by David Lipsky
This is the first Army song the candidates sing together. The male voices drop low and serious, females lift solemn and high. They speak of stirring things—true allegiance and fealty, the Constitution. It’s the most they’ve said since leaving the bleachers. “OK, congratulations, you’re all in. Good luck. Make sure to leave both signed copies of your contract at the back of the room.” An immense scratching noise as forty new cadets sign their names. The cadre has returned. “New cadets, on your feet. Proceed to the door front to rear, move out!”
Now the Army absorbs your vital statistics—data you had no hand in creating that nonetheless add up to you. Eye color, hair color, Social Security number, home telephone and address.
“Gary? Your father’s name is Robert?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And your mother’s name is . . . ?”
“Karen.”
“And you reside at Twenty-two Elm Street, in Sullimac, New York?”
“That’s my father—my mother and I are at a different address.”
The hometowns they recite are mostly near better-known places. “It’s just south of Tacoma . . . About twenty miles from Tulsa . . . You drive half an hour past Bakersfield.” Underdog towns with scenic names, the shy towns from the back of the class. “Zephyr Hills, Florida,” “Forest City, North Carolina,” “Grand Island, Nebraska,” “Four Corners, New Mexico,” “Friendsville, Maryland,” “Little Falls, New Jersey,” “Marshfield, Massachusetts,” “Roswell, New Mexico.” (“It is a very strange place, ma’am.”)
New cadets now wear two cardboard tags, on strings pinned below the waistband of their shorts. One is identification; the second has a row of boxes, to be checked off after the completion of each R-Day task—uniform-fitting, barbershop, lunch. When cadre members need to see how far you’ve traveled down the line, they simply lift your tag. “Did I instruct you to move, new cadet? Face my wall. All right, at this time I’ll ask if anybody needs to go use the latrine.” Nobody says a word in the men’s room. Washing up, they steal dire glances at themselves, not certain what face they’ll find in the mirror.
Then the Army takes your hair. The cadet barbershop is a lazy wind from home, the day’s most hospitable sight. Top 40 tunes from the radio, flowers in water, steel thermoses with the afternoon’s slug of coffee, smiling civilian women in blue smocks. Every few minutes the guy working the push broom sweeps away what looks like a whole discarded wig. (The barbers place bets on the R-Day yield. Last year’s take was 422 ounces.) The chatty barber, what everybody hates, now seems an oasis of civility. “How you feeling?” the barbers ask. “I hope nobody’s hassled you too bad yet.” “Was it OK saying goodbye to your mom and dad?” “You’ve got scratches all over your neck—were you in a catfight or something?” Scars, nicks and dents bloom beneath the razors. “See, I bet you didn’t even know you had this.” Barbers pat the heads. “This head has never seen the light of day before, so it’s going to be very sensitive, you’re probably gonna want to find some sunscreen.” “We feel bad doin’ this,” they confide. “You come in here with your own identity, and you walk out all uniform.”
Now you’re shorn of everything. You look, act, dress like everyone beside you, for maybe the first time in your life. In five hours, West Point has reduced you to just the meat your parents made, topped by its frenetic, calculating brain. The cadre marches the new cadets out to Central Area—an open square, gray buildings staring down. An awful sound rises from the margins. It’s the Cadets in the Red Sash. New cadets stiffen at the noise.
The cadre introduces them to the basics of the Army body language: how to stand, how to listen, how to respond with the grammar of obedience. “New cadets, I will now teach you the proper position of attention. It’s easy if you remember one simple principle—push up at the top of your head.” “New cadets, this is the proper salute. Notice I keep my arm parallel to the ground, hand like a knife edge. Notice, I am not showing you my palm—no one wants to see the palm of your hand, new cadets.” “Your title is New Cadet Doe, and you will always refer to yourself as New Cadet Doe. If you are addressed or corrected, you will respond in a crisp, direct, unequivocal manner. I will now teach you how to report to the Cadet in the Red Sash.”
The new cadets have dreaded it all day. You can’t move on till you report successfully, no matter how many attempts you must make. Local citizens actually turn out to watch the red sash cadets snarling, clicking and growling. One yells, “You are not running the show anymore, new cadet!” The new cadets in formation triple blink, trying not to look.
“You will come up to Cadet in the Red Sash’s line,” the cadre instructs. “Stand at the position of attention, render the proper salute. Say ‘Sir, New Cadet Doe reports to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered.’ You will listen to what the Cadet in the Red Sash has to say—you will do what he has to say. Then you will render the proper hand salute, say ‘No retreat, sir,’ and move out. At this time do you have any questions, new cadets?”
“Yes sir. Can you please repeat that phrase again?”
“You should have been listening the first time, new cadet. New cadets, pick up your barracks bags. You will now stand behind the first line of tape.” They wait in lines eight deep, to report to the Cadet in the Red Sash. Four stand in a row, sashes knotted at the waist, voices coming quick and harsh like spitting-mad auctioneers. Your stomach goes heavy, and then the shoulders in front of you clear away and the red sash fills your eyes.
“Step up to the line not over the line or behind the line. New cadet, step up to my line!”
“Sir, New Cadet Whaley—”
“New cadet, look where you’re standing. I told you step up to my line, understand? Try it again.”
“Sir, New Cadet Whaley—”
“You are still not up to my line. Now drop your bag, new cadet. New cadet I’m telling you to drop your bag. Now, are you going to salute me? Are you going to report to me? Get to the back of my line, think about what you’ve gotta do.” Whaley hurries away.
“New cadet, step up to the line!”
“Sir, New Cadet Doe reporting to the Cadet in the Red Sash as ordered.”
“Are you saying your last name is Doe?”
“No sir, my name is—”
“Drop your salute. Get to the back of the line. New cadet, step to the line!”
“Sir, New Cadet Klinker reporting to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered, sir.”
“Drop your salute. You will only say ‘sir’ at the beginning of the sentence. This is not the Marine Corps, this is the Army, we do not make sir sandwiches. Start over!”
“Sir, New Cadet Klinker reports to the . . . Red Sash . . .”
“Are you gonna make a correction, new cadet?”
“Sir, New Cadet Klinker reports in to the Red Sash for the first time as ordered, sir!” Another sir sandwich; there’s an exchange of frowns.
“New cadet, step up to the line!”
Cadets in the Red Sash know exactly where the kids’ soft spots are—they’re reaching back to their own R-Days, recycling the words they feared most. “You’re in my world now—do you understand? You are not at home with mommy. You don’t like this, you can go back with mommy right now. Quit lickin’ your lips! Pay attention to detail, that’ll save somebody’s life one day!”
“I’ll go over it one more time. ‘Sir, New Cadet Doe reports to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered.’ Do you understand? Get that show of emotion off your face, new cadet. Nobody cares if you’re frustrated. Do it right.”
“Sir, New Cadet Morrow reports for the first time as ordered!”
“New cadet, I just told you two times. You have three seconds to pick up your bag and move out to the back of my line. New cadet, step up to the line!”
“Sir, New Cadet Macleod reporting to the Cadet in the . . . in the Red Sash . . . for the first time . . . as ordered . . . May I make a correction?”
“‘May I ma
ke a correction’—you gonna put a ‘sir’ on that?”
“Sir, may I make a correction?”
“Yes!”
“Cadet Macleod—New Cadet—”
“Drop your salute.”
“May I make a correction, sir?” Silence. “Sir, may I make a correction?”
“One more thing: the proper format is ‘New Cadet Macleod reports,’ not reporting. Y’understand?”
“Sir”—his tongue tangles up—“Neeew Cadet Macleod reporting—”
“Wait. Are you a neeew cadet or are you a new cadet?”
“New cadet. Sir, Cadet Macleod reporting—”
“Drop your salute. So you’re already a cadet now? Guess what—you’re on R-Day, that’s day one. You’ve got six more weeks before you’re a cadet. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Gonna put a ‘sir’ on that? Get it right!”
“Sir, New Cadet—New Cadet—reporting—” It’s the last thing to go: he has forgotten his own name.
“New cadet, step up to the line!”
“Sir, New Cadet Jefferey reports—to the cadet first sergeant as ordered. Excuse me—”
“Drop your salute! Is ‘Excuse me’ one of your four responses? What are your four responses, new cadet?”
“Yes sir, no sir, no excuse sir, sir I do not understand.”
“I don’t wanna see you rolling your eyes—I don’t care if you’re shaken up. Maintain your military discipline at all times. Do you understand?”
“Sir, New Cadet Jefferey Jay reports in to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered.”
“Did you just say your first name? Are we friends now, new cadet?”
“My first name is not Jefferey, sir. My last name is Jefferey.”
“Is that one of your four responses?”
“No excuse, sir.”
“You will speak when spoken to, new cadet. Drop your salute. Do it right.”
“Sir, New Cadet Jefferey reports in to the Cadet in the Red Sash as order—”
“Reports to. Do it over, you’ve got one more chance.”
A deep breath—and suddenly it’s just you, conducting your first Academy conversation. “Sir, New Cadet Jefferey reports to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered.”
“Drop your salute. New cadet, you are now a member of Charlie Company, Cadet Basic Training regiment, the best company in CBT. As a member of Charlie Company, the highest standards will be expected of you at all times. What’s that? Is that a show of emotion on your face, new cadet? Are you smiling?”
Jefferey salutes. “No retreat, sir.”
“No surrender.”
The new cadets report to barracks, change into their first West Point uniform, spend the afternoon absorbing drill language at a Berlitz pace: parade rest, present arms, about face, left face, dress right dress. At 1800, when twelve hundred new cadets march across the Plain for the oath ceremony, there’s no way to tell they woke up this morning as civilians.
Going Commando
For the new cadets, Beast is a chance to discover whether they’ve got the stuff for the Army; for the upperclassmen, Beast is a shot at seeing if they can lead. Cows like Huck Finn get the nod as Beast squad leaders (ten new cadets to a squad) and platoon leaders (four squads to a platoon). First they teach the Army housekeeping: polish brass, prepare shoes (Huck hosts shoe-shining parties: warm the official low-quarter shoes with a lighter, this opens up the pores, lets the Kiwi sink in), hospital-corner beds. Then they charge ahead to advanced entries from the Army vocabulary: hold a rifle, march on post, march on the road, maintain your honor.
Then cadre lift their eyes to the ephemeral; they want to have new cadets loving the place fast. Stroll the post on a warm July night and you’ll hear platoon leaders on the Plain lecturing skinny, nervous new cadets, waving their hands toward Gothic towers, glowing windows, the stars. “You might not like it right now. But it’ll click on you. It clicks. What some civilians say is antiquated, we call that tradition right here. I could live at this place forever.” The new cadets swallow eagerly. Their PL’s voice is the only human sound among crickets, breezes, a jet plane. The PL sighs. “That’s about all I got for y’all. I just wanted to bring you all out when it was dark, but not so dark that you couldn’t see. And just have you look.”
For Huck Finn, Beast is practical as could be, it’s his make-or-break time. He told Super-V—and got Vermeesch’s stamp for the plan—that based on how things panned out with squad-leading, he would decide to leave or stay. Vermeesch is like a man in a hospital waiting room, full of hope and anxiety. “When I first met him, I thought, ‘Of all the cadets in the company, this guy is full of so much tremendous raw potential. If he makes it to being a lieutenant, his soldiers are going to just love him.’” Vermeesch shrugs. “I’ve been trying to convince him to stick around.”
The new cadets have more immediate concerns. “We’re hungry all the time,” they say, “have you got any food on you?” “I just don’t understand,” they grouse, walking out of the practice gas chamber site, “why you would purposely subject yourself to breathing in a potentially hazardous gas, just to prove to yourself that it’s not that bad.” You hear many complaints on the base question of underwear. “They only issue tightie-whities, not boxers. A lot of people are going commando—no underwear.” “There’s no way I’m wearing it,” another guy says. “This is a wet climate. You could get like jungle rot. I got it on the three-mile road march.” I pop by a complaint session with Huck’s squad. What emerges is Beast poetry.
It’s better than we expected.
What are you talking about? This is horrible.
I miss TV.
Everyone misses TV.
We all miss back home.
People have lost their minds.
Nobody’s sleeping.
I can’t remember why I came here.
I came for the challenge.
Society doesn’t have a moral-ethical background anymore. People are so self-centered and materialistic.
I don’t know, that’s like preachy. I mean, we’re not at war with the country.
I’m here because I need discipline. Because if I was at a regular college, I would never go to class, I’d just party.
Finn is doing great.
He’s a jerk.
No, he’s awesome.
He’s the best squad leader.
Huck is up at dawn and planning after midnight while the squad dreams. He shaves every morning, with a touch-up in the afternoon—he’s even shaved his head. For motivation—it becomes his squad’s mascot—he’s lugging a fifty-pound tank round everywhere he goes. His own motivation comes from someplace inside, someplace deep: “I just love those little fuckers,” he says. “It makes me wanna work for ’em.” The new cadets blink at Huck with those big, know-nothing eyes—how could he show them any way to act but the right one? First week, he pulls everyone out of bed, gathers them into one room (“2330 during basic training, if I got caught, boy, that woulda been my ass”) and makes them a simple proposition. “All right,” he says, “everybody take a seat—or stand—I don’t care what the fuck you do.” The squad is doing good things; no doubt about it, they’re a damn fine squad. “But lemme put it to you this way: Why the hell don’t we just decide right now to be the best fuckin’ squad around?”
Toward the end of Huck’s three-week turn as squad leader, the company moves out for emergency medical training. The site is in the woods above the cadet chapel. Huck’s squad tromps past motivational signs planted by the trailside, stir-the-heart words in blocky Army font: Candor. Values. Duty. Devotion. Courage. Strive. Drive On. Heart. Unity. Country. They form up in a dusty clearing, Finn leads them in the pre-exercise throat-clearing, the verbal incentive check and scream-off.
“How you feeling, Second Squad?”
The yell leaps back, cadets feeling their way with a surprising muscle, the boot-shaking power of the massed human voice: Motivated-motivat
ed, downright motivated! You-check-us-out! You-check-us-out! You-check-us-out! Hooooop!
It’s impossible to see any R-Day left in them. “How motivated?”
Fired up! Fired up! Hoooh-hahh! I wanna KILL somebody!
They charge down what are called lanes, over an obstacle course staffed by the Army Medical Corps. Adult NCOs portray gruesome battlefield casualties, wilting and moaning around convincingly gory pretend injuries. “My arm! Oh my stars and whiskers, I’m hit in my arm!” (One of the sergeants carries around a big wooden Hollywood makeup kit: masks and prosthetics. Gunshot Wound, Chest. Atomic Burn, Face. Compound Facture of the Femur. Leg Amputation. Protruding Intestines, Stomach. Face in Shock.) The cadets scurry into the field with first aid. (“Spread out! One grenade could take out every last one of y’all!”) One sergeant lies groaning under a tree. “Ow, ow, ow. My leg. My right leh-yug.” The new cadets kneel, bring out splints and tape. “No, my other right leg.” “No apologizing on the battlefield, new cadet,” the casualty says. “Say ‘sorry’ on the battlefield, it was too late, huah?” At the finish, Huck’s squad receives the maximum score for the first-aid training.
It’s the summer of drops at Beast Barracks. No one knows why for sure; it’s a mystery to higher, a shame to the cadre, a distress for the TACs. By the halfway point, more new cadets have tossed in the West Point towel than during nearly the entire course of last year’s Beast. (The resignees depart on shuttle vans with some self-hating glares and smiles. One explains to me, “I was like—I kinda wanted to come here. But I let a lot of other stuff cloud my thinking: everybody was so amazed—West Point—all the friends asked to come and see the little plaque. But heh-heh, it’s a lot easier to say it than to do it. The hardest stuff was where they’d be like: ‘Are you guys excited? Are you ready to come be Army professionals?’ And then you gotta pretend to be excited.” The explanation most TACs eventually lead with on the resignation form is “Life Goals Not Compatible with Military.”