The Lords of Discipline (11 page)

A reverent silence gripped the hall as the Great Man spoke. His voice controlled the audience by the power and conviction of his fervent, undistilled belief.

“Now,” he said, his mood lightening. “I will tell you parents something that I know is a fact. In the next month you will be receiving a frantic phone call from your son. Mothers, you will be especially vulnerable to this call. In fact, your sons will probably call when they are sure their fathers are not home. When this call comes, brace yourself. Your son will be asking you, possibly begging you, to let him come home. Tell him no. Emphatically, tell him no. Tell him that under no circumstances will you allow him to quit before the completion of his freshman year. Tell him that you did not raise him to be a quitter, a man who ran away the first time he faced adversity.

“The first year is hard, ladies and gentlemen; make no mistake about it. It was hard when I was a freshman; it will be hard one hundred years from now. I will let you in on a little secret. As President of this college, I have done everything in my power to make the system harder. But the system is also effective. It has produced an extraordinary breed of Americans, and your son is about to embark on a journey that will make him equal to that breed. As you were, it will make him better than that breed. We are producing a higher quality of Institute man now than ever before. That is because America requires more than ever the kind of man produced by the Institute.”

He paused, drew a deep breath, and, with a slow magisterial gaze, swept his eyes from the right side of the hall to the left. The pause was prelude. He always ended his speeches with grand, symphonic statements. I always waited for his exultant finishes; I always enjoyed them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will tell you why I chose not to go into politics after my military career was over. I came to the Institute not simply because I believe in the greatness of this college. No. I came here because I was and am appalled at the weakness and vulnerability of America. It has always been my dream that the Institute and her sons would be at the vanguard of a moral revolution, a resurgence of the American dream itself. It is my most heartfelt desire that the American spirit be rejuvenated from its weakness and degeneracy by the disciplined, patriotic bands of men we produce at the Institute each year. I am asking you this favor. Give your sons to me and let me keep them for this first year. I want them to know the satisfaction of submitting themselves fully to a system of discipline that has been tried and tested as effective again and again. I want each of them to know the pleasure of walking up to his parents four years from now, strong, proud, clear-eyed, and erect, and thanking you for giving him the strength and fortitude to endure the rigors of the plebe system. America is fat, ladies and gentlemen. America is fat and sloppy and amoral. We need men of iron to get her on the right path again. We need Institute men. We need your sons. Help us not to lose them in the difficult but rewarding days ahead. Help us make them submit to the will of the cadre, the shapers and molders of our strong creed. Help us turn them from the frightened boys you have brought us today into men of iron, men of the Institute.”

General Durrell walked off the stage quickly and down the aisle to the exit. He did not acknowledge the deafening cheers. As he disappeared, I thought that he had neglected to tell the parents some important and vital statistics. Of the seven hundred boys who arrived on campus this August morning, one hundred would not survive plebe week, three hundred would not survive plebe year. Only men of iron would remain. Men like me, I thought.

Chapter Eight

S
o the fearful order lived again. From reveille to taps, the barracks filled with the screams of the cadre. During plebe week, laryngitis was a mark of vocational honor among sergeants and corporals and an almost universal condition among the freshmen. With the coming of the plebes, the barracks seemed normal again. It was difficult to relate to that environment without freshmen loping along the galleries with their zombie-like gaits and their chins tucked into fierce braces. It required the presence of human fear for normality to be restored after the long silent emptiness of summer. When the plebes arrived and the cadre was in full cry, the barracks came into a stunned and violent life again, full-blooded and lusty with the aphrodisiacs of duty and cruelty.

But now in my senior year the plebe system no longer seemed serious to me. For the most part, I was aloof to this inconsequential suffering. Some of the plebes would leave and some would stay. They had chosen the Institute, and their misery affected me only occasionally. My vision had acquired a longer range; it had deepened and broadened in my tenure at the school. Many of the boys who suffered most grievously would turn into the cruelest guidon corporals, the most sadistic platoon leaders. That was the way it was with the system; that was the way it was with the human race. These same bereft and frightened boys would populate the nightmares of future freshmen. I had seen it happen over and over and over again. I would not get involved with them, I promised myself. It was not my fault they were here and I had business with only one of them.

I waited for two days before I went to see the black freshman, Pearce; I knew it would be impolitic to make contact with him too early. An early rendezvous would arouse suspicion among the cadre of E Company, and Pearce would have enough on his mind during Hell Night without worrying about assignations and plots hatched in secrecy against him.

But on Wednesday morning, I entered the E Company area in second battalion to introduce myself to Pearce in my newly appointed role as his lord high protector. The E Company freshmen were on the quadrangle learning the rudiments and intricacies of the manual of arms. The steel-plated bottoms of the M-1 stocks smacked against the cement squares in unison. In the history of the Institute, there had never been an easier freshman to spot among the ranks. For several moments, I studied Pearce’s physique with an admiring eye. He had the squat muscled body of a middle-weight wrestler, and he would have little difficulty in surviving the physical rigors of the system. His coloring was remarkable, a deep glistening ebony like a spit-shined shoe. His very blackness surprised me: Southern colleges traditionally began their experiments in integration with the lightest-skinned Negroes available on the planet. As I watched the E Company freshmen practice going from right shoulder to port arms, Alexander and Braselton walked up and stood beside me in the shadow that the second division cast over the first.

“This the first time you’ve seen the nigger, McLean?” Braselton asked.

“Hi, Wayne,” I answered. “Yeh. This is my first glimpse of the young smackhead. They weren’t lying, were they? He certainly does not appear to be white.”

“Blackest son of a bitch that ever lived. You better see him quick, McLean,” Braselton continued, looking toward Alexander. “We’ll be running him out of here in a day or two.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said, in my Gary Cooper voice.

“I heard John here say that he’d turn in his rank if he hasn’t run that nigger out of South Carolina by Christmas.”

I looked at John Alexander, who was gazing at me with what I know he considered to be unbearable menace. “I’d pay for his transportation if he took John here with him,” I said.

“What are you doing in my battalion, McLean?” Alexander demanded, staring down at my comfortable but unshined shoes.

“I’m thinking about buying it, John. My quarters are so small.”

“Fuck you, McLean,” Alexander said. “Beat it.”

“But, John, we haven’t really had a chance to talk except for last week in the General’s office. Our friendship is too beautiful a thing to wither from neglect. Let’s spend the night, put our hair up in curlers, giggle a lot, and I’ll stick my prick in your mouth so you won’t have to use your thumb.”

“Get out of my battalion, McLean,” Alexander ordered.

“It’s not yours, your highness.”

“I think you ought to go, Will,” Braselton said officiously.

“I don’t like stool pigeons in my battalion, McLean, and you have no business over here during plebe week. Unless the rumor is true and you’re over here to kiss the nigger’s black ass,” Alexander said, moving in closer to me.

“You’re wasting your time with the nigger, McLean,” Braselton insisted. “If John says he’s gone, that means he’s long gone. John eats knobs for breakfast.”

“I bet Pearce makes it through the year, Wayne. I bet ten bucks he watches us graduate in June.”

“I don’t want to steal your money, McLean.” Braselton laughed. “You’re my classmate. And you don’t seem to hear what I’m telling you. John here says that he’s going to run him out or turn in his rank.”

“Alexander would rather turn in his pubic hair than his rank,” I said. “But he’s not going to run that kid out, Wayne. That’s no ordinary knob. That there boy has been carefully selected from the whole black race in these degenerate Deep South states to represent his people in this shithole we call a military college.”

“If it’s such a shithole, why didn’t you leave three years ago, McLean?” Alexander asked.

“I couldn’t stand the idea of missing parade on Friday.”

“Don’t you ever get serious about anything, McLean?” Braselton said angrily. “Or do you just enjoy being a professional wiseass?”

“Sometimes I do get serious, Wayne. But only with people I take seriously. But let’s do cut the bullshit. I’ve already heard that you’ve sworn to run the nigger out, Alexander. But that doesn’t exactly make you unique. So have five hundred other guys in the Corps. The Bear has given me the assignment of making sure the nigger gets an even break. No favors, just an even break.”

“He’ll be treated like every other knob in my battalion,” Alexander declared huffily.

“That’s all I want.”

“Then why doesn’t the Bear assign some asshole like you to every goddam dumbhead in the Corps?”

“The Bear has this strange idea, Alexander,” I said. “He feels that some of you Deep South white boys look upon our black brother with something less than a tolerant eye. Word from the Bear to Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Alexander. As Pearce goes, so goes Alexander.”

“There’s been a lot of talk about the Bear among the alumni, McLean,” Braselton said. “A lot of people think he’s done a poor job handling discipline.”

“Run the nigger out and you’ll get a chance to see how he handles discipline,” I answered, turning back to watch the E Company freshmen.

“I’m going to find a way to get you this year, McLean,” Alexander said as he and Braselton moved toward the front sally port. “That’s a promise, stool pigeon.”

“Gosh, it was nice talking to you boys,” I replied.

Watching Alexander leave, I decided you could write a fairly accurate biography of him just by observing him crossing a street. There was a swaggering cockiness to his walk, and he strutted like an imperfect cross between a pit bull and a bird of paradise.

I drifted into the harsh sunlight over toward Pearce’s platoon and waited for the first sergeant to give the order for the drill period to end. When the freshmen broke for their rooms, I screamed at Pearce who was ten feet away from me.

“Halt, dumbhead. Rack it in, Pearce,” I yelled.

Approaching him slowly, I stared into Pearce’s dark brown eyes. He returned my stare measure for measure. For a plebe, his stare was too intense and bellicose. He had eyes that issued challenges. For several moments, I just looked at him and watched the sweat pour from his brow. I was studying a part of history. For one hundred twenty-five years the Institute had been an enterprise of Caucasians until this squat dark boy who stood before me made a decision to reverse history in his own small way.

“Pearce,” I said at last.

“Yes, sir,” he screamed.

“Talk quietly. I’m the guy they told you about.”

“Yes, sir,” he said in a softer voice, but one dangerously strained and undermined by the pressure of his first two days.

“You’ve got great taste in colleges, my friend. Heinrich Himmler must have been your guidance counselor in high school. But that’s your business, not mine. Here’s what I want to tell you. You can make it through here. You’ve got a good company commander and he’s going to help. A lot of other guys are going to help, too. A lot of guys are pulling for you as much as they pull for any other poor dumbhead who comes here. Now hand me your rifle and give me ten pushups just for show, so these poor white boys will think I’m doing my level best to make your life hell.”

I could feel the eyes of the barracks studying us at leisure. Pearce was astonishingly visible, and I could not hold a conversation with him without attracting the curiosity of everyone in sight. I returned his rifle to him after he had counted out his ten pushups and jumped up again to attention.

“Wasn’t that fun?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Sure it was, Pearce. So is cancer,” I said. “Now here’s our main problem, Pearce. Everyone’s going to know by this afternoon that I’m your liaison on campus. So if anyone on campus ever sees us talking, they’re going to think you’re a stool pigeon, and they’ll run you out of here for sure. This is going to be the last time you and I are ever seen together on campus. Here’s how we’re going to communicate. If you ever need to tell me something, if there’s ever a time when you have any names to give or if anyone looks like they’re taking an extreme dislike to you for reasons pertaining, how should I say it, to your unusual racial makeup . . . then you write me a note on a piece of paper and place it between pages three hundred eight and nine of
The Decline of the West
by Oswald Spengler in the philosophy section of the library. The book hasn’t been checked out in the history of the Institute. Can you remember that, Pearce? It’s very important and I’ll be going to the library twice a day.”

“Three hundred eight and nine,
Decline of the West
by Spangler.”

“Spengler, Pearce. Now I know all this sounds like a spy movie, but some people think there may be a secret group on campus that does not want you to enjoy the fruits of education at this grand institution. I belong to a group that does. Any questions?”