FALL.”

  Jesus Christ, it was eerie. Hedges standing there on the dozer blade of that tank in the blinding glare of those Xeons—enough light for a rock concert—standing there waving his binocs over his head, his voice coming from everywhere at once, crashing around the cadets’ ears like artillery, babbling on and on about night vision and body counts and the “Six P’s” … hadn’t heard that bullshit since plebe math….

  Slaight eased the 190-SL into an empty parking space in the lot across from Grant Hall. West Point was uncharacteristically quiet … a week to go before the start of another Beast Barracks, only a few detail upperclassmen around … another long summer over which Hedges would preside with his gloves and his heel taps and his binoculars and his thumb-point and finger-curl. Jesus.

  Sweat poured down Slaight’s back, soaked his khaki shirt, turning his armpits the color of Kansas mud. He felt that tightness in his gut, like a rat was down there with a jaw-lock on his intestines. A shiver—visible to Irit, who sat next to him, waiting—shook his spine. He remembered Hedges’ clammy, cold hands that night a year ago, down there on Brewerton Road, a hundred yards from where they were sitting in the Mercedes. He remembered the look on his face, the smell of his breath—Manhattans. Slaight was not looking forward to his visit with the commandant of cadets.

  “Irit,” he said, “you can wait in Grant Hall, or you can wander down to the river, around the Plain … you know. I don’t know how long I’m gonna be in there.”

  “I know, Ry. I brought some work. I’ll be okay. I’ll wait for you in Grant Hall. It’s cool in there.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Efficient woman. Hedges would find his match for his goddamn Six P’s with this one.

  “Ry. It’s three fifty-five. You’d better go.”

  “Sure. Christ. My uniform’s a soaking mess. Fuckit. I won’t turn my back to him. Maybe he won’t notice….”

  “I’ll see you later in Grant Hall, then, Ry?”

  “Yeah. Listen. Give this lawyer a call for me … Captain T. Clifford Bassett. He’s down in the Law Department, probably be in his office right now. The cadet guard in Grant Hall will get him on the phone for you. Tell him I want to see him after I’m through.”

  “T. Clifford Bassett. Yes. I copied it in my notebook. Is there anything else you want me to tell him?”

  “No. Just tell him it’s important. I’d appreciate it if he’d hang around.”

  “All right, Ry. Take care.”

  “Thanks, sweetness. I’m off … off to see the wizard …” Slaight laughed, extracting himself from the Mercedes. It was a joke between them … off to see the wizard … the movie was on the late-late show the night they met. But this was no late show. Slaight tucked his khaki shirt, straightened his belt buckle, and walked across Thayer Road.

  16

  The thing about going to see the commandant of cadets was that you were supposed to be totally intimidated—shaking in your boots, in a state of terminal flap, spastic you were so scared. It was part of playing the game. He was a general, and you were a cadet, a little pip-squeak, just a pimple on the academy’s ass, and you were taking up his time. Generals just basically should not have to call cadets on the telephone and tell them to drive around, ancient academy slang for come around to my room, smackhead … the words dated so far back in the distance, it was hard to figure where they came from, who first started using them. But all down the years, their meaning had remained the same. Drive around. Being told to come to someone’s room—in this case, to the commandant’s office—was etched in the cadet memory, an indelible mark left there by plebe year. You were scared because the guy who told you to drive around to his room had total power over you. Total. You might want to be somewhere else—in the library, say, studying. Or taking a shower. Or you might have to take a leak, the call of nature. But when some upperclassman rared back and said drive around, mister … you fuckin’ drove around,
that was all. You had to. There were times, every cadet could probably name dozens, when you’d actually be required to be doing something else, like writing a term paper or even reporting to another upperclassman. But fuck the term paper. And the other upperclassman … if he was outranked by the dude who said drive around, you just forgot him, and you drove yourself around to the dude’s room and you knocked on the door three times and you walked in and you reported and you might not have the least idea what to expect … what this bastard was going to uncork on your skinny shaking little beanhead ass … but you examined your options, which amounted to exactly one, and you drove around. You played the fuckin’ game.

  Now here was Slaight, and he’s a firstie, and still driving around … called off his leave in New York City, stuffed back into his unpressed khakis, bent into a sports car, and here he was, literally, driving around to the room of Brigadier General Charles Sherrill Hedges, the office of the commandant of cadets, on the second floor of the Brigade Headquarters Building, overlooking old Central Area. Three years, and still driving around, still playing the game. Strange thing … Slaight didn’t feel properly intimidated. He wasn’t shaking in his boots. He wasn’t in a state of terminal flap. He wasn’t spastic and scared and verging on the edge of control. He was tired, hot, and maybe just a tiny bit pissed off.

  He checked himself as he turned off Brewerton Road into Central Area. Can’t let the commandant pick it up that you’re pissed. Got to Assume the Proper Attitude. Got to play the game. He entered the Headquarters and walked up the stairs to the second floor. He nodded at the commandant’s secretary, and he turned to the commandant’s aide—some captain who’d been wounded in Vietnam and was supposed to be a hero—he turned to the aide and said:

  “I’m Mr. Slaight. I’m here to see the com.”

  The aide looked Slaight over like he was examining dirty laundry … stains … wrinkles … shoes in need of a good shine … obviously in need of a haircut … the aide looked Slaight up and down and with his right hand indicated that Slaight should sit down on a wooden chair across from his desk.

  “You do not appear prepared to report to the commandant, Mr. Slaight,” said the aide. “You look disreputable, in fact.”

  Slaight paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. This was all he needed. The clock over the aide’s head said it was 4 P.M.

  “Captain, I’m on my leave right now. The general called me exactly two and one half hours ago and told me to report to him at 1600. I just drove here from New York City. I don’t have another uniform, and other shoes. I just got off the Firstie Trip. Now I see that it’s 1601, sir, and I want to do as I’ve been told. I want to see the com.”

  The aide gazed unblinkingly at Slaight with a look of astonishment. The secretary shuffled papers nervously.

  “I’ll tell the general you’re here,” said the aide. He disappeared through a door. He reappeared.

  “The general will see you now.”

  Slaight stood up and walked through the open door. At the far end of a long rectangular room sat the commandant behind a large desk. All over there was military paraphernalia: models and plaques and flags and helmets and old unit coffee cups cluttering up the place like it was some kind of goddamn museum … or a playroom, a rec room. That’s what it looked like! One of those rooms in the new suburban split-level tract houses … people were always cluttering up the paneled rooms with their son’s old football jersey and bowling trophies and Junior Chamber of Commerce Citizen of the Year awards, stuff like that. Slaight paused in the door, taking it in. He strode forward until he reached a spot he figured was four feet from the front edge of the general’s desk. The general looked up from a pile of papers, peering at Slaight from beneath salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Slaight saluted.

  “Sir, Mr. Slaight reports to the commandant of cadets as ordered.” He spoke the words with inflection, his hand steady above his right brow. The general paused one beat … two … Slaight could almost hear him counting … three … then he zipped his hand from the desk, skittering his fingers across his forehead like a third-base line coach signaling the catcher … saluting … and he stood up, thrusting forward his hand … all in one motion, catching Slaight off-guard. The general wanted to shake hands with him! What was this shit? Slaight dropped his salute and took the general’s hand.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Sam! God damn! Good of you to come up here today, young man! I know it was short notice, but you did a fine job! On time! Looking good! Have a seat over here …” Hedges pulled Slaight sideways toward a green leather thickly upholstered chair next to his desk. It was a subtle gesture, like the handshake. Slaight would not sit across the desk from him. He would be seated next to the desk, with nothing between them. Slaight felt it coming on. A man-to-man talk.

  “Mr. Sam, how’ve you been?”

  “Fine, sir.” Slaight watched Hedges with perverse fascination. The man was a catalogue, a Sears and Roebuck of tricks. Every move he made had meaning. Every last fucking one of them. Hedges leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. He crossed his right leg over his left, exposing his gleaming patent-leather shoe with the brogue sole and oversize heel and tap the size of a quarter sliver of a silver dollar. Hedges was wearing his khakis. Above his left pocket were perched his CIB and Airborne Wings. At the top edge of his left sleeve was his orange-and-black Ranger Tab. Hedges was relaxed … almost too informal.

  “So how’s leave going for you, Mr. Sam? We’re going to compensate you for this trip up here. I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “Yessir. Well, sir, this is my first day …”

  “God dammit.” Hedges unleashed his right hand and slapped his knee on the dammit.” Got to remember this stuff. Of course. Your first day. Well.” He smiled. “It’s all ahead of you then!”

  “Yessir.”

  “All thirty glorious days.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And I’ll bet you’re gonna eat ‘em up. Chew up those days. Eat ‘em like popcorn, huh, Mr. Sam?”

  “Yessir.”

  “My secretary tells me a young lady answered the phone when we called earlier today. You’re gonna chow-down on this leave time, Mr. Sam. I can tell by the look on your face, you rascal.” Slaight had no discernible look on his face. Exhaustion, maybe.

  “Yessir.”

  Hedges unfolded, scooted his chair square with his desk, straightened the papers on his desk. A look of grave concern crossed his face. Then he smiled a thin, peculiar smile.

  “Mr. Slaight, I think you know me well enough to realize we wouldn’t have pulled you off leave if we weren’t faced by a pretty serious situation up here.” He paused.

  “Yessir.”

  “You have any idea why I ordered you up here to see me today, Slaight?”

  Slaight looked Hedges dead in the eye for the first time.

  “I’ve got an idea, sir.” Hedges’ eyes shifted quickly back to his papers. It was hard to look the man in the eye. He was everywhere at once.

  “And what’s your idea, young man?”

  “It’s about David Hand, sir.” Slaight wasn’t going to be evasive, but he wasn’t volunteering anything, either.

  “Right. First time. God damn we’ve got our hands full with this business, Mr. Sam.” Familiar again. Dropping the occasional, casual curse word. It was known as establishing rapport. They taught it Second Class Summer during Instructor Training Course.

  “You see all this paper work I’ve got on my desk here, Mr. Sam?”

  Slaight could hardly miss it. The general’s question was pro forma.

  “Yessir.”

  “It’s all on this David Hand business. All of it. Every last goddamn page. Must be hundreds of them here. Maybe a thousand. I’ve been on this business night and day.” He paused again, waiting.

  “Yessir.”

  “One of the pieces of information we’ve got in this pile, Mr. Sam, just one little piece of information, is the reason you’re in here. You
know what it is?” Time to play dumb.

  “Not really, sir.”

  “It’s the fact you talked with Consor about his autopsy on the body of that dead plebe, Hand. You were on emergency sick call that day, am I right, Mr. Sam?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What did you think when you heard what the doc had to say?”

  “What did I think, sir?”

  “Were you shocked?”

  “Yessir. I guess so.”

  “You guess so?”

  “I was shocked. Yessir.”

  “You damn straight you were shocked, mister. Anybody’d be.” Hedges pushed the papers around his desk aimlessly. Slaight figured he’d better play along … closer. Hedges might be known among cadets as a dimbo, but clearly he held all the cards. Play. Play. It was all a goddamn game.

  “You see this little stack right here?” Hedges indicated a slim folder at his right hand.

  “Yessir.”

  “You know what it is?”

  “Nosir.”

  “It’s your file, Mr. Sam. And it contains one more interesting piece of information, though it has little bearing on why you’re here. You were Hand’s first squad leader, during Beast last year. Weren’t you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And you drilled the little bastard with an aptitude rating at the bottom of your squad, didn’t you?”