Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  “Okay. Lugar’s right. You wanna accuse me of taking the better of two deals, getting out when the getting is good? You’ve got me. I’ve got no excuse. I’m doing it. But we all know how much the old West Point ‘No excuse, sir’ line is worth. It’s supposed to work for plebes, but hell, it didn’t even work back then.” Leroy Buck chuckled, then everyone laughed, recalling some private plebe experience, when ‘no excuse’ had proved itself inadequate as an excuse. A plebe materialized at the door with a dozen Cokes. Somebody gave him a couple dollars, and he left. Guys slurped thirstily from paper cups.

  “You guys have got to understand that it wasn’t easy for me to decide to leave West Point.” The room fell silent. Straws stood at attention in half-empty cups.

  “Breaking that commitment, the commitment you make the first day of Beast … it was tough. But when you come right down to it, the issue was never who was gonna win, who was gonna lose. The issue wasn’t even David Hand. The issue was West Point. I had to make up my mind about West Point, and I did. I don’t belong here. I guess I never did belong here. But it took all this shit comin’ down for me to figure it out. I owe West Point one hell of a big debt. This place taught me I wasn’t cut out to be an army officer. Know what I mean?” Slaight glanced around the room. There was no reaction, only the same stunned silence. Then Leroy Buck spoke.

  “But you’re a fuckin’ leader, Slaight. That’s what it’s all supposed to be about, bein’ a leader. You always had it knocked. Fuck, I remember back when we was plebes …” Slaight interrupted him.

  “Look. The system says, way down deep, either you join up or you die. That’s the nut of truth inside the fuckin’ combat example they’re always talking about. Well, the way I figure it, Hand never joined up, and he died. The thing I learned these past few months is that I never really joined up, either. And I don’t want to die. What I’m saying is this: The system works. West Point is right.”

  John Lugar walked across the room and stood in front of Slaight. His powerfully built boxer’s body bulged beneath his laundry-wracked tattered T-shirt.

  “What are you saying, Slaight? You’re saying Hedges and the rest of them were right. You’re too fuckin’ smart to try and pass that gas. And you’re no chickenshit. Every guy in this room knows that. So what do you mean, the system works? You’re not making any sense, at least not to me.” Heads around the room nodded assent. Slaight had known it was going to be difficult to make his friends understand what was inside him, that it might be impossible. He stopped fiddling with the row of pencils and stood up. Walking around John Lugar, he began pacing the length of the room. Sweat poured from his armpits, and his head ached.

  “The thing was always West Point, guys. You’re asking me what I mean, the system works. Okay. West Point will survive. That’s what I mean. The institution will survive, that’s what I mean when I say it works. It’s the nature, the fuckin’ job, of places like West Point to survive, to go forward. We use the word ‘system’ too loosely. You’ve got to stop thinking of West Point as a machine, and start thinking of it as a living thing, alive. Living things reproduce themselves. That’s the way they survive. Fuckin’ amoebae reproduce themselves. If they didn’t, they’d be extinct. There’d be no fuckin’ amoebae. Same with West Point. This place survives the same way amoebae do. The system works because we’re the system, man. We used to be kids, civilians. Now we’re cadets. In June, we’ll be officers … I mean, you’ll be officers. Grads. West Pointers. In July, it’ll start all over again. Another bunch of beans, another Beast Barracks, another year, another class of grads. It works. It’s alive.”

  Bloomingburg, who Slaight noticed was for once without his Bible, spoke:

  “I understand what you mean, Ry.” His voice crept just above a whisper, but everyone heard him.

  “I figured you would, Jay.”

  “Me, too.” It was Leroy Buck, standing at the stereo, turning the record over.

  “So West Point will survive, and maybe it’s right that West Point should survive this shit. I mean, look at the fuckers who were involved. Hedges. A goddamn psychopath. Grimshaw. A paranoid. Thompson. A secret Nazi. Beatty. A mystery man with connections in the highest levels of the military and civilian establishments of this country. West Point was right, the system worked, because Hedges and his crew didn’t count on guys like us, guys like Captain Bassett, Sergeant Major Eldridge, guys who were willing to pay the price. You wanna believe in something, man, you don’t just sit back and watch, waitin’ to see if it works. You jump in there and make it work. Hedges wasn’t willing to pay that price, man, and he isn’t com any more. Same with the rest of them. They took it all for granted. They had power, and they’d had it so long they forgot power is earned. You work for it. Those fuckers … they made the fatal mistake. It’s a mistake that was just sitting there waiting for them, like a pothole in a road. One of the oldest in the book. They forgot power is a privilege, bestowed upon those who earn it, and began thinking of power as a right.”

  “What about David Hand?” It was Pete Locke, first captain, standing over near the door, arms folded across the breast of his Dress Gray jacket. “How does he fit in? And how about VanRiper? Hell, he was a regimental commander. He was going to be a general. Everybody talked about him that way.”

  “VanRiper believed in ghosts. He thought Hand was going to blackmail him, come back and haunt him some day. I know enough about Hand now to know VanRiper was wrong. Hand wouldn’t have done it. Hand was too … vulnerable to have attempted blackmail. So the ghosts weren’t real. They were in VanRiper’s head. But he imagined them, believed the ghosts to be real enough that he killed Hand to erase them from his mind. He murdered. It was the West Point way. Hand, the enemy. Trouble was, VanRiper was a fag, too. He was killing the part of himself he hated, the faggot in him. West Point does not allow for the possibility that the enemy is you.”

  The record changer clicked, and a Marty Robbins album plonked onto the turntable. Nashville crooning eased gently from the speakers in the corners, taking the edge from Slaight’s tirade. He stopped pacing the room, realizing that he had begun talking to his classmates and had ended up lecturing them. He felt foolish. He was omitting what he’d really wanted to tell them, the part that hurt, the part about himself.

  “How ‘bout Hand, Slaight?” Leroy Buck asked. “You still ain’t said nothing ‘bout Hand.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hand is … well, he’s more complicated, and I’m not sure I understand David Hand, even after all the shit that’s gone down. One thing I’m pretty sure about: West Point was right when it came to David Hand. The system said: Check your bullshit adolescent arrogance at the door, and watch your step, mister. David Hand ignored those rules, and now he’s dead. I’m not sure his death is evidence that he couldn’t have gotten away with ignoring the rules, if VanRiper hadn’t killed him. Guys get away with breaking and ignoring rules every day around here. Some of them make a career out of the practice.” Lugar and a few others chuckled. Pete Locke smiled.

  “In Hand, though, the drive ran deeper. Hand was such a good cadet … you know, he just had it down … he got bored with the challenge of becoming a cadet, the challenge of plebe year, and he began testing the system. I have an idea Hand was such a good plebe because"—Slaight stared out the window—"because he was a fag. He was already a plebe, before he got here, if you get what I mean. That’s why he had it knocked.”

  “Are you saying fags make better plebes, Slaight? Or that being a plebe is faggy?” John Lugar asked the question. He was genuinely curious. The rest of the guys appeared to be studying the bottoms of their empty Coke cups with unusual interest.

  “All I’m saying is, Hand understood something about what goes on here at West Point that we didn’t understand. At least, I certainly didn’t understand it when I was his squad leader in Beast, and I’m not so goddamn sure I understand it now, either. One thing about him, however, is clear. Hand bucked the system, and he enjoyed it. He thrived on it. He loved i
t.”

  Leroy Buck looked up. “Yeah,” he drawled. “You could fuckin’-A say that again.” The room fell silent. Marty Robbins was singing about trains and love gone wrong, an embrace of musical subject matter only country and western singers had the balls, or bad taste, to assault. Slaight had no idea why, but it worked.

  “Well, I did, too, goddammit,” said Slaight. Every head in the room turned to face him. He was standing by the window, leaning against a file cabinet.

  “I’ve bucked the system one way or another for three and a half years, but it wasn’t until this Hand thing that I discovered how much I liked it. I fuckin’ loved it, just like Hand. Me and him were the same that way. I knew it back in Beast last year, but I’d never admit it to myself. But I fuckin’ know it now.”

  Leroy Buck put a Tammy Wynette record on the stereo, “Stand By Your Man.” He sat down on the bed and whistled that soft whistle of his, through his teeth.

  “The thing that got to me … Christ, this is tough to explain. It bothered me when I knew, down deep, how much Hand and I were alike. But the thing that really got me was the more I fought the system—Hedges and the rest of them—the more I became like them. The process was absorptive. You couldn’t get away from it, because after a while, it surrounded you, and you were inside it. You become the thing you’re struggling against. I saw it first in Hand, when I began to find out more and more about him. At first, I thought he didn’t fit in. Then I realized he did. I mean, look where he fit! Beatty … Thompson, they were thick with Hand. When he got killed, paper work flew like you wouldn’t believe, Hedges and upward, Lord only knows how high. But it was invisible. Let me ask you something. You think if Hand wasn’t a fag things would have been handled differently? You damn straight they would have! Christ, the flood of poop-sheets and snoops and MPs and investigators that hit this place would have blinded us. But Hand—not a flutter. He was in there, guys. Deep. I’m not sure, but with Hand, it might not have been a case of becoming the thing you’re fighting. To us, Hand appeared to buck the system. I think it’s possible Hand was part of the system the whole time.”

  Guys were studying their fingernails, playing with their shoelaces, polishing their belt buckles with their shirt-tails. They were listening, but they consciously avoided Slaight’s gaze. Everyone except John Lugar. He spoke, his voice low, tinged with carbon-steel acuity.

  “Enough of this shit about Hand and West Point and the system, Slaight. What about you? If you’ve got all this stuff figured, and looks to me like you do, how come you’re taking a walk?”

  “I made up my mind to resign quite awhile ago. When I figured I was getting my kicks the same way as Hand was, I decided it was time to cash my check. I never told you guys, I never told anybody, because …” Slaight stopped and looked around the room. He’d known it would come to this. “Because if I did, I’d have to tell you why. I didn’t want you guys knowing the real reason I was so obsessed by the death of David Hand. I just wanted you to help me nail the son of a bitch who killed him. I couldn’t tell you how much of myself I’d seen in Hand. I didn’t want you guys knowing I was comparing myself to a fag.”

  Lugar gave Slaight a look that said he knew there was something Slaight was holding back. It was instinctive among cadets. You knew you had to respond.

  “There’s something else, too,” said Slaight, choosing his words carefully. “You guys all know me. I’ve always been kind of an underground leader, a force just beneath the surface of things here at West Point. I’ve enjoyed the combative feel of it, staying just out of sight, out of reach, but still whipping it on ‘em anytime I felt the urge. Then this Hand thing forced me out in the open, and I was tested, really tested, for the first time. I found out I was good. Better than I thought I was. At a certain point, last summer, I knew I had them. I can’t explain how or why. I just knew. And it made me nervous … scared the shit out of me.” Lugar looked up, startled.

  “How come?”

  “Because I knew then I believed the bullshit. You know. We’re always joking around. Who believes this bullshit, anyway, the party line crap they’re continually feeding us? Punching each other in the arm during lectures, when some air corps major gets up there on the stage, and he’s having an orgasm about his gun ship, his fuckin’ mini-guns and his recon-by-fire and all that shit. It’s a gas, right?” Lugar nodded and a couple of guys chuckled at the memory. There had been so many lectures like that….

  “But there’s a bottom line to the bullshit, and the bottom line says we’re better than the rest of them. We’re special. We’re being let in on The Secret. I found my own private version of that bottom line and explored it, and discovered they’re right. I am special. I am better. That bothered me. But it isn’t what scared me.”

  Slaight had captured their attention again, every one of them, as he usually did when he turned it on, clipped an edge on his voice, widened his eyes and lit a tiny fire in them, moved his hands expertly, like a pianist’s, touching the keys of control. He had them now, and he kept it up. He wanted them to remember every syllable he uttered. He knew they would. He had the power, and one last time, he’d exercise it, touch them with invisible brush strokes of color … change them….

  “Hell, believing the bullshit is okay. Every goddamn place pushes one version of it or another. Up at Harvard, they think an MBA is a master key to the vault in the Chase Manhattan Bank. Fuck. The secrets of clubs at Yale like Skull and Bones are darker then the cracks inside King Tut’s tomb.” Laughter. They were rolling. Time to pull in the reins.

  “Once I’d accepted the fact I believed the bullshit, I started testing it, from both ends. I tested the bullshit itself: Are we in fact better? And I tested my belief in it. Fuckin’-A if the equation didn’t balance!” More laughter. After three years of engineering, their humor was calculable.

  “That’s when I got scared. Once the fucker balanced, I kept testing and it didn’t tilt one way or the other. I ran out of parameters. I had nothing left to test with. I started crowding the edge. Down near the end, I was just whipping it on, firing blind, running amok. And it was working, clicking, like it was coming straight out of a field manual. But it wasn’t. It was coming out of me, and that’s when I knew something West Point never prepared me for. I was using power that was coming from a place I didn’t know about, some place outside of me. I had no idea where it was coming from. I didn’t understand it, thus I couldn’t control it. Everything here at West Point is so goddamn rational, you get used to it. You depend on it. And this feeling of power that came from nowhere, it was crazy, I guess the feeling was, it controlled me. The only time I ever felt anything like it was last year in Beast, when Hand was in my squad. I don’t know what you call it. Strength. Power. Magic. Spirit. But he had it. You could fuckin’ see it.” Their eyes remained fixed on Slaight as he wound down, striking them with the name Hand like an uppercut to the solar plexus, leaving the room winded, a vacuum sucking air.

  “Goddamn-goddamn,” said Leroy Buck, breaking the silence, attesting the veracity of Slaight’s description of Hand. He changed the record. Johnny Cash sang “Orange Blossom Special.” Buck whistled along with the tune through his teeth.

  “West fuckin’ Point,” said Buck. He blew that soft whistle of his: “Slaight, you know somethin’? You as gray as the fuckin’ area out there. You go on down to New York City, and you shack up with Irit Dov, and you go ahead and be a goddamn civilian, and you’ll still be a gray son of a bitch, Slaight, just as gray as them fuckin’ trou you wearin’, gray as your T-shirt, gray as fuckin’ Dress Gray, Slaight.”

  “And you’re an arrogant fucker, man,” said John Lugar, laughing. The room cracked with laughter, the tension broken. Pete Locke, the first captain, shook hands with Slaight and excused himself, asking Slaight to stop by before he left. One by one they stood up and shuffled out the door, mumbling stuff like See you later, man, and Let’s get together in the city sometime. Slaight was nodding and saying, Yeah, sure. Finally there remained Slai
ght and Buck and Lugar. John Lugar stretched out on his bunk and pulled his Brown Boy around his shoulders. Leroy Buck walked to the door, stopped, and turned.

  “Gonna get me some rack, Slaight. See you at dinner formation.” He shuffled down the hall. As he turned the corner, Slaight heard him:

  “Heeeaaauh,” came the seal honk. “Fuckin’-A, Slaight.”

  “Heeeaaauh,” answered Slaight, exchanging primitive noises of cadet sanction. He walked down the hall to the phone booth, dialed a number in the 212 area code, When he heard the voice on the other end, he said:

  “Irit, it’s me. Drive up and get me this afternoon, will you?” She said okay, and hung up. On his way back to his room, Slaight collared a plebe and issued him a wake-up time and method, two knocks, crack the door, and whisper. Then he crawled under his Brown Boy and got some rack before lunch.

  Chapter One

  Kara Guidry was stunned by her indecision.

  They had been together only a few months, but already she loved to lie next to him in bed and lean on her elbow and watch him sleep. With his eyes closed, he looked like a boy, except for the curly brown hair on his chest that became a light fuzz at his belly button and got darker and more wiry going down, swirling and twisting at the sinuous juncture of his thighs in a passionate calculus of the flesh.

  She wanted to reach out and stroke his belly and rub her fingers in the thickening sworls of his masculinity, but if she touched him, he would wake up, and she wanted him to sleep so she could lie there and gaze at him. Her dilemma was delicious, making her feel like a girl instead of the woman she was.

  The first time they spent the night together, she was watching him sleep and she absentmindedly ran her fingernail down his belly, and he jerked awake full of fire. In the dim light she thought she saw yellow in his eyes, and from somewhere deep in his chest came a low, guttural growl. Then he rolled gracefully on top of her and he looked into her eyes. The yellow was there—she could see it clearly now—and he growled again and chewed on her shoulder, sending shivers down her legs. He burrowed his face into her neck and he held her breast in his hand like a hunter in possession of prey. As he nibbled her lips, and the fleshy point of her chin, she looked up into his eyes and they flashed hungrily and he started licking her, grooming her like a cat. His tongue searched for pockets of sweat, and when he found them, he drank deeply. She hoped he would never stop, and he didn’t, not for a long, long time.