The Lords of Discipline (44 page)

“What are the qualifications for membership, sir? Did anyone tell you anything about that? Even rumors?”

“Now you are talking like an historian, Mr. McLean,” he said, smacking his lips in approval. “There are various theories on selection. But if there is such an organization it has a governing board that oversees the election of ten members of the rising senior class. Some alumni told me they heard the inductees were enrolled at homecoming, others insisted on Corps Day. One poor idiot was sure it was a communist plot. A papist thought it was a plot to keep Catholics out of the Corps. I interviewed many sad men, Mr. McLean.”

“What is the responsibility of The Ten?” I asked. “What is their purpose for existence, if they do exist?”

“May I remind you, Mr. McLean, that The Ten does not issue a yearbook highlighting their activities.”

“I know, sir,” I said impatiently. “But you interviewed three hundred people. Didn’t somebody, at least one person, tell you something about the purpose of The Ten?”

“I did hear this,” he said, enjoying his role as the carrier of secrets, feeding my interest by throwing me one scrap at a time. “The Ten are selected to preserve the purity and integrity of the Corps of Cadets. They take an oath to uphold the traditions of the Institute at any and all costs. I was told that The Ten has a powerful lobby in the state legislature, that they are influential in contributing money to any political candidate deemed favorable to the Institutes interests, and that they watch individual members of the Corps carefully to make sure that no one graduates who is unworthy to wear the ring.”

“What are the qualifications for membership?”

“Rumor again, Mr. McLean. All rumor, all worthless. But it varied. Mostly the things you would expect. Outstanding leadership ability, high academic standing, loyalty to the Institute, and military aptitude.”

“Colonel,” I said solemnly, “I don’t see how they had the gall to pass me up.”

“I am sure that potential revolutionaries never fill up the ranks of The Ten. You have a better chance of joining the College of Cardinals, you Irish swine. But I was told of one qualification that struck me as rather odd, but odd in a way entirely consistent with the Institute.”

“What’s that, Colonel?”

“One rather bitter, limp-wristed grad who not only believed that The Ten existed but was still angry after thirty years that he had not been selected as a member insisted that one criterion for membership is physical strength. It is not an effete organization.”

“Then why didn’t they choose Muscles McLean?”

“There might have been some question about your loyalty to the Institute.”

“Ha!” I laughed. “I hope there was a great deal of question.”

“Hold your tongue, wastrel,” he demanded, beating his fist on the wooden desk and scattering his lecture notes about the room. “I will not allow trench-mouthed swine to tarnish the good name of the Institute. Many men before you have talked bitterly about the school when they were cadets only to become among its most ardent champions. Some have even contributed vast sums to the Institute.”

“I would contribute vast sums to the demolition team that would tear this campus down.”

“And what would you replace this campus with, Mr. McLean?” he retorted hotly. “What institution of equivalent value would you put in its place? The Institute has produced statesmen, warriors, ambassadors, and captains of industry. Its record of service to America is unsurpassed for a school of its size. What would be your substitute? What would you place over the ruins of this great institution that would render equal service to mankind?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Colonel,” I said, my smile betraying my foreknowledge of his reaction. “How about a diaper cleaning service?”

“You are a scoundrel and a disgrace even to your whimpering breed. Out of my office, scalawag, and keep a civil tongue about the Institute or I will throttle you myself to an inch of your life.”

“I’m not worried about you, Colonel,” I teased. “At least, not anymore.”

“Why, swine?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“You didn’t make The Ten.”

“That is true, Mr. McLean. But let me hasten to assure you that I could take all ten members from my feckless, small-boned class and hurl them forthwith into the outgoing tide of the Ashley River.”

“Sir, in your youth, and this might be a personal question, but were you . . . ah . . . were you, how shall I phrase it. . .”. I stammered.

“You mean to ask in your whining cowardly way, sir, whether or not in my youth I was the same fat swine who sits before you today. I am not a man to mince words, Mr. McLean, and if we are to speak as reasonable men together—thinking, intelligent men—then you must speak the words as they spring from your whimpering tongue.”

“Very well, sir,” I said. “Were you fat when you were a cadet? I would like to know.”

“Do you think I am fat now?” he inquired.

“I think, sir, that you are incredibly fat. Remember, sir, I am speaking freely as the words spring from my whimpering tongue.”

“Does my weight disgust you, Mr. McLean?”

“Yes, sir, it disgusts me beyond all powers of description.”

He rose suddenly and with surprising speed and grace made a lunge toward me across the desk. I stepped back toward the door, just barely avoiding his grasp. Breathing heavily and with a competitive glint in his eye, he growled, “If we had a fist fight this very moment, Mr. McLean, who do you think would emerge victorious?”

“I would, sir, because I would engage in a footrace before we began fighting. You would have a massive coronary after the fourth or fifth step, whereupon I would return and at my leisure strike you again and again in your left ventricle.”

Laughter spilled out of his prodigious frame like gravel being unloaded from a dump truck. He was one of those large, dour men whose laughter was surprising in its infectiousness.

“I should have known better than to engage the Irish swine in a battle of words. But I would like to remind you of one indisputable fact, Mr. McLean. If you study history long enough with the diligence and passion it requires, you will come to recognize that the truly great men in history have been men of girth. Greatness does not often come in puny, fashionably slim packages. A great mind cannot be served by anything other than a massive body. Mark my words well. Only a fool would dispute such an assertion.”

“I believe it, sir,” I said. “And I can only assume from that theory that you must be among the greatest men in history.”

“A perspicacious lad, Mr. McLean. A perspicacious swine, indeed. Not that I enjoy being overweight, mind you, and not that your insensitive jokes don’t hurt. I have suffered greatly because of my size, you can make no mistake about that. It has altered my perception of the world; it has even altered my perception of God.”

“How, sir?” I asked, puzzled.

“If there was a just and merciful God, Mr. McLean, then a dry martini would have a single calorie and a rye crisp would have four thousand. If there were truly a just and merciful God a banana split would have no calories and a bean sprout or a raw carrot would contain ten thousand calories. I have spent a great amount of time studying the cruelty of the universe.”

I made a gesture of departure by picking up my books from the floor. “Thanks for your help, Colonel,” I said. “By the way, if you were actually a member of The Ten, would you have told me what you just did about the organization?”

“I would not have told you a single word. I would have denied the existence of The Ten under torture. At least under the first phases of torture. I think it is a simple ass indeed who claims that he would not break down completely under the dominion of the torturer’s grim art. I know myself well enough to realize that I would eventually crack after enough fingernails were removed by pliers or enough electric shock was applied to my genitalia.”

“One last thing, sir,” I said. “If I had been writing the history of the Institute I would have included all that you picked up about The Ten. I would have presented it as a rather intriguing rumor even if I had no documentary proof.”

He looked hurt when I said this, deeply hurt, and he said soberly, “That is why you will never be an historian, Mr. McLean. I have greater documentation for the existence of Atlantis than I do for The Ten. History is not a higher form of astrology. I don’t know if a single thing I told you is true or not.”

“How do they decide who is worthy to wear the ring? That sounds strange, Colonel, especially since the plebe system takes care of that problem.”

“I neglected to tell you that part. This rumor came from a rather hypocritical liberal who graduated in the midfifties and is presently a bureaucrat in Washington. He claimed that The Ten, if there is such a thing, and again, he had no more proof than any of the others, had vowed that the Institute would never graduate a woman or any man who would bring discredit on the school because of gross mental or physical peculiarities, which is rather humorous in the light of recent history.”

“What’s that?”

“The Ten supposedly has vowed that the Institute will never graduate a Negro. There are times, Mr. McLean, when I hope with all my heart that The Ten does exist, and . . .”

“And, sir?”

“And that they are true to their ideals. Good day, sir.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

T
he next evening, I sat in the mess hall eating supper with the din of the Corps at rest about me. The seniors were displaying their rings to the other members of their mess, even allowing the freshmen to examine the bright, newly minted emblem that marked them as blood members of the tribe. I had visited the library that morning to check for messages from Pearce and had then visited the ring display in the Institute museum. Whenever an alumnus was killed in battle, it was traditional for his next of kin to return his ring to the museum for enshrinement upon black velvet in the macabre trophy case where these rings were proudly mounted. The alumni who had fallen at Bull Run, at Antietam, in the Argonne Forest, at Guadalcanal, at the Bulge, at Pork Chop Hill—all, all had willed that their rings be returned to the Institute. Looking into that case, it was difficult to realize that each ring represented the life of a man and also a death by fire. Each time I viewed the display, I was moved by the silence and the gravity of those squads of rings, so carefully and lovingly spaced. Like all other cadets who visited this room, I could not help but wonder if one day my own ring would take its place in those chill accumulations of gold.

I handed my ring down to the freshman, Beasley, who had braced and asked permission to see it. Pig refused to take his ring off to show anyone and vowed that he would never take it off. Beasley handled the ring as though I had gifted him with a small bone of a saint. He turned it over and over again; his fingers studied its contours, his eyes strained to read the Latin inscription in the South Carolina seal.

“It’s beautiful, sir,” he said.

“It’s expensive, dumbhead,” I answered.

“It’s worth it, sir. That’s why all of us are here.”

The speakers of the intercom crackled at that moment. Beasley reached for my cup and filled it with coffee. Pig was hunched over his plate, protecting his food with his massive round shoulders. But our ears tensed for the announcement. It was extremely rare that an announcement was made before the completion of a meal. The adjutant’s voice, clear and precise, filled the hall. The two thousand listened.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we have just received word that General Durrell’s son, Alfred, Class of 1964, has been killed by a land mine in the Que Noc Province of Vietnam. There will be a memorial service for Lieutenant Durrell at 1300 hours tomorrow in the chapel. All cadets are urged to attend.”

A silence fell on the mess hall, a long, embittered silence. The Corps did not move; the Corps did not speak.

Most of the seniors had known Al Durrell in some way It was impossible to be the son of the General and escape notice in the Corps. But Al Durrell was not the typical son of a General. He never took advantage of his father’s position while in the Corps. His plebe year was frightening to watch, I was told, because the cadre went to extraordinary lengths to prove there was no favoritism on their part, and he went to equally absurd lengths to prove he was no different from any other plebe. He took the worst they had to offer; he endured the most brutal excesses of the system. He kept his own counsel, in his solemn, patient acceptance of each outrage and humiliation, and won the respect of the Corps by never complaining to the Commandant’s Department, or worse, reporting the hazing to his father. It was said that he even won the respect of his father, but this point was disputed. The General had stated publicly that he believed Al’s ability to lead men was minimal. Al had inherited his father’s nose and height but not the genes of greatness. He became a second lieutenant in the Corps, an unspectacular rank, and was a fair student and a game but mediocre intramural athlete. He was admired for his humility, his self-deprecating humor, and a certain quality of gentle detachment rarely prized in the barracks. I was bothered by a single thought when I tried to resuscitate my images of Al Durrell: It was easy to imagine him dead. I could not even recall the sound of his voice.

But outrage bloomed in the poisonous, oceanic silence that followed the announcement. No one was eating. A dead boy stuck in our throats.

“He was a nice guy. That’s all he was. A nice guy,” someone said behind me.

For several stunned moments the transfixion was complete as we rekindled the memory of Al Durrell in our minds and revived his shy, unaspiring grace. We had to kill him off in our memories, let the shrapnel have him, let the severing and the dying take place in our heads.

Then we were lifted out of our chairs as if an indiscernible cadre had begun barking orders, and I found myself walking with the Corps, the entire Corps, moving without cadence and in silence, with an awesome, unspeakable purpose. Many had grabbed the lighted candles from the mess tables, and we moved by the candlelight toward the mansion where the General, an inhuman figure to most of us, a man we thought of as immune from the travesties of history, sat with his wife and the now eternal absence of a son who had died in Asia.