Tommy

by William Illsey Atkinson

  Tommy’s a farm boy but he’s never seen steadings the size of a county. The sky is vast, the land dead flat. The grain extends forever. The conductor tells him the fields he sees are measured in square miles. Each one of them is three times the size of his grandfather’s farm.

  He has no idea what waits for him at Annapolis. This is everything he learned from the osu libraries: Founded 1845 . . . Trains Officers & Gentlemen for the U.S. Navy and Corps of Marines . . . Marines are soldiers on shipboard deployment . . . Annapolis is a small town on the Atlantic coast midway between Washington, D.C., and Baltimore . . . Named for Queen Anne of England two centuries ago . . . Studies at the Naval Academy include mathematics, science, and engineering . . . Other subjects may be added as the Commandant deems desirable, e.g., Methods of Command, History and Structure of the U.S. Navy, Gentlemanly Deportment.

  Gentlemanly Deportment?

  On day four, the prairie ends abruptly at thick forest. Day five brings Ottawa, dull and tidy, then an overnight stop at Montreal. He stays in a big stone hotel and in the morning walks the old port’s cobblestones. Women smile at his glances, but he’s too shy to say a word.

  On day six he leaves Montreal for Baltimore. At noon on August 31, 1930, Tommy steps down from the Washington local to the Annapolis platform. He has voyaged from sea to sea, crossing two countries and a continent, and feels as if he’s fallen from Jupiter. His Navy years have begun.

  His memories of the Academy forever center on two things: square corners and running. Running from class to class, class to dorm, dorm to chapel; knees waist high at every step as if running on the spot, while holding thirty pounds of books. At meals he cuts square corners, a torture enforced by upperclassmen. Look straight ahead, not at your plate; locate knife and fork, again without looking; find something to cut, cut it, lift it to your mouth. Not on an oblique, that’s called jaywalking. Take your forkful — assuming you’ve found one, or even a fork — plumb vertical to mouth altitude, pause, then move the fork horizontally. Chew precisely twenty-two times, swallow, repeat. Do all of this exactly or an upperclassman will make you spit out your hard-won mouthful and start again. If you go hungry, tough. This is said to inculcate respect for orders.

  Tommy aces his math and science courses. He likes the campus, its jetties and docks that jut out into sparkling water. He loves the history that seeps from the place, its Greek Revival halls and ornate chapel. And he endures training cruises on tall ships — the cramped hammocks, the constant seasickness, the shouted commands that send him up the ratlines in all weather. But naval architecture, ship design, the thing he most looked forward to, is useless. The prof says, Here’s the bow, here’s the stern, now go away.

  It’s one disappointment out of many. The hazing goes beyond running and square corners: upperclassmen constantly impose needless chores. Sometimes it’s standing at attention for thirty minutes. Sometimes its watch-and-watch, with whole dorm floors turned up for roll call at one a.m. It’s senseless to exhaust students like this; it’s not even revenge. Hazing merely transmits misery down the chain of command. It exists because it’s always existed. Today’s brass endured it when Kidd and Teach sailed the seas.

  Regulations are another form of hazing. Miss a single one and demerits pile up. Polish your brass buttons till they gleam, never mind that the polish provided is a foul black paste the tiniest touch of which besmirches a uniform’s pristine cotton. Crease your trousers like cleaver blades. Set your caps at an invariant angle, twenty-one degrees clockwise from the horizontal. The drill instructors who enforce this are men the size of Mount Shasta, whose fists stay on their hips and whose noses stay an inch in front of yours.

  The oddest class is Etiquette. It has rules for every conceivable social situation and many that are inconceivable, bound up in a damned, thick, square book written by Emily Post, a shabby-genteel widow on the fringes of Who’s Who. The Academy seems to believe that an overwhelming dose of Mrs. Post will transform its plebes into gentlemen. Accordingly, an Oregon farmer who has done without electricity and indoor plumbing most of his life is advised that the loan of a private railway car for the honeymoon of a newly married couple is appropriate, provided it come from the bride’s parents . . . Before the wedding, however, a man may not give his fiancée any article of clothing whatsoever, as that would imply that she is a Kept Woman. Likewise the unmarried woman, be she never so long engaged, will never stoop even to discuss ‘necking’ and ‘petting,’ let alone engage in such activities, for she knows them to be cheap, promiscuous, and vulgar.

  Some things beyond the labs and lecture halls are useful. Tommy likes rough-and-tumble, a compendium of quick ways to kill a man. It’s a nasty and effective blend of jiu-jitsu and back-alley dirt. No Marquess of Queensberry Rules here: you gouge eyes, rip mouths, kick balls. It’s comforting to know.

  Tommy’s a short man, used to jibes about his height. So the first time he dekes his combat instructor, slams the big man to the mat, grabs his hair, wrenches back his head, and jams rigid fingertips against his exposed carotid, he feels two miles tall. Even better is the instructor’s look of astonishment. Not bad, Atkinson, he says. A second later, he and Tommy have changed places.

  How’s that? the instructor snarls.

  It’s fiction, sir, says Tommy, calmly.

  What?!

  Fiction, sir. I’ve just killed you, remember?

  The class roars. Tommy does his penalty pushups grinning. At end of class the instructor slaps him on the shoulder, and two miles grows to three.

  Tommy’s dress sword is a yard of high-strength steel. On it are etched his name and, near the hilt, a small proof point. When the blade was forged but not yet certified, an armorer bent it backward till its tip touched the star. The blade rebounded to perfect true. The handle is sharkskin, iron-hard and nubbly to give a sure grip even when drenched in blood. Hilt and pommel shine with twenty-karat gold. The sword puzzles Tommy. How can something meant to kill be so beautiful?

  June 17, 1934

  Annapolis ends on a June day with bands, bunting, and speeches. Then: Class of ’34! Gentlemen: Diiiiiis-misss! A hundred-odd caps soar upward, carefully labeled for reacquisition. Tommy trudges back to a dorm that’s already packed up. His roommate Turner sits on his trunk smoking a cigarette.

  Well, we made it, Tommy. We’re midshipmen now. You make cum laude?

  Tommy nods. It’s summa cum but he doesn’t want to boast. You’re going home? he asks.

  Turner makes a face. Manners, Pennsylvania. Two thousand souls, four thousand cattle. What lousy luck we’re graduating now.

  Tommy nods. Usually the Navy makes its graduating officers stay on two years, but in the middle of a depression there are no positions.

  Where you headed? Turner asks.

  Home, Tommy says. My God, the sweat it took to get myself off that farm —

  And now you’re back there, just like me. Where’s home for you?

  Oregon. Pretty little place, actually. Willamette Valley.

  I thought it was Wil-a-met, Turner says. It is where I live.

  Not out west. Dammit, it’s Wil-lam-mit.

  Say, Carl ever reach you? He wanted to talk to you.

  Stanton? Haven’t seen him. You know what it’s about?

  No idea. Better see him before he leaves. Turner looks out the window. Here’s my ride! Good knowing you, Tommy. Maybe we’ll be back in the Navy one day.

  Or stuck behind a plow.

  Or pulling it.

  And Turner’s gone. Tommy looks about him at a bare room. Four years, he thinks.

  He’s hauling his duffel bag to the train station when he hears a shout. Carl Stanton runs toward him, waving his arms. Tommy stops. Stanton stands bent over and puffing.

  Tommy . . . didn’t . . . something . . .

  Breathe, Carl. Take your time.

  Stanton’s something is a new graduat
e program in Cambridge. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology has received a grant from Alfred P. Sloan, president of General Motors Corporation, to establish a one-year Master’s of Business Administration. There are fifty fellowships, each paying tuition and a living allowance.

  But I’m an engineer, says Tommy. I’m not a businessman.

  You might start an engineering firm one day. Look, take a sounding, okay? No jobs in the Navy means no jobs anywhere else. It’s something to do for ten months. A bunch of us are taking the train up from Washington. We’d like you to come along.

  I’m flattered, says Tommy, and he is.

  Hell, man, can’t you see? It’s pure self-interest. The program’s crawling with statistics and you’re the best mathematician any of us has ever seen. Nobody’s going to get through Sloan unless you join. Besides, you’ll get away from impoverished sailors. Hobnob with the well-to-do.

  Tommy’s shaving when he hears a car horn. He peers out his residence window and sees a baby-blue Buick with its top down, its driver triple-parked and waving. Tommy nicks his chin, swears, sticks on a scrap of toilet paper, and clatters downstairs knotting his tie.

  Morning, Tommy. You look worse than usual. A second ago I’d have said that was impossible.

  Feathers Mason, the driver, looks like he’s stepped directly from Condé Nast in a double-breasted crimson blazer, grey slacks whose creases are sharper than Tommy’s razor, and a shirt so white it threatens snowblindness. His cufflinks are dull gold.

  Verdammt, Herr Mason! I could be richer than Herbert Hoover and I’d look like a busboy next to you.

  Hoover! Hoover looks like a busboy next to anyone. I’m glad Uncle Frank trounced the little embarrassment. Time we had a president we’re proud of.

  A president who’s one of you, you mean.

  Damn straight. Someone who can knot a tie, for example. Feathers peers at Tommy over imaginary glasses, like an irascible professor. Tommy shakes his head and laughs. Only Feathers can sneer at his poverty and get away with it.

  Feathers? You aren’t really Roosevelt’s nephew, are you?

  God, no. The Masons owned half of New England long before that crew of dike hoppers got here. There’s a rumor old Delano made his millions selling opium.

  But Uncle Frank?

  An honorific. He drops in sometimes. We don’t advertise.

  Tommy is completely happy. It’s a cloudless autumn Saturday, Boston gleams through crystal air, and he’s off to the Navy–Harvard game with a sharp new friend in a snazzy new car. Too bad they’re not cheering for the same team, but George Carrington Mason the Fourth — Feathers — is a Harvardite, and Harvardites are loyal.

  Feathers downshifts smoothly and turns onto a thoroughfare. The shift lever is nothing like Tommy’s seen; it’s on the steering column, not the floor. Moreover, Feathers has signaled his turn no-hands. A switch on the Buick’s dashboard flashes fore-and-aft lights on the appropriate side.

  How far to the stadium? Tommy asks.

  Fifty-five gearshifts from the dorm. Take us half an hour.

  The city zips by. Tommy glances at the speedometer and wishes he hadn’t.

  They luck into a parking spot and walk to a stadium that’s filling fast. Tommy pauses as they emerge from an archway into the great bowl. Navy shirts, pennants, uniforms are everywhere. Nothing Harvardite can be seen.

  Your alma mater seems underrepresented, Tommy says.

  Feathers waves a hand. One man in the right makes a majority.

  They find their seats. On all sides rolls a Navy sea. Feathers’ blazer stands out like a floating chrysanthemum. Tommy leans over to whisper in his ear.

  Arma virumque cane, Carrington. Clamor like a champion. Be ye the Stentor of Harvard Square.

  Feathers gazes outward, sublimely unconcerned.

  Navy jogs out line astern, evoking a colossal cheer. Big buggers, Tommy says, and gets another airy wave. Then it’s Harvard’s turn. Not big buggers, Tommy says. It’s true: Tommy’s high school had a larger team. Navy seem the only adults on the field. Handshake, coin toss. Navy kicks off. A Harvard player fields the ball and instantly disappears beneath a blue-gold avalanche. The stadium howls.

  My God, says Tommy. This isn’t football. This is martyrs versus lions.

  At halftime it’s fifty–zip and the Navy coach has tried every ploy he can think of to give the martyrs a break. He’s benched his top players and sent in second string, then third and fourth — everyone but the waterboy. No use. Navy’s done everything to Harvard but stick their heads on pikes.

  Tommy stands and stretches. Feathers, this is embarrassing. You see what’s happening. Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.

  Feathers lifts his eyebrows. My good fellow, I am no fairweather friend. True to the end, I, to the last trump and final whistle. I came to cheer my college on to victory. That is what I have done and what I shall continue to do.

  Tommy sits slowly. Cheer! You haven’t made a sound all game.

  A minor omission that shall shortly be rectified.

  Tommy doesn’t say what he’s thinking, that Feathers wouldn’t yell if you nailed his feet to the floor. Some people have manners; Feathers is manners. He couldn’t shout if he tried.

  Halftime is over and Navy jogs back in to another colossal roar. Harvard limps onto the field and the stadium falls silent, like a crowd before an execution. Suddenly, there’s a clear whisky tenor with long vowels and buffered Rs:

  Hahh-vahhd!

  The quiet deepens. Seat rows ripple as forty thousand Navy fans seek the lone voice.

  Hahhh-vahhhd! Whole tiers are turning: players, linesmen, referees look up into the stands. Then something strange occurs: the entire stadium applauds. Everyone except for Feathers, who sits as before, composed and unruffled, surveying the field as a cobra regards a rat. Suddenly his nostrils quiver, his eyes squeeze shut, and he’s laughing so hard he falls against Tommy. A whistle sounds and the carnage resumes.

  February 26, 1935

  Saturday, six p.m., full dark. Feathers pokes his head around the door of the mit study room.

  You still trying to eddykate these morons, Tommy?

  The group looks up, all except Tommy. I know it’s news to you, Mr. Mason, but some people on this planet work occasionally. Go away.

  Your funeral if I do! Feathers says, and vanishes. Ten minutes pass as Tommy reviews root mean square. Stanton looks at him.

  Better find out what Carrington wants, Tom. Could be important.

  Could be trivial. It’s Feathers, Carl.

  Who’s a hell of a lot smarter than he lets on. Plus filthy rich. We’re fine now, all we need is practice. Go see.

  Tommy shrugs, gets up, and walks into the hall. In an alcove at its far end sits Feathers. His ankles are crossed and he’s reading Vanity Fair.

  So! You left the peons to fend for themselves. Most proper. Feathers sets down his magazine, stands. We are invited to dinner. More accurately, I have inveigled us an invitation to dinner. Providence, RI. Take us an hour.

  Rhode Island? Never been there. Should I change?

  No need, you wouldn’t look any better. Look at me, I’m casual.

  Your casual is my tuxedo. Can we bring something? Bottle of wine?

  You couldn’t afford what they drink. Besides, they’d be insulted. Old family friends, I told ’em about you. Bring ’im over, they said. Nice people, you’ll like ’em.

  I assume they’re not nobodies, Tommy says. Seeing as how you know them.

  Of course they’re nobodies. Worse than Uncle Frank. Republicans.

  So who is it?

  No one you know.

  So who is it?

  The governor.

  In reality, it’s the ex-governor. Emery J. San Souci is a stout, white-whiskered man with ancien régime manners, and he and Tommy bond on sight.

&
nbsp; Mr. Atkinson. Carrington has told me much about you.

  Bad things, says Feathers. True things.

  Only praise, says the governor. Really, Carrington, insouciance will be the death of you. Do you care to sit, gentlemen? Sherry?

  Emery! Jesus! For once in your life try not to act like the boss at a company barbecue. Tommy is a scotch man.

  Carrington, says the governor with enormous dignity, when I wish for your comments I will send them to you via House page. Sherry, Mr. Atkinson?

  With pleasure, sir. Thank you.

  The governor looks sideways at Feathers. Someone under the age of thirty with tact, he says. Amazing.

  Feathers shrugs. Tact is for underlings, Emery. How long have you hewers of wood been in this country, anyway?

  A century and a half. A century before that in Quebec. Now then, Mr. Atkinson. What did Carrington call you, Tommy? Your name is Thomas, then?

  No, sir, that’s a nickname. My first name is Archibald.

  Archibald, yes . . . With your permission I shall call you Tommy as well. Will you sit? No, not so far away! Here by me, by the fire. You obey the Lord’s injunction to let your own deserts have you invited higher, rather than claiming great position at the outset! On permet que l’élite soi-disante se trouve la propre chaise. Which means, Carrington, you can find your own damned chair.

  Midnight. The men are silent as they speed back to mit.

  Penny for your thoughts, says Tommy. He’s slouched in the front seat with his eyes closed.

  Penny for yours.

  I asked you first.

  Just wondering why I took you there, Feathers says. He slows to ninety through a darkened town.

  Me too.

  Feathers shrugs. Call it a whim.

  You never have whims.

  What? I am a creature of whim, I am nothing but whim. One great whim, I.

  Not this time.

  Well observed, midshipman. Well, I was curious. I wanted to see how you and the old man got along.

  Famously, I think. Is that what you’d say, famously?