by David Lipsky
To the home front, a West Point cadet is a successful immigrant, golden and fortunate, someone who can meet their siblings at the docks. Chrissi Cicerelle’s sister, Marie, bunked with Chrissi two Februarys ago for a candidate visit. Chrissi took Marie to class, toured her around the snow crust on the Plain, stood her in the back rows of formation. (On second-semester Fridays, you’ll find candidates backing every company, doing their best to look martial and severe in sneakers and jeans.) Marie’s last night, Erik “Ox” Oksenvaag swung by Chrissi’s room to train her for the company’s Field Training Exercise. Tactical basics: low crawl, react-to-contact, react-to-ambush. “Ambush will usually be a device like a claymore mine,” he said. “Now, that mine is gonna eliminate a big chunk of the squad in the kill zone immediately. You’ll probably be on point—so you’re gonna be one of the first cadets to get killed.”
“Ew,” Chrissi said. Marie giggled and Chrissi frowned. “Shut up, Marie.”
“It’s OK,” Marie told Ox. “I know my sister’s prissy. I’m prissy too.”
“So you’re coming next, huh?” Oksenvaag asked, standing and wiping his hands. “Class of 2004?”
“Roger that,” Chrissi replied. “She’s got her nomination. She’s just waiting on admissions.” A year later, Marie received her thumbs-up and the plaque. Now she’s one of the new plebes crowding into Highland Falls, watching the clock wind down on civilian life. Parents, childhood, radio music, fast food, free speech, all becoming items for the scrapbook. Palms go sweaty from the press of goodbyes. It’s the second-to-last morning of June, Reception Day.
R-Day is the last leg of the admissions march, the first step in the long haul to butter bars. Over the next twelve hours, new cadets will get divided, weighed, processed, sworn in. They’ll be tested by upperclassmen wearing red sashes and trained. At sundown, twelve hundred former civilians will march smartly across the Plain as uniformed soldiers. (West Point overpacks in the face of the four-year journey; only about a thousand will graduate.) Logistics are so tricky that the Academy performs a complete dress rehearsal two days before R-Day. Local civilians play the part of new cadets; every year, a bunch stagger away in tears.
Huck Finn’s job is to instruct arrivals on reporting to their first sergeant, the diamond-thingie-wearing cadet from his own R-Day. (Eternal-recurrence fans will appreciate that the first sergeant is Huck’s own R-Day roommate and Chrissi’s boyfriend, Mark Thompson.) Huck is trying to keep a lid on himself. “We had those civilians comin’ through on R-Day practice,” he explains, “and I don’t know how it happened—I just started getting up in their faces, louder and louder—but two little girls started crying on me. So maybe I need to tone it down some. But everyone agrees this is how it needs to be, it has to be hard, everybody gets broken in on R-Day.”
Families start collecting at the foot of Michie Stadium in the snappy 0630 weather, breezes giving the leaves a ruffle. Mothers wear West Point Mom baseball caps, dads check battery levels on their video cameras. Because this is West Point, there are some wild cards. One father sports a Joint Counter-intelligence Training Academy Instructor wind-breaker and is getting into something heavy over his cell phone. Another trim dad, whose polo shirt reads National Security Agency, looks patriotically abstracted, as if he’s receiving satellite data through his sunglasses. New cadets wear denim cutoffs, camo trousers, hometown sports jerseys, platform shoes with butterflies in the heel. Some hold sweethearts’ hands, exchanging tight goodbye squeezes; others maintain a precise, embarrassed teenaged distance from their folks. Officers fan through the crowd on atmosphere-lightening duty. “Come on,” a major chuckles, “no second thoughts now! Keep it moving. Hey,” he points, “don’t let that one get away.” A captain explains, “We do it because the families are nervous.” But the parents mostly look intrigued, like participatory tourists: they’ve come to see their kids fuse with a national monument.
The families click through turnstiles, take bleacher seats in groups of forty as officers rise with hospitable speeches. “Today,” the officers begin, “is both a culmination and a beginning, the beginning of new and unparalleled opportunities.” Dads hoist video cameras to their eyes, the one-armed salute people pay to the future: this meets the memory criteria, this is souvenir-worthy. “As you go through this day,” officers say, their advice heartening and worrying the new cadets, “remember to listen closely. If the person in front of you says ‘Step up to the line,’ then do not step on the line and do not step over the line. And remember that you are not alone. Every member of the professional cadet cadre, every member of the long gray line, and every one of your classmates has experienced this day. Throughout the morning, there’ll be things that happen—some to your classmates, some to you—that at this time will not seem very funny to you or them. But years from now, I can promise, when you reflect on this day, yes, many of you will smile.” Already the Army is extending its reach, planting its flag on upcoming recollections.
Then a female cadet introduces herself, a representative from their crisp and poised future. “Following my briefing,” she announces pleasantly, “all friends and family will be asked to move downstairs and depart the area. You will be going on alone from here.” Parents can’t resist glancing at children, faces an open question: Are we prepared for this? The kids click their necks, crack knuckles, as if at the starting line. “All right,” the cadet says. “At this time I will now ask parents to prepare their final goodbyes. You will be moving out in ninety seconds.” Moms gather children in close, eyes become puddles, dads shift uncomfortably, as if what’s being rated is their ability not to make a scene. (“All right . . . knock yourself out now.”) As the kids begin their determined jog down the cement steps, the parents look stunned, proud, and lightened; they flex hands at their sides like long-distance travelers after putting down the bag they’ve been carrying for eighteen years.
The kids collect downstairs at the concrete lip of the field until all forty are together. A cow, part of the upperclass cadre overseeing R-Day, issues their first command. “Shift bags to the left hands, candidates.” Then they step onto the AstroTurf, and leave the spectator part of life behind. The cadre member marches them across the fifty-yard line; the last thing they hear from their parents is applause. As they enter the dim tunnel at the stadium’s other side, they’re greeted by the glowing reassurance of a Coke machine. They’ve traveled—by crossing a few hundred feet—from a world in which they were infinitely treasured to one in which they have next to no value at all. Unless they finish Beast, they won’t get to be called plebes. Until they sign today’s forms, they won’t even be new cadets. They’re candidates.
Cows wait by a table with sharp orders. “Bags up on the table. Don’t look around, candidate. Hurry up, you’ve got places to be.” “Take that hat off! Fill out one tag for each piece of luggage—do it now—last name, first name, middle initial. Are you smiling at me, candidate?” One kid is so nervous he has to fill his tags out twice, pen mapping jittery lines like an EKG. An eager father pushes into the room, face deep in his viewfinder. “Whoa-whoa-whoa,” the cadre says, “sir . . . ?” “Let’s go, candidates! I’m glad you think something is funny—you have yourself a real nice day.” “Stand up straight, candidates. Now take your bags, follow the cadet guide. We’re moving out by bus to Thayer Hall.” Buses pull up, brakes hiss, doors fold open.
Once the candidates are aboard, the cadre break into chuckling and bragging. R-Day is training for them, a chance to lead. “Did you see the guy I asked for his hat? I thought he was gonna swallow it.” “I had a smiler.” “That one kid had a guitar! Guy had a fuckin’ guitar on R-Day. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s gonna use it for.”
The buses (Candidate Shuttle) rattle in silence as dozens of internal videotapes clip through the same basic scenes: home, lawn, high school, TV, grandparents, here. The doors clatter open, a cadre member’s head appears at the stairs. “All right candidates, you have twenty seconds to get off this bus. Let’s
move.” As the candidates spill out onto the Thayer Hall sidewalk—a mammoth gray structure containing a maze of classrooms—the cadre lines them up. “Head and eyes will remain straight forward at all times.” West Point now has dominion over what you’re permitted to see.
At R-Day you surrender your old self in stages. You’ve already left behind family and control over your environment. In the fluorescent Thayer hallways, you hand over your belongings, then file to the treasurer’s office to give up your cash; any sum greater than forty dollars gets banked. Cadre members stalk the lines of candidates, wearing the summer white-over-gray uniform: white gloves, white belt, shining brass, bodies giving a martial squeak and buckle as they walk. “No talking,” cadre announce. “Do not move, do not smile. Hands will remain cupped at all times. You need to look at anything, look at my wall.” Unless you had an unlucky home life, this is the first time anybody has spoken to you this way. The candidates are just blank eyes now, mouths so tight the lips appear to be hiding. The cadre march them down the halls, volunteers distributing clothes from tables. Then the males and females are channeled into separate classrooms—windows, whiteboards, industrial clocks marking time—for changing.
Now the Army demands your clothing. In their dressing room, male candidates tug on black gym shorts and white T-shirts with a speed that suggests graded events. “You must put on a jockstrap,” a TAC-NCO commands. “Let’s go—move with a purpose.” There are lowered eyelids, specks of modesty. You can spot ex–big-time athletes by their ability to skin themselves out of their drawers as if it’s just another pregame. One shy kid tries to yank his athletic supporter over his shorts. “No—nothin’ on underneath the jockstrap.”
Then the Academy takes custody of your actual skin. “If you have,” the sergeant booms, “any tattoo, brand or body piercing, regardless of whether it is visible while wearing a uniform, you must declare it at this time to the registration desk at my rear.” A rising firstie—Josh Reeves, shaved head dusted with a five o’clock shadow—operates the digital camera and Dell laptop computer. “What does that say?” Reeves asks, pencil pointed at a candidate’s shoulder.
“‘John 15:13.’”
“OK, what does the verse mean to you?”
“For me? It’s about friendship and dying, sir. Dying for something greater than yourself.”
The next candidate steps up. “Leazer, sir.”
“All right—Leazer, David R. Hold up your arms, I gotta see it. Any meaning to those symbols?”
“Reverence, Honor, Patience.”
“Is that Japanese characters?”
“Chinese, sir.”
“OK, next, step up. What does that word mean?”
“That’s my dad’s nickname for me when I was a little kid, sir.”
“His nickname for you? Paws? OK. Next, get up here, candidate Pascarelli. Left shoulder blade—what does that mean?”
“That’s a Metallica logo, sir.”
“What does it mean?”
“They’re a music group, sir.”
“Thanks a lot. Even though I may not look it, I know what Metallica is. What does it mean to you?”
“Metallica, sir.”
“OK, next.”
During a lull, Reeves explains the rationale behind skin inspections. “I don’t know if you’re aware of what happened at Eighty-second Airborne a few years ago. White supremacist stuff. That’s what we’re looking for. Take the Confederate flag—all right, that’s a tough one. It’s southern pride, so it’s not necessarily indicating anything. We’re looking for more direct: ‘Supreme White People’—that’d be bad. German eagle with a slogan under it. ‘AB’ means the Aryan Brotherhood—that’d be a dead giveaway. Also we’re checkin’ for gang symbols. They always go on the knuckles. Anything that shows below the hands or above the neck in a class-B uniform is a no-go. Only thing I’ve seen today that’s a semblance of bad said ‘Men of Ruin.’ Not sure what it meant. Next. What is that? Gotta show me.”
“It’s a bar code, sir.”
“It’s a bar code? For what?”
“Don’t know sir. It’s just a bar code.”
“What about the numbers? It’s your birthday? OK, that’s the coolest one yet. Sergeant, why don’t you try running the Scantron over this tattoo?”
“I see people’s drawers being left behind in here!” the sergeant shouts. “Pick—up—your trash. Do not leave your underwear behind in my room!”
Then the candidates are marched to the next station, a wide classroom cleared of desks; doctors and nurses wait in white medical coats as the Army takes charge of your body. “Good morning,” the doctor says. “This is the medical station. First thing you’re gonna do, if you wear glasses or contacts, is walk right across the hall to optometry; they have your new glasses there. Second stop you need to make is the pharmacy. We need to see all prescription and over-the-counter medications you may have brought. Then you’re gonna proceed down the hall and take your oath.”
The Army-issue spectacles are bulky Clark Kents. The official military acronym is big-shouldered and ragging at once: TEDs, tactical eye devices. Candidates hit the pharmacy and turn over their meds. For a lot of women, this means pulling out saucer-shaped birth-control holders—no room for privacy or embarrassment. For the medics, the pills suggest these candidates may need further checking.
“You keep these and finish these during basic training,” the nurses say. The girls blink. “When you get down to your last two, you come see me for more. When did you get your last ob-gyn exam? Don’t let yourself run out of this stuff. When was the last time you had your blood tested?” Candidates surrender fistfuls of painkillers, muscle builders, accident menders, placebos, bad-luck tonics and more—the medicine cabinet spells parents wouldn’t send you off without. Neosporin, Sting-Ease, Bengay. There’s a heavy emphasis on remedies for the foot, Beast Barracks’ most sorely tested body part: Aftin, Actin, Tinactin, Gold Bond Medicated Powder, Johnson’s Foot Soap (“soaks away misery”). Spectrum multivitamins, Mega Man Dietary Supplement, One-a-Day Plus Iron, Flintstones Chewables. “Somebody’s got Flintstones?” a major calls out, rattling the bottle. “This is great. Keep taking those Flintstones, they’re delicious.”
And now you’re ready to become a new cadet. Candidates line the hallway before the classroom where they will take their oath. Identical T-shirts and shorts (the air fills with the inky, just-off-the-shelf smell of new clothing), and whole klatches of kids wearing matching TEDs like a commando chess squad. They wait at the vague version of attention you pick up from the movies, take deep breaths before entering the room. For most candidates, this will be the first promise they’ve ever made to their country.
Captain Lisa Davis, a cheerful red-headed JAG attorney, hands out ballpoint pens from a box as forty candidates occupy desks and pore over the cadet oath. One tall kid, whose folks I’d bet are lawyers, marks small checks beside each clause on the page. This is the one moment of R-Day when candidates won’t be rushed. (“It’s their contract,” Davis later explains, “and they’re so young. We give ’em all the time they need.”) Then Davis clears her throat and stands. “OK,” she says, “I want to make sure everyone understands what they’re getting themselves into by signing off on this.” Her voice is solemn without being scary, like a driver’s ed instructor pointing out ice on the road. “What the oath means, um, is that you agree to protect the Constitution, and you agree to be loyal to the United States and its sovereignty. That you will serve and defend your country, and you agree to follow your officers. Anybody have any idea what the UCMJ is? The military has its own special set of laws called the Uniform Code of Military Justice; they apply to you in or out of uniform, on or off duty, anywhere in the world. You fly to Florida for spring break, something goes wrong down there, they can court-martial you up here.” The candidates’ eyes widen, Adam’s apples bob. “OK. Any questions on your cadet oath?”
The legalistic-minded kid raises his hand. “Ma’am, isn’t the term of se
rvice like five years? Because here it says . . .”
“OK, good question. Five years of active-duty obligation, plus three years reserves, so the oath says eight years.”
The hand comes up again. “Ma’am, as far as the eight years goes, is time served here—”
A black candidate goes for the laugh: “Man, we just got here—what’s your rush?”
Davis taps the desk. “OK. By signing this contract you are stating that you are unmarried, do not have custody of a child, and that you have read, understand and will abide by the Statement of Policies. Anybody have any questions on what I just said? OK.” She stands up straight. “Next thing we’re gonna do is swear you all into the Army. Raise your right hands.”