by Gus Lee
MAJ Schwarzhedd, Inf.
Major Schwarzhedd had developed a new reputation. It was added, like rings in a sequoia, to his many existing ones: he invited goats to his quarters for academic counseling. He was said to be a great reader of books. I went with trepidation and excitement, still wondering if he knew that my father had been friends with his. I did not sense that he was being secretive, for the major was as covert as a Fourth of July parade.
I looked up from rereading the note in time to render a salute to the chief recreation officer and grab-ass commander of the West Point Saturday Night Poker Society.
“Here to see me?” Colonel Smits asked, his tunic smelling of cigarettes, his breath sour. He did not return my salute.
“No, sir,” I said.
He spec’ed me with his cold, reptile eyes. For an instant I had a sense of what it would be like to be a woman in his presence. “Then screw off,” he said in his rockslide voice, smiling omnivorously as he stepped away on metal-tapped heels.
The distaste remained. I watched him walk away, not willing to present him with my back. Birds quarreled in the trees. Of all the many people on the sphere, I have to run into him: Murphy’s Law.
Major Schwarzhedd’s BOQ door was open and I heard music. I thought it was classical because it lacked lyrics and exhibited the pace of something that would last longer than three minutes.
From the door I saw the major in gray sweats, writing at his desk, left handed. He was built to the ideal specifications for cadets, career officers, professional football players, and permanent brick structures. On the desk were neat piles of papers, reports and manuals, and a double-photo-frame set of what I presumed were his parents—Na-men and his wife. I was surprised by the smallness and the simplicity of his poorly lit room. It was not only that his size dwarfed his quarters; the place was small—less than half of what Smits occupied next door. Here, in the relative dark, a neighbor’s loud music could approach auditory persecution, where one would consider changing religions and admitting mythical mortal sins for a reduction in volume.
I hadn’t made a sound. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Ting. Have a seat,” he said over his shoulder, motioning with his head toward a metal folding chair near the old, whitewashed, paint-peeling door with the number 39. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The room was lined with bookcases, filled from floor to ceiling with books of all sizes and titles, ages and colors. Books lay in organized stacks on the hardwood floor. In the far corner, books, notebooks, and papers were in piles arrayed in a mazelike radial pattern. I could trace his reading from the inner circle to the outer, with a gap in the pattern to allow passage. The books were scholarly—Latin American, European, Middle Eastern, Asian, ancient—the kind that collect dust on the shelves of lesser men.
A robust rotating fan hummed busily as it riffled the many papers on his desk, on his bed, and on his bulletin boards, creating a small, cyclic pattern of fluttering. Differently colored sheets with personal notes lay inside them, and they sang like an orchestra of small birds with each sweep of the fan, beating occasionally in harmony with the music. To the right was a small cot and a nightstand with a radio, an old brass lamp, and Hendrik Van Loon’s Tolerance. To the left was a kitchen area that would have been small in Lilliput.
He closed a binder, placed it on a shelf above the small desk, and reached down to an old icebox about as attractive as a brown, beaten Lister bag on an abandoned battlefield. He pulled out two bottles of Tab and offered me one.
“Thanks, sir,” I said, reminded of Tony Barraza’s dank YMCA hotel room in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, with the neon sign out the window, the streets owned by hookers and winos. The soda was very cold; the major had a million books and played sophisticated music. The room was all his, and it was next to a majestic river, with birds and trees and sunlight. I liked it. If I lived here, I would keep the books and the icebox, and play Brenda Lee, Skeeter Davis, the Everly Brothers, Lenny Welch, and Marianne Faithfull, and their songs of perpetual tragedy and lonely, romantic woe.
“I hope we can talk about tactics, homework, cabbages and kings. Let’s start with your father. Tell me about him,” he said.
So he knows. But my father, like engineering, was not one of my areas of expertise. I reviewed my gleanings from sixteen years of Uncle Shim’s calculated sayings and Edna’s offhanded remarks.
The music stopped. A radio announcer whispered, as if he were afraid that someone would hear him, as if he were doing the KDET reveille radio show in a soft, noninvasive voice, trying not to disturb the ho, the harmony, of the Corps as it fell out of bunks for the cannon, the buzzer, and the band.
“Sir, my father was the second of two sons, born in Yangzhou, at the confluence of the Grand Canal and the Yangtze River in northern China.” I looked at the tracks of my fingers on the bottle’s condensation. “His grandfather was a wealthy magistrate who had his own army. My father was born in the same year and same month as Henry P’u-yi, the last emperor of China. My father grew up, and lived through, revolution, the warlords, invasion, world war, civil war.
“Later, the family moved to Shanghai, where my father completed a classical Chinese education and attended St. John’s University, an American school for rich Chinese sons. He got an engineering degree. Later, he joined the Nationalist Army, which was a radical thing for an aristocrat’s son. He flew an old Vought biplane against the Communists and the Japanese. He was detailed to the Infantry School and took IOBC and Jump School at Benning. He later joined Stilwell’s headquarters, and was in the field with a number of American officers.”
One of whom was your father, Na-men. Schwarzhedd looked at me attentively. Maybe he didn’t know. What should I do? I saw the face of Uncle Shim, and knew the answer. Remember the Wu-lun, the Five Personal Relationships. Elders raise issues, not subordinates.
His linear, finely engineered mouth was now on the edge of a grin. “Ni hau ma?” he asked. His Chinese was strong and confident.
“Hau, syesyenin, nin hau ma?” I said. Fine, and you?
“Hau,” he said. “Yi shwo jung-gwo hwa ma?” Do you speak Chinese?
“Bu-shr,” I said. No.
“A shame,” he said.
“Sir, I think that every time I’m in a Chinese restaurant. Where did you learn Chinese?”
“My father taught me,” he said. “His Dad was a China missionary in Anhwei province. Your parents speak Shanghainese and Mandarin?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “I’d find that deficiency painful.”
“Sir, a correction. My mother doesn’t speak it. She and I are the ones who don’t speak Chinese, although I used to as a kid.”
“She was born here?” he asked.
“Philadelphia, sir.”
“How’d your siblings speak it if she didn’t?”
“Sir, she’s actually my stepmother, a chimu. She’s Caucasian. I promised her a long time ago that I’d always refer to her as my mother. You know, I’ve been tying up on this relationship between my biological mother and my chimu for years.”
“Understandable,” he said softly. “A matter of loyalty. She’d want a chance to be accepted by her new children.” He sipped his soda. “My family’s from Germany. As a visitor there, I was glad I had learned it. Dad was a connoisseur of languages. It’s helped me all my life. Wherever you’re assigned, it’s a good idea to learn the tongue.” He emptied his bottle and tossed it deftly into a garbage can. “Want popcorn? Or a hot dog?”
“You bet, sir!” I said enthusiastically.
He laughed. “Study this,” he said as he handed me a hand-drawn map with a blue, rectangular, friendly unit marker for an airborne infantry company. Its TAOR, tactical area of responsibility, was thick jungle with three-hundred-meter north-south ridges and a river that ran on a SW-NE axis. It covered two ten-thousand-meter grids, an immense amount of real estate for a company of 155 men. West and parallel of the ridge was the FEBA, forward edge of the battle area. West of
the FEBA was an infantry battalion unit marker, in enemy red, four times the strength of the blue infantry company.
“An enemy battalion,” he said, “has established a thin defense along the FEBA. Through it, the enemy pushes supplies and night strikes, killing your people. After hitting you, the enemy recrosses the FEBA. Under the rules, that’s sanctuary for them. Want the works—relish, mustard, ketchup?”
I nodded. Sanctuary. This looked like the Iadrang. The major pulled out franks and condiments from his icebox. He looked like a bear drawing nuts from a sapling. The franks were big, the kind that squirt juice on uniforms like kuotieh, pot-stickers, and represent a meal in themselves for boys with smaller tummies than mine. He put the franks into a tiny portable electric oven on a small counter next to his desk, and began to dress the buns with the works. He had a small window which overlooked the river. Through it came the calls of sparrows, warbling as background to the classical music, which was now powerful and emphatic.
“The river’s the Iadrang; the FEBA is the Cambodian border. You can’t cross it. To stop the enemy raids, you set a good series of A- and U-shaped ambushes in depth on your side of the border. The enemy battalion walks into them. You have them in cross fire, forcing them to retrograde back into Cambodia, giving up terrific losses as they run. You chase on planned pursuit lanes.” His face was animated. This was no theoretical problem; he had been there.
“You got ’em in a three-prong pincer and now they’re coming into your preregistered artillery. You’re about to give the call for the final fire mission when the first sergeant informs you that you’ve crossed the border. You’ve got the enemy in your hands, but you’re in Cambodia.” He crossed his arms. “What do you do?”
I knew the answer. You have to follow orders. That’s what we had been trained so well to do. That’s an international border. I can’t cross it. Don’t break a rule or bust an order.
“Order disengagement, sir,” I said. “Can’t cross the line.”
He flexed his jaw slowly, looking at me as if he were able to see my viscera, my ganglia, my veinous system. He shook his head.
“I don’t think so. Your duty’s to your men. They’re not safe with the enemy cutting them in the night, hiding later in a safety zone. I’d risk my career for my men, every time. Heck, what the hell does one little officer’s career matter, anywhere?
“You pick up your handset,” he said, imitating the motion, “give your call signs, and say, ‘Fire for effect!’ Then you order your platoons to close on the remains of the enemy, wherever he is, and destroy him. In your after-action report, you tell your battalion CO that you crossed the border. Then Honor is served twice—by your doing the right thing, and by being honest about busting the rule. Forget your career. You protected your men.”
He pulled his rolling chair closer to me. “Your duty’s to them and their families. Your country expects you to do that duty. Honor means doing it right. Tactics is destroying the enemy with superior information and judgment.” He leaned forward. “Use your brains, earn your pay by thinking. Destroy the enemy. But protect your men. A careerist wouldn’t—he’d cover his own tail—instead of his men’s.” He slapped his knee. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I stared at the map, so rich with lessons.
“You always been a chowhound?” he asked.
“Sir, can I just sort of sit here for a moment? I want to let what you said sink in.”
He nodded. Honor in action, honor in speech. Forget your career; think of your men. Subdue the self, honor the rituals, cross the border, break the rule if necessary and report clearly, but serve your men.
The dogs were cooking. He returned to his tiny kitchen and pulled out a one-ring burner, an old, battered pot, and a jar of popcorn. He was authorized a popcorn popper, and didn’t have one. We weren’t supposed to have one, and did. “I do not miss the TD and the system,” he said. “Hated getting quill.” He stood there, looking at his old pot. “Mind if I don’t make popcorn?” I didn’t mind. Rumor had it that Schwarzhedd had never walked an hour on the Area. I had walked ten. “How many dogs you want?”
“How many you willing to requisition, sir?”
“Eight each,” he said. “Then I’m out and we call for pizza.”
“Eight’s a good number, sir.”
“Big appetite,” he said.
“Sir, I’ve been a chowhound since I was seven. Sir, you ever walk the Area?” I was getting very personal.
“No,” he said. “I have Century Club classmates who claim, as a result, that I never really attended West Point.” The Club was for cadets who had served at least a hundred punishment tours.
He gave me four on a paper plate while cooking the others.
“Pig heaven, Good Deal, woof-woof,” I said. “Thank you, sir.” I had half of one in my mouth when he said, “Want me to say grace?”
All meals at the Academy were preceded by prayer from the Poop Deck, the high medieval balcony where the Supe and the First Captain had lunch, and could watch over the Corps with the same stately ease as the watching warriors on the massive mural of Great Battles. I never prayed before we ate contraband popcorn or boodle in barracks. Lorbus always did, and Arch always crossed himself.
I forced the food into one cheek, cleared my throat, put my head down, and closed my eyes.
“God, thank you for the fellowship of Christian men. For your gifts, for your love, for your forgiveness of our inadequacies and our forgiveness of others, for giving us here at West Point the opportunity to learn how to serve, for the food you place before us, let us use it to your purposes. In your Son’s name, Amen.”
“Amn.” I began chewing again. I remembered Mr. Armentrot on R-Day, skulls shaven, necks in, stomachs empty, small bites and chew six times, on imaginary food. Armentrot was in Vietnam.
He grinned at my hoggish appreciation. “C’est magnifique! Am I a chef, or what?”
“Yr a shf,” I garbled. I swallowed. “Have to invite you over to barracks for soup, sir.”
“Soup?” he said.
“Sir, we make real good soup, using mess kits and coffee heating coils. Start with a base of chicken broth from kosher stores in the City, stored in our boots. Add vegetables which dates bring in, salami from the laundry bag. Cut them up with Gerber jungle knives on the reverse side of the desk blotter padded with a laundry shirt board. Add one tin of C-rats ‘beef and rocks’—beef and potatoes—with the cream, salt, pepper, and sugar from the accessory pack—bring to simmer and serve in java cups.”
“Obviously,” he said, “I graduated too early.”
I smiled so hard it surprised me.
“I feel a little like Fagin,” he said, “collecting urchins and giving them leadership.” He ate with greater dignity than I, which, on analysis, was saying little. “Define leadership.”
I swallowed. “Influencing the behavior of others toward an organizational goal.” He wanted to influence me toward good grades.
“I want to influence you toward conscious behavior,” he said.
I lifted my eyebrows in surprise, while still chewing, which was like my dismounting the high bar and landing on my feet.
“If you don’t study, it’s for a reason. And if you do study, it’s also for a reason, either of which is understood by you.”
This was an astonishing proposition. Why would I need to understand the reasons for anything? At West Point, we did not ask why, since the question was irrelevant. At West Point, one must simply function, perform, execute, and obey. We were performers, not logicians.
“What’s the big deal with conscious behavior, sir?”
“Ah, always begin with basics. If you’re conscious, you can be accountable. Ethics flows from accountability. I learned that from my father and my sisters. I learned it from my mother.
“Even though the Academy emphasizes a variety of rote behaviors, we’re really urging you to think, to understand.”
“What did your father teach you, sir?” I asked, b
linking when I realized the gravity of the inquiry. I was being impertinent.
He looked at me. “What did your father teach you?”
Fathers. Lin tsun, tremblingly obey. “To obey. To be respectful. To work hard. To be American. To admire West Point. I’d never really thought about it before, sir. This is the first time I’ve ever said this.”
Major Schwarzhedd passed me another Tab. “My dad taught me to honor the concept of a calling. He was a servant.”
“A servant?” I said.
“He didn’t live for his advancement. He served my mother, my sisters, me—his men, his president, the Army, the nation.”
I took a breath. “Sir, did your father like you?”
Schwarzhedd smiled. “A childhood chum of mine, back in New Jersey, came from a strict religious family. When he was little, his father lined up the kids and told them to remember two things. ‘One, fear and obey God, and me. Two, I am not your friend.’
“I don’t agree with that,” he said. “I don’t think parents can be peers with their kids. But the trust, the knowing, the affection that go with friendship—they should be in there.” He studied his large hands. “They have to be there.”
He looked at me while I mulled over his answer. “Your father trusted you?” I asked. “And really knew you?”
He nodded, his eyes on me but focused on the past. “I was blessed. The trick though, is to focus on what you can do for others—not on what others may not have done for you.”
What I can do for others. The papers riffled musically.
“Someone must’ve helped you,” he said. “Boys don’t end up at West Point under independent steam.”
“My mother—my stepmother—gave me English. My father gave me West Point as the objective. My boxing coach—who always said ‘Excuse my French’—gave me his time and his skills.” I sighed. “For ten years.” I realized that it was enough, that I had gotten more than most kids.
“Sir, my first friend gave me hope. When I’m in chapel, I think about the black Baptist church I used to go to—a Chinese kid in a sea of black faces, singing songs I didn’t understand.” I remembered that I used to cry to the sound of that congregation singing. I cleared my throat. “I really didn’t know how to fight back then. Or to talk.” I was talking too much. “I was just a kid. It’s sort of a mystery.”