by Ted Russ
“Roger. One block north and approximately two hundred meters west of the objective. Appears to be undetected by the enemy.”
I called up the drone imagery and looked at Zack’s new location. It wasn’t great. A squat two-story building sat between two other multistory structures. There was a small utility shed on the top floor where I assumed the team would gain access to the roof. It would also obstruct a large portion of the roof from us. The other structures were taller than the extraction point. They would constrain our flight path.
“You’re not going to like this,” I said as Pete switched one of his displays to the drone feed. “Obstruction on the roof and constraints to the east and west. Approach needs to be either from the north or south.”
“Right over the road.”
I switched back to the FLIR imagery and looked at the machine guns in the back of the pickup truck. The gunner peered through his sights at the original target house. He could do quick and deadly damage if he got a bead on us.
“Thayer 6, Bulldog. Is it possible for you to continue to evade farther west?”
“Negative, Bulldog. Have two wounded. Can’t move them again and need medic ASAP.”
“Roger that.”
I grimaced. Must be bad if Zack was calling for an exfil like this. He knew the risks.
“All right, guys,” I said to the aircraft. “Get ready. Definitely a hot extraction.”
“Roger that, sir,” said Crawford.
After anxious minutes, Zack made the call: “Bulldog, Thayer 6. We’re ready. We are on the rooftop marked with four IR chem sticks.”
“Bulldog is on the way.”
Pete pointed the Chinook toward the objective and accelerated to about eighty knots. “I’m going to bring her in over the unpopulated area to the west to try to keep us away from the enemy for as long as possible. We’ll approach the house from the north.”
“Roger that.” Pete was thinking exactly like I was. This was not going to be fun. A roof landing is tricky and time-consuming. We were going to be a big, loud, slow-moving target. He was trying to deny the enemy a clean line of sight for as long as possible. Still, the odds were not good. I noted the height of the bright moon illuminating the night and cursed our timing.
“Bulldog, this is Elvis.” I was startled to hear Creighton’s voice come over the radio. He had not spoken during the mission at all. It had always been someone else on his team. I had not heard his voice in years. It was strange to hear it now.
“Go ahead, Elvis.”
“Bulldog, can you delay your extraction three minutes? Working on something here.”
“Thayer 6, you copy?” I said to Zack over the radio.
“Roger,” whispered Zack. “We can wait. But no longer than that.”
“Okay, Elvis,” I transmitted. “But you need to expedite.”
“Roger that.”
“What the hell are you chuckling at?” asked Pete, who had picked up on the mirth in my voice when I was talking to Creighton.
Just hearing Creighton’s voice had made me feel better. Despite the fact that we were facing a doomed flight into a hot LZ, I couldn’t help but smile at the irony that it was Creighton, a second-generation army armor officer, and not an air force alum, who’d ushered the CIA into preeminence with a robot air force. But, even better, it felt like he was playing Risk in the barracks again, only with us as the set pieces and the Guru as the prize. There was no one I would rather have running the game board. I was hopeful. All I said to Pete, though, was “This ought to be good.”
THIRTY-SIX
AUGUST 1990
The end of August 1990 was another strange return for the Corps. We converged again on West Point for the new cadet march back as the rest of the U.S. military was converging on the Middle East. The nation was preparing for war, and it looked like this was going to be a real one.
After two weeks with Stephanie, I spent most of the summer on a Beast cadre detail training the new cadets. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed it. As a new firstie, I tried to inure myself to nostalgia or anything else that smelled like irrational fondness for West Point. But training the new cadets was meaningful. I felt a connection to the Guru, Wilcox, and beyond to others I did not know.
After marching the new cadets back from Lake Frederick, I prepared my room for inspection. The class of 1991 moved through Reorgy Week like the pros we had become. We were firsties now and could get a room ready for inspection with ease. Zack and I were roommates this semester. We worked well together and alternated between squaring the room away, going to the gym, and sitting in the dayroom watching the run-up to war. Like the rest of our class, we also looked forward to Friday evening, the day we would receive our class rings.
On Wednesday afternoon, we had just gotten back from the gym, and Zack was feeling frisky. He stepped out into the hallway and waited for a plebe to ping by. He didn’t have to wait long before Cadet Yun came pinging up the stairs.
“Cadet Yun, post!”
I rolled my eyes to myself as I put on my robe and headed to the shower. Zack wasn’t a mean haze, but he did enjoy making sure a plebe knew he was a plebe.
“What did you read in the paper today, Cadet Yun?”
“Sir, today in the New York Times it was reported that President Bush told allies that they must bear their share of the cost of the new post–Cold War world. Secretary Baker is being sent to the Persian Gulf to demand contributions to the war effort.”
I turned on the shower as Zack ran Yun through his paces. First the New York Times, then “The Days,” then Schofield’s Definition of Discipline, and then a bunch of other random stuff. He was still chewing on Yun when I came out of the latrine.
“Cadet Yun, I’m going to square you away. I’m going to tell you how to have a good first semester here on my floor. Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First you need to make sure that Cadet Avery and I always have a newspaper.”
“Yes, sir!”
“If that means you have to steal a paper from a nasty yearling or mean-ass cow, you do it. I like to read the paper. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I don’t want a wrinkly, wet, or otherwise fucked-up paper.”
“Yes, sir.”
I smiled as I went into our room and got dressed. It felt good to listen to Zack laying down the law for the semester. The world was in order.
“The next key to having a good semester is laundry. Don’t ever let Cadet Avery or me lose any laundry or have to wait for it to be delivered. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hello, Sam?” Mike pushed his head into our room.
We shook hands and gave each other a hug. We had not seen each other since the end of the academic year and the Corps’ announcement of the scramble.
“So how is First Regiment?”
Mike shook his head. “It’s a different world, Sam.”
The scramble had landed him in Cadet Company B1. Just as E4 was, to those who knew the Corps, a wayward rebel outpost, B1 was the physical, uniformed manifestation of the Corps’ Platonic ideal. Impeccable uniforms. Immaculate barracks rooms. Flawless drill formations. B1 cadets were perfect. But not in the dehumanized way of Captain Eifer. B1 cadets were perfect because they worked their asses off at being cadets. And they did not mind if that effort showed. They were tough and disciplined enough to be perfect, and the rest of the Corps was not.
I had several friends from B1, guys I had gotten to know either at Buckner or in classes. They were great guys. Like the colonel had said, we were more similar than different. They just had a higher standard in the cadet area. And if you were in their sphere of influence, you were going to meet it also. Period. As their friend from E4, I created low expectations from them in terms of military discipline. I met that standard.
B1 hated the scramble as much as E4 did. More, even. Their purity was threatened. Their tradition, the reasons they so reliably c
reated fanatically good cadets, dates back to the beginning of the Corps. Whereas E4 traces its history to the near doubling of the Corps of Cadets from 2,529 to 4,417 in 1964, B1’s lineage extends all the way back to the first decades of the academy. It was one of the original cadet units, formed with the other foundational companies, A1, C1, and D1, when the Corps was expanded to 250 cadets. Congress authorized and funded this expansion to meet the need for officers for the looming war against England in 1812.
War and the nation’s ever-increasing role in the world have been West Point’s growth catalyst ever since. After the academy graduated cadets early to meet the need for officers, first in the Spanish-American War and then in the Philippine-American War, the Corps was increased to 481 cadets in 1900. World War I provided the impetus in 1916 for the Corps’ near tripling to 1,332 cadets. This still didn’t spare the three upper classes at the time from being accelerated through, graduated early, and shipped to the trenches in Europe to lead doughboys. The Corps was increased again in 1935 and then again to 2,496 in 1942. Again, cadets were graduated early to go to war.
Through each of the Corps’ lurching growth spurts, B1 had been a bastion of its true spirit. They hardened each time the Corps, in their eyes, added softness. Their legend became more potent as the Corps diluted.
Their legend also had a dark side. Their resistance to change in the Corps was indiscriminate, but they hated women. There had not been a female graduate from B1. Ever. Females who were assigned there were run out or reassigned. B1’s unofficial company name was “Boys One,” which they preserved at an even greater risk than E4 did the motto “Go naked.” Like E4, their true history was difficult to determine. It was woven through with myth. Some of it ugly.
“It’s fine, though,” Mike added. “It’s a good group of cadets.”
“That’s good,” I said, noting to myself how sad he seemed.
“It’s not the same, though,” he said, looking at his highly shined shoes.
“Of course it isn’t. It’s First Regiment.”
“That’s not what I mean. I feel like I don’t belong. Almost like I’m not a cadet anymore.”
I realized that Mike was seeking guidance. He needed friendship as he dealt with a monumental change. The sense of fraternity in some cadet companies is so strong, it can be disorienting when it is taken away at graduation. But at that time, the newly commissioned officers have a fresh world of distractions to take their minds off the loss. Mike and his year group had none of those distractions. They trudged through the same institution but now without their tribe. I realized again how fortunate I felt at not being scrambled. I was happy and tried not to let it show.
“Mike, I am not going to tell you this doesn’t suck. But I promise you that after a month or so of living in your new company, it’s going to be better. It won’t be the same. But it will be good. Remember how tight you got with your Buckner company? And that was just eight weeks.”
He looked at me and nodded. He didn’t smile, but his eyes seemed less sad.
“I’m actually living with the battalion staff. They made me the sergeant major of First Battalion.”
“Wow, Mike. Congratulations.” I marveled at his ability to move so easily within such disparate cultures. With us, Mike had been squared away without being a duty dick. With B1, he was chilled out without being a slacker.
“Thanks, Sam.” He looked genuinely happy as I slapped him on the back. “Remember, you trained me.”
“No. Not true and you know it.”
Zack yelled in the hallway, interrupting Mike and me, “Are you kidding me, Yun? Did you seriously just say that to me?”
Mike smiled.
“I can’t stay long now, Sam, but I wanted to stop by and bring you something.” I had not noticed the extra dress white hat in his hand. “I meant to give it to you at the end of last year, but you and Zack were gone before I could find you.”
I caught my breath. It was Bill’s dress white hat. I thought of him all the time, but not in such a deliberate and tangible way. “Where did you find this? I thought we sent everything back to his parents.”
“Yeah. I thought we had, too. But when you guys went to the funeral, I helped Captain Kendall finish the cleanup, and I found it in some of his other stuff.”
I looked at the hat brass. It was still perfect. He had been able to do that. I ran my fingers over the brass, picturing him effortlessly shining it.
“Anyway. I didn’t find it until we had already sent his things to his parents, and you guys were already gone. So I hung on to it. I wanted to give it to you earlier, but you were … well, you weren’t good.”
“I was a zombie.” I looked at him and smiled.
“You seem okay now, though.”
“I feel good.”
“I think you should have it.”
“Thanks, Mike.” I turned the hat over in my hands. I felt a stab of pain as I read the name tape: “Bill Cooper ’91.” And then I nearly choked when I saw the words “The Goat” written in Bill’s hand under his name.
The inside of a hat is one of those unexpected places in which cadets find privacy and expression. Most cadets adorn the flat inside of their hats with pictures of girlfriends or family or motivational quotes. Plebes store their cake-cutting templates there and even hide knowledge cheat sheets. Bill, as usual, had never personalized his. For three years, all I’d ever seen in his hat was the standard-issue cadet name tag. But there, under his name, he had written “The Goat.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Mike said. “Were people calling him ‘the goat’?”
“Not that I know of. I mean, I guess so. Who knows?” I turned the hat back over and then put it on. It fit.
“I was hoping it would fit.”
I took the hat off and looked at him. “Mike. I don’t know what to say.”
“You should have it.” He turned to leave.
“Let’s catch up after dinner.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Mike stepped out into the hall just as Cadet Yun tried to ping by. Yun came to an abrupt skidding stop but still jostled Mike a bit.
“Holy shit, Yun! Did you just run into Cadet Morris?” screamed Zack. Mike turned and smiled at me and closed the door behind himself.
I could hear Zack rip into the hapless Yun as I stood motionless and looked at the name tape on the inside of Bill’s hat. I could picture him that night after our session with the Guru sitting at his desk, pulling out his name tape, and writing “The Goat” under his name. Bill, the cadet who saved no letters and did not keep a journal, had scribbled himself a note. Was it a challenge to himself? An inspiration?
I hadn’t thought about the goat since Bill had died. I could see him standing in front of me, jabbing me in the chest with his finger, smiling, and saying, “Do it.”
I walked over to the window. The sun was getting low now, sinking below the mountains that ringed West Point to the west. The cadet area was blanketed in shadow, but the far side of the Hudson was still bright.
“Zack, how many hours do you have at this point?” I asked when he stepped back into our room.
“I’ve only done about fifteen.”
“No disciplinary boards?”
“Naw. Been pretty lucky. Just a few inspection dings. Why?”
“I’m going to steal the navy goat this year. I’m going to need help. You in?”
“Hell yes, I am.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
SEPTEMBER 1990
During the early planning stages, Zack and I researched the history of goat-napping. We scoured old issues of Howitzer, the West Point yearbook, at tables in obscure corners of the library. Our research also included the memoirs of some of the long gray line’s more famous members and newspaper articles from those days. Neglecting our classes, we pored over microfiche, notebooks, and archives.
We knew the rough history of the goat already. For hundreds of years, warships had sailed with livestock. Goats were not only
a good source of food but also served well as roving general disposals. The legend at the U.S. Naval Academy is that two ensigns attending a football game there dressed up in the tanned skin of their ship’s deceased goat and ran onto and around the field during halftime. This fired up the crowd, and Navy won the game. Years later, in 1893, the USS New York gifted a goat, named El Cid, to the naval academy to serve as mascot for that year’s Army-Navy game. Navy won. El Cid was a hero. A tradition began.
“I’m convinced this is it. This is the earliest recorded goat-napping.” Zack jabbed his finger into the pages of an old Howitzer for emphasis.
“Seems late, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe. I’m not saying it didn’t happen before, but this job in 1953 is the earliest one that made a big enough impression on folks to actually get written about. I even found a reference to it in the New York Times.” Zack pointed at the image on the microfiche reader. “Hey, Navy! Do you know where your ‘Kid’ is today?” read the article in the Times.
“Nice.”
“It says two cadets stole the goat and made off in a convertible driven by an army corporal.”
“Shut up.”
“Al Rupp, class of fifty-five, and Ben Schemmer, class of fifty-four. I don’t know who the driver was. All it says is that he was in the army band. The goat apparently destroyed the vehicle’s interior and kicked holes in the roof on the drive back.
“Look, the caption to this photo says they chloroformed the goat to subdue it!”
Zack pushed the Howitzer toward me, and I looked at the photo. There in the back of a torn-up old car, a goat with his horns painted blue and yellow slept on the floor, head cocked to his left, leaning on the seat.
I ran my eyes down the faded page until they fell on another black-and-white photo, this one of an army officer. “Who is this?”
“The next day, when the New York Times article taunting Navy came out, the shit hit the fan. Eisenhower himself ordered the return of the mascot. He sent that lieutenant colonel along to make sure it happened.”
In the black-and-white photo, an officer stood in front of a microphone, speaking, as his right hand gripped one of the goat’s horns. Midshipmen stood around him, smiling broadly. He was wearing the World War II–era belted olive-green jacket over khakis.