Battle Dress (33 page)

First Sergeant Stockel was right about one thing: Leading the company was no stroll in the park. He started out at a furious pace, more like speed walking than marching, and when I jogged to keep up with him, he snarled, “Save your running for the track, Davis!”

He wasn’t much of a companion. He said very little, but when he did speak, he grunted in one-sentence statements: “Over that rise the trail will open up,” or “You’re crowding me, Davis,” or “Let’s pick it up a little.” I felt no comfort from his presence like I had from my squadmates, plodding out the miles with me.

Finally we came out of the woods and into a huge grassy area packed with new cadets resting—boots off, rucks opened. Guidons stood, marking off each company’s turf.

“West Point’s golf course.” First Sergeant Stockel said to me over his shoulder. He led us to an empty spot and halted the company.

“Good job, Davis,” he said. “Now, plant that standard”—he waved at the guidon—“here and ground your gear. I’ll release you to your platoon when your replacement comes. Be sure to drink plenty of water. You look like some wet rat I just dragged outa the Hudson.” And he was gone before I could respond.

“Good job, Davis.”
I smiled. The only positive thing First Sergeant Stockel had said to me all summer. I raised my weary arms above my head like Cadet Black had done, and drove the guidon into the grass between my feet. It was as good a feeling as ripping through the tape at the finish line.

I shrugged off my ruck and yanked off my Kevlar. I rubbed my arms and stretched my back, looking at the new cadets around me.
First Platoon.
Nobody I knew well enough to recount my experience of marching beside First Sergeant Stockel.
Where’s Gab when I need her?

I took out my canteen and poured some water over my head, feeling the relative coolness sink into my skin. Then I emptied the rest of it down my throat.

“Heat stroke?” I heard First Sergeant Stockel’s voice from somewhere behind me.

“Yeah. It’s rough,” another upperclassman said. “The guy wins the Iron Man yesterday and can’t make the march today.” They were getting closer. “Had to be picked up by the truck. It’s really rough.”

Ziegler?
New Cadet Ziegler from Fourth Platoon had won yesterday, killing everyone. Ziegler
fell out of the march? No way!
I’d be sure to mention this to Hickman later on.

“Yeah,” First Sergeant Stockel said. “Yesterday probably wiped him out.”

They were only a few feet behind me now. I just stood there, my back toward them, watching the breeze toss the guidon back and forth, back and forth.

“Well . . .” I heard First Sergeant Stockel sigh. “You got a replacement for him? I mean, at this point I’d take just about anyone.
Somebody’s
got to carry it in—”

Before the thought was fully formed in my mind, I turned around and said it. “I’ll do it, sir!”

First Sergeant Stockel and the other cadet, whom I recognized as Fourth Platoon’s platoon sergeant, just stood there, staring back at me.

I swallowed and tried again. “I’ll carry the guidon, sir!” I held my breath, my eyes locked on First Sergeant Stockel’s face.
You said you’d take
anyone.

But he shook his head. “You already carried the guidon, Davis.”

“Aw”—the upperclassman waved his hand—“let her do it, Stockel. It saves me the headache. Plus”—he smiled at me—“I don’t think anyone’s gonna object to Davis carrying it in the rest of the way.”

First Sergeant Stockel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “All right!” he snapped, squinting at me. “But just make sure you blacken your boots and dust yourself off, Davis. I don’t want the whole world thinking I let a grub ball carry in my guidon!”

“Yes, sir!” I yelled. “Thank you, sir!” And I ripped into my ruck, a huge grin spreading across my face. I couldn’t help myself.

And, shock of all shocks, First Sergeant Stockel grinned back.

1055

The entire regiment of new cadets assembled on the golf course parking lot, platoon behind platoon and company behind company—A Company through I.

“ALL RIGHT, HARDCORE!” First Sergeant Stockel yelled, his eyes bright behind his wire-framed glasses. “THIS IS IT—THE FINAL STRETCH. THE
HOME
STRETCH. ARE YOU MOTIVATED?”

“MOTIVATED! MOTIVATED! MOTIVATED, SIR!” we screamed in response.

“I CAN SEE THAT!” First Sergeant Stockel yelled back. “BUT . . . ARE YOU ALL FIRED UP?”

I could feel the power building behind me.
“FIRED UP! FIRED UP! FIRED UP, SIR!”

“THEN LET’S GO DOWN THERE”—he threw his arm behind him in the direction of West Point—“AND SHOW ’EM WE’RE THE MOST MOTIVATED, DEDICATED, HIGH-SPEED, LOW-DRAG COMPANY OUT HERE!”

“HU-AH!”

“DO IT, HARDCORE! COMPANY, ATTEN-
TION!
”

I heard the sharp clap of equipment behind me like the snap of a whip.

Cadet Haywood, our company commander, strode to the front of the formation and exchanged salutes with First Sergeant Stockel. He must’ve seen my face when he took First Sergeant Stockel’s place, because he smiled at me and said, “There’s nothing like leading the company in. We COs get all the glory.” Then he shrugged. “Hey, what can I say? I didn’t make the rules.”

I was supercharged by the time we finally stepped off, Cadet Haywood and I perfectly centered on H Company behind us. We entered Washington Gate and continued down a long hill. The companies stretched before us, their guidons like golden beacons urging them forward. The sun was directly overhead, pouring down on us out of a bright sky—the hottest time of the day. But I hardly noticed the heat. I was bearing the guidon—straight out in front and angled at forty-five degrees—like a warrior of old, a sort of Joan of Arc, gallantly leading my legions home.

“Keep your eye on G Company,” Cadet Haywood said to me over his shoulder, “and stay in step with them if you can’t make out the cadences. They’re kind of hard to hear, marching up here.”

The road curved to the right at the bottom of the hill, then flattened out.
Washington Road!
I had traveled it many times before, double-timing in formation at six in the morning, admiring the brick houses with enclosed porches that bordered the road. It had been quiet then, except for the cadences. But today the street was alive. People wearing sundresses and shorts, baseball caps and sunglasses, Army uniforms and jeans covered the sidewalks, waving banners that said, “Welcome Back!” and “Congrats!” and cheering wildly as we passed.

A chill tingled over my body. I stood a little taller. I raised the guidon higher. I concentrated on staring straight ahead.

“LET ’EM BLOW, LET ’EM BLOW! LET THE FOUR WINDS BLOW! FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST, HARDCORE IS THE BEST!”
I heard H Company thunder behind me.

Cadet Black said the march through Camp Buckner would be a rush, but that has
nothing
on this!

As we drew closer to the Plain and the granite buildings, the crowd grew thicker, and suddenly its tone changed. The reds, blues, and yellows blanched to white, gray, and black. The beaming smiles became screaming mouths. The waves turned to fists, and the cheers to threats. Red, screwed-up faces pushed closer, filling my vision, and I felt my body involuntarily flinch like I’d faced a wall of fire.

“I’m gonna be your worst nightmare, Bonehead!”

“You won’t last one hour in my company, Smack!”

“You want some TLC? I’ll give you TLC—Terror, Long and Continuous! Lots and lots of it!”

Don’t look at them!
As I forced my eyes back on G Company, the mob blurred around me. I gripped the guidon harder, holding it even higher than before. I knew this demonstration was designed to frighten us, to intimidate. Well, their effort was wasted on me. This was just another battle, and I was going to win.

And then I saw it. The Plain, that huge expanse of perfect green, extended to our left. And the barracks, six stories of immovable granite with the medieval mess hall in the middle, towered before us, overlooking the Plain. And beyond, the Gothic chapel atop a wooded ridge, standing watch like a quiet sentinel. A sight more inspiring than a “Welcome Back” banner. It was home.

We passed the two mansions on our right, their quaint charm marred by the crowd screaming in front of them. We veered left, filing past the statue of General MacArthur, and marched over the cement walkway that separated the barracks from the Plain. Upperclassmen leaned out of the barracks’ windows, their insults raining down on us and reverberating across the Plain.

One by one the companies ahead of us turned to face the Plain, and pulling into their slots in front of the barracks, they stopped.

Then it was H Company’s turn. Cadet Haywood yelled over his shoulder, “H COMPANY! LEFT TURN, MARCH!”

And H Company occupied its place facing the Plain, the place where we had stood every day for countless formations in all kinds of weather during the past six weeks.

“MARK TIME, MARCH! RE-DEE, HALT!”

The march back from Lake Frederick was over.

First Sergeant Stockel took over the company from Cadet Haywood, then called the upperclassman who normally carried the guidon to the front of the formation.

“Hand off the guidon now, Davis,” First Sergeant Stockel said, his voice just above a whisper, “and return to your squad.”

“Yes, sir.” I thrust the guidon into the upperclassman’s hands, saluted First Sergeant Stockel, and bolted for Third Platoon.

As I fell in on the end of Third Squad beside Gabrielle, she turned slightly toward me and smiled. Sort of. It was a shaky smile.

I know, Gab. I know. Today’s going to be tough.
I wished I could grab her hand and squeeze it. But you just didn’t do that at West Point. We’d handle today like we’d handled all the other days.

“All right, H Company!” First Sergeant Stockel said from the front of the formation. “I’m not real big on good-byes, so I’ll keep it short.”

This is it.
Any second now we’d be released to the barracks, and Beast would be over.

“You did it, Hardcore. You conquered Beast. We were with you every step of the way, but the time has come to let you go.”

Let you go.
It was almost a sad expression. So final. But I was ready. I wouldn’t have believed it a week ago, but I
knew
it now. My beast was gone; I’d conquered it.

“The year you have ahead of you is gonna wear you down,” First Sergeant Stockel was saying. “Each of you has a weak spot, and West Point’s gonna find it. But you have the ability to succeed, Hardcore, because we’ve trained you to succeed. You have all the tools.” He paused. “But the only thing that’ll
keep
you here . . . is yourself.”

First Sergeant Stockel raised his arm in a salute and yelled, “DRIVE ON, HARDCORE!”

“DRIVE ON, HARDCORE! DRIVE ON, SIR!”

“PLATOON SERGEANTS, TAKE CHARGE OF YOUR PLATOONS AND RELEASE THEM TO THE BARRAC KS!”

My eyes snapped to Cadet Black at the front of our platoon.
This is it. It’s really over now.

Cadet Black returned First Sergeant Stockel’s salute, then turned to face us. “You know what you’ve gotta do, Third Platoon. ’Nuff said. Squad leaders, take charge of your squads!”

New cadets from the other platoons and companies were already scattering, headed for the roaring barracks.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for Cadet Daily’s voice above the storm.
Okay, here goes—

“Third Squad—”

I held my breath.

“Fall out!”

I hesitated a second, but there was really only one thing to do.

I whipped around and charged toward the barracks with the others.

As I reached the dim sally port, I heard Cadet Daily yelling after us. “NEVER SURRENDER, THIRD SQUAD!”

That’s right, Cadet Daily.
Never
surrender.

GLOSSARY OF CADET SLANG AND MILITARY TERMS

Several books on West Point publish a whole glossary of
West Pointisms.
It will be well for the new cadet if he has seen these words
And perhaps memorized some of them.
But here is a word of caution.
He should never use such terms until he has heard them
authoritatively employed,
For he may well . . . reveal him [self] to all
As a student of a glossary.

—E.D.J. WAUGH, AUTHOR OF WEST POINT, 1944

AO:
Area of Operation. Also slang for “the immediate area.”

ASAP
(pronounced as a word,
ay-sap
): “As Soon As Possible.” At West Point this means “immediately.”

as you were:
the command to disregard the previous statement of the speaker. Literal meaning: “as you were before the last statement or command was issued.”

balloon goes up:
a saying that refers to the moment a war or battle begins. Possibly originated from the barrage balloons used in World Wars I and II to protect cities from air raids. When the balloons went up, it meant a bombing raid was about to begin.

Battle Dress Uniform (BDU):
the Army’s woodlandpatterned camouflage fatigue uniform.

beanhead:
slang for NEW CADET. Possibly originated from a new cadet’s head that, when shaved, resembles a bean.

Beast:
slang for Cadet Basic Training.

big bites:
slang for putting a normal-sized portion of food on the fork when eating.

Black Group:
the fastest ability group of the three running groups during Cadet Basic Training.

brass:
the insignia that UPPERCLASSMEN wear to designate their year at the Academy. FIRST CLASSMEN wear black, SECOND CLASSMEN wear gray, THIRD CLASSMEN wear gold, and FOURTH CLASSMEN wear none.

Bugle Notes
:
also called the “PLEBE Bible,” a pocket-sized handbook containing West Point trivia, quotations, and general information about the Army and West Point for recitation. See also KNOWLEDGE.