by Ted Russ
Our détente had also quietly accelerated over the past few months. We were at ease around each other, and our classmates were at ease around us when we were together. No one asked about what had happened anymore, and I seldom thought about it. When it did come to mind, the world no longer stopped spinning. I really fucked up, I would think to myself. Can’t ever do that again. I realized as we were walking that it had been more than a year since that night. It seemed like a decade had passed.
“So, I was thinking about planning a road trip after spring break,” Bill said.
“Where to?”
“Annapolis.”
“I see.”
“I did some research and found three spots where they might be keeping the goat between games, and I thought we could snoop around a bit. Recon the area.”
“Would you want me to come?”
“If you want.”
“Sure. I’m game.”
“Good.” We emerged from the tunnel and cut across Central Area. It had just started to snow.
As we walked, I realized that the potential goat-napping mission had been a salve to our wounded friendship. It had been the catalyst for the thaw by becoming a constructive secret. It didn’t wipe out the secret of shame we shared, but it gave us a path forward. I wondered if that had been the Guru’s purpose all along, if he hadn’t cared whether or not we actually went after the goat. I smiled and shook my head as we neared Thayer Hall. That would have been just like him. And I was grateful.
At that moment, I fought the urge to apologize to Bill. To say that we were cool. That I had grown up a little bit and did not hold what had happened against him anymore. That I did not forgive either of us, but I was done judging and just wanted us to do better. And that our friendship was more important to me than any of it. My pride told me that he should make the apology. And my brain told me that the conversation could wait till after spring leave, which was just a week away.
THIRTY-THREE
MARCH 1989
Half of us were off the bus and running before it had come to a stop in Central Area. Leaving our bags on the bus, we sprinted toward our respective company areas. Spring leave would be over in less than a minute. Anyone who didn’t make formation in time was looking at a no-questions-asked twenty hours on the area. Not the way I wanted to wrap up my cow year.
I accelerated as I plunged into the tunnel under the mess hall, expecting to hear the command “Fall in!” at any second. We shot onto North Area to see the regiment shuffling forth to their company formations. It seemed like most of the cadets in the company were already standing in their assigned spots, and Captain Kendall was in the rear of E4, surveying the company with pen and paper at the ready. As I sped directly through the center of North Area with the rest of my classmates, I caught the eye of the regimental cadet command sergeant major. He smiled at me and shook his head as we barreled past him. At that point, I knew we had made it. Tom was from D4 and not a duty dick. He would wait until we made it to call formation. I skidded into place just as I heard him yell, “Fall in!”
After formation, I started back to the bus to get my bags. As I turned to go, that familiar and awful realization swelled within me. For the past few hours, all of my efforts had been given to making formation. With the crisis now past, my mind got its bearings and figured out just where we were. After a nearly perfect week with Stephanie, I was back in the cadet area. I missed her already.
“Avery!” It was Kendall’s voice.
“Yes, sir.” I spun on my heels and headed purposefully back to the rear of the formation. Settling into my indifferent cow stride, I organized my defense. The captain’s face was sternly set. But I had made formation on time, hadn’t I?
As I got closer, he moved away from the post-formation gaggle so that we had some privacy, despite the hundreds of cadets streaming back into the barracks. The guys in the company were watching me as I walked over. I had the awful feeling that the hammer was about to fall, and I wondered which terrible secret about me Kendall had uncovered.
“Sam.” Captain Kendall never called us by our first names. “This is not easy…” He shuffled his feet a little and looked down. I got nervous. Something was wrong.
Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Bill Cooper was killed in an accident returning from leave. He’s dead, Sam. I’m sorry.”
I don’t remember many things about that night. I don’t know how my bags got from the bus to my room. I don’t know how I got signed in. I don’t even know how I got into uniform, but I do remember leaving the barracks to go to the taps vigil.
Moments of silence for fallen graduates are often held in the mess hall. Prior to “Take seats,” an announcement is read naming the officer as well as the time and place of their death. In peacetime, it happens several times a year. During war, more often. But those are graduates. Cadets seldom die as cadets. This was shocking. Even to those who had not known Bill. Not the death part. Death is talked about every day at West Point. Every building, sally port, and windowpane seems to be named after someone who died in battle, or after, or whenever. But cadets walk around this deathscape feeling immortal. Bill’s loss was an insult.
The Corps was in dress gray. Mist rose off the Hudson, obscuring the academic buildings and reducing the cadet area to a vague and obscured region of dark shapes and indistinct lights.
Just before midnight, the Corps formed up on the edge of the apron, facing the Plain in a single rank, cadets standing shoulder to shoulder against the darkness. It took a few minutes for all four thousand of us to arrive. Once the icy footfalls ceased, silence fell. The oppressive, tangible quiet thickened the mist and lasted for about five minutes. Just when it seemed that it would crush us, a lone trumpet sounded from the darkness.
The solitary wailing instrument let out a long, slow note. It hesitated for just an instant, as if it were choking back tears of its own, and then began to sound taps. The tragic notes seemed to emanate both from the impenetrable darkness and from us. A dark, wet stain grew on my chest as tears ran down my face and onto my dress gray. The trumpet continued to sound from somewhere on the Plain, and I was unable to keep my vision clear as I peered into the dark.
The trumpet concluded.
Before the silence could smother us, the Corps faced about to return to the barracks. No command was given, but it was done in unison. We left the Plain without speaking a word.
Zack and Creighton sat with Turtle and me in our room after the taps vigil. We were heartbroken and confused. I felt like I had vertigo and held my head in my hands while the others talked.
“I didn’t even know he had a motorcycle,” said Turtle softly. “Did you guys?” Creighton shook his head, but Zack didn’t react.
I hadn’t known either, and that hurt. Bill hadn’t shared anything with me after our falling out. Certainly nothing like this. We hadn’t had that relationship anymore. Now we didn’t have any relationship. Never would.
“I did,” Zack said. “I was actually with him when he bought it. He loved that thing.”
“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” asked Turtle sadly.
“It was none of your fucking business, that’s why.”
“Better you did not know, Turtle. It’s against regulations for cadets to operate motorcycles.”
“Thanks, Creighton,” said Zack in a tired voice.
“I’m not criticizing, Zack. Just giving him context as to why it’s reasonable that you didn’t tell anyone.”
Zack was trying to get angry, but he was working too hard not to cry. His face was red and knotted with effort, and, after a few seconds, he rubbed his eyes with both hands as tears began to run down his cheeks again. Creighton walked over and put his hand on Zack’s shoulder. We all looked in the other direction.
“Does anyone know what happened?” I asked.
“I heard he went off the road at the top of Storm King Mountain. I’m not sure where he was coming from,” said Turtle.
“The weather here
has been so slimy lately. I’m sure the road was slick.”
Storm King Mountain rises about thirteen hundred feet above the Hudson River and is a constant overwatching companion to West Point. Its looming, dark granite presence just to the north of post is almost always in view of the Corps and contributes to the isolated surrounded-by-granite-walls feeling of the cadet area. Route 9W runs north along the west side of the Hudson, tracing a route from Fort Lee, New Jersey, to Albany, New York. On its way up Storm King, though, 9W turns back and forth on itself sharply a few times, offering dramatic views of the Hudson River valley and West Point far below. I pictured Bill sailing over the railing at the big switchback, tracing a long, steepening arc as he separated from his bike and fell to his death.
“What did he do for spring leave, anyway?”
“He told me he was going to ride south, turn around, and ride back. Not sure he had a real schedule.”
“He was seeing that girl from UNC, right? Did he link up with her? Do we need to get in touch with her?”
“‘Seeing’ is too strong a word, I think.”
“I just can’t believe it…”
“I guess the academy has told his parents by now?”
“Not sure,” Creighton said. “Kendall asked who I thought would be willing to gather his belongings.”
“I’ll do it,” I said. Snot was coming out of my nose, and my breath was ragged. I stood up quickly, walked to the sink, and splashed water on my face. “I’ll do it.”
“Okay, Sam. Just let Captain Kendall know in the morning.”
We stood in silence, unsure what to do next. Zack spoke up first.
“I’m going to turn in.”
Turtle closed the door after Zack and Creighton left. “You okay, Sam?”
I didn’t answer. I was lying in my bed still in my dress grays. Eyes closed. Tears flowing.
THIRTY-FOUR
MAY 1990
E4 moved slowly through its mourning. Though the Hudson River valley was returning to life and spring injected color back into our landscape, we were stuck in a heavy gray haze. Me, especially. I couldn’t accept what had happened. It affected everything. My grades dropped. I found it hard to talk to Stephanie. I withdrew. I felt foolish. Ashamed. Shocked. And over something so stupid as a tire losing its grip. A motorcycle losing its footing. A person flying and then falling.
I helped Captain Kendall pack up Bill’s things. It was sad, but he had made it easy on us. He was a good cadet and everything was in its place, even his locker in the trunk room. It was perfectly in order. Everything fell easily into boxes to be shipped home to his parents. The process took a couple of days, and as we worked, I kept hoping to find a journal or note or something that would help me connect to my lost friend. But there was nothing. Bill had not been a journaler. Far from it. I laughed at not finding any letters to him in his room. Most cadets have a precious beat-up shoe box where they keep treasured letters from girlfriends, family members, and friends. Not so Bill. I think he read letters once and threw them away immediately. With the information relayed and received, there was no purpose to the paper anymore. It was tossed.
A couple of us received “compassionate leave” to attend Bill’s funeral, outside of Pittsburgh. His parents were destroyed but stoic. His dad, a gruff trucker, shook our hands stiffly and thanked us for coming. His mom was pale and fragile and looked like she hadn’t slept at all since the day Bill died. She hugged each of us when we introduced ourselves. Later, when the service was over and we were headed back to West Point, she made a point of finding me and giving me another hug. It was awkward. She held on too long. I could see Zack shuffling his feet out of the corner of my eye. Before she let me go she whispered, “You were very special to him, Sam. Very special. I appreciate you coming.”
I pushed myself gently away. “Thank you, ma’am. He was special to me, too. I miss him.”
Then we left.
Cow year slid off the calendar as the gray haze of Bill’s death slowly burned off. Zack, Creighton, Turtle, and I remained shattered. But we put our heads down and trudged through the rest of the year. Our latent cow anger mixed toxically with Bill’s tragedy to render us numb and bitter. “Fuck it” was our mantra.
Our melancholy crust was so thick, an earthquake barely registered as it passed through the Corps. The scramble was announced. The class of 1992 impotently shook their fists in rage when they learned that they would be randomly assigned to new companies when they returned after the summer for their cow year.
I was selfishly happy for my class and myself. We had dodged a bullet. The friendships and bonds that had been formed and tested over the past three years would be allowed to continue to fruition. After Bill, I could not have handled the scramble. But I was sad for E4. Its continuity would decay, diluted by the irresistible annual infusion of a new randomized class of cows from across the Corps. Something would be lost.
I consoled Mike Morris with words I didn’t believe: “It’s not that big of a deal, Mike. All of the companies are pretty similar.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Look at it this way: you’ve always been too squared away for E4 anyway. We’ve held you back, and you know it. This way you’ll probably get the recognition you deserve.”
Mike just stared at me.
“I actually mean that. And it’s a compliment, asshole.”
“Whatever. Have a great summer, Sam. I’ll see you in August.”
“Roger that, Mike.”
Zack and I skipped 1990’s graduation ceremony, noting as we drove away that we were finally firsties, the highest-ranking members of the cadet area. It actually felt good. Next year promised to be bearable. We would get our rings, cars, find out our branch assignments, and would accelerate toward our own graduation, now only twelve months away.
“Fuck it,” Zack said as we cruised out the back gate. We drove up 9W on our way out and stopped at the spot where they thought Bill had gone over the railing.
“It’s weird. He’s kind of frozen in time now.”
“Yeah, Zack. He’s dead.”
“No. I mean, he’ll always be a cow. We will never remember him as a firstie.”
“Or a lieutenant.”
“Or that, either. That’s what I mean. He’s stuck in that part of our lives.”
“I know what you mean. But now that you mention it, I already think of us as firsties.”
“Me, too.”
Zack chuckled. “You know he would have been a terror as a firstie.”
I whistled. “You are right about that.”
We looked down on West Point. The Hudson curved in a great arc behind it.
“Can I ask you something, Sam?”
I cringed. I hated it when he wound up like that.
“It seemed like you guys kind of made up with each other there at the end.”
I stared at the river below. Its surface was reflective silver as it wrapped around the cadet area.
“Did you?”
I tried to get mad but couldn’t. This was classic Zack. He didn’t have discrete relationships. He lived in an ecosystem of friends. Bill and I had been an insult to that ecosystem. He was trying to balance the books.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t totally behind us. We were still pretty mad, at ourselves and at each other.… But we seemed to be moving on. It seemed…” My throat tightened, and I started to choke on the words. “I guess…” I clenched my teeth as tears escaped my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. “I had forgiven him. And I felt like he knew it … and I think he had forgiven me. I just regret not having had the courage to say it to him. I thought we had time.” I turned from the river and looked at Zack. He was staring at me, heartbroken. “Hell, Zack, I don’t know. I just know I miss him.”
“Me, too,” he said. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask about it again.”
I watched Zack as he walked back to his car and got the bottle of Scotch. He was still the same tall, athletic cadet I’d first met three summe
rs ago, but he seemed less stubborn to me now, more steady than knuckleheaded. He still had his moments, but he had become a decisive friend I tended to lean on. I thought about Turtle and Creighton. They also seemed to have grown up a lot. I wondered if I seemed any more mature to them. Whether I did or not, I swore I would never take my friends for granted again.
Zack poured us each a big shot. We raised our glasses in the direction of post.
“To Cadet Bill Cooper,” I said.
“To Bill.”
We choked down the shot and threw our glasses over the side of the mountain. We didn’t hear them strike hundreds of feet below. Zack looked at the bottle of Scotch and then threw it over the side as well. After a long delay, we faintly heard it shatter against the granite.
THIRTY-FIVE
0211 HOURS, 2 AUGUST 2015
“Bulldog, Thayer 6. Little busy right now. Stand by.” If I weren’t strapped in, I would have leapt out of my seat. Zack was talking in a whisper, and the transmission was full of static, but his voice was calm.
“Roger that, Thayer 6.”
We flew another half a lap in anticipation, watching the FLIR. It looked like there were about fifteen of the enemy now. One of their vehicles had a pedestal-mounted weapon in the truck bed. Looked like twin M240s.
“Bulldog, Thayer 6.” Zack came over the radio again, still whispering. “We are at the far west end of the street. I’ve put an IR chem stick in the yard. We are going to attempt to get to the roof for extraction.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Pete on the intercom. “Your friend’s a crafty fucker, huh?”
I just shook my head in the dark cockpit. He must have bolted the team from the target house the second he’d heard Elvis’s report. Standard Zack decisiveness. His best and worst quality. It had saved their lives tonight. So far.
“Elvis, do you have the chem stick?” Infrared chem sticks were a great tool for identification at night. Invisible to the naked eye, they were easily picked up by infrared imaging, which the enemy over here typically did not have.