by David Lipsky
In anticipation of the run, the cadets shed sweatshirts and gloves. They stand at the start, beep their digital watches into timer mode, bend back their legs. George’s face goes blank. Sergeant Tierney makes a quick speech: “Those of you going out to the field this summer, stay in shape, or your tour could get ugly real fast. Otherwise, when you do PT, we enlisted soldiers will say, ‘I heard that cadet Rash was ate up like a soup sandwich.’ You don’t need that, you don’t want it. Everybody get the message? OK. Ready, set, go.”
The cadets pad softly down the road. George has fifteen minutes and fifty-four seconds to stay at West Point. Tierney climbs aboard his bike and swaps predictions with G-4’s physical development officer.
“My time for George is sixteen-fifty. Unless he’s been working really hard at it.” The heads are bobbing away: the track is a basic straight line, like an errand to the store; you run to the end, turn around, gun your way home.
“He’s got a pretty easy pace going there right now,” the PD officer agrees. “That looks like an eight-minute-mile pace. He’s behind Amy—she only needs eighteen-something, he needs to go under sixteen. He should be ahead of her.”
White lines finger through the sunburn on Tierney’s neck. “The only question is, who’s gonna finish first, Bowers or Hill? See, they’re running together.” By the ten-minute mark, you can see the athletes’ shoulders bouncing up and down. By eleven minutes you see their steady, unruffled features, and at eleven and a half you can hear their speech: “Come on burn it move it you want it.” “You guys gonna hold hands?” Tierney yells, leaning over his handlebars. “Come on! We’re hoping for a real race here!” They finish in tandem, 12:19. The two athletes simply start walking—no panting—like automobiles smoothly shifting from a high gear to a lower one.
Tierney flattens his hand against his forehead, searching for George. “Oh, he ain’t gonna make it. Amy is going to beat him. George Rash is getting ready to walk out the gate.” Two minutes later, the rest of the cadets finish together at a panting gallop. At 14:20 George’s tiny head comes into view at the end of the gray road. He’s a quarter mile away and it doesn’t look promising. There are ninety seconds left; in spite of himself, Tierney yells.
“Let’s go, George!”
“He could still do it if he pushes it,” the PD officer says.
Tierney shakes his head. “He needs eighty seconds for the quarter mile—that’s a big push, especially now.”
Then, also in spite of themselves, the cadets trot down the course, space themselves out evenly along the last quarter mile; it’s the group ethic drawing them, and a group wants to see every member succeed. As if he can’t bear a competition he’s not part of, Bowers drops his sweatshirt and skims back down the road. Then he turns around and starts to pace George. At 15:00, George’s features become distinct—head lowered, cheeks working, with the exploded-grape look of a person expending every last bit of effort. The cadets shout, “Move it, Rash! Come on! Kick it!” At 15:30 you can see the thumbnails on his fists, the heaving neck. At 15:40 you can see his half-closed eyes. Tierney begins to yell out the time. “Fifteen forty-five. Fifteen forty-six. Fifteen forty-seven.” Now you can hear George’s breath, fast and ragged. The cadets shout, “Knees up! You’re right there!” George closes his eyes and stretches his body forward. Tierney lifts his watch, “Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four . . .” as George thunders past.
George stops dead, bends over, grabs the hem of his shorts for support. George Rash has once again found a way to stay at West Point. Tierney is staring at the numbers. “Fifteen fifty-three, you had a second to spare, George.” And then the sergeant moves on to the standard Academy gesture of raising the bar. “Good job. Take another minute off that, you’re doin’ good.”
Steve Cho pats George on the back, George holds up one finger. “I thought. I was gonna. Die at end. I was thinking: I failed, I failed. But I’m never gonna. Just quit on myself.”
(Tierney tells me later, “Bowers saved the day. Rash wasn’t going to make it otherwise.” Bowers converts his action into simple gym terms. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. You kind of get, um, caught up in your own private misery sometimes. Hearing somebody’s voice snaps you out of it. I just told him, ‘Hurry the hell up.’”)
The pile of sweatshirts sorts itself back to original owners, Bowers breezes past George, and George raises his head with a squint. “Thank you, Bowers.” Bowers says, “No problem.”
Does passing feel good? “Actually, I just feel congested,” George says. “I’ve had this cold for a couple of weeks. I’m just glad my shin splints didn’t flare up.” He pulls on the heavy gray cotton sweatshirt: USMA—United States Military Academy. “I really need to get back, get cleaned up, and start studying my Hebrew. I have my bar mitzvah coming up in three weeks.”
To the cadets’ surprise, Jake Bergman proves an excellent company commander: firm, fair, decisive. Since he’s not in trouble himself, he can hand out punishments without fear or favor. (Not that his opinion of the job changes: “It’s very time-consuming, and the people who run this place don’t have any common sense.”) He protects his plebes when the Academy tries to take away a weekend pass, he raises everybody’s morale by living to standard. For the first time all year, it feels as if G-4 has its shirt tucked back in. “I try to give my guys every opportunity I can,” he says. His leadership style has the armed decency and resolve of Schwarzenegger dialogue. “You always give people a warning. And if they do it again, then you slam them.” But when he speaks about his success, he finds the modest voice of his old TAC, Jim DeMoss. “In theory, any cadet ought to be able to step in and do the job,” Jake says. “It’s just that I have such a great staff.” When the parents arrive for graduation, he will march G-4 in the parades, and the announcer will say, “Leading Company G-4, Company Commander Jake Bergman, of Diamond Bar, California,” and Jake will find himself stiffening and grimacing with pride. To everyone’s surprise, his lifting buddy, Trent Powell, has found religion, and is shipping for Infantry training at Benning.
And Huck Finn gets his brush with religion too. You could call it Stockholm syndrome, but by day fifty-two of his confinement, he’s reconciled to staying at West Point. “I went to my platoon leader on the fiftieth night,” Huck says. “I’d sat in that room long enough, I’m at the low point of my life. I told him, ‘Hey man, screw this, call up Captain V right now. I want to start out-processing tomorrow morning.’ He’s like, ‘Tell you what, why don’t you sleep on this? You come back here tomorrow night, tell me the same thing, I’ll call him up right then.’ So next night I went back up to his room, but he must of known I was coming; he wasn’t in there. So I was just in such a pissed-off mood I just went to bed. And I woke up the next day and I’d kinda forgotten about it. Really weird like that.”
The more Huck broods over it—in the last creeping days before his parole—the more Captain Vermeesch doing exactly what Captain Vermeesch said he would do makes Huck want to remain in gray. Because West Point is that sort of cause-and-effect place, where the action follows the promise as neatly as the rising steps of a staircase. “I love the man,” Huck says simply, “for doing what he said. I needed it. If he hadn’t of brought the wood and unleashed fury on me, I would of been like, ‘Wow, this guy’s not as hard as I thought, this place isn’t as hard I thought, it’s just like every other place.’ See, I kinda always have viewed West Point as the best place. And if I leave the best place, then I’m settling for second best, and that’s just something I can’t ever do.”
By the Army’s definition, he may not have reached manhood yet, but according to the Torah, George Rash becomes a man near the end of his yuk year. The West Point Jewish chapel—concrete and glass, with the main window stretching up like an arrow toward God—sits on a hill overlooking the trees, barracks and fields of the Plain. Inside, the corridor’s watercolors are painted in the Delacroix style, with subject matter relatable to the cadet: The Priests Leading the People into
Battle; Joshua Thanks GOD for His Victories; Huge Hail Stones Rain Destruction on the Armies of the Amorite Kings. Rabbi Lieutenant Colonel Richard White, the Jewish chaplain, explains that they’re worth “beaucoup bucks.” He spreads his arms wide: “Look how visible we are! West Point has had Jewish representation from class one—1802 graduated two officers. One was a Jewish boy from Baltimore, Simon Levy. We’ve been a part of this team since the very beginning.” His branch insignia is the double-arched tablets of the Ten Commandments.
Inside the sanctuary, a chunky Star of David that looks like a piece of munitions hangs suspended twenty feet above the sea of dress-white skullcaps, cadets sitting rigid and solemn in their dress uniforms. The local Jewish community has turned out with yarmulkes that are unusually informative. Some read “Jewish War Veteran.” Others say, “WW II—Hudson Valley” or “Executive Committee,” some carry combat decorations and service pins. With typical West Point efficiency, two cadets are being bar mitzvahed on the same morning. Standing by the ark, Jason Blaustein has a swim team captain’s chlorinated poise; George wears a proud grin, and chants a surprisingly beautiful Hebrew. You look around for George’s family, and then there’s the clatter of a collapsing video tripod, a female voice whispering “Shoot,” and you know exactly where they are.
The two bar mitzvah cadets uncap the tinkling cones from the Torah scrolls. They read their portions, and at that moment enter Jewish manhood. Rabbi White watches, a small finicky-looking man with eyes in which friskiness is being channeled and squeezed back in. By coincidence, the day’s Torah reading is from Leviticus, the Parshat Kedoshim, the holiness code that God gifts to Moses, a kind of oral version of the Ten Commandments. Do not steal, do not bear false witness, do not lie. When it’s over, the cadets deliver speeches. Blaustein grips the lectern. The Bible, it turns out, is also directly relatable to cadet life. “While reciting my portion,” Jason begins, “I thought of walking into my TAC’s office, listening to a long list of things I had to get done. So I sympathized with Moses, listening to God on Mount Sinai; it was very similar to the experiences that I had this semester as a first sergeant. Enforcing standards upon people is very difficult; that’s a lesson for all leaders.” He clears his throat. “One verse that stood out to me as a West Pointer is ‘You shall not steal, neither deal falsely, neither lie one to another.’ A correlation can be drawn from this statement to the cadet honor code: A cadet shall not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.” He nods. “It is heartening to know that God approves.”
Then George stands, with the slight gulp of a man who’s just heard somebody else deliver his speech. But he spins the material his own way. “I’d like to thank you all for coming,” he says, fingering up his glasses. “This couldn’t have happened without many people: my family, Jason’s family, the rabbi, a lot of good people, and a lot of other people. I probably wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the support of the faculty and all my friends that helped me through these last two years.” George is standing at the summit of another West Point year, a place most canny gamblers would have wagered he couldn’t reach.
“As I was reading the Torah portion, what I actually thought of was the UCMJ—the Uniform Code of Military Justice—and the cadet honor code. This seems to fall somewhere in between.” He clears his throat. “It just sets down some very general basic rules on how to live your life and how to be a good person. And basically tells you to follow the golden rule: Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. Treat people fairly and justly, and keep from being needlessly cruel to others. As for what bar mitzvah means? Generally it symbolizes the coming into adulthood—I guess I always was a late bloomer.” George waits for titters from cadets and the Rash section to subside, then closes with: “As a youth, I never really had any need for a religion, till I came here.”
Then the big meal. George’s aunt says “knock wood” and actually raps his head. Cadet Steve Ruggerio, George’s invited G-4 guest, is dining at the Rashes’ table, unsure of what he’s doing there. (“George asked me to come,” he says. “I was surprised, because I really don’t know him very well at all. And then he told me he considered me one of his best friends here. And I was like, ‘OK.’ That made me feel almost a little bad. Because this kid obviously thinks a lot of me, and I barely even know him.”) Cadets ask George what he’s doing this summer and he replies, “Squad leader, Beast Barracks. I’ve scared a lot of people with that thought.”
All photographs are by the author unless otherwise noted.
Upperclassmen stare down freshly shorn new cadets during the first day of their West Point careers. For most cadets, this is the worst day they’ll experience at the Academy.
Cadet Chrissi Cicerelle, in BDUs, or battle dress uniform, developing her “violence propensity.”
© Mark Seliger
Major Jim DeMoss of Company G-4 inspects a lunch formation. Cadet Eliel Pimentel stands at attention at right.
© Mark Seliger
Washington Mess Hall, where four thousand cadets eat at once. The mural depicts General George Washington’s military exploits.
© Mark Seliger
The Goodfellas, in the class-B uniforms they’ll wear in the Army. Left to right: cadets Don “Whitey” Herzog, Brian “Suppy” Supko, John Mini, and Antonio “Iggy” Ignacio.
© Mark Seliger
Cadet George Rash during his yuk, or sophomore, year. A name tape is affixed to his bed frame, polished shoes are arranged underneath.
© Mark Seliger
Cadets Jake Bergman, standing, and Trent Powell in their home away from home, the Arvin Gym weight room.
© Mark Seliger
Colonel Joseph W. Adamczyk, nicknamed “Skeletor” by cadets, in an official portrait. As the brigade tactical officer, he’s in charge of assuring that the Academy’s exacting standards of dress and vehavior are enforced.
Courtesy of Joseph Adamczyk
Lieutenant Colonel Hank Keirsey (then a major) in Iraq, Operation Desert Storm, 1991. Charged with instilling in cadets the skills and attitudes they’ll need as warriors, he is the embodiment of “huah.”
Courtesy of Hank Keirsey
Cow, oro junior, Mike Ferlazzo salutes in his as-for-class uniform.
© Mark Seliger
An exceptionally tidy West Point room.
Every morning at 0655, rain or shine (or darkness), the entire corps of cadets gathers on North Area for breakfast formation.
Marching into Washington Hall after lunch formation on North Area, cadets wear their foul-weather gear.
© Mark Seliger
Major John Vermeesch at his promotion ceremony. His father and his wife, Lynsey, pin his new rank insignia on his shoulders.
Courtesy of John Vermeesch
Vermeesch, in his element, at Beast, the intensive six-week training new cadets endure before they begin their plebe year.
Courtesy of John Vermeesch
George Rash listens to instructions in Gillis Field House before his final two-mile run.
The Corporation: Eliel Pimentel (holding phone), Matthew Kilgore (checked shirt), Rob Anders (facing camera), Kenneth Wainwright (holding camera).
Eliel Pimentel works the grill at a G-4 barbecue. Rob Anders watches him.
Cadets Ryan Southerland and Betty Simbert, meeting away from their computers, in Ike Hall for Branch Night, 2001.
Ryan Southerland, above the crowd, at the Army-Navy game.
The hours. Cadets march for five or more hours at a time, back and forth across Central Area, as punishment for various infractions.
Captain Rafael Paredes greets cadets at hours formation on Central Area. Cadet Jasmine Rose stands at right, Rob Anders on her left.
Cadet Huck Finn—“doing what I do best”—walking hours on the Area.
Huck Finn (center) rallies G-4’s team before the last event of Sandhurst, a grueling contest of soldier skills, from marksmanship to rappelling down a cliff.
Lieutenant Whitey Herzog in Kosovo, with
schoolchildren.
Courtesy of Don Herzog
Lieutenants Iggy Ignacio and Whitey Herzog, burning a few cigaretts in Watertown, New York. Both sport fresh high-and-tight haircuts.
George Rash tries on the class-B uniform he will wear if he becomes a lieutenant. Captain Paredes, in BDUs, is checking the fit, while Kenneth Wainwright waits his turn in the uniform soldiers wear at black-tie functions.
Thayer Walk, twilight.
Ryan Southerland collects money for the Goat, the lowest-ranking cadet, who receives a dollar from each of his one thousand classmates on graduation day.
PART THREE
The Third Year
R-Day
APPLYING TO WEST POINT is a clerical road march. Fifty thousand high school juniors step off together, filling out the official request-for-information forms. From there it’s a test of stamina, a battle of attrition.
Twelve thousand candidates complete the application. Six thousand make it to the physical aptitude examination stage, a fitness pop quiz—push-ups, pull-ups, standing long jump, three-hundred-yard dash. Service academies are the only institutions in the country that will measure how far you can toss a basketball from a kneeling position. (A little under seventy feet is the minimum.) Four thousand candidates are nominated by their senators or congressmen. The congressional nomination is a round-robin event, ten candidates competing for each slot, elected officials taking a turn as admissions officers, sifting through transcripts, recommendations, and clean-cut photographs. (Especially ambitious parents will snag jobs at a congressman’s in-town headquarters, hoping to gain their kids an inside track.) If your parents are career military, you can jump the line and apply directly to the president. If one of them happens to be disabled, deceased, POW or MIA—or a recipient of the Medal of Honor—your file skips all the way to the superintendent’s desk at West Point. Then the folks at admissions get down to the elimination round, stacking valedictorians against team captains, yearbook editors against debaters. Two thousand hardy candidates are pronounced qualified for admission, but only about twelve hundred get offered actual West Point places. They receive a plaque in the mail. In many small towns, friends and neighbors stop in for viewings.