“I’d say that was a fair reading of the book. Consider this: Buckley would be happy as a pig in shit at West Point. The academy is everything he wants Yale to be. It has a single mission. To produce soldiers. It has its own prepackaged set of values, the West Point values. The academy presents the point of view it wants to present, on the questions it wants to raise. There are no other questions, no other points of view, no other values, no other mission. An illustration. At the moment, we are fighting a war against forces led by one Ho Chi Minh. In the three years I’ve been there, West Point has not seen fit to tell me anything about Mr. Minh, other than the fact he is the enemy, and perhaps incidentally, their leader. We are taught nothing of his politics, his mission, his values, in short, those forces which may motivate him and his legions to wage war against our army. Up at West Point, only one thing counts. West Point. Answer your question?”
“Yes. Sounds pretty conservative.”
“That isn’t the word for it.” The two stood up, facing each other across the table.
“Then what is it?” Patou asked.
“It’s like a laboratory, or a zoo. Everything is out in the open, flourishing. Outside the gates, there is democracy. Inside, there is West Point. Going to West Point, you learn how men work, the way they fit together. This may sound strange, but it’s West Point’s way of preparing you to lead our army, which serves a democratic society.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. It’s almost exactly the opposite of what Yale tries to do.”
“There’s only one West Point, man. It’s a unique experience. Can’t get it anyplace else. Hand must have known it, or sensed it, anyway.”
“He did. You’re right. But you still haven’t answered my question. Is West Point as straight as David thought it was?”
“Christ! You’re fuckin’ obsessed with how fuckin’ straight West Point is! I told you the place isn’t overrun with fags.”
“I know, but you’re still avoiding my question. Why? Does it frighten you?” Patou stared earnestly at Slaight. He wasn’t teasing. He really wanted to know, in the same way Slaight had become obsessed with figuring out what was going on behind the cover-up of Hand’s murder. They began walking slowly out of the bar’s garden.
“I guess I just don’t know the answer, Patou. You’re asking me something I don’t know much about.”
Patou nodded as if he understood.
“If what you say about Hand’s image of West Point is right, then he at least had a handle on it. West Point is all men. It was conceived of by men, it’s run by men, only men are admitted as cadets. There are all these goddamn men in one place at one time, and there’s no way, no way, man, you can get away from it. It’s like this, Patou. While you’re at West Point, the men who run the academy have total control over your life. Total. Everything you do is controlled and measured by them. It lasts four years, four long fuckin’ years. During that time, you go from being controlled to being one of the controllers. It’s like driving through a small town late at night. If you blink, you miss it. The passage is that quick. Know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“No, you don’t, Patou. You’ve got no idea whatsoever. Know why? You haven’t been there, man. You haven’t been a cadet.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re saying you can’t learn about something without experiencing it.”
“That’s right. Exactly.”
“Then what about books? What about education? West Point is supposed to be a college, isn’t it?”
“Forget education, Patou. West Point is a way of life. That’s the way the academy describes itself, literally. A way of life. Quit thinking of West Point as a place, and think of it as being alive, like an animal or a human being. West Point propagates its own species. They’re called graduates, West Pointers. They’re different from you and me. They’re special. They’re better. And they’re all men.”
“Sounds like fascism to me.”
“Fascism, smashism. Who gives a damn? You wanted to know what it was like. I told you.”
“How did it feel, like you said, being controlled all that time, then becoming one of the controllers? It must have been something of a shock.” Patou smiled nervously. “Like getting drunk for the first time and waking up with a hangover.” Slaight laughed.
“I don’t know what it felt like, Patou. I never thought about it. I told you. It just happened. Fast.”
“Do you think David knew about West Point? I mean, by the time he died. The way you told me about it just now.”
They were walking out of the bar, and Slaight stopped. He faced Patou in the glare of the streetlight. The kid’s blue outfit glowed. He was dressed for the street.
“That’s the best goddamn question you asked me all night, Patou.” Slaight stared past him, across the street. Even late at night, you could see heat rise from the streets of New Orleans.
“You know what I think? I think David Hand knew more about West Point than I’ll ever know. I’m not sure how, and I’m not sure why. But inside, I know it. I knew it back in Beast, when I was his squad leader. He had West Point figured. He knew about fuckin’ control, man. He knew.” Slaight stepped from the curb in the direction of Ursulines Street. He was tired, and he needed to talk to Irit before he slept. His conversation with Billy Patou bothered him. The kid had raised as many questions as he’d answered. Maybe Irit had some ideas. Maybe, hell. She always did.
“You remind me so much of David …” said Billy Patou. Slaight heard him, but he kept walking and did not respond. He couldn’t.
* * *
BOOK V
* * *
Duty, Honor, Country, Self
26
Slaight was hanging up his uniforms in the closet of Room 226, New South Barracks, making trip after trip up and down the stairs, back and forth to the company trunk room, moving his books and shoes and boots and file cabinets and stuff back into his old room in Company D-3. It was August 27, 1968, the first day of Reorganization Week, the seven days immediately preceding Labor Day weekend. From the four corners of the globe, cadets were returning to West Point to prepare for the new academic year. Slaight had spent August at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, as a “third lieutenant” on the Academy’s Army Orientation Program. He was the executive officer of an Infantry Basic Training Company. Thirty days of hell. Another Beast Barracks, army style. He was glad to be back in his old room.
The sign on his door said his roommate was going to be John Lugar, a tall, rangy redhead from San Bruno, California. Lugar, as usual, was late. Slaight was glad to have him for a roommate. Leroy Buck, now the company first sergeant, had not only given him back his old room, he’d put him in with Lugar, a good guy. Slaight was straightening his stuff, filling drawers, making his bunk, aligning his books. Then he saw the note. It was Scotch-taped to the shade on his desk-lamp.
The handwriting was tiny, hard to read. He bent over.
Slaight: Grimshaw wants to see you up at Bldg 720, ASAP. Today.—CQ
The note had been left there by some dimbo yearling. They’d been back from Buckner for several days. Beast was over at midweek. Now it was Friday. When in hell was “today"? He leaned out his door.
“Hey, Cee Que! Get up here. Room 226.” He heard footsteps on the stairs, two at a time. A freshly mown yearling in khakis appeared in his door.
“Yessir.”
“I’m not sir to you any more, Ridgeway, you dullard. You’re a yearling now, remember? You got recognized last June. My name’s Ry. You first name is …”
“Barry.”
“Yeah. Barry. Okay, Barry, I got this note here. What-the-fuck is it supposed to mean? When, may I ask, is ‘today’?”
“Grimshaw came by first thing this morning. I guess he knew you were due back today. He told me to leave a note for you to come up and report to him as soon as you got back. He said to tell you that you’d better be looking good, too. He was …”
“He was being fuckin’ Grimshaw, is what he was.”
“Yeah.”
“So I’m supposed to drive around to see Grimshaw, huh? He say what it was about?”
“Nope. Just said to leave the note.”
“Well. From now on, Barry, when you leave a note, you leave it out where a guy can fuckin’ see it. I’ve been in and out of this room a half-dozen times and never saw this damn thing. Grimshaw’s probably going to chew me a new one, because I couldn’t see this microscopic excuse for a goddamn note.”
“I’m sorry. I must have …”
“You fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, do me a favor, will you? Scare up a couple of beans and get them to haul the rest of my stuff up here to my room. And tell them to carry Lugar’s up here, too.”
“Ry?”
“Yeah. What is it?”
“They said we can’t use plebes to carry upperclass gear during re-orgy week this year.”
“Yeah? Well, who is ‘they’?”
“The cadet regimental staff. They put out the word this morning.”
“You seen anything in writing?”
“No …”
“Get the beans together and organize them and get that shit up here, before some poop-sheet comes down. Far as I’m concerned, what I just heard is a goddamn rumor. Right?”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. Now move, man. Move! I got to get myself together for my audience with Grimshaw.” Ridgeway ran down the hall, calling out unfamiliar names. Jesus. A whole new set of plebes to get used to. And now Grimshaw. This could not be good. Slaight thought for sure when he talked to Hedges that day in June … he thought for sure Grimshaw would be shitcanned. Slaight pulled on his khakis and wondered what was going on. Only one way to find out. Building 720. Grimshaw’s office.
Bang! Bang!
“Enter.”
“Sir, Mr. Slaight reports to the company tactical officer as ordered.”
“Ah. Slaight. Good of you to come. What time is it?”
“Sixteen hundred, sir.”
“Sixteen hundred. You just coming off leave?”
“Nosir. AOT. Fort Leonard Wood.”
“What took you so long to get up here?”
“I didn’t get the note until a few moments ago, sir. The charge of quarters left it in my room as you told him, sir. I just didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t see it.”
“Nosir.”
“Are you having trouble with your eyesight, Mr. Slaight?”
“Nosir.”
“Look down at your shoes, Mr. Slaight. What do you see?”
“Shoes, sir.”
“Shoes in need of a good spit-shine. Am I correct, mister?”
“Yessir.”
“I’ll ask you again, then. Are you having problems with your eyesight?”
“Nosir.”
“Look in the mirror on my door, mister.” Slaight did an about-face and looked in the mirror. This game had been played before. He about-faced again.
“What did you see, Mr. Slaight?”
“I saw myself, sir.”
“You notice your haircut, mister?”
“Yessir.”
“Two inches on top, mister?”
“About that, sir.”
“About that!”
“I’d say it was close to two inches, sir, without taking out a ruler and measuring.”
“You getting smart with me, mister?”
“Nosir.”
“You planning on starting off this year the way you finished last year, Slaight?”
“Nosir.”
“Then I suggest you get yourself back down to the barracks and deport yourself like a soldier, mister. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yessir.”
“If that means getting fitted for eyeglasses, Mr. Slaight, perhaps you’d like to pay a visit to sick call. Your eyesight seems to be ailing, mister. Would you like some help filling out a sick slip, Slaight? I’ve got a stack of them right here on my desk for you. Special. Like me to fill one out for you, Slaight?”
“Nosir.” Slaight’s temper was barely … just barely under control. Grimshaw had been laying for him ever since that business with Major Consor.
“Well, mister. I want you to avail yourself of sick-call privileges at least once each week. And every Saturday morning, during barracks inspection, I want a report on the status of your health, signed by a medical doctor, displayed in a manila folder on your bunk, mister. I want it out there where I can see it. And you know what I want stenciled on that manila folder, Mister?”
“Nosir.”
“I want that folder to read, in letters one inch high, ‘Slaight’s Sick-Call Report.’ Is that understood?”
“I’m not certain, sir. Let me get this straight. Are you ordering me to go on sick call every week?”
“Let’s put it this way, Slaight. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as you’ve been told. Understood?”
“Nosir. What if I have no need for sick call, sir? What if I have no need for sick call, but I do have need to attend my first academic class in the morning, sir? What if I’m scheduled for a test each morning of the week, first period, and I am required by the Academic Department to take those tests unless I am sick, sir, a valid, academic requirement. And what if all five days in a row, sir, I am not sick. Thus I have no legal or moral reason to take sick call and miss a test. What then, sir? What is good for me then, sir? I’d like some guidance here, sir. I really would.”
Grimshaw fidgeted in his chair, never taking his eyes off the cadet standing before him at the position of attention. Oh, how he wished Slaight would utter the least little insubordination! How he’d like to nail that squealing little bastard to the wall, put him out there on the area where he belonged.
“Mr. Slaight. I believe I’ve made myself quite clear. I want this report—‘slaight’s Sick-Call Report’—displayed on your bunk every Saturday morning until I tell you otherwise. I don’t care if you have to go on sick call during your free time on Saturday afternoons. I don’t give a goddamn what you do to get that report every week, do you understand me? I want to see it displayed, I want the manila folder lettered as I told you, and I want to see the signature of a medical doctor every week, Slaight. Every week. Is that understood?”
“That is understood, sir.”
“Now. I suggest you drive yourself down to the barracks and get yourself looking strac, mister, because the commandant wants to see you at 1745, in his office. Now get out of my sight, Slaight, before I pull out my two-dash-ones and quill you into the middle of next week. Get out of here!”
The cheeks of Grimshaw’s thin, childlike face were quivering he was so mad. Slaight paused one beat … two, watched him shake. He saluted.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. Grimshaw returned the salute, and Slaight left.
He went straight to Buck’s room and told him about Grimshaw.
“What are you going to do, man?”
“I’m gonna do what I should have done last fuckin’ year. I’m gonna call that lawyer, Captain T. Clifford Bas-sett, and I’m going to see him before I report to Hedges. I have been back here exactly five hours, Buck. Five fuckin’ hours. The shit’s up around my goddamn knees. I can feel it getting deeper. Hey. Keep an eye out for Lugar for me, will you? Tell him if I know Grimshaw, he’ll be down in the company area tonight, and he’ll pay a special visit to our room. And do me a favor. Keep an eye on those beans the CQ put on my room. Make sure they get our shit in there in some kinda order. I figure we’re going to have about an hour after supper before Grimshaw is bopping around, making his presence felt.”
“Okay, Slaight. I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Jesus. Re-orgy week was never like this. What a hell of a note. And wait till you hear what I’ve got for you on the Hand thing. I’ll tell you at supper. Hey. Put me on your table, will you?”
“Already have. Me and you and Lugar and Kenny Towne, a couple of decent cows, the yearlings who a
re doing my company clerking for me, and the two best fuckin’ beans I could find.”
“See you at supper formation, Buck.”
“Heeeeeaauh!”
“Yeah. Heeeeeeaauh. Fuckin’-A.”
27
Slaight picked up the phone in the D-3 orderly room and dialed the number for the Department of Law.
“Captain Bassett, please. Mr. Slaight calling.”
“Just one moment, please.” A secretary.
“Captain Bassett.”
“Sir, it’s Mr. Slaight. Rysam Slaight. I had you for law a couple of times last year.”
“Yes. Of course! Slaight. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve got to see you, sir. Today. Right now. Have you got, I don’t know … an hour?”
“Sure. Come on over. You know where we are … basement of Thayer Hall, down here with the heat ducts and the boilers…. Can I ask you what this is about?”
“I’d rather discuss it when I get over there, sir.”
“Sure. Come on down. I’m in Room 408. You’ll see my name on the door.”
“Yessir. Good-bye, sir.”
Slaight ran up to his room, changed into his Class A shoes, ran a shine-rag over his belt buckle, dabbed some Brylcreem on stray hairs. He ran over to Thayer Hall. No time to lose. Com at 5:45. It was 4:30 now.
He found Captain T. Clifford Bassett buried in a closet-size room so full of paperwork it looked ready to burst.
“Claims. They’ve got me pulling post claims officer. You would not believe what people lose when they move. And every item, every description of every little doodad has to go through me. If I see another van lines company name, another shipping firm, another airfreight outfit, I’m going to turn in my JAG Corps branch insignia and tell them to make me a Spec-4 and put me in the Infantry. Anything’s got to be better than this.” Bassett laughed in that squinty-eyed way, his wide face smiling from one side to the other. His ample frame was doing little to lessen the crowded conditions of his office. Over in the Tactical Department, they would call Bassett a “typical goddamn P—overweight, indifferent, probably subversive.” Slaight knew better. T. Clifford Bassett had been editor of the Law Review at Harvard Law, and had spent three years with Sullivan and Cromwell on Wall Street before getting drafted, opting to serve four years as an army lawyer, a captain, rather than two years as an enlisted man. Around the Law Department he was considered eccentric. But he was respected. He was by a full head and shoulders the best lawyer in the department, and everyone including the colonel, the tenured professor of the department, knew it.
Dress Gray Page 33