Duty First (2 page)

West Point, New York
June 29, 1998

A
slim pamphlet published by West Point gives the following details about the United States Military Academy Class of 2002: Twelve thousand four hundred and forty applicant files were opened by the admissions office; 2,245 young men and women received congressional nominations (the first competitive hurdle) and met the academic and physical requirements of West Point. Twelve hundred and forty six were admitted.

Of these, 74 percent ranked in the top fifth of their high school class. None were in the bottom fifth. Sixty-four percent scored above 600 on the verbal portion of the SAT; 78 percent scored that well on
the math portion. Two hundred and thirty-three received National Merit Scholar recognition, seventy-eight were valedictorians, 732 members of the National Honor Society; there were 224 Boys or Girls State delegates, 222 student body presidents, 191 editors or co-editors of school newspapers, 556 scouts. Of these, 139 were Eagle Scouts (men) or Gold Award winners (women). One thousand, one hundred and twenty-one of them—a whopping 89 percent—were varsity letter winners; 774 of them were team captains.

They are accomplished, educated, healthy, and willing to forgo much of what makes college life fun, including summer vacation. Today is their first day at West Point, and most of them are having trouble just walking and talking.

In the concrete and blacktop expanse called Central Area, a young man puts his left foot forward, on the command of the upperclass cadre member who is teaching drill. Inexplicably, his left arm swings forward. Since this eighteen-year-old learned to walk, probably around 1982, he’s been doing it one way: left foot, right arm. The right foot comes out; the left arm does, too. Not today.

It’s not that he isn’t trying. His face is set, intense with concentration. He sweats, moves his lips as he repeats the commands. He doesn’t look around, although he is a little disoriented. This day is meant to be disorienting.

“We want them to feel a little like Dorothy did when she landed in Oz and said, ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” says Brigadier General John Abizaid, Commandant of Cadets.

Cadet Basic Training, also called CBT, also called “Beast Barracks” or simply “Beast,” takes up most of the summer before freshman year. Six and a half weeks to learn how to look, walk and talk like soldiers; to begin to absorb—or be absorbed by—the military culture; to learn soldier skills, everything from how to march to how to fire a weapon; to learn how to obey.

There is a great deal to take in, and like so much of the West Point experience, it is accomplished pressure-cooker style. It shocks the delicate sensibilities of these teenagers who, for the most part,
have led privileged lives in the wealthiest nation on Earth. It is this shock, as much as the fact that today is the beginning of the greatest adventure of their young lives, that makes R-Day memorable.

Four seniors—”firsties,” in West Point jargon—stand on the low step outside Bradley Barracks, a six-story, L-shaped granite box that forms two towering sides of Central Area. Three of them are men; one of the men and the one woman are black. They wear the summer dress uniform called white over gray: white hat; pressed white shirt with gray epaulets and the black shield that marks them as seniors, or first class cadets; gray trousers with a black stripe running down the outside of each leg; leather shoes shined to a threatening luster. Each cadet also wears, as a badge of office, white gloves and a red sash that wraps around the waist. Thick tassels hang exactly over each cadet’s right rear pants pocket.

This is “the cadet in the red sash,” every West Pointer’s first, unfriendly, welcoming committee.

A gaggle of new cadets lines up in four haphazard files. Green tape on the ground marks lanes, and they readily comply with the unspoken instruction to stand between the lines. At the top of each lane is the word “Stop,” spelled out in the same green tape. Then a no-man’s-land of a few feet and another line, behind which stands a burly senior wearing the red sash around his waist.

“New cadet,” the firstie says in a voice meant for command. He raises one gloved hand, fingers extended to a knife-edge and aimed at the new cadet’s nose.

“Step up to my line.” He points at the line just inches from his gleaming shoes. “Not over my line or on my line but up to my line.”

The new cadet steps forward, glances down, and aligns the toes of his shoes with the tape. The instructions come rapid-fire from the firstie, who punctuates every sentence with, “Do you understand, new cadet?”

No one pauses to acknowledge the moment, but something important has just taken place.

An hour ago most of the youngsters trying so hard to get to the
line …
not-on-the-line-or-over-the-line-but-to-the-line
… were civilians, the majority of them just recent high school graduates. And even if they didn’t report to West Point with baggy jeans, exposed boxer shorts, and skateboards, they were a lot closer to the denizens of MTV than they were to soldiers.

Yet here they are, in the first few minutes of a career that will, for some, last thirty years—and for others thirty hours—and not only are they doing what they’re told, they’re trying to do it right. They are all, to this point at least, willing participants in a long endeavor to turn them into soldiers and leaders of soldiers.

A few of them may even be aware of the significance of this moment. Many of them have spent months dreaming of the lofty phrases of the admissions literature. They came, as one cadet wrote, “for parades and rifles,” dazzled by the name, by the history, by the knowledge that they stand where many of America’s great captains stood. Others of them (and these will be the most unhappy) are here because their parents want them to be here. For some, this is simply the best school they could attend for free, or the only Division I school to recruit them for sports. Under the gray sky they all look the same: the ones who will become generals, and the ones who will drop out in time to start classes at some other university.

“New cadet, you are allowed four responses: ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘No, sir,’ ‘No excuse, sir,’ and ‘Sir, I do not understand.’” Then, with no pause, the red-sash demands, “New cadet, what are your four responses?”

It takes a couple of tries before the neophytes learn the code. It will take a little while longer for them to stop trying to explain things. In that phrase, “No excuse, sir” (or “ma’am”) is an early, critical lesson. Take responsibility for your actions. Always. No matter what the consequences.

It is a lesson they will hear repeated for four years. Most of them will get it.

The new cadets have been warned about the first day; some of them by family members who have gone through this, some through careful attention to the recruiting literature, books, and documentaries.
They were even given helpful advice that morning at the official welcoming station, Michie (pronounced mike-ee) Stadium.

For most of the morning, a long line of candidates and their families stretches out behind the back gate of the football stadium. They enter in small groups, waved through a few hundred at a time by cadet ushers. They file in quietly, as if under some invisible instruction that this is a place of order, and sit in a section of the lower stadium seats. Before them, dressed in green “Class A” uniform of coat and tie, stands an Army colonel and a firstie.

“I’m Colonel Maureen LeBoeuf, head of the department of physical education.”

LeBoeuf’s official title, “Master of the Sword,” dates from a time when West Point taught swordsmanship because it was a combat skill. She is five ten, with dark red hair cut short and stylish, the lean build of a runner. A few people in the crowd exchange appreciative glances; a couple of the fathers suck in their guts.

“Cadet Basic Training is both intensive and rigorous,” she says in a gross understatement. “It requires dedication and motivation. I urge you to keep three things in mind during the coming weeks.

“First, remember to listen and do as you’re told. If you’re told to step up to the line,” she says, turning her body so that she can take a long step on one of the bleacher seats, “step up to the line. Not over the line …” she takes a dainty step too far, “not short of the line, but UP TO THE LINE.”

“Next, maintain a sense of humor.”

“Third, remember that you are not alone. Every member of your class, every cadet before you, every member of the Long Gray Line has gone through this day. Experience tells us that it’s best to take it one day at a time. With each day you will gain strength and confidence.”

Although Colonel LeBoeuf is not a West Point graduate (she was already in college when West Point started admitting women), she is here in part because she is a model West Point would like all these young people to aspire to. A pioneer in Army aviation, a Ph.D. from the University of Georgia, the first woman to head a department
here. Smart, successful, charismatic, with a sense of humor.
This is how it can turn out
, West Point says when she takes her spot this morning, with the sunlight glinting off the brass and silver and gold of her uniform. She is the same age as many of the younger parents in the stands, a perfect model for the
loco parentis
they all want to see.

LeBoeuf nods to the firstie beside her, who centers himself before the parents and candidates. Unlike LeBoeuf, who speaks naturally and from the heart, the cadet’s speech is rehearsed, right down to the inflection. “West Point is a beautiful national landmark,” he tells the families without a trace of enthusiasm.

And so it is. From the home bleachers one can see the low mountains across the Hudson River. There are long, unobstructed views up and down the valley, with Storm King Mountain rising to the left, New York City some forty miles downstream to the right. In fact, Michie Stadium was chosen by
Sports Illustrated
magazine as one of the most beautiful places in the world to view a sporting event. All over the bleachers, people crane their necks to take it all in.

“We urge the families here to enjoy your visit today.”

Then he addresses the candidates directly. “At this time I’d like to ask the candidates to prepare to move down the stadium steps with your baggage.”

He turns and indicates another cadet who has suddenly appeared far below, at the very bottom row of seats, beside a gate that leads from the stands and onto the football field. The distant cadet is at “parade rest,” feet shoulder-width apart, head and eyes to the front, hands clasped in the small of his back.

“You will form a single file directly in front of the cadet you see standing there,” he says, pointing. Then he turns back to the crowd. No more “please,” no more “I’d like to ask …” This time it’s just, “You have ninety seconds to say your good-byes.”

A little ripple of shock rolls up the bleachers.

In the back row, Billie Wilson, a big football player from Texas, stands and palms his small bag. His little sister climbs up on the seat next to him so she can reach his neck for a hug. When her face appears above his shoulder, she bursts into tears. His mother’s eyes
are already red from crying, but she bites her lip to hold it together. Billie hugs his parents, shifts his bag to the other hand, and makes his way into the crowd moving down the bleachers.

The candidates start to line up. The first young man holds a guitar case in one hand, a suitcase in the other. The cadet at parade rest suddenly looks a little like Charon, preparing a boatload of souls to cross the river to Hades. When he is satisfied he has all that are coming, he turns smartly and steps out onto the playing field, leading them in a precise file across the fifty-yard line. A door opens in the opposite bleachers. Only one young woman in the line looks back over her shoulder. As they disappear under the visitors’ stands, the families break into applause.

Maureen LeBoeuf appears again, standing next to the aisle as families file by on the way to the buses that will take them to their tour. Many of the parents thank her. One father chokes on, “Take care of my boy,” and she says, “We will.” When the younger brothers and sisters walk by, LeBoeuf frequently reaches out and touches them on the shoulder. One little boy of about ten, his face wet with tears, looks up at her.

“It’s going to be all right,” she says. “You’ll see.”

Many of them don’t meet her eyes. Others try brave smiles. Some blink and squint as if in bright sunlight, although it is a cloudy day. On the other end of the home bleachers, another group is being processed by another colonel, another set of cadre members. Moments later another cadet, a woman, tells this group, “You will move out in ninety seconds.”

Pete Haglin waited until the last possible minute to turn himself over.

“I was in the last group to go through at Michie Stadium,” he says later. “I was so excited and nervous I don’t remember much. I do remember walking across the fifty-yard line, and I could hear yelling coming out of the tunnel in front of us, but it was dark in there, and you couldn’t really see what was going on. I wanted to look back, but I didn’t.”

Haglin has straight, almost-black hair inherited from his Korean-American mother; his height—about five eleven—comes from his father, a 1975 graduate of West Point. The elder Haglin, also named Peter, coached his son on what to expect on R-Day. He’d even made Pete practice reporting to the cadet in the red sash.

“‘Here’s what you have to do,’ he told me. So I knew. When they said, ‘Drop your bag,’ I dropped it. I didn’t step on the line. It made things a little bit easier.”

Haglin received his acceptance letter only weeks before R-Day. His parents had already made a deposit for housing at another college. Haglin knows the late notice means the admissions office had to work its way down the list of candidates before it got to his name. But none of that matters on R-Day. Haglin wants to be an artillery officer, like his father, so he takes a long-range view of the Academy: West Point is something to get through on his way to the “real” Army, the one he knows from his father’s stories, and from his experience growing up an “Army brat” on posts all over the world.