Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  “Slaight,” he said slowly, for Charlie Napier was not one of your fast talkers, residing as he had for the past three years in the bottom ten in the class in General Order of Merit (considered a likely contender for Goat).

  “Slaight, I’ve got some … ah … bad news for you. While you was away on weekend, your tac, Major Grimshaw … he was officer in charge….”

  “Grimshaw was OC?” Slaight interrupted. “He wasn’t scheduled to be OC this weekend.”

  “I know … he … ah … volunteered, I guess you could say. Anyways. I was pulling guard, like I usually do on Saturdays, because I’m slugged and all, you know, and Grimshaw comes in and says he wants me to take him on an inspection of your company. You know the regs … the OC has to take a cadet guard with him wherever he goes. So I figured he’s an asshole, like everybody says, and he just wants to rape his own company, you know? But uh-uh. He didn’t do nothing of the sort. He just goes on over to New South, straight up to your room, and he went through every one of your files. I know. I had to stand there and watch him do it. He must have spent two hours in your room … this was about, you know, two A.M. Saturday night, er, Sunday morning, you know. So I’m standing there, just sleepy as hell, and he went through all your files in your cabinets. I don’t know what he was looking for, but he kept muttering to himself he’d find it somehow, so I don’t guess he found whatever it was he was after, you know?”

  “Yeah,” said Slaight.

  “Slaight, you know about this, man?” asked Buck.

  “Hell no. Haven’t looked in my files. I just came back, jumped in my Dress Gray and out to formation at the last minute. Jesus. This is some shit.”

  “Yeah,” said Napier. “But that ain’t half of it, Slaight. I mean, going through your shit and all. That was something. I had to tell him I didn’t think it was right, what he was doing. He told me I was being insubordinate and to shut my goddamn mouth, or he’d shut it for good. So I stayed quiet and just stood there and watched. He read everything, Slaight. Every goddamn thing. The funny thing was, he kept saying something about this one guy.”

  “Which guy? Who?”

  “He kept saying, really low like to himself, ‘Beatty said it’d be in here someplace … Beatty said it’d be right here in his room.’ Anyways, he mutters that a bunch of times, but he didn’t take anything. So he’s leaving the room, right? And you know that little stick he carries, with an AK-47 bullet for a tip, and an AK shell at the end? You know the stick?” Everybody in D-3 knew about Grimshaw’s war-souvenier stick made from the ammunition of a Russian-made Kalachnikov submachine gun.

  “Well, he takes his little stick and he points it at your picture on your card, next to the door, and he says loud enough so’s I can hear, he says, ‘You little communist cunt. You little communist fag whore. We’re going to get you.’ Then he turns around, and sees that I heard him, and he says to me that I may as well forget about you being a classmate much longer, because you already got one foot out the gate. Then he says, ‘He’s got one foot out the gate, we got his cock on the block, mister, and when we chop it off, his other foot’ll go, too.’ Well, Slaight, you and me’s walked some goddamn hours together, but I never knew you was in so deep, man. I didn’t know. I had to come over and tell you about this, man, because no matter what you done, it don’t deserve that kind of shit.”

  Buck invited Charlie Napier to sit down for a cup of coffee, but he had to get back to his room for confinement. Slaight barely managed to mutter thanks as Napier shuffled off.

  “Slaight, what are you gonna do?” asked Buck.

  “I’m going back to the room. I’m going to check my files, see if anything is missing, see if he took anything when somebody else was on guard, maybe not as decent as Charlie, then I’m gonna sit back and wait. Grimshaw will be around either tonight or early tomorrow, depending on whether or not he had a chance to report to King, or whoever he’s reporting to, or if he’s reporting at all.”

  “You don’t think he did that on is own initiative, do you?”

  “He could have. He knows I’m in deep shit. He just might figure, if he can come up with the crowning blow, it’ll make his career. Guys have been known to do a lot less to advance their careers. But that doesn’t fit with what Napier was saying about him muttering about Beatty.”

  “Beatty?”

  “Yeah. The guy down in the Pentagon, the civilian fucker. He was all through the stuff in the pouch, remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember now.”

  “Jesus. I wonder who Grimshaw’s talking to: King, Hedges, or Beatty? Hard to figure.”

  “What do you think he was after?”

  “Come on, man. Take a fat guess.”

  “Your Hand files.”

  “Man wins the big purple teddy bear.”

  “If he didn’t find them, they weren’t there. So where are they, Slaight?”

  “You do not want to know. That is one piece of information you do not want to know.”

  Slaight called Captain Bassett from Buck’s phone as soon as he returned to the barracks, relaying the word he’d gotten from Charlie Napier. Bassett said Grimshaw’s search of his room had been illegal right down the line: no shake-down of entire company, no probable cause, and no criminal investigation to justify search and seizure.

  “You’ve got to be suspected of having committed a crime for any kind of search of your effects to be legally conducted, Slaight. Even if there is reason to suspect you committed a crime, there must also be reasonable cause to believe that illegal items of potential evidence were in your possession. Since Grimshaw left your room empty-handed, obviously any probable cause he had was a figment of someone’s imagination—probably his. So don’t worry.”

  “But what do I do if he comes around to my room?”

  “First you ask him what you’re being charged with. Then you ask him if he’s shaking down the company, in essence, force him into admitting that he’s not shaking down, that he has no probable cause. Then, once you’ve got the upper hand, you do what he tells you. Answer all his questions truthfully. Remember, there’s no Fifth Amendment with the Honor Code. If he wants to confiscate something, ask him to describe the article or piece of paper exactly; then ask him if he’s giving you a direct verbal order. If he is, produce what he wants, if it’s in your possession or capability to do so. Oh. Goodness. Almost forgot. Make sure you’ve got witnesses. Make sure there are a couple of your classmates in there for the whole thing.”

  “But, Captain Bassett, with him muttering about Beatty, we both know what he’s after.”

  “Indeed we do. However, you haven’t got those files. I don’t have those files. I entrusted those files to a third party, who shall remain nameless, and from there, I don’t know where they went. So I don’t know where the files are, you don’t know where they are, you can produce no files. You have no ability to produce those files. In fact, I would say that you have no legal authority to produce those files at this point.”

  “It’s gone that far, huh?”

  “You have no legal authority, Slaight. Those files could be used as evidence. Let us just say, in terms you can understand, those files are being held in escrow—though escrow is hardly a criminal term. But in this case, it applies. They are in safekeeping. In reserve. To you, they are as good as gone, so you can tell Grimshaw that. Gone. There’s your word. Gone.”

  Grimshaw was waiting for Slaight in Room 226 at 9:15 Monday morning, October 28, 1968, when Slaight, Buck, and Lugar returned from their first class, History of the Military Art. They hadn’t slept much the night before, awoke at 6 A.M., the class started at 7:45 A.M. and ran until 9:05 A.M. Slaight was tired. He was not in the mood for Grimshaw, who stood, legs apart, in the middle of the room like he owned the place. Perhaps, as tactical officer of Company D-3, he did own the place. The prerogatives of command, and all that. But Grimshaw’s stance, and the surly, bitter look on his face, plunged whatever semblance there was of commander and commanded into the septic tank
of mutual disrespect, barely contained.

  Slaight called the room to attention. Grimshaw indicated with his AK-47 stick that Slaight should be seated at his desk, and with a sweep of the stick, all others should leave the room.

  “Sir, I respectfully request that these men be allowed to stay in this room. I know what happened here on Saturday night, Sunday morning, and I believe we are going to have some disagreements. My attorney has advised me that I should have witnesses present for whatever happens today.”

  “And if I order these dullards from the room, Mr. Slaight? What then?”

  “I will phone my attorney, ask him to drop whatever he is doing, and come over here to act as my counsel in this matter.”

  “Mr. Slaight. The matters we have to discuss are of no concern to either these men or your attorney, as you call him.” Grimshaw sneered the word, like Bassett was some kind of subhuman species hardly worthy of recognition by Higher Beings … Higher Beings, of course, comprising that select minority of army officers who were, in the following order: West Pointers, Infantrymen, combat veterans, Airborne and Ranger Qualified … recipients of Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, Air Medals, and anything else they could get their hands on in Vietnam. Captain T. Clifford Bassett was not a Higher Being.

  “Sir, I beg to differ,” said Slaight, who had taken his seat, as indicated. The rest of the guys stood around uncertainly. “Everything you and I will discuss this morning has been discussed with these men. Everything you and I will discuss has been discussed with my attorney. So go ahead, sir. You went through my files. What is it you want to ask me?”

  Grimshaw was enraged, but contained it nicely. He slapped his thigh once or twice with the black leather gloves held in his left hand. He gazed about the room as if looking to write some quill, just to get things off on the right—or was it left?—foot. He leveled his gaze at Slaight.

  “Stand at attention, young man.” Slaight jumped to his feet.

  “I want everything in your possession relating to Mr. William Beatty. Everything, Slaight, and I want it now.”

  “William Beatty, sir?”

  “You know who I mean, goddammit.”

  “I don’t have any materials in my possession relating to a Mr. William Beatty.”

  “I know that, Slaight. I’ve been through this room….” He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath and the snap! of his teeth cracking together. “You’ve got it somewhere else. Where is it?”

  “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never had materials in my possession relating to this William Beatty, whom I do not know. I don’t know what your connection is to Mr. Beatty, sir, but I’ve nothing relating to Beatty.”

  “Then what have you done with it, goddammit?”

  “Done with it, sir? I don’t have ‘it,’ whatever ‘it’ might be.”

  “You mean to tell me you have nothing, nothing to do with Beatty in your possession at all?”

  “That’s right, sir.” May as well drop the bomb. “I have heard his name once or twice, sir, if that does you any good. But of course … I’ve heard quite a few cadets know this Mr. Beatty. I am only sorry that I haven’t made his acquaintance. Had I the pleasure, maybe I could help you, sir.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. Slaight.”

  “I’m not getting smart, sir. I am volunteering information I thought might be of use or interest to you. Mr. Beatty seems to have quite a following among certain cadets. It so happens I am not one of them. I am sorry, sir.” Slaight paused, waiting.

  “Sir, may I ask a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is the nature of your inquiry here this morning official in any capacity, sir? I mean, are you conducting a shake-down of the company for data on this Mr. Beatty? Or have you singled out my room?”

  “This is no shake-down, and yes I’ve come directly here. That is self-evident. Now, don’t you go trying to play barracks lawyer with me, Slaight, because I’ll guarantee you’ll lose.”

  “Yessir. One more question. Are the nature of your requests for my supposed materials on Mr. Beatty direct verbal orders, sir?”

  “You damn well fucking better believe they are, mister. And if I find you’ve disobeyed me, I’ll rip skin off your buttocks with pliers, goddammit. If I find out you’ve lied, you are out, Slaight. You understand that? Finished.”

  “Yessir. One last question, sir, I simply forgot. When do I hear about my Aptitude Board?”

  “You’ll hear when we’re goddamn good and ready to tell you, Slaight. And not a moment before. And if you think you’re going to get legal representation before that board, mister, you’d better think again, because you’re not.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, sir. I simply want some time to prepare. I’d like to know the nature of the charges against me.”

  “You’ll find out, Slaight. Soon enough.” With that, Grimshaw tipped his black gloves to his hat brim and stalked from the room.

  The cadets settled on the bunks. Somebody went for Cokes. Buck played an album by Waylong Jennings, which seemed to take the ugly edge off things.

  “What do you think, Slaight?” asked Lugar.

  “I don’t know. How ‘bout you?” Lugar shrugged in reply.

  “Goddamn-goddamn,” said Leroy Buck. “We could have a million fuckin’ ideas, and I don’t think we oughta go talking about them around here. I’m beginning to think these goddamn walls have ears. I wanna get me some MPR. Mid-period rack’s always best. No telling when the next shitstorm’s gonna hit. Could be today. Could be tomorrow. Who fuckin’ knows? When in doubt, fellas, follow the example of ole Leroy. Get rack.”

  They did.

  32

  Slaight was asleep when two loud knocks sounded on his door at 11:15 that Monday night. The company and battalion honor representatives entered without invitation. They were in Dress Gray, unusual after taps in the barracks. Slaight looked up. The lights went on. He was still half asleep, but he knew they were on honor business. He’d been charged with an honor violation. The questions crammed his mind: When? By whom? For what?

  “I think you know why we’re here,” said the battalion honor rep ominously. He was a stubby little guy who’d been an all-state football player in West Virginia in high school. He came to West Point as a football recruit. He never got over it when he discovered that at 175 pounds dripping wet, he couldn’t cut it in college ball. The D-3 company honor rep was from Arkansas, slow-talking, fast-witted dude who played lead guitar in the cadet rock and roll band, “B. Arnold and the Traitors.” He was handsome, loose, hip, a cadet rock and roll star. Slaight could tell by the look on his face this after-taps honor visit didn’t sit well with him.

  “Get dressed. Dress Gray,” commanded Dudley, the battalion honor rep. “You’re going before a subcommittee tonight.”

  “Tonight? What the fuck is this all about? It’s past taps, man. What is this, anyway? Selma, Alabama?” Slaight was pulling on his trousers, and he was good and pissed.

  “Come on, Ry. Just co-operate. Let’s get it over with,” said Sam Kip, the company honor rep. “The less you say, the better.”

  “I wanna make a phone call,” said Slaight as he zipped up his dress coat.

  “No phone calls,” said Dudley. “Let’s go. The subcommittee is waiting up in Building 720 right now.”

  “At least tell me the charges,” said Slaight, stopping in front of his mirror to check his hair.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” said Dudley. “Let’s go. We want to get this over with by 2400 hours.”

  They walked single file, Slaight between the two honor reps, up to a conference room in Building 720. It was the same room they used when they boarded out Crolius. Out the window, he could see the Cadet Chapel, its stony presence outlined against the moonlit sky. Slaight was told to take a seat. Six of his classmates sat in a semicircle in front of him. They weren’t guys he knew. His company and battalion honor reps were not permitted to sit on the subcommittee, but t
hey stayed in the room as observers. One cadet, a five-striper, probably a battalion commander, spoke:

  “You have been charged with an honor violation, and this subcommittee has been convened to determine if there is sufficient evidence to warrant a full Honor Board. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. What’s the charge?”

  “The charge is that you lied to an officer, in that you told the officer you would not divulge certain information to others, and then you went and divulged said information.”

  “What officer? When? What information? How in hell do you expect me to answer this charge when you don’t give me any details?”

  The cadets on the subcommittee glanced at each other. They didn’t have the details, either. Slaight leaped into the gap.

  “Who brought the charges in the first place? Let’s start there.”

  The cadets drew their heads close together in a huddle and conferred.

  “The charges were originally brought by Major Grimshaw, your tactical officer, who spoke to your company honor rep, Sam Kip, late this afternoon.”

  “Yeah? What did he say?”

  “He said basically that you’d lied, just as we outlined.”

  “Well, that’s the sketchiest fuckin’ outline I’ve ever heard in my goddamn life. You guys yank me out of bed up here and pull together a subcommittee to tell me Grimshaw says I lied, and you don’t even know what I’m supposed to have lied about? Jesus fuckin’ H. Christ. Who’s running this Honor Code show? You guys or Grimshaw?”

  Sam Kip stepped forward.

  “Maybe I’d better call Major Grimshaw and get him to elaborate.”

  “Do it,” said the five-striper.

  Kip disappeared. Slaight could hear a phone being dialed in the office next door, the muffled sounds of a conversation. Kip was gone for five minutes.