Absolutely American

by David Lipsky

  In the spring of 1999, when Commandant John Abizaid left the Academy for Germany, to take command of the First Infantry Division, he had a parting gift for Keirsey. A warning: other officers were keeping book on him. “You know, you have people who watch you all the time. They’re always circling, whenever you get up to talk. Keep driving on, but be careful.”

  Every fall, firsties make their selection from a sixteen-branch menu. Six are combat arms: Infantry, Armor, Aviation, two Artilleries—Field and Air Defense—and Engineers. The other branches are what’s called Combat Service Support. (For example, Quartermaster: “Sustainer of the Army”; Transportation: “Nothing Happens until Something Moves”; Chemical: “Do You Smell Gas?”—actually, Chemical has no motto, though the insignia is two crossed beakers.) Through the early 1980s, all male cadets were required to branch combat arms—if the government was bankrolling the training, the idea was to maximize the country’s investment.

  In 1983 that changed, and combat arms has become a sore subject. Mention Infantry, it’s considered unprofessional not to quickly add something supportive about Quartermaster. (By the mid-nineties, a West Point officer in a spotlight department like leadership could lose his job by talking too much about combat arms.) The irony is that when Samuel Huntington gave the Army the professional nod in The Soldier and the State, it was because of combat arms.

  For Huntington, medicine and law can be called professions because of a combination of uniqueness and mission. They are composed of “experts with specialized knowledge and skills,” he writes, “performing a service which is essential to the functioning of society.”

  Huntington asked the corresponding question: “What is the specialized expertise [and] skill of the military officer? This central skill is perhaps best summed up in the phrase ‘the management of violence.’ The function of a military force is successful armed combat”—that is, combat arms. The word Huntington used for the noncombat branches is “auxiliary”; they were not members of the military “in its capacity as a professional body.” The second irony is that if he were at West Point, Huntington himself would be criticized as unprofessional. The Academy had plucked the word, and peeled away the definition.

  Keirsey doesn’t state matters that bluntly, but he takes a cadet’s rejection of combat arms as a defeat. “Because everything here, all the cultural icons around the reservation are stacked to get you motivated to go out on the line. Not that we don’t need those other branches, we do. But picking it dead last out of sixteen branches always made me scratch my head. You’ve basically gone contrary to everything we tried to motivate to do. We’ve somehow”—he laughs—“failed.” (Cadets put it more colorfully: “Four years here and you wanna go Finance? That’s kind of like pissing in West Point’s Cheerios.”)

  In October, after branch selection, one of Keirsey’s subordinates, an Aviation captain named Dan Dent, cooks up a parody of the sort of PowerPoint slide you might use for a briefing. Dent found out which company had the lowest number of combat arms firsties, titled his slide, “Class of 2000 Homo Factor Report.” He shows it around, officers chuckle. Keirsey takes a look, says, “Woo, Dan, that’s a rough one, man. Make sure that dudn’t get out.” “It was kind of my humor,” Keirsey says, “but twisted with a little extra added distaste. It was bizarre-o.”

  A couple weeks later, Keirsey gets a call from a frantic cadet. It’s Jenny Hull, the deputy brigade commander—one cadet rank down from first captain. “Sir,” she says, “there’s a slide circulating off Captain Dent’s computer. You need to make sure that computer gets shut off now. It’s really bad.” Dent had gone to deliver a branch briefing to cadets who had picked Aviation. To save time—to access his notes from the lecture hall—he had connected his own computer drive to the Academy computer system. The instant he did this, every one of his files became available to any inquisitive user in the Academy. One fish-bowl hobby is reconnaissance, checking the view from every section of the glass. A cadet wandered over DMI’s site, skipped onto Dent’s drive. The cadet opened the slide—funny shit—e-mailed it to a few friends. They also had friends. By taps, the slide had arrived in every mailbox on campus. At next morning’s formation, the TACs are walking extra-stiff; by lunch, orders come down from higher to delete the unauthorized e-mail; after dinner, rumors are flying about a court-martial. Dan Dent is in the chute.

  At COB (close of business), Keirsey grabs a six-pack, pulls into Dent’s driveway. The captain looks disheveled. “Usually,” Keirsey recalls, “this was a rock-hard human. He was beside himself.” Dent was pacing, mentally tallying what the slide would cost him. “He said, ‘What am I gonna do? I’ve got a wife, I got another baby on the way, third baby. They’re going to throw me out of the Army, aren’t they?’”

  Keirsey opens two beers and gives the captain reassurance. “Dan,” he says, “we are going to come through this, one way or the other. Keep your cool, this is just a shitty situation.” And then he promises, “They’re not gonna be able to kick you out of the Army.”

  But for higher there are clear stakes. Cadets must see that this is not the face of the new Army. After an official investigation, the recommendation comes down: a general letter of reprimand in Dan Dent’s file—his military adventures are over. If this were the business world—or the realms of politics, medicine or law—you’d see arrival in reverse: boxes crowding a desktop, pictures coming off the walls, supervisors treating Dent like a biohazard. Keirsey ponders the Army lessons his dad taught him. Lead by example; an officer is responsible for everything a subordinate does and does not do. He reports to Colonel Smith’s office (his boss, head of DMI), faces him across the desk and asks for the responsibility. “Sir,” he says, “I am the one who deserves the letter of reprimand.”

  In early December, he writes to the commandant, “I feel strongly that Dan Dent is a gifted, superb and aggressive officer who needs to be able to go on and serve this Army. I strongly request that if one of our letters must be placed in the official file, that it be mine.”

  Keirsey doesn’t base his decision solely on military ideals of selfless service. “I thought I’d survive the hit, and Dan couldn’t.” It’s a generous gamble. “Even if I didn’t, it’s the right thing to do. Dent had all these kids, he’s a great officer to have around soldiers. Obviously, there was no other choice but to take the blast. So you wanna talk about courage, that wudn’t total courage. There was an awful good possibility I’d survive it. And if not—well, I’ve made my run.”

  Then Keirsey is in the chute, and the whole thick book is opened. Too much combat talk, too much fitness talk, too much too-much. Conducting an Army investigation is like compiling an anti-yearbook: all the stuff you’ve forgotten you ever did or said, your personality is committed to paper and pored over. Keirsey does the rushed self-promotion of crisis. He gets character letters from lieutenant colonels, majors, captains. (“LTC Keirsey is a uniquely gifted leader who can inspire men to act nobly merely with his presence and a simple word.” “Believe me when I tell you, there are 4000 cadets who strive to grow up and be a warrior like LTC Keirsey”—under the circumstances, maybe not the most helpful accolade. “His is the face cadets associate with the great war heroes they learn about in class; he brings to life the great rhetoric written by Generals MacArthur, Patton and Eisenhower. The cadets need that image, and very few officers can fulfill it without appearing phony. This is what Keirsey does best.”)

  On direct orders, he sits out Army-Navy—“that broke my heart,” Keirsey says. Instead, his sons are at the game. They’re both cadets now, J.D. a cow, Kent a plebe. In the sheaf of documents that comprise his defense, Keirsey includes a photograph of one of Kent’s high school buddies, Ben Smith. Smith was the kind of kid—cigarettes, shoulder-length hair, puka-shell necklace—no officer is ever pleased to discover eating potato chips in his living room. Hank enrolled Smith in the Keirsey PT program (weights, rope-climbing, run), did the military talk, got him to cut his hair. Now Ben Smith is at West Point
too. Kathy Keirsey, Hank’s wife, asks to speak with the commandant, and Hank brings her by his side. A colonel accuses Keirsey of hiding behind a woman’s skirts. Keirsey replies simply, “My wife and I have been a team in the Army for twenty-two years. If she wanted to do it, I thought she deserved to see the people who are trying to terminate my service.”

  On December 23, Keirsey is relieved of command of Military Training—dismissed from the United States Army. The commandant writes, in his Order of Relief, “LTC Keirsey . . . has created and fostered an environment in Military Training that is antithetical to Army values, professional standards, and the development of cadets into officers of character.” DMI’s Colonel Smith completes the terminal Officer Evaluation Report. “LTC Keirsey is the most charismatic individual I have ever worked with. I have never met an officer who surpasses his level of technical skills and tactical knowledge.” But when it’s over, it’s over. “Unfortunately, he failed to exhibit three of the Army Values, Honor, Respect, and Loyalty. He has no potential for promotion.” Uniform, brass, rank, evaporated. Keirsey is converted to a mental glimmer, a memory at West Point. It’s as if he’s been separated on honor. Keirsey has met the kind of end that drives supporters under cover. Officers speak about him in hushed tones, on promises of anonymity. “I deeply regret that he’s no longer among our ranks. It was a loss for West Point—but it was a much bigger loss for the Army. I would have gladly served under him in combat, and I know I am not alone.”

  For me, what Hank Keirsey did for Dan Dent is one of the clearest examples I have of West Point values. When I tell civilian friends Keirsey’s story, I have to go over it twice, because they keep asking, “Wait, didn’t the other guy make the slide?” A leader takes care of his soldiers. He puts their concerns ahead of his own. But the cadets never get to learn this lesson from Keirsey. All they see is Keirsey here one minute, gone the next. He considers fighting the decision; but both his children are at the Academy, the fall has been too ugly already, it was hard enough for Hank and Kathy to talk them out of resigning.

  Keirsey sends the supe one last letter. There’s no bitterness. “Sir,” he writes, “I know once a decision is made a good soldier salutes, moves out and draws fire. I am ready to do this.” But he includes a request, in the P.S. under his signature. “Kathy mentioned that she would very much like to get the original photograph of Ben Smith back from my appeal packet. It belongs on the refrigerator, with a number of adopted sons.”

  Half a year later, Dan Dent—now a captain at Fort Lewis, Washington—writes a letter to Keirsey’s children.

  Jim and Kent Keirsey

  Quarters 17A

  Wilson Road

  West Point, NY 10996

  Men,

  Nearly 6 months have passed since dark Monday. The pain that I carry from my actions still lies very heavy in my chest. In fact, I can no longer hold in the truth about the measures taken against me and against your father. Herein are the deepest, most honest, most undaunted words I can muster.

  No single mortal man has shaped my life as a leader more than your father. From the first time I met him on a rugged steep trail, he instilled in me the traits of courage, toughness, and selflessness that are my touchstones today. My service to your father not only made me a better officer in the United States Army, it has made me a better father. He is simply the hardest, strongest, most unwavering officer I have ever met.

  You have probably heard many rumors about what happened within the Department of Military Instruction after I failed to destroy a distasteful joke between buddies. Within 24 hours, I was told I could face courts martial. Some of my friends distanced themselves from the blast radius. However, your father, my boss, simply said from the very beginning, “Stand in the face of your enemies.” At a time when any other leader would have devised some clever scheme to deflect blame, LTC Keirsey dug in next to his soldier and said “Don’t mess with one of mine.” “Steady, Dan,” was how he greeted me every day.

  The operation culminated one cold day in December, when I was prepared to receive a career-ending letter of reprimand. Just before the round fell on me, LTC Keirsey placed his chest in the cross-hairs. As a sacrifice for one of his men, he offered twenty years of performance, placed loyalty to his men before his own livelihood. Once again, he led by example, selfless service and moral courage. These are values other men only talk about.

  The rest of my service to our great Army will stand in tribute to the pain I have caused your father. I have struggled for a long time over my duty to write this letter to you, but I am finally convinced that I am honor bound to tell you the story as it really occurred. Here is the truth.

  Good luck and God bless in your future service to our nation. Keep up the fire.

  Daniel H. Dent

  Captain, United States Army

  Black Holes and the Hover Button

  On the phone from Buffalo, Loryn can’t make up her mind about visiting Alabama. When the other guy says he loves her, Whitey even sends a card, the same thoughts and reassurances Iggy offered him a year ago when he was deciding about Infantry: “You know I love you. Whatever makes you happy, I’ll support.” Before she gets the card, Whitey picks up the phone and there’s Loryn again. “I had a dream,” she says. OK, what was in the dream?

  “It was about Rich . . . Well, I love him.”

  Silence.

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  Silence.

  “Please just give me a chance, please just let’s talk about it in person when you come down here.” “I’m not coming down.”

  “I was in la-la land,” Whitey explains. Counting off push-ups at 0500 PT, Whitey can’t keep track of how many he’s done—the numbers in his head are dates, visits, phone calls. In aero-med class (a kind of first-aid brief for the sky: cigarettes reduce night vision by four thousand feet, Visine turns to condensed jelly in the eyes at high altitudes, “and that will screw you”), he’s thinking about what made the relationship crash. Loryn is his last thought before he goes to bed, his first thought in the morning; then she steps into the dreams in the middle, and Whitey can’t even sleep. “I tried everything,” he says. “I tried being nice to her. Then I said, ‘I don’t ever wanna talk to you again, Loryn.’ And so she didn’t call after that. Then, like an idiot, I dial her on the phone, I’m like, ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even call me, Loryn,’ and she goes, ‘But you said . . .’” Some of it’s the before and after of West Point. By the time you make it in, you’ve had four years of people saying you’re the most exciting commodity in high school, the prime candidate for export. If you make it out, you’ve had four years of, essentially, officers blowing smoke up your butt, assuring you you’re a prime hope for the nation. (Vermeesch circumspectly calls this “blowing smoke up the fourth point of contact.”) But once Whitey is off in the Army, Loryn has selected the civilian—just what cadets learn to fear at West Point.

  “It devastated me,” Whitey says. “She had a choice, and she picked the other guy. Then I got evil.” He laughs in apology. “I ripped her, hazed her like a fucking plebe. She was like, ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’ I don’t know if she knows it or believes it, but I loved her. I wanted to spend a life with her.” He sighs. “It crushed me because I couldn’t have her. I couldn’t be the one to help her when things got bad. I couldn’t be the one to make her smile.”

  Whitey, Supko and a third Pointer named Bart Wilkison—a Nebraskan who runs on the Academy mix: handsome, bright, buff—rent a place together. The housing dream of every firstie, life as a beer ad: sports banners on the walls, Coors in the fridge (right beside the Gatorade—Academy people drink it as though they have an endorsement deal), Nintendo on the TV, pool table in the living room, Smokey Joe grill right next to the swimming pool out back. They have cable installed, and there’s a Rip Van Winkle effect; they can’t believe there’s a whole channel—the E! Channel—devoted to Hollywood, models, Howard Stern and women in bikinis. When Whitey can’t sleep, he wanders down the
hall, sits in Bart’s room, in Suppy’s room, and they slowly talk him around.

  They’re having girl problems of their own. Suppy has brought his square-jawed looks and team captain’s confidence to flight school, where they do some damage. He dates a female lieutenant a few houses over, things take a turn, they break up and he dates another female butter bar, the first one gets mad, the second one gets anxious. Scenes at parties, on patios and balconies, the phone ringing constantly. “Don’t even answer it,” Bart sighs, and then they listen while a female voice on the answering machine attempts a delicate aerial maneuver, criticizing and complimenting Suppy at the same time.

  Bart takes out some local women. Cute and funny, with that southern, white-gloved, learner’s permit politeness. The relationship hitch couldn’t be more surprising to Bart. He grew up in small-town Nebraska, farms and churches. Before he arrived at West Point, he’d never seen a black person except on television, and he got comfortable with the easy racial mix at the Academy. It’s not the same outside the gates. A successful date with a sorority girl—nice movie, nice dinner—she folds her hands on the table and smiles. “Hey,” she proposes, “do you want to head over to a great bar in niggertown?” So, of course, Bart’s got to break it off. Another night, he’s driving another nice woman home, he’s run a diagnostic conversation over dinner, dropped names of black athletes, entertainers, spiritual leaders, politicians, it’s all good. She nods, points through the window at some beater of a car. “Wow, just take a look at that old nigger-mobile.” Bart finally lands a girl, Kelly, and every sign looks promising. She’s attractive, well-spoken, an early-education major. They’re together for three weeks, he doesn’t even hear a whisper of it; they pass beat-up cars, great bars, she doesn’t say a word. Bart relaxes. Kelly shares an apartment with her sister—cable TV, Monet prints, flowers on the mantel, everything neat and modern. Bart and Kelly wake up together, head into the kitchen for coffee, Kelly shakes the milk carton with a frown. “Look at this,” she says, “my sister finished off the milk and left the empty container inside. How nigger is that?”