Honor and Duty (37 page)

It was after midnight, Deke “Ping” Schibsted and I had split the winners’ pot in our barracks Friday-night poker game, where I had won despite the distraction of William “Moon” Shine’s endless playing of every album cut by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos.

“Hey,” Moon had said to a chorus of hoots. “This is
real
music, not that weak crap that comes from the coasts.”

We were sacked in our racks, communing with our brown boys. Clint and Bob were snoring like M-113 diesel engines. Deke was another disgustingly handsome, athletic white guy with a lantern jaw and a fine mind. He had whipped me in every wrestling match we ever had. Prisons have riots; the Academy had wrestling RFs—rat fornication parties—free-for-all, no-sides, everyone’s-my-enemy pandemonia of flying elbows and fists that were imitations of “the Pit” at Camp Buckner. Deke and Bob “Big Bus” Lorbus were RF champs, able to toss bodies from the mound of cadet humanity like farmers husk corn. In the midst of a hyperaggressive, super-male environment, Deke remained at heart as kind and mild mannered as a divinity student. He was a great roomie. Deke and I had been squad leaders for First Detail Beast and had taken leave at Fort DeRussey on Waikiki, where I had healed my heart by developing a world-class tan. “Life is good. This is home.”

“Ho boy,” he said. “Gray hog alert!”

“Naw, it’s just cool. We’re all going to make it. What can go wrong from here? Haven’t you always wanted to be part of a great band of brothers, committed to doing the right thing? It’s like the
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
, this old story about three best friends who swore in a peach orchard to be brothers, always.”

The harvest moon looked down over Cadet Hilton, casting shadows from battlement rooftops. “I worry about Vietnam,” he said.

“Forget Vietnam—this is special. Never be this good again. Think about Captain Mac, kids to feed, bills, debt. We’re single, no kids or wives or families to pull us down, hold us back, make us worry. Never had so much food or freedom. So many
friends.
All we have is each other, pulling together. Football games. Walking back from the mess hall, through the snow, after
fourths on Wednesday steak.” I even enjoyed singing Christmas carols in the chapel.

“Dream about Vietnam,” he said. “About dying. Punji stakes, land mines, bouncing bettys, tripwires, AK-47s, snakes, RPGs, lost airbursts. Wake up and think I’m dead. Or a POW.” Bouncing bettys were land mines that sprang up to groin level before detonating.

I thought of Asians holding my roommates prisoner. I imagined what the VC would do to me. “You’ll make it, Deke. You’re smart and quick and run like the devil. Hey, you think you’d have buddies like this if you were in
college?
”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I just wish we had more privileges.”

“You should’ve joined the Spanish Club.”

“I hate taking the bus back,” murmured Mike Benjamin. Mike and Sonny Rappa were starmen, in the top 5 percent of the class. They hived 3.0 writs while the rest of us fell asleep during punishing nuclear-physics lectures on de Lorentz and the nuclides, which I thought should be the name of a rock group. My notes degraded from elegant calligraphy into ever-diminishing spirals until there was a wild skid mark down the notebook as the Rack Monster conked me in the head and took my depleted consciousness from the lecture hall. Once, I fell instantly asleep, my head crashing backward into the desk behind me, scattering papers with a huge sonic clap, making me lurch upward with the noise, standing while still snoring, wondering why everyone was seated and staring at me.

“Static equilibrium,” said Sonny. “The wind blowing outa West Point is equal in force to the wind that sucks inside it. Despite the stasis, returning still sucks.”

“Oh, man, that is so negative,” Arch said. “We’re goin’ to New York, we’re not even there and you’re moonin’ about comin’ back.”

“I like to be prepared,” said Mike.

We were going to New York in our finest threads. We had folding money and matches for the society women we might meet. Some of us had condoms as good-luck charms designed to influence outcomes. Others carried them for their intended purpose. I had none. A panoply of watching spirits, and Edna’s enduring presence, expected me to be above the testosterone message. I wondered how I could persuade a girl into something I didn’t really understand.

“Describe your perfect girl,” said Arch to Big Bus.

“Feed me, drive me, tuck me in at night,” he said, grinning.

“Zoo Keeper?” said Arch. No one was handsomer than Clint, but he never had a steady girlfriend.

“Three-oh in looks,” said Clint, “hornier than a Texas toad and responds to the orders ‘Drive me in your car’ and ‘Don’t scream so loud.’ ”

“Mike?”

“She’s at Smith or Vassar. Dark hair, dark eyes. Has read Willa Cather, prefers Thomas Mann. Writes great, long, deep letters. Very funny. Thinks I’m funny. Can stay up late, talking.

There were loud boos from all but Pee Wee McCloud, who said, “Rabble. If you find her, let me know if she has a sister.” Pee Wee had been named to the all-East team as a guard. Sports writers found it hard to believe that someone who was built like a human anvil and talked like Goofy could be a top scholar, but he was.

Mike grinned. “Yeah, but you’ll want the smarter one.”

“Kai?” asked Arch.

“Feed me, burp me, feed me,” I said.

In last year’s Armed Forces Day Parade, war protesters had thrown garbage at us. The year before, New Yorkers had thrown ticker tape. I couldn’t believe that a war protester would think that West Point had started the Vietnam War. We were the servants who fasted for a year, went to school six days a week, did nothing but follow orders, without any sex, and would be the first to die.

“Hay que hablar español, chicos,”
said Mike.
“Es un requisito del club.”
We have to speak Spanish. It’s a club rule.

“Yo, forget it, Mike,” said Farren McWhiff, our main soup chef. “We’re gonna be talkin’ spic all night. Owwww!” he cried as Arch, Mike, and I rubbed our knuckles in his scalp while Pee Wee held him still in his uncontestable mass.

“Farren,” said Mike, “this method of behavior modification is admittedly primitive. But you are a base character, evidenced by your ignorance of race relations. This is a reminder to never underestimate the leadership potential of a well-placed noogie.”

We were on an Army club bus, embarking on a West Point Good Deal—getting out of the Academy. We had all joined for a variety of reasons. For me, the most important was Sonny and Mike were members. Only Big Bus had joined in error; his mother was Irish. In the rush of activity sign-ups, he had
mistaken the Iberia for the Hibernia Society, and was taken aback when everyone began speaking Spanish. (“Hey, buddies, this is a joke, right?” he had asked).

“Mike, I was a little wrong about the next war.”

“Oh, you might say that,” he replied. “You picked Eastern Europe. Berlin, à la Budapest. You said it would
not
be Indochina.”

“Okay, so I was a little off,” I said.

“Had to be Indochina,” said Sonny. “Look at the world’s weather systems. It’s the only other place outside the Point where the wind doesn’t blow, it sucks.”

“Static equilibrium?” I said.

“Negative,” said Sonny. “Dynamic imbalance. Nothing but suck.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“The country’s not behind the war. That’s like studying Juice without believing it.” He looked at me, hard.

“Whoa. That bad?” I asked. He nodded.

“Kai. This is an Asian war. What do you think?” asked Mike.

“We gotta be ready to stay for a long time. My father said that Vietnam fought the imperial Chinese armies for a thousand years. The Vietnamese never gave up. In the end, they won. The French lasted eighty years. If we want to win, we’re going to have to pick the winner, instead of trying to get the loser to win. And the winner is whoever most of the people want. You know, like in a democracy.” The bus hit a bump on the Palisades and all of us imitated pogo-stick commuters. “My dad’s army didn’t do that. Tried to win with logistics; didn’t work. We help Tito in Yugoslavia.” I took a deep breath. “Oughta pick Ho Chi Minh. The guy
hates
the Red Chinese.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” said Farren. “The South Vietnamese are real patriots.”

“But they don’t have the masses. They crapped on their own democratic movement.”

Mike rubbed his chin. “If Ho hates Peking, then you’re right.
Realpolitik.
”

“Who cares,” said Clint. “We’re gonna wipe their butts.” I nodded. It was true. For a moment, I felt sorry for the VC.

The bus was taking us to New York City today; later, a similar bus would take us to Saigon. There was a silence.

“Yo, I’ve been a good cadet. I want to get laid tonight,” said Farren. “Who’s got a tip for me to score the big one tonight?”

“Use someone else’s methods,” said Bob.

“Use someone else’s personality,” said Mike.

“Use somebody else’s
dick
,” said Arch.

“I’m going to take a chance with life,” I said.

“Oh, no,” said Mike. “You’re going to try to dance again.”

“Michael! It’s okay!” said “Astaire” Arch. “I’ve been giving him some AI. Giving him some of that original El Paso
el paso.
The man is beginning to look absolutely Latino.”

“Man oh man!” said Clint. “I’m so sick of that song they use. If I hear ‘My Girl’ one more time I’m gonna puke. You know that Kai and Arch play that for about three hours every damn night!”

We hesitated two counts. Then we all belted out, “I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day…,” while Clint cursed us energetically.

A clutch of brightly dressed girls watched us as we trooped through the grand lobby. “Look,” someone said, “West Point cadets!” I saw her, amidst all the girls, next to the black, nine-foot-tall, two-ton Waldorf-Astoria clock. Her eyes were large and alert in a very pretty face, a pretty figure in a blue chiffon gown. She looked like Lana Turner. The girls were called first; we followed them to the mezzanine for the reception line. They studied us over their bare shoulders. She looked in my direction, and I reversed field down the stairs and ran from the hotel. I sprinted back, joining the reception line breathless. The hall was immense, gaudy, and high ceilinged, filled with men in tuxedos and women in formals, dark-suited waiters with trays full of champagne flutes, and VIPs in red cummerbunds. An ensemble played classical music. I made sure my fly was zipped.

“Where’d you go? What’s that in your hand?” Bob asked.

“Señor Lorbus,” said the official line greeter, reading Bob’s name tag, shaking his hand, inclining his head very close to his, and stating with great courtliness,
“Tengo mucho gusto conocerle. Me llamo Carlos Iturbe, del …”
It is my pleasure to meet you. My name is Carlos Iturbe, of…

“It’s a corsage,” I whispered in Bob’s ear, still panting.

“Señor Corsage,” said Bob,
“el gusto es mio.”

After enduring the common surprise regarding a Chinese West Point cadet speaking Spanish, I sought the girl in light blue.

Clint and “Meatball” Rodgers were talking to her. They had never looked better: Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart talking
to Lana Turner, and now I disliked Clint’s good looks and Meatball’s gentle, self-effacing personality. They were laughing, and she was smiling, showing interest and surprise, quickly grasping a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, sipping it and looking at the coffered ceiling, the chandeliers, the crowd. She fit with Clint and Meatball. I edged in. She glanced at me and touched Clint’s arm and did not look at me again.

I left the room, scooping two glasses of champagne for myself, and sat on a soft green sofa on the mezzanine. I felt sorry for myself. I felt like the color of the sofa. I felt like smoking. I saw myself in the multifaceted mirrors of a tall column. I looked good in uniform, but still felt ugly. I was supposed to have a sweet face. I drank fast to numb my doubts and self-dislike.

Someone sat down next to me, someone light in weight. I blinked as two very large eyes in a lovely face framed by shoulder-length black hair gazed intently at me. She was so intent that I thought she was looking at someone behind me. I turned and looked to see who it was. We were alone, and she was Chinese.

She laughed, strong and naturally, without the strains of deliberate practice, the pulls of restraint which colored my laugh.

“You must be very thirsty and on your way to a prom,” she said, looking at the flutes and the corsage in my hands. Her voice had bells in it, and a full, round articulation that invited attention. The large, bright eyes dominated a smooth face complemented by a strong nose, a well-formed mouth, elegant eyebrows, and a pronounced jawline with prominent corners. She was tall and slender. The paleness of her face, throat, and arms was accented by a sleeveless black dress, a strand of pearls that looked anything but cheap, and disturbingly noticeable legs. Intelligence shimmered from her like summer heat waves. I was blinking at her and her signals, my addled brain struggling with the data, embarrassed by an involuntary reaction that made standing inappropriate. She was here because of me. I put down the glasses.

“How do you do?” I said. “My name is Kai Ting, and I am delighted to meet you. Please pardon me for not standing.”

“Cathy Pearl Yee,” she said, offering her hand, which I held, jittery with the realization that her fingers were so alive.

“I believe this is for you,” I said, offering the corsage.

She studied it carefully, as if it were something more complicated
than a flower. “I don’t know you,” she said. “Am I safe in accepting this?” Her voice was like a radio message. I would have listened to her if she were giving weather reports from Nome.

“Incredibly,” I said.

She took it and pinned it to her dress.

“What generation—?” she asked.

“What genera—?” I asked at the same time, and we laughed. Chinese begin by establishing birth order. “You first,” I said.

“I’m first generation, New York. Originally, the family’s from Singapore. Shipping business. I’m the firstborn,” she said in a way that was so familiar and so new.