Full Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

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  Full Dress Gray

  Lucian K. Truscott IV

  To my father

  Lucian K. Truscott III

  Colonel, USA, Ret.

  “The discipline which makes the soldiers of a free country reliable in battle is not to be gained by harsh or tyrannical treatment. On the contrary, such treatment is far more likely to destroy than to make an army. It is possible to impart instruction and to give commands in such manner and such a tone of voice to inspire in the soldier no feeling but an intense desire to obey, while the opposite manner and tone of voice cannot fail to excite strong resentment and a desire to disobey. The one mode or the other of dealing with subordinates springs from a corresponding spirit in the breast of the commander. He who feels the respect which is due to others cannot fail to inspire in them regard for himself, while he who feels, and hence manifests, disrespect toward others, especially his inferiors, cannot fail to inspire hatred against himself.”

  —MAJOR GENERAL JOHN M. SCHOFIELD,

  in an address to the Corps of Cadets, August 11, 1879

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  September 1969

  MOST PEOPLE spend their lives praying they’ll never see the day that will force them to answer the question Who am I? This was not true of Rysam Parker Slaight. He could remember with absolute clarity even thirty years later how it happened.

  It was just after graduation leave, and he was a second lieutenant, attending the Infantry Officers Basic Course at Fort Benning, Georgia. The first time the company formed up, he found himself standing in ranks next to a classmate who had just barely made it into the officer corps, having graduated a single slot from the bottom of the class. He was an awkward sort of fellow. His fatigues hung from his tall, gangly frame like loose tenting, and he had enormous feet, which splayed to the sides when he walked, a prominent, hooked nose that jutted from beneath the bill of his cap like the prow of a boat, and a beard so heavy that by noon, he looked like he hadn’t bothered to shave at all that morning. At West Point, guys used to call him “Whizzer,” or “The Whiz,” precisely because as a cadet, he was anything but. Whizzer took the teasing in a jocular, forgiving way, and his natural-born enthusiasm for things military ended up converting most of the doubters, even those who figured right from the start that he didn’t have what it took to get through four arduous years of Academy life. Guys in his regiment used to say he was goofy, but the Whiz was a good guy. Among cadets, this was a sobriquet that made up for a multitude of sins.

  Now that he was an officer, the nickname had stuck, but the goofiness was gone. Whizzer was a lieutenant, just like everyone else in IOBC, and he was a regular officer in the United States Army. He had a new seriousness about him, and there was a reason for this: Whizzer had volunteered for an immediate assignment to Vietnam. In a very few months, as soon as he completed preliminary officer training, he would be an infantry platoon leader in combat.

  Realizing that he didn’t have much time before he departed for war, he had used his two-month leave before reporting for duty at Fort Benning to accomplish what were for him two important goals: He had married a hometown girl only a year out of high school, and he had grown a mustache. It may not seem that these two accomplishments represented a meaningful preparation for beginning a career in the Army, but a wife and a mustache were two things that he had been forbidden during his four long years as a cadet, and using the twisted logic of cadet thinking, it probably seemed to Whizzer that because they were denied to him as a cadet, they were essential to him as an officer.

  So on that first day of IOBC when Whizzer showed up in ranks, there was parked beneath his nose a lush growth of facial hair expertly trimmed in regulation military manner extending to the corners of the mouth and not beyond. Classmates in the IOBC company, including Slaight, thought the mustache had transformed the Whiz. He looked, well, something approaching military. And he acted that way, too. He and his young wife had taken a dingy garden flat in the Camelia Apartments, just outside the gates of Fort Benning in Columbus, Georgia. He drove a brand new Corvette. His fatigues, at least very early in the morning before the stifling heat of a Georgia August day had wilted them, were starched stiffly, and his boots were expertly spit-shined, toes gleaming like black agates in the sun. The Whiz could thus be described as strac, a military word that bespoke expert attention to appearance and a superior military bearing.

  But there was a problem. More than one, actually. Two captains had been assigned as “platoon advisors” to the platoon. This was for them “TDY,” a temporary-duty assignment while they awaited slots in the next class of the Infantry Officers Advanced Course. These sterling exemplars of military proficiency took one look at their platoon in the Infantry Officers Basic Course and calculated that they wouldn’t have fulfilled their natural duties as men and as officers if they hadn’t run at least one of the “college boys” out of the program and thus out of the Army. They were not college boys, having graduated from high school, been drafted, and received their commissions in Officer Candidate School. One of the platoon advisors was a stockily built man who carried himself like a professional wrestler, his shoulders rolling menacingly as he walked. The other advisor was short and very slight. It was necessary for him to tilt back his head and look up to make eye contact with Whizzer, which he proceeded to do as the two captains zeroed in on him.

  Specifically, they zeroed in on Whizzer’s mustache. The captains walked up to him that first day in formation and ordered him to cut it off. Whizzer patiently explained that his mustache was legal, having been trimmed in the manner specified by Army regulations, and he had no intention of cutting it off. Out of the corner of his eye, Slaight saw the beginnings of a grin cross the face of the shorter of the two platoon advisors, the one everyone would come to call “Monkey Breath” because of the strong stench of cigarettes and coffee that was emitted every time he opened his mouth. The grin was replaced by a reddening scowl, and the captain turned on his heel and stalked away. Whizzer glanced at Slaight and shrugged, thinking it was over. Slaight knew it was not.

  The platoon advisors appointed Whizzer student platoon leader, which meant that Whizzer marched the platoon to and from classes at the Infantry School. When the platoon reached its first class that morning and the command to fall out had been given, the platoon advisors told Whizzer to march over to a nearby tree, and in full view of the rest of the company they proceed to order Whizzer to give the tree marching commands such as “Platoon, attention!” “Column right, march!” “Platoon, halt!” It was harassment, pure and simple. While Whizzer’s command voice was not among the most authoritative Slaight had encountered, everyone in the platoon had heard and acted upon Whizzer’s commands without problems. Whizzer and the rest of the platoon soon got the message that his command voice wasn’t the point, his mustache was. The platoon advisors were intent on making his life miserable until he cut it off.

  Slaight was at the Officers Club when it came to him. He was having a beer with another classmate, whom everyone called “Airborne” because he had used one of his summer leaves while at West Point to attend Airborne School instead of taking a well-deserved vacation. Slaight told Airborne he felt like growing a mustache, so Whizzer’s wasn’t the only mustache in the platoon and the advisors would have to concentrate their hazing on two lieutenants instead of one. Airborne rubbed his upper lip thoughtfully. It turned out that just that morning he had begun to wonder what he’d look like with a mustache. Airborne decided he would grow one, t
oo.

  By the end of the week, out of the forty lieutenants in the platoon, thirty-nine had mustaches, the sole holdout being a graduate of the Citadel who thought the platoon advisors were well within their rights in their hazing of Whizzer.

  The sprouting of thirty-eight new mustaches did not escape the attention of the platoon advisors. They relieved Whizzer of his student platoon command and gave the job to Slaight. When it turned out that his talents at marching the platoon to and from classes didn’t need much work, their frustration grew. They assigned the student platoon command to Airborne. He was similarly well equipped to command the platoon. They fired Airborne and gave command of the platoon back to Whizzer. He had been working on his marching commands at home and took over, marching the platoon to and from classes with alacrity.

  The platoon advisors had hit the wall. They were in charge of a platoon of mustache-wearing malcontents who had rallied behind the man they wanted to run out of the Infantry School. New measures would be necessary.

  It was very early one morning during bayonet drill that they struck. Whizzer, they said, had been two minutes late to formation. Because of his egregious crime they ordered Whizzer to send his wife home to live with her mother and to move himself immediately into the Bachelor Officers Quarters where his movements could be more closely monitored. Whizzer contested their assertion that he had been late and noted that he had exactly six weeks left with his wife before he reported for duty in Vietnam. The platoon advisors were unmoved by Whizzer’s career schedule. They reported Whizzer’s purported crime to the battalion commander, and the colonel issued his order forthwith: Get rid of the wife and move into the BOQ or face a court martial.

  Whizzer went home and told his nineteen-year-old wife what had happened. The next day, at a noon “tea” hosted by the wife of the battalion commander, Whizzer’s wife walked up to the colonel’s spouse and told her if she thought her husband could order her to go back home to live with her mother and take away the six weeks she had with Whizzer before he reported to Vietnam, she could go fuck herself.

  The colonel’s wife was not amused.

  The following day, Whizzer was called into the colonel’s office and dressed down for his wife’s insubordination. Whizzer’s wife had told him about the confrontation with the colonel’s wife, and so Whizzer was prepared for the colonel’s tirade. He told the colonel that since the First Amendment to the Constitution applied to lieutenants’ wives as well as it did to colonels’ wives, he had to assume that his wife was making use of her right to free speech to express her feelings to the colonel’s wife, and he opined that the confrontation between their wives was not Army business. The colonel exploded. Whizzer stood his ground. The tempest swirled further, and an appointment was arranged for Whizzer to pay a visit to the Commanding General of Fort Benning several days later.

  Whizzer invited Slaight home for dinner that evening. Over a meal of canned vegetables and a chicken casserole that tasted suspiciously of Campbell’s mushroom soup, Whizzer and his wife explained the situation. It was clear to Whizzer that he was being railroaded out of the Army. Going to West Point and becoming an Army officer had been his dream since he was a young boy. What was he going to do?

  Slaight pondered Whizzer’s dilemma. It seemed that no matter which way he turned grim questions loomed, freighted with even grimmer answers. If Whizzer caved in and sent his wife home, he might be killed in Vietnam and never see her again. If he refused the order to move into the BOQ, they would court-martial him, and he would be dismissed from the service, and his dream would die. He was a loser either way.

  Whizzer’s appointment with the Commanding General couldn’t be scheduled for three days because the company was going into the field on overnight maneuvers. During the time they were on maneuvers, the company was under the control of an infantry training battalion, so the services of the platoon advisors were not needed. Three days went by without their unwanted attentions.

  When the company returned from the field, the platoon advisors were standing in the company area wearing starched fatigues, in contrast to the members of the platoon, who were unshaven, dirty, and bedraggled from forced marches, sleeping under ponchos on the ground, and eating C rations. When the platoon was dismissed, the platoon advisors walked past Whizzer and followed Slaight into the barracks. They caught up with him in the hallway on his way to turn in his M-16 and took him by the arm, one on each side, yanking him into a windowless supply room.

  The platoon advisors shut the door and gave Slaight a direct verbal order to shave off his mustache. In their infinite wisdom, they had concluded that it was when Slaight grew his mustache that the rest of the platoon followed suit, and so if Slaight shaved off his mustache, the rest of the platoon would do as he did, and Whizzer would feel the peer pressure and shave his, too.

  Slaight explained that he liked his mustache. He was going to keep it.

  The smaller of the two platoon advisors, who spoke in a thin-lipped southern drawl, asked Slaight if he knew why Army regulations allowed mustaches.

  Uh-oh. Here it comes, thought Slaight.

  It’s because of the niggers, said the platoon advisor. They like to grow them thin mustaches because their women like the way it feels when they get their faces down there and eat them nigger pussies.

  Having explained to Slaight the origin of the Army regulation permitting mustaches, they now told him what would happen if he refused their order. They would make sure that he was graded at the bottom of the class in leadership, which counted for 50 percent of class standing at the Infantry School. This would grievously damage his career and he would begin his life as an infantry lieutenant way behind his classmates. Moreover, they would put a memo in his permanent personnel file warning future commanders that Slaight was a troublemaker.

  Slaight stood there staring at them. He was still wearing his helmet from the field. It was heavy, and the airless supply room was stiflingly hot, and he could feel the sweat dripping from his chin strap onto the breast of his fatigue shirt.

  The two captains stared straight back at him, waiting. Instinctively, he knew he had reached a turning point in his life. He could accede to the demands of the platoon advisors and graduate with distinction, or he could stand up to them and suffer the consequences. He took a deep breath and looked each of the men in the eye.

  Back in my trailer, I have a photograph of my father holding me in his arms when I was one year old and he was a lieutenant in the infantry. In the photograph, he has a mustache. That was twenty-two years ago. Now I’m a lieutenant, and I have a mustache just like my father’s, and I’m not cutting it off. Now listen to me, you two fucking assholes, and listen good. If I hear either one of you use the word nigger again, in any context whatsoever, I will report to the Staff Judge Advocate of Fort Benning and bring charges against you under Article 133 of the UCMJ for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

  Slaight pointed at the door.

  Both of you redneck assholes get out of my sight. I don’t want to hear another word from either of you until this course is completed.

  The platoon advisors paused for a moment, then the little one looked at the stocky one and they turned around and left without another word.

  Whizzer went to his meeting with the Commanding General and refused to send his wife home to her mother and move into the BOQ. The Commanding General concluded that Whizzer’s having volunteered for an immediate assignment to Vietnam put him in a special category, and sent word back down to the company that Whizzer was to be permitted to remain in his off-post apartment with his wife.

  When the platoon graduated from IOBC, the platoon advisors were as good as their word, and Slaight was ranked right at the very bottom of his class. This was not the career-ending disaster it might have been in another time, for ten thousand miles away there was a war going on. As an old sergeant had told Slaight one summer when he was assigned to a training company at Fort Knox, war has a way of changing everything.

&
nbsp; Whizzer reported to his assignment in Vietnam six weeks later, Slaight to his about eight months after that. Slaight never saw Whizzer again, though he heard on the grapevine that he had been a good platoon leader who got most of guys back alive.

  More than thirty years would pass before Slaight was confronted again with the question he had answered that hot day in a supply room at Fort Benning, Georgia.

  Who am I?

  BOOK

  * * *

  ONE

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  IT WAS the day after Labor Day, and it was hot. The new Superintendent of West Point had awakened at five A.M. and had gone for a run down Thayer Road. By the time he returned to Quarters 100, around six, the temperature was already in the eighties, headed quickly, he knew, into the nineties.

  His wife, Samantha, greeted him at the back door with a bottle of cold water. “You’re looking a little worse for the wear, General Slaight.’’ She laughed as he collapsed weakly on a kitchen chair and drained the bottle. Sweat was pouring down his face, his graying hair was matted to his scalp, and his ARMY T-shirt was soaked clear through.

  “It’s going to be a scorcher,” he said, panting.

  “I wonder if you shouldn’t put off the parade until the weekend,” his wife mused. “I was watching the news. It’s supposed to cool off by Saturday.” She crossed the kitchen and switched on the coffeepot. Come December, they would celebrate their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary. Her hair was pinned up on the top of her head with some kind of clip, and she hadn’t yet put on her makeup, but mornings had always been kind to her. She woke up with color in her cheeks and bright eyes and a wry, crinkly smile that hinted conspiratorially at her prevailing mood, which was usually one of ironic skepticism and a low toleration for army bullshit. Slaight watched her rinsing a couple of cups at the sink. She was a remarkably beautiful woman. There had been days when he thought that he regretted having married this sometimes difficult, demanding, and headstrong woman. But by nightfall his regret had inevitably faded into the kind of comfortable acceptance that landmarked marriages that had gone the distance like theirs. If time didn’t heal every little wound of married life, it sure as hell served as a good Band-Aid.