Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  Parades are tradition, training, and torture for the Corps of Cadets. By the time a cadet graduates, he has been in hundreds of parades. “Drill and ceremony,” as the army calls it, is a symbolic and stylized direct descendent of the movement techniques used during the Revolutionary War. In those days, and long before, a unit’s ability to maintain a formation while marching under arms actually influenced and sometimes decided the outcomes of battles. Commanders who maneuvered units more efficiently than the enemy were able to flank or envelop them with devastating results.

  Now it had no bearing on actual battle. Technology and tactics have evolved beyond those Baron Friedrich von Steuben taught the Continental Army. What does drill and ceremony have to do with leading a flight of assault helicopters, or erecting a river-crossing bridge, or managing a communications satellite? Nothing, most cadets thought. Nothing, perhaps, other than that it requires alertness, discipline, and teamwork, the proponents of D&C would argue. Debate aside, it is during this useless endeavor that cadets first begin to perfect a skill that actually is critical to military success: the ability to check out and to put their minds somewhere else.

  On the Plain of West Point, cadets learn to unplug their brains from their bodies. They put their minds into the gap and ignore the sweat pooling in their shoes and the heavy rifle in their hands during an extended presentation of arms. They can stand for hours in a cold wind and their minds are away, considering a homework assignment, planning a road trip, or undressing a girlfriend. A cadet can drive his body around in perfect sync with his unit and execute a flawless “eyes right” with only a fraction of his mind at the wheel and the majority of it away. To the viewers in the stands, the Corps of Cadets on parade is a splendid display of coordination and unity of thought: thousands of identically dressed soldiers thinking and moving as one single, military hive mind. In reality it is some four thousand bodies left vacant by minds wandering in separate, individual respites.

  We drilled twice a week. Every weekend there was at least a double regimental review. Football Saturdays saw a full brigade review. Each parade was graded, and E4 came in dead last in all of them. The Guru was quick to quote the timeless maxim: “No combat-ready unit ever passes inspection; no inspection-ready unit ever survives combat.” But we knew the truth: E4 just didn’t like to drill.

  * * *

  Early one Saturday morning in mid-October, Turtle shook me by the shoulders.

  “Sam, wake up!”

  I sprang out of bed. Turtle was already standing at attention. I wondered what time it was but did not dare to look at my watch. The Guru stood at the door, smiling.

  “Meet me in the basement in five minutes. BDUs. Each of you, bring your entrenching tool.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time is it?” I asked Turtle.

  “Oh-three-thirty.”

  A couple of minutes later, we were in the basement. Zack and Bill were there. The four of us stood groggily looking at the Guru with our E-tools.

  “Avery, give your E-tool to Turtle and carry these.” The Guru handed me three large pieces of cardboard.

  “If anything happens while we’re out there, we’re going to split up. Everybody run toward a different sally port, but absolutely no one come back to E4 until you are sure you are not being followed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” The Guru turned and walked quickly out of the barracks. We followed closely behind. When he hit North Area, he started jogging briskly.

  We ran out onto the dark Plain. Soon after we got onto the grass, the Guru halted. “You guys wait here for a minute.” We knelt down as he continued out into the darkness. He stopped about fifty meters from us and started pacing around, periodically looking back at the barracks.

  “What the hell are we doing?” grumbled Bill.

  “Shut up,” said Zack. “This is cool.”

  “Kneeling outside in the cold instead of sleeping is cool to you?”

  “At ease, guys. He’s waving us over,” I said.

  We trotted over to the Guru.

  “Dempsey, give me your E-tool,” the Guru said as he knelt down. “Look, gentlemen. This sod is really high quality, and if you make a cut in it like this, you can peel it back like carpet.” The Guru made a couple of quick slices into the Plain with the edge of the E-tool’s spade. He then pulled back on the grass and a large piece of turf came up in his hands.

  “I want all of the sod lifted from here where I have marked the corners. Stack the sod to the side. Hurry!”

  We started slicing the sod and pulling back long swaths of it. Within minutes we had cleared a large area.

  “Good.” The Guru stepped into the large bald spot and marked off four corners of a rectangle within it. “Now I want a one-foot-deep hole dug out of this rectangle. Put the dirt into these trash bags.” He pulled several large black plastic bags out of his BDU pockets. “Hurry!”

  With the four of us working together, the digging went quickly. Soon we were looking at a large rectangular hole. Four large trash bags of dirt sat off to the side.

  “Avery. Hand me the cardboard.” The Guru knelt down and placed cardboard supports in the middle of the hole, then laid the larger pieces over them. The hole was about two meters wide.

  The Guru stood up and examined his work. He nodded to himself. “Okay, gentlemen. Hand me pieces of the sod.”

  One by one, we passed the Guru pieces of sod, and he painstakingly arranged them to cover the cardboard and, ultimately, the entire area. It took some time, but when he was done, it was difficult to see where our excavation had taken place. It started to dawn on us what we had done. Zack laughed.

  “At ease, Dempsey.” The Guru looked at his watch and continued: “Grab the bags of dirt and let’s go.”

  We followed the Guru to First Regiment’s area, where we deposited the heavy bags of dirt in a dumpster. Then we headed back to E4. It was almost 0500 when we got back in bed. Turtle and I both laughed in anticipation.

  The bad blood between F4 and E4 was long-lived. We hated each other. But recently, the feud between Cadet Mathison, the F4 cadet company commander, and Wilcox had become more intense. Mathison had assigned two of his firsties to observe E4 during formations and report on which cadets were talking. Talking during formation was not allowed, and E4 regularly ignored the prohibition. Often the talk was ridicule of F4 and their cadet chain of command. When demerits began to come down from Eifer for talking in formation even when he and his damn bicycle were not around, it didn’t take Wilcox long to put it together. He fumed. The Guru, however, had acted with no coordination or knowledge on Wilcox’s part.

  That day at 1100 hours, the Corps of Cadets marched out for a full brigade review. General Vuono, chief of staff of the army, stood in front of the reviewing party, which included another two dozen general officers, one senator, and three congressmen. It was a football Saturday at West Point. There is nothing quite like it. The air was crisp, the sky was clear, and the leaves were changing.

  The first part of a brigade review is the most impressive. Four thousand cadets in full dress uniform bearing arms emerge suddenly from the barracks. Initially, it looks disorderly. Thirty-six cadet companies seem to weave and intermesh as they step out of the six sally ports and onto the Plain. For those in the crowd who have never seen a brigade review, there is a moment of anxiety. Is it supposed to look like this? Is this the vaunted United States Corps of Cadets? Then, after just a moment, the timeless pattern takes hold. Order becomes apparent.

  As the cadet companies get clear of the sally ports, they head for their positions on the Plain. One by one, each company comes to attention in a massive formation. E4 always precedes F4 to its assigned spot by about thirty seconds. That was all we needed to have the perfect vantage point that day.

  Those of us who knew what was coming maintained the position of attention with our heads pointed to the front but strained our eyes to stare to our left. Seconds later, the enti
re F4 chain of command tripped and fell spectacularly. Hats, sabers, and guidon all scattered to the ground as the company commander and his staff stepped into the hole we had dug and camouflaged the night before. Cadet Mathison cursed loudly as he lost his grip on his saber while breaking his fall. There was an audible gasp from the viewing public. The entire Fourth Regiment laughed quietly under arms as Mathison and his staff awkwardly picked themselves up. The Frogs were humiliated. It was perfect.

  The mysterious quills for talking in formation abruptly stopped.

  * * *

  The next week a rumor swept through the Corps. E4 held its breath, hoping it would prove true, the Guru most of all. He had more reason than any of us to be excited about the possibility of a visit by President Reagan.

  When the commander in chief visits West Point, he has the authority to grant the Corps amnesty. That means all demerits and area tours are expunged.

  If true, it would be huge for E4. The entire company was sagging under the weight of the demerits we had been racking up under Eifer’s sustained assault. Several of us were serving punishment tours on the area, as we had exceeded the monthly demerit limits. What a sweet karmic victory this will be, we thought. It was October, with only about six weeks left in the semester. Getting reset this late would give us all a good buffer to weather Eifer’s crusade until we got out for Christmas. The disciplinary tally would reset for second semester.

  Less than a week later, on October 28, 1987, after a full brigade review, the president stood before the Corps of Cadets in the mess hall.

  “Brigade, attention!” came over the loudspeaker.

  The Corps was motionless. I could see the Guru standing at attention at another of E4’s tables. Most cadets were looking at one another, making hopeful, excited faces. The Guru stared down at the center of his table.

  Suddenly, we heard that signature voice that sounded like your grandfather and the prom king all at once: “I know I’m going to be speaking to you after lunch, but I just wanted to tell you how great it is to be back at West Point. And I have never seen a more impressive and spirited Corps of Cadets; you make me proud.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “But I know the real reason why all of you are so warm in your greetings, so glad to see me. It has to do with this directive I have written.” A peal of excited laughter ignited simultaneously from all points within the Corps. We struggled to hold ourselves back.

  “Consistent with past practices that have been established, as commander in chief, I have directed the superintendent to grant amnesty to the Corps of Cadets.”

  We exploded. The noise bounced around the stone of the mess hall and gained force as we continued to add energy to the roar. The Guru stood on his chair, saluting toward the poop deck.

  It felt sweet. It felt like a victory. For once, we’d landed a blow. The superintendent let us go on for about a minute, and then the command to take our seats was given.

  We were giddy as we ate lunch. The president addressed the Corps about his administration’s efforts toward nuclear arms reductions between the United States and the Soviet Union, a relationship that he described as “likely to shape the whole course of your careers as professional soldiers.” But he was really talking to the press. We were a colorful backdrop, and we knew it. And we didn’t care.

  * * *

  The end of the semester finally arrived and, with it, the Army-Navy game. Always the last game of the regular season, the game typically falls just two weeks before exams and Christmas leave. The match means everything to the Corps, who had to make peace long ago with the reality that, by modern standards, West Point will never have a great football team. The academic and disciplinary demands and the five-year military obligation following graduation make recruiting a challenge. So, Army has a tough time against even the most unremarkable football programs.

  In Navy, however, we had a true peer for an opponent. One that we had respected and hated since the first game, nearly a hundred years ago. Twelve years older than the Rose Bowl, the Army-Navy game was an intense rivalry from the very first snap. So intense, in fact, that a near duel between a rear admiral and a brigadier general in 1893 resulted in a five-year cooling-off period. The game was not played from 1894 to 1898.

  Every year since then, with only a few exceptions, the teams have met. And to this day, for the Corps, if the Army team loses every game but this one, it’s a winning season.

  Like a long-anticipated signpost, when the game swings into view, the mood of every cadet lifts. It’s not just the game itself; it’s also the fact that the Corps is about to put another semester behind it. Plebes, yearlings, cows, and firsties alike look at their calendars during Army-Navy Week and say to themselves, “I’m a semester closer.”

  By that time, plebes possess finely tuned antennae, able to detect the slightest shift in the mood of the Corps. They must. Everything flows down onto them. When the Corps is happy, plebes can breathe easy. When the Corps is not, plebes know to be cautious. Just stepping into the hallway at the wrong time can earn a plebe half an hour of hazing by a grumpy upperclassman.

  Army-Navy Week is signal overload for the plebe survival instinct. The atmosphere in the cadet area is electric in anticipation of a frenzied collective release for the long game weekend. Thursday night, the last night the Corps is in garrison before the game, is always crazy. That Thursday night of our plebe year, however, was historic. It was the infamous food fight of 1987.

  We could sense the energy in the air as we pinged into the mess hall. We were nervous, suspecting that the vibration indicated a night of stepped-up hazing, but when we took our seats, we could tell there was something different animating the Corps: mischief.

  Dinner was listed as “BBQ goat.” We all knew it was really roast beef, but we loved pretending. Then, as soon as the mid-meal announcements from the poop deck were complete, it started.

  Later I heard that it kicked off in multiple places at once. All I know is that, for our table, it began when a single potato wedge landed in our midst.

  “Did someone just throw food at us, Avery?” asked the Guru.

  “I think so, sir.”

  “I think so, too.”

  We looked around to see where the potato had originated. All of the adjacent tables were also scanning their areas. The mess hall crackled with potential energy. The key was not to be spotted initiating a food fight. That offense was an automatic twenty-five hours on the area, but defending one’s table in kind? That was a matter of honor.

  As we craned our necks, another lone potato wedge struck the middle of the table.

  “Arm yourselves, men,” said the Guru quickly. “If it happens, it’s going to happen fast.”

  He barely got the words out before an entire “Beat Navy” sheet cake slammed into the table next to us. It hit a water pitcher at the plebe end of the table and exploded. Sticky cake fragments covered Emily and Creighton. Emily grabbed a handful of barbecued goat and let it fly as Creighton heaved the stainless-steel water pitcher in outrage.

  The Guru leapt to his feet, beaming. “It was the Frogs!” he yelled.

  A dark cloud rose above and around the Guru, but it wasn’t smoke or mist. It was a dense mass of airborne food. In an instant, everything edible was in the air, sailing toward a target.

  Our target was the Frogs, of course, and we were theirs. I slung my entire plate of food just as their first salvo hit us. It was devastating. Turtle yelped under the impact of a shower of hot broccoli. I started to laugh but was cut short by an open carton of milk striking me in the chest. I ducked just in time as a silver water pitcher flew through the air where my head had been. It clanged loudly on our table and ricocheted into the wall.

  We windmilled our arms onto the table and toward the Frogs. We threw everything. The same drama played out across the mess hall. All of the petty cadet company rivalries were celebrated as the Corps let off steam. For an instant, the air was so thick with projectiles I couldn’t even see the mess hall ceiling. It was
joyous. It was cathartic. It was over in less than a minute.

  There was a lull in the fighting as every table in the hall ran out of ammunition at the same time. Our table was empty. A few cadets threw food that they picked up from the ground or off their own heads, but almost everyone stared at their tables and reached the same conclusion at once.

  “Run!” yelled the Guru.

  Turtle and I lunged for the doors at the same time as the rest of the Corps. No one wanted to be caught in the mess hall when the tac officers showed up. They couldn’t be far away.

  The Guru grabbed our arms from behind. “No. Not back to the company area,” he ordered, pointing toward the poop deck, a large spirelike stone structure in the middle of the mess hall. Thus we did the opposite of the rest of the Corps, who surged toward their company exits. The Guru gave us instructions as we ran through the poop deck exits and down the stairs into the basement. “Don’t go back to the company area until taps. The tacs and company commanders will be pressing everyone they see into cleanup duty tonight. You want to avoid that.”

  We followed his instructions that night and escaped the mighty task. I couldn’t get the image of the dark cloud of food that had obscured the ceiling out of my mind for weeks. I knew that I was right to be impressed when I overheard the Guru telling some yearlings that he had never seen a food fight like that before.

  Even though thousands of cadets were pressed into immediate service, the mess hall did not recover for almost a week. The administration had to bring in a professional cleaning crew two nights in a row. The commandant was enraged. Remarkably, no one was written up. It was impossible to determine how the fight had started. The tactical department made it clear that food fights were a thing of the past, though. The punishment for throwing food was doubled to an automatic fifty hours on the area. Officer patrols were doubled on nights the Corps was keyed up. I didn’t see another food fight for the rest of my time at West Point.