by David Lipsky
How does the Academy attract high school students? “When you lay out what the program and the education can do for them in the future,” Jones says, “it really sells itself.” What can the education do for them? “They know it’s a very strong program that prepares them for life, not just for the Army. If they don’t stay in, the education and their leadership experience positions them very well to do what they want to do.” How hard is Colonel Jones’s job? “Exceptionally difficult. If I didn’t do my searches, we wouldn’t fill a class.” What do candidates ask about? “A typical question is, ‘Well, I think I want to be a lawyer.’ And up until a month ago, I’d have to tell ’em, ‘Well, we have a “field of study”—you can sort of minor in it.’ But as of this year, we’ll have a major in law.”
At a time when the military is reassessing its global role—in the past decade, there have been twenty-seven Army deployments; in the four and a half decades before that, there were only ten—it is surprising to learn that the Department of Military Instruction does not offer a major. In fact, in a school of four thousand students, only thirty even minor in the actual study of the art and science of warmaking. The department offers courses on Low-Intensity Conflict, Battlefield Operating Systems and Strategy; the most popular class is Public Speaking.
“Well, you know,” Lieutenant Colonel Michael Chura of DMI explains, “those other classes could also be popular. But if somebody’s pursuing, say, a physics major, they may not have the time to take some of these courses. One would think, though, that they would add an edge.”
By their fourth year, many cadets view the Army as an obligation and not a mission. In their minds, they made a very clear bargain with West Point the day they signed the acceptance letter. That was their service commitment: they were agreeing to four years at the Academy and five years in uniform. The military side is a long summer job. (One West Coast cadet tells me, “It really hasn’t been that hard. I could be at UCSD, and I’d be going to classes but I’d be working on the side, trying to pay for school. The way I see it, I’d be working long hours wherever I’m at—I might as well do it here.”) For some, the training at West Point becomes a sort of Outward Bound experience, an adventure camp. There are weird refinements. Cadets are trained for joint troop movements in a war room computer simulation called the JANUS lab: combat netting hangs from the ceiling, lights flash, mortars whistle and machine guns fire on a soundtrack. During Beast Barracks, you have to spend time in a bunker full of tear gas; when you come out, your eyes are running like crazy and you’ve got a string of snot dangling from your nose. A photographer snaps a picture of each cadet and gives it to them afterward, something for the scrapbook.
Chris Eastburg, a looming Californian—he branched Engineers, and has the build, walk and features of an actor playing an officer in a movie—wanted the challenge. “I go home now, I sit around campfires and BS with friends, and everybody wants to know what I’ve done. I’ve been around the world. I jumped out of planes, jumped out of helicopters, got to play with explosives, got to spin doughnuts in a seventy-two-ton tank. You know, not everybody gets to do stuff like that. You go home, people are like, ‘That’s cool.’ If what I’m doing is an adventure, if I’m having a good time, I’ll stick with it. And if it’s not fun anymore, I’ll get out.”
I take a walk with Captain DeMoss one evening. The post makes different sounds at night: train whistles, the sneaker tap of cadets jogging, the laughter of upperclassmen walking to the clubs. Somewhere a cadet calling, Fall in. Captain DeMoss talks about his tenth-year West Point class reunion: the strange experience of wearing his uniform and meeting people who had stopped being in uniform. “My class is down pretty close to twenty-five percent still active,” he says. People telling Captain DeMoss, “I can’t believe you stayed.” Captain DeMoss saying, “I can’t believe you didn’t stay.”
DeMoss isn’t sure why so many cadets don’t want to stick with the military. “It’s disconcerting,” he says. “But I’m not in the position to judge other people. This is the hard part of bein’ someone who’s made a commitment in my life to do this. It’s hard to see people and not hope that they’re as inspired and as excited about the Army as I am. Of course, I’d love for everybody to stay in the Army for a career. You know, I’m the mud crawler. Like, I think there oughta be a twenty-year commitment when you graduate.” DeMoss’s eyes sweep the post: lamps, flagpoles, granite. “I mean, this place gives you so much, and it asks for so little.”
Through the Woods
Throughout March, Whitey Herzog is training for the FTX (Field Training Exercise), a corps-wide war game held at Camp Buckner. It’s going to be an in-the-forest operation—crossing streams, taking hills. Whitey is Company H-4’s military-development officer, the detail man for the operation. One night, he heads to a briefing in Washington Hall. (Another cadet keeps checking his watch: “Felicity comes on at nine, so we gotta be out of here.”) Over the next three weeks, he will spend a couple of daily hours nailing down a chain of command, taking recon walks, rehearsing key maneuvers, arranging weapons, transport and strategies.
One afternoon, he’s crossing North Area with his rifle when a new officer stops him, a captain just appointed to the faculty of DMI. The captain shouts, “Hey, you—c’mere!” Whitey trots over. “That weapon feels good, doesn’t it?” “Yes sir,” Whitey says, “it feels good—but an M-4 carbine feels better.” The carbine is a rifle cadets don’t train with; a Special Forces weapon. “I started walkin’ away,” Whitey remembers. “And the captain goes, ‘Carbine! C’mere, you!’ So I ran up to him, stood at attention. He’s like, ‘What do you know about the carbine?’ I said, ‘Sir, I used it this summer. With my unit.’ ‘What unit?’ ‘Sir, Ranger Battalion, Third Battalion.’ He was like, ‘Oh, my God!’ Started swearing up and down—‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ He named like half the officers I worked with. I say, ‘Yeah, I know ’em all, sir.’ So he’s like, ‘And you’re goin’ Infantry, right?’” Whitey didn’t pause, and wouldn’t lie. “‘No sir.’ You could see his face go. He just went off, hazed me, gave me a hard time for about five minutes. But I knew he was just testing me to see if I’d back down from my choice. And I didn’t.
“And finally he says, ‘All right, that’s good. We need good aviators too.’”
An early-spring afternoon. The FTX starts at 1400; crisp light, leaves crunching under boots. John Pandich, Ox Oksenvaag and Whitey lead a file of thirty cadets. The cadets have twigs in their helmets, faces painted with green stripes, ears smudged to deflect the light. They step over logs, lie stomach-down in pine needles. Guns fire every few minutes far away (blanks), a distant popping sound. Herzog is silent and focused. He gives Army hand signals you know from movies: everybody down; eyeball a target; two scouts on the horizon. The platoon climbs along a stream. After sixty minutes they reach the objective, a gutted house on a hill. Three visible enemy soldiers are guarding. Oksenvaag sets up a support-by-fire position behind a log; when he lowers his head, you can’t see him. Whitey changes the grip on his rifle. The attack begins, and most of the platoon takes a beating; booby traps, hidden enemy rising out of gopher holes. Someone throws a smoke grenade. When the smoke begins to lift, it’s Whitey who’s made it through fire and cleared rooms on the objective.
Afterward, the platoon heads for a clearing. They lean on rocks, sip from canteens. It’s 1600, shadows getting low. Whitey puts down his rifle. “I gotta tell you, man,” he says. “I’ve decided it’s not what I’m gonna do with my life. But there’s a fire in me when the guns open up.”
Saving Private Rash
A few days before George Rash takes his last remedial Army Physical Fitness Test, Steve Lagan brings him to the track, runs him through the two miles. Rash has to beat 15:54. Lagan gives him a pace—“Great time, keep going”—then accelerates it: “A few seconds behind, catch up to me.” When they’re done, George Rash has passed a practice PT test for the first time. He comes in at 15:34; twenty seconds’ grace. Word goes up to Bergma
n and Powell; they tell Rash to keep off the track until the actual test. Rest the legs. Rash says he feels outstanding—“A little nervous, but not nearly as if I hadn’t passed.” Lagan receives permission to run the course with him on test day. The day before, he puts George on the bike for twenty minutes. That night, more directives from Bergman and Powell. “Push-ups and sit-ups, just do the minimum,” Bergman says. “You’ve gotta save your energy for the big one.”
On APFT day, George has a slight cold. Everyone comes to Arvin Gym to cheer him on: Company Commander Ryan Nelson, plebe Jasmine Rose, her roommate Maria Auer, George’s roommate Kevin Hadley, Rob Anders, Jake Bergman, Trent Powell, Steve Lagan. Aside from Lagan, they won’t be running, but they’re in track uniforms for support. The only ones not there are George Rash and Patrick Schafer, the G-4 cadets actually taking the test. (A mix of cadets from other companies—stringbeans, fatties, cadets in casts—are also taking the exam.) Captain Matthew Michaelson of the Department of Physical Education—small, dark-haired, wiry—is administering today’s remedial. He looks at his watch, looks at the overhead clock, looks at the waiting cadets. “We’ll give them two more minutes,” Captain Michaelson says. Two minutes go by. The captain shakes his head, leads the test takers to the mats.
Schafer and Rash arrive just as the captain is beginning the push-up exam. The two cadets grin nervously; Nelson comes over and tells Rash to tuck in his T-shirt. “I’ve got some standards I’m going to tell you about,” Captain Michaelson announces. “If you’re a man, minimum score to report pass on this event is forty-two. If you’re a woman, minimum score to report pass is nineteen.” He hands out booklets with the standard, waits for the cadets to read them like an instructor at Motor Vehicles. “You have two minutes to do as many push-ups as you can. Count loud, so I can hear.” Huah.
When it’s Rash’s turn, Steve Lagan kneels beside him to call the count. The G-4 cadets watch carefully ten feet away. George pauses at twelve for a moment, then keeps going. (“Good push-up,” Michaelson says. “Parallel to the ground, hips as one unit.”) “Good job, Rash!” Jasmine shouts. “Another twenty-four to go,” Bergman calls. “Forty-one,” Lagan says. “Forty-two—you got it—forty-four, forty-five, stop.” Rash nods, stops. G-4 cheers.
Schafer is the last cadet on push-ups. “Body as one continuous unit,” Captain Michaelson instructs. “No.” Schafer gets red-faced, hits a wall at thirty. “One minute left,” the captain says. “Parallel to the ground. No. You’re not getting it.” Schafer breaks through forty-two. “You’re there,” G-4 calls. Captain Michaelson gives the cadets three minutes to rest before sit-ups.
“Minimum score to pass is two minutes, fifty-three sit-ups,” he says. “Rule Two Twenty-six: in accordance with the new standards, men and women must do the same number of sit-ups to pass the event.”
Sit-ups begin. Michaelson walks above the cadets. “No! Hands behind your head.” A cadet named Davis, Company E-3, fails the event. His friends groan, say they hope he won’t be separated.
Rash looks around for Lagan, gets into position. Maria shouts, “Come on, Rash!” At eighteen sit-ups, George pauses, tosses aside his glasses. He rests at forty-two, neck and temples purple. “Good job, huah, good job, huah,” Lagan counts. Rash hits fifty-four, fifty-five, and stops. “Rash!” G-4 calls.
“All right, who’s next in the chute?” Captain Michaelson asks. “Last call for sit-ups.”
“Schafer! Cadet Schafer!” Jasmine yells. This is the event Schafer failed one month ago with a forty-two. He lies back on the mat without expression, takes a breath and begins. At forty-five seconds, he has twenty sit-ups. “Come on, Schafer! Push it!” “One minute,” Captain Michaelson calls, standing over the cadet. “All right, Schafer—you can pass it, keep goin’!” Schafer hits thirty-six, thirty-seven. “Forty-five seconds,” Michaelson says.
“Good job! There you go!”
Schafer is having a hard time moving. “Come on, come on!”
Schafer reaches forty-five, forty-six. “You can do it! Pull up! Do it!” G-4 is going crazy, pleading, straining, bending in sympathy. Schafer makes it to fifty sit-ups. He needs three more. He has thirty seconds. And he locks up.
“Go go go!”
“Fall back! Get up! Get up!”
“Fifteen seconds,” Michaelson calls.
“Three to go!”
“Get up!”
“Ten seconds.”
“Two to burn!”
“Let’s go!”
“Come on.”
“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one, that’s time.” Schafer fails with fifty-one sit-ups. He sits on the mat red-faced, silent. After a moment, he walks to the end of the gym, stands apart from the other cadets, looking cadaverous, with a silent, caved-in, devastated expression, his eyes like tiny soldiers peeping over the turrets of a fort. He knows he’s just been separated from West Point.
“OK, listen up,” Captain Michaelson says. “Cadets, come around me, please. Everyone has ten minutes to move out for the two-mile run.”
It’s cloudy, Lagan runs alongside, Rash wears a balaclava, the G-4 cadets cheer him on at the halfway mark and then at the finish line. “Lookin’ good, Rash!” “Yeah, baby!” George passes easily with a 14:44, a full minute to spare. Lagan is hardly winded; for a second they stand together at the line. Lagan grabs his shoulder. “Listen up,” Lagan says. “You’ve passed it now. You never fail another one in your entire career. Got it? Only improve from here, all right?” Then G-4 converges. Powell pounds Rash on the back, Nelson shakes his shoulders. In the center, George nods, blinks, smiles; for the first time, they are taking him into the brotherhood. Bergman screams into his face, “You know what? You never quit. You never quit. You don’t ever give them the chance to end your career. You never let them make that decision for you. Never.”
“If I didn’t feel so sick, I’d feel good,” Rash pants out, hands on knees.
“All right, guys who just took the test,” the captain says, waving his hands. “C’mere. One last thing: for you guys that just passed? Congratulations: you are now at ground ze-ro.” He laughs. “All right? I’m not tryin’ to bring you down. You did a good job. It shows a lot of improvement. But the point is, you have now reached baseline minimum. There’s no officer in the world—in this Army, anyway—that’s ever gonna accept baseline-minimum standards, and there’s no troop that’s gonna accept it. I do congratulate you. You did a nice job meeting . . . the standard. But that’s it. Let’s move on from here.”
Rash walks off. Six months later, Trent Powell will tell me of his shock and satisfaction watching a crisp George Rash correcting plebes on North Area.
A few days after the APFT, Schafer meets Captain DeMoss in his office. DeMoss informs the cadet he will be recommending separation—no hard feelings. “I wanna give you another PT test if you are separated,” DeMoss says. “If that’s the case. Because I want you to prove to yourself that you can pass the test.” DeMoss makes Schafer promise. The TAC tells him he cannot give up—his situation is not final; the Academy is tricky, and for all DeMoss knows, it might decide to give Schafer one absolute last chance anyway. A week later, Schafer voluntarily resigns from the Academy before the final decision has its chance to come down. He changes into civilian clothes, packs his room. There won’t be any adults in his orbit to tell him that he is on a mission, that he is a superior being, that he has an awesome responsibility or that he is doing the most valuable thing a young person can do for his country. He’s flying back to Michigan to see about enrolling in a technical school. The morning of his departure, DeMoss stops by, reminds him of his promise. He walks Schafer to his office and makes him take the test again. Schafer passes.
Keirsey’s Cigar
Three bodies travel the West Point sky—compass points to steer by, lights full of clues and portents. General Christman, the supe, is a bright, encouraging star. Snap a salute to him on Thayer Walk and even on the gloomiest day you feel your luck, and your purpose: y
ou’ve joined a sophisticated, modern Army. Colonel Adamczyk, Skeletor, is a dark comet. He crashes behind you and suddenly you’ve got a whole new adventure: you’re hustling back to barracks to trim fingernails, fix uniform, polish boots and brass. And the last is Lieutenant Colonel Keirsey, the sturdy green planet of the soldier’s life. Keirsey has the gift of inspiration, which is the gravitational tug of your best future.
Keirsey, forty-four, works in DMI as the director of military training, the huah of huahs. Keirsey has a chest as broad around as a tortoise shell, a gravel voice; even his fingers are muscly. Meeting Keirsey at West Point is like driving out to Arizona and discovering that the Grand Canyon is brick red and very deep. Cross post, and cadet talk amounts to one long Keirsey conversation. His name has become an adjective: that’s so Keirsey. Cadets say it, grin, add a head shake and a disbelieving chuckle. “That man . . . he’s the real deal . . . he’s the hardest . . . he’s cool as shit! . . . He’s Patton . . . I’ve never met anyone . . . You have to talk . . . Have you talked yet . . . Did you meet . . . ?” “That guy is the best thing that ever happened to this place,” Calvin Huddo, a yuk in H-4, says simply, then adds the most fieldstripped West Point compliment. “I’d follow him onto a battlefield.”
His expressions work their way into cadet dialogue like scouts: soldiers aren’t physically fit; they’re steely-eyed and flat-bellied. You don’t jog fast; you run like a scalded ape. And you don’t defeat America’s enemies; you stack them like cordwood. Keirsey’s gestures leave an imprint in the memory, like light on photographic paper. “He gave us the route for this run, it’s called Mind-Fuck Hill, it doesn’t end. We finally work our way up, we’re all dying, it’s a rock pile with a view, what the hell did we do this for? And there’s Keirsey, sitting up there on top of his Harley. He gives this speech about hunting deer, how they never stop, how humans need to become more like the deer. So that whole year, that’s what we’d say before every game: Be the deer.” Everybody has a Keirsey story, which follows the strict, formal pattern of an Army fairy tale: a cadet starts flagging, Keirsey shows up, the cadet achieves more than he ever intended.