by Ed Ruggero
West Point believes that development takes place outside a person’s comfort zone. Going into a small building filled with tear gas is outside the experience of most of these young people, and it is definitely outside their comfort zone. It is something completely new, and thus it is one of the essential elements of the West Point experience: a chance for the new cadets to stretch themselves.
“There’s a priest up there,” one of the cadre members tells the new cadets as he points up the hill to the chamber. (One of the chaplains is visiting the training site.) “But not because we think you’re gonna die or anything.”
New Cadet Marat Daveltshin is from Kyrgyzstan, the first “allied cadet” from a former republic of the Soviet Union. Stocky, with blue eyes and a trace of blond hair left on his scalp, Daveltshin is twenty-one and already has a university degree. He told Major Olson, “My country set me up for success.”
Daveltshin listens intently to every instruction in English. He came to America two days before R-Day; up until then his whole experience of speaking English was in school. As the new cadets wait in formation, Marat speaks Russian with Ben Steadman, a new cadet who was an Army linguist with a Russian specialty. Olson says Steadman was put in the squad so that Daveltshin would have someone to help him navigate the demands of Beast. Steadman tries out his language skills; Daveltshin helps him with pronunciation, then compliments him.
“He’ll go back and be a general,” Steadman says.
“Not right away,” Daveltshin corrects him. “It will take five or six years.”
Cadet Bob Friesema, the tall, earnest redhead from Wisconsin, admits to being nervous. As his classmates chatter and a cadre member briefs them, he glances around at the smallish building and fingers the strap on his mask carrier. Friesema is one of the quieter members of Grady Jett’s squad, though because of his size (he is six four), he cannot help but be noticed. He listens intently to every word of instruction, and he gives the impression that he is afraid he will do something wrong.
The plan is this: The new cadets will enter the chamber from the back door and be asked a few questions—name, hometown, the mission of the Military Academy. The idea is to get them to breathe while they’re inside, to see how well the mask filters out the gas. Then they’ll be told to remove the mask and say something else. This is when the gas will start to sting the eyes, the back of the neck, the face. Sweat exacerbates things, and everyone is sweating. The gas will cling to clothing and hands, so the new cadets are warned not to rub their eyes. They are also told that some people are more susceptible than others; some will come out vomiting, others will blink a few times and move on. Standing in ranks, the new cadets look at one another, as if they can determine who will be most affected.
When it comes to something unpleasant, the only place for a leader is up front, so the chain of command goes in first. Platoon leader Dave Hazelton, a firstie, says he’ll do ten push-ups (outside the chamber) for every new cadet who can recite the mission of the Military Academy after removing the mask. Hazelton, Platoon Sergeant Stitt, and the squad leaders go in. All but Stitt come out.
The new cadets go in the back door, then come out the front coughing and gagging, several of them trailing streams of vomit. But they do not touch their eyes with their hands. A medic stands by for any serious reactions; most of them just walk around quickly, letting the air push the CS off of them. One new cadet, clearly in awe, comes out talking about Platoon Sergeant Greg Stitt, who has stayed inside the chamber. He pulled off his mask and is doing jumping jacks while he recites various pieces of new cadet knowledge.
New Cadet Omar Bilal is from Capitol Heights, Maryland, near Washington, D.C. When asked by a classmate if the chamber was bad, he flashes a smile and says, “Nah, the pollution in D.C. is so bad this didn’t even bother me.”
Pete Haglin, who is determined to follow his father into the field artillery, spits and coughs. “I have so much acne medication on my face all the time I didn’t even notice if this stuff burns; my face burns all the time.”
Bob Friesema comes out yelling, as if he’d just scored the winning touchdown. When his squad leader, Grady Jett, asks him how it was, he answers, “That was great, sir!”
Chalk up one of the successes that Major Rob Olson and the chain of command are looking for.
At the end of the training day, the new cadets move off the hilltop on foot, following a narrow blacktop road that takes them down to a large clearing where they will eat. The evening meal is already there: a dozen insulated metal cans, large steel canisters, called silver bullets, that contain cold drinks. There are stacks of paper products, trays of bread, and water for hand-washing. The cadre files through first, washing their hands, then taking their places to serve the food. The new cadets follow, helmets on, chin-straps buttoned, rifles slung at diagonals across their backs.
It is a comfortable evening, not too hot, and the new cadets spread out in clusters on the grass. Grady Jett, the Army football player who emphasizes teamwork above all, says a few words to Steadman, his prior-service new cadet. (Like many of the experienced new cadets, Steadman will often act as an unofficial assistant squad leader.) Steadman collects his squadmates and they sit together.
Pete Haglin is buzzing with excitement over the day’s training and already looking forward to mountaineering the next day. The anticipated highlights: a competition to see which squad gets the best time building a one-rope bridge, and a rappel down a seventy-five-foot cliff. Haglin talks happily around bites of food, but his enthusiasm is not infectious.
Jacque Messel, the only woman in the squad, sits next to him, cross-legged, the muzzle of her rifle resting on one knee, a loaded paper plate on the other. She doesn’t look up as Haglin continues his patter, until the cadre on the serving line start yelling at the new cadets to hurry up and finish eating. Messel and the rest of her classmates have spent most of the last hour standing in some line or other: waiting to move down off the hill, waiting at the bottom of the hill while the cadre figured out which platoons would eat first, waiting in line to wash her hands, waiting in line for food. As soon as she got her food someone was yelling at her to hurry up and eat. There is plenty to eat, she says, and almost no time to eat it.
Haglin finds out that Messel’s father, like his, is a West Point graduate.
“My dad was FA [Field Artillery]”, Haglin reports. “When I was born he put away all the gold stuff [uniform insignia] for me so that I can have it when I’m commissioned.”
Messel, unimpressed, responds by pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
“I used his cadet saber to cut the cake at my high school graduation party,” Haglin says happily between bites.
“My dad saved his saber for me, too,” Messel says without enthusiasm. She rolls up her paper plate, which has plenty of food still on it, picks up her rifle and stands.
“This place is not for me,” she says.
As they finish eating, the new cadets are herded up a small grassy hill above the clearing where they ate. The entrance to the mountaineering site, where they will train the next day, is nearby.
The squad leaders and platoon sergeants move their charges into a large rectangular formation on the hillside. Their challenge is to get the entire company to set up neat rows and files of pup tents on the grass. Thirteen hours into their day, the cadre are about to be tested.
The new cadets drop their rucksacks on the ground. Many of them also ground their weapons, helmets, canteens, and ammo pouches. Their camouflage shirts are sweat-stained, but they are relaxed and talkative, and soon the occasion turns social.
“Why can’t we have a camp fire?” one of the new cadets asks a classmate.
“Because the enemy will see where you are.”
Each person carries a “shelter half—half a tent. Team up with a buddy, button the two halves together, snap together the tent poles, run the guy lines, pound in a few stakes, and you have a neat tent with a triangular cross section.
But as they
unroll the tents, many new cadets look at the equipment as if seeing it for the first time. Others are not all that interested in getting things set up. Not all of the second class squad leaders, for that matter, seem engaged with the task. There are few instructions from the company leadership. Many of the cadre do not realize just how much guidance the new cadets need; others are just ready for a break, too. They sit on the grass and watch the dusk roll in.
Some of the squad leaders jump to the task. Grady Jett is one of those. He shows his new cadets how to lay out the tent, how to space the rows and line up the tent stakes so that everything will be neat and orderly. Other cadre members use the time to visit friends in other platoons. Another squad leader, visible in the failing light because of her startling blonde hair, is working on her tent when a male cadet appears and—though she doesn’t ask him to—begins to help. His squad of new cadets is not close by.
Many of the cadre members have removed their helmets, substituting the more comfortable camouflage soft cap. The new cadets take their cues from the cadre and begin adjusting their uniforms for comfort.
Another squad leader stands at the end of the row of tents and watches her two prior-service new cadets show their classmates how to set up a tent. Other new cadets from her squad stand and walk by on their way to the latrine at the bottom of the hill. One is wearing a helmet, the other is not; the one with the helmet has his weapon, the other new cadet does not. They pass just a few feet in front of her as they walk happily down the hill, chatting amiably in the dusk, like kids at summer camp.
This is a hazard of using trainers who are themselves just barely removed from basic training. If this had been Army basic training, the cadre would have been a drill sergeant with ten or more years in the service. If this had been army basic, the trainees would have learned a pointed lesson about never, never, never leaving your weapon behind.
Darkness is falling, bleeding the color from the scene; soon everything is gray going to black. Olson and Turner, the Tacs, sit on a low concrete wall, a remnant of some long-gone storage shed. Olson calls Cadet Josh Gilliam, a junior and the harried First Sergeant of Alpha Company. “What’s your most precious resource right now?” Olson asks in his patient way.
Gilliam pauses before answering. He is in a complete uniform, rifle slung over his shoulder, helmet on, chin-strap buttoned. This is as much because he hasn’t stopped moving as because he wants to set an example. “Daylight,” he answers.
“Good. And what’s your most important mission right now?”
Beside Gilliam about half the company is gathered in clusters on the slope. There are lots of people, including cadre members, standing around doing nothing more than enjoying a break. The other half of the company is still at the bottom of the hill, finishing supper.
“My most important mission is to get everyone fed,” Gilliam says.
“OK,” Olson answers. He doesn’t indicate whether or not he agrees.
“You’ve got to prioritize, allocate resources, backwards-plan,” Olson says, ticking off on his fingers. He does not give Gilliam any more specific instructions than that; it’s up to Gilliam to figure out what to do. This is a learning environment, not a combat situation.
“We’re not going to Bosnia tomorrow,” Olson says.
Olson’s plan: It is more important for Gilliam and his cadet NCOs to learn their business than it is for the new cadets to have a perfectly laid-out bivouac. There are some things, however, that are not negotiable. Anyone involved in leader development must know where to draw that line. All the new cadets must eat, for one thing. And the cadre must know where every new cadet and all the company’s equipment is. The most sensitive items are the weapons.
Ten minutes go by, and not much changes in the scene, nothing more gets done. Turner sighs, looks up at the sky; it is dark enough now so that facial features are beginning to disappear. Turner gets up and finds Gilliam, who is still running around. Turner points out that, in a very short while, rucksacks and tent poles and weapons will become invisible in the darkness, blending into the background of tall grass. Nothing will derail a training exercise faster than a lost weapon. Like safety issues, weapons accountability is a showstopper; a lost weapon can end the career of the commander or NCO who didn’t take proper precautions.
This is an area in which the officers will make pointed suggestions, will give direct orders.
“Why don’t you set up your own tent?” Turner says. “That way the platoon sergeants know where to find you. Tell them you want a report on weapons accountability; have them come to you.”
“I’m not comfortable asking the platoon sergeants to come to me,” Gilliam says.
This is another way West Point is not like the Army, another challenge to the Commandant’s plan to have cadets act in the capacity of NCOs and officers. In the Army, the First Sergeant would be senior to the platoon sergeants and would not hesitate to have them jump for such an important issue. More than that, the platoon sergeants would be experienced enough to know that the first sergeant carried heavy responsibilities; they would do everything they could to help. But Gilliam and the platoon sergeants and squad leaders, all the cadet NCOs, are classmates, all of them second class cadets. Olson is fond of saying that leading peers is one of the toughest leadership challenges. And so it is. Gilliam’s feet are being held to the fire, with this captain breathing down his neck, with darkness coming on, with new cadets and some cadre members wandering around the bivouac, some with weapons, some without.
Turner says later that he came closest to losing his temper at that moment, when Gilliam started balancing his own “comfort” with something as important as weapons accountability. But he didn’t. Instead, he reminded Gilliam about the chain of command, about who works for whom and what the priorities are.
“If you’re not sure of the technique to use, ask Sergeant Bingham or Sergeant Mercier,” Turner says, naming the two regular Army NCOs who are on board to train the cadet sergeants.
“But get accountability,” he adds firmly.
In a few minutes, Gilliam has his report: All the new cadets and all the weapons are accounted for. Olson and Turner, whose reputations and careers were most at risk as darkness fell and the weapons remained uncounted, had been remarkably patient as they let Gilliam figure out how to do his job.
At the bottom of the hill, Master Sergeant Don MacLean, the senior Regular Army NCO in cadet basic training, watches as the last cadets pack up the chow line. MacLean, who is put together like one of the Abrams tanks he has commanded, is concerned that CBT isn’t difficult enough, that the cadre are too close to being new cadets themselves. The cadre can get too buddy-buddy in the interest of being an “inspirational leader.”
“Cadets aren’t used to thinking in terms of ‘I outrank this person,’ and so can’t keep that distance,” MacLean says.
This is not peculiar to West Point. Many soldiers experience this same conflict when they first pin on sergeant’s stripes. Yesterday I was one of the boys; today I’m in charge.
A few days earlier MacLean came upon a cadet squad leader sitting on the floor with his new cadets, chatting as they shined shoes together. “I pulled him aside and said, ‘They don’t need your war stories right now. Tomorrow you’re going to have to inspect, and if those shoes are screwed up—you’re not going to be able to say anything about it.’”
A new cadet comes out of the nearby latrine, just visible in the fading light; he is not carrying his weapon. MacLean takes hold of the new cadet’s suspender.
“Get your weapon and don’t ever leave it behind again. Understand?”
The new cadet sputters his understanding. This is an epiphany. No yelling, no threats, no histrionics, just a big man stepping out of the darkness with a fixed idea that a soldier needs to keep his weapon at arm’s reach.
Josh Gilliam’s lecture from the Tac NCOs about weapons accountability probably sounded a lot like what MacLean said to the new cadet he encountered. The Regular Army offi
cers and NCOs assigned to Alpha Company know the score; the challenge is that the experienced leaders have to give the inexperienced leaders time to catch on. They have to say it, let it sink in, reinforce it when necessary, and stay out of the way.
Like a lot of Army training, the next day’s mountaineering begins with a demonstration of how these skills might be used in combat.
The new cadets sit on huge boulders near the bottom of a sheer rock face, turning the open space into an amphitheater. Four soldiers—men from the 10th Mountain Division, a regular-Army unit that has been sent to help with this summer’s training—sit on the rocks directly beneath the cliff. They wear their BDU shirts inside out and keep a sloppy watch on what’s going on in front of them, thus playing the role of enemy soldiers who believe their rear is protected by the cliff.
The lieutenant in charge of the training site climbs high on a rock above the new cadets.
“To an untrained soldier a rock face such as the one you see before you would be an obstacle.”
Four GIs appear at the top of the cliff, behind and above the enemy. Suspended from climbing ropes, they lower themselves headfirst over the edge of the cliff. They hold their weapons in one free hand. When they are just above the “enemy,” they open fire; in the confined space made by the cliff and the boulders, the blanks sound like explosions. Two of the guards “die” outright; the other two return fire. One of the attackers is hit. A few new cadets jump as he falls a foot or two, then stops and dangles head-down from the climbing rope, held only by gravity and by a loop of nylon line through the metal D-ring at his waist. After dispatching the remaining defenders, his buddies climb back up, unhook the wounded man, tie him to the back of one of the others, then rappel to the bottom. The young men scuttle about the rock face as easily as if it were flat ground.