Honor and Duty (6 page)

“
Hausheng.
Honoring your duties, it will take years to build. You cannot recover your relational skills in that … 
place.
”

He cleared his face of the bitterness of these truths. “You know. There are no Chinese there. No Chinese food. No customs or rituals. No
dababa
, Chinese uncles. No one to speak to about matters of the mind, of duty, of honor.” He looked sadly into my face, studying me through his frameless spectacles. It meant I had provided another incorrect answer.

“I just want to go,” I said.

Silence. My fault. Say something. “Uncle,” I said, “I think West Point is like the Hanlin Kuan, the Hanlin Academy, of the
Wen-lin
, the forest of culture.” What he called the Forest of Pens.

The fabled green-and-orange-tiled Hanlin Academy had
stood for centuries before T’ien An Men Gate in the Forbidden City. Six years before my father’s birth, British troops burned and looted its storied courtyards and gazebos, its antiquities, and its irreplaceable national library archives, turning the northern sky black with the ruin of China’s ancient scholastic heritage.

He looked at me as if I had thrown reeking ox dung onto his white hotel-living-room rug. He shuddered, then gathered himself, much as I would after taking a wicked right cross in the chops.

“So,” he said, imposing sentence with one syllable. “This is the result of Chinese youth in a foreign land trying to think.” He hissed. “Ssss!
Hausheng
—foreign
ping
burned the Hanlin Academy! Foreign soldiers fabricated stories of Chinese Boxers killing foreigners—and used those lies to pillage and burn the Summer Palace and the Hanlin Kuan. The stink of it still shames all Chinese men.” He lowered his head, grieving for losses never to be salved. “That
you
would join their army!” He closed his eyes.

“What was Master K’ung Fu-tzu’s central message?” I welcomed his change of subject: what he called
wong ku tso yu ehr yen t’a
—talking to the left and right.

“ ‘Moderation in all things,’ ” I recited.

“
Hausheng.
Can a soldier”—he curled his lip, bristling his mustache—“be moderate? Can a soldier
moderately
attack his enemy and use
moderation
in cutting off the head of the enemy general, then
moderately
stake the bleeding skull onto a tall spear?”

“No,
Dababa
,” I said, recoiling from his words. “But you want me to exert with the Chinese stuff—without moderation.”

“Yes, use all muscles in your brain. This is duty—resulting in excellent thinking, which benefits society. But soldiers kill innocents and burn books. They stole China’s eleven-thousand-volume national encyclopedia after burning all the copies.”

“West Point would not teach its officers to do such a thing.”

“
Hausheng
, the American
ping
who attacked the Forbidden City were led by General Chaffee. He killed Indians and Filipinos before he killed Chinese. Your father knows.”

“Then he was wrong,” I said. “Not the school.”

He cleared his throat and repeated what had become a favorite aphorism of his—“Good iron is not used for nails”—followed quickly by
“Hau nan bu dang bin.”
That he had said
“Good boys do not become soldiers” in Chinese seemed to emphasize its truth.

“Tsong yong shi dao,”
he said evenly, drowning me in Chinese, punishing me with Confucian heavy artillery. Walk the middle path. In it there are no
ping
, no soldiers.

I was unhappy with this lecture and brought my shoulders up.

“Who was China’s greatest thinker and scholar? Clearly, the Master K’ung. Who was the greatest soldier in Chinese history?”

“Guan Yu,” I said, naming my barrel-chested, red-faced hero.

He shook his head, no.

“Tso Tsung-tang—who had fought the Taipings and the Muslims?” I tried. “Li Hung-chang?… Tseng Kuo-fan?”

“It was Chingis Khan,” he said, “who conquered Asia and Europe, from Turkey to Poland and Hungary, filled Russia with almond-eyed people, drank tea on the Mediterranean, in Moscow and Baghdad. All feared him. He was never defeated. He died in 1227 and his able grandson Kublai conquered China, where he settled. Do you know how the Mongol soldier defined pleasure?”

I shook my head.

“Listen to these erudite words: ‘Pleasure is crushing your enemies, taking their property, making their families weep bitter tears, riding their horses, and ravishing their women.’ You wish to train to be a
ping?
Be a Mongol—tied to a horse at three, given bow, lance, and sword at five! Join the army at fourteen and look forward to death in a short life of battle!”

He sensed that this did not sound as bad as he wished it to. “
Hausheng
, for a young person as yourself, with muscles coming out of your body as if you wanted to be a horse instead of a man, what I say about myself also applies to you. You are a Chinese youth, Able Student. You sound so foreign, and think so foreign, but you are Chinese. The
only
way of remaining intact and not going crazy without the clan to sustain us in this foreign land is to honor the teachings of your past with even greater fervor. Do you see?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. But I did not believe him. I was American, like my father. I was going to West Point, a place that took only true Americans, a status to which my birth certificate attested. I spoke English almost like my Caucasian true mother, had read hundreds of books in the English language,
and was in love with an American girl named Christine whose very brightness was an unmistakable message to my myopic eyes. Even if she rejected me, that pain was confirmation of my existence and made me similar to so many other American boys who also sought her heart. West Point represented American culture and artful escape. West Point—between a wide, sparkling azure river and hard-rocked, deep-green-forested mountains, with regiments of armed marching men in gray—appeared to be a sanctuary. It had food, sports, an all-male faculty, and uniforms that made everyone look alike. It was surrounded by fortified walls with cannons. It was three thousand miles from my mother, but it felt to me, somehow, that both she and my father had stowed away in the airplane and followed me there.

4

Beast Barracks, July 1, 1964

“TA-AAKE
SEATS!
” cried a voice from above. The vast, high-ceilinged, stone-castled dining hall seemed to have held its breath during grace. In an instant it roared with two hundred cadre and a thousand agitated former civilians screaming at each other.

We were at rectangular tables of ten. First Sergeant Stoner sat at the head, flanked by two squad leaders. Fourth New Cadet Company’s tables were under the high balcony whence the command to be seated had issued. Seven sweating, bracing, disoriented, thirsty and hungry new cadets occupied the other seats. We were in a sea of anxious, high-pitched, fear-fueled human static.

“I’m Mr. Armentrot,” said the man to the left of Mr. Stoner. “Mr. Arvin, King of Beasts, gave grace and the order to sit. You are Beasts; he is Commander, First Detail, New Cadet Barracks.

“Sit on the first six inches of the chair, one fist from the table, hands grounded on laps. Ground hands after each task. Pick up knife and fork, cut one small bite, ground silverware in parallel diagonals at rear of plate, ground hands. Pick up fork, select small morsel, place in mouth by a right angle to the spine, elbow up. Retrack fork to table, then to back of plate. Ground hands. Chew, swallow, silently, mouth shut, ears open, eyes down.

“Take small bites. Chew six times for adequate digestion by your dumbwillie GI tracts. Six times, six inches, one fist. Keep eyeballs on the Academy crest at twelve o’clock on your plate.

“Three at the bottom are gunner, cold beverage, and hot beverage corporals.” He explained how to pass platters. “GOT IT?”

“YES, SIR!” we screamed back. I longed for the cold beverage, but I would have guzzled mud and fought over milk of magnesia.

“Knob in the middle is gunner.” Guns at the table? “Gunner announces food. Look up.” We left the crest on our plates to look, stiff-necked and bracing, like a clutch of overfed turkeys invited to dine with Pilgrims bearing knives. Mr. Armentrot was bald, with shoulders that could be used for cots, cool in his crisp white uniform shirt. Mr. Stoner was the thick-necked first sergeant, tall and dark, with jet-black hair and deep creases where humans kept dimples. He looked as cruel as a heartless buccaneer. He was the one I had vexed in the orderly room by forgetting the words “as ordered.” My fearful heart dropped into my empty stomach; the other squad leader was the halitoxic Mr. O’Ware who had called me “shitface-Marsman” and had promised that he would remember me. He had the face of a ferret with four tight shoes on its paws.

Mr. Armentrot held his plate above his right epaulet with both hands. Next to him, the plate looked like a coffee cup saucer. “Say this is potatoes au gratin, delivered by the mess hall waiter. Gunner holds it away from mouth, head up, eyes on his plate crest, and announces in a manly voice: ‘SIR, THE VEGETABLE DISH FOR LUNCH TODAY IS POTATOES AU GRATIN. POTATOES AU GRATIN TO THE HEAD OF THE TABLE FOR INSPECTION, PLEASE, SIR!’ Gunner passes with his left hand to the hot beverage corporal, who receives it in his right. The rest of you sorry knobs will pass it up to Mr. Stoner, the table commandant, for his inspection. That’s the easy part.”

We strained to hear him above the roar in the hall, and he had a huge voice. My neck ached from the contortion of bracing. I spied a huge, colorful mural of war covering an entire wall, state flags, ancient, cathedral-like windows, and many old portraits of exceptionally stern-looking white men.

“Gunner prepares dessert.” Mr. Armentrot smiled. Inside, we smiled. He had reason to; we did not. “Gunner announces dessert and inquires who wishes dessert. You want, present right fist, forearm at a right angle to the vertical upper arm. Gunner counts and divides it into
exactly
equal, Strac portions. Should he fail to cut equal portions, all manner of misfortune will befall him unto the third generation of little dumbjohn crothead gunners. You share in the success and failures of your classmates, so you all get it in the neck if he ties up. You
will
work together, and cooperate. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!” he bellowed, and we cried “YES, SIR!” as our twisted bodies lurched with effort and fear, wondering what a “Strac” portion was. Was that bigger or smaller than equal?

Lunch was my best meal since it was the one I consistently ate away from my mother’s criticism. I was relieved to be in the middle of the table, without a job. I was not boss of beverages or desserts. It was a good omen. Waiters brought platters.

“SIR!” cried the gunner, in an Hispanic accent. “THE VEGIE-TABLE DISH FOR LUNCH TOday … is …” We all died a little as his voice trailed off, swallowed by uncertainty. Name the veggie! I urged silently. You were so close!

“IRP, MISTER!” “POP OFF!” “FUNCTION, CROTSPAZ!!”
cried our upperclassmen as they pounded their big fists on the table, so eager to assist the gunner that they screamed advice at the same time, causing my internal organs to shuffle positions as the flatware and condiments jumped.

“SIR,” cried the new cadet, “THE VEGIE-TABLE DISH FOR LUNCH TODAY IS … IS …
LEETLE CABBAGES!
LEETLE CABBAGES TO THE HEAD OF THE TABLE, FOR INSPECTION, PLEASE, SIR!”

“
THAT’S
WRONG!” screamed Mr. O’Ware. “WHERE THE FUCK DID
YOU
COME FROM—NEW GUINEA? HOW THE HELL DID YOU—”

“Frenchy,” advised Mr. Stoner quietly. “MISTER, THAT WAS
GROSS!
TRY IT AGAIN!”

“SIR,” the new cadet cried confidently. “THE VEGIE-TABLE FOR LUNCH TODAY IS
LEETLE GROSSES!
LEETLE GROSSES TO THE HEAD OF THE TABLE FOR INSPECTION, PLEASE, SIR!”

Ice water sprayed over the table as Messrs. Armentrot and Stoner roared, screamed, coughed, and guffawed.

“What’s your name and where you from, Mister?” asked Mr. Armentrot, wiping his eyes and wetly clearing his throat.

“SIR, MY NAME IS MR. VARGA. SIR, I AM A FOREIGN CADET FROM THE NATION OF ARGENTINA!”

“Varga,” said Mr. Stoner. “These shitty little things are not ‘leetle cabbages.’ They’re ‘brussels sprouts.’ This is the big, badassed sprout patch of the Western world. You’re the sprouts. Welcome to America and cram in your stupid little crot neck.”

The cold beverage corporal distributed milk and water; the upperclassmen fisted for the hot beverage corporal’s announcement of coffee. The food went up to the top of the table and came around for us. We passed and received correctly. It was a team drill, and we operated under a collective will of seven crots sweating to make it, to help each other, to do it right. One screwup would endanger us all. It was Chinese
pao-chia
, collective responsibility—all of us profit, or all of us lose.

I received cold cuts, brussels sprouts, and melon. Task by task, I built a modest sandwich, my plate crest free of food for my faithful gaze. Small bites, chew six times. I could do that.