The Lords of Discipline (71 page)

“Not if you don’t graduate, Will,” Tradd said. “You know how the game is played.”

“I’m out of the game, Tradd,” I answered. “I ain’t playing the game no more.”

“I’m going to kick the shit out of Cain Gilbreath, John Alexander, and that pimp Braselton before I go,” Mark grumbled, putting on his white gloves.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” I said.

“You boys are talking pure nonsense,” Tradd said. “Now get control of yourselves.”

“Straighten my webbing, Tradd?” I asked. “It’s all twisted in the back and I want to look sharp for my last parade.”

“The last parade,” Mark said. “I’ll buy you a drink afterwards, Will. Why don’t you and your parents come along, Tradd? We’ll go to Henry’s and get drunk.”

“We’re going down to Fort Benning to look for an apartment for me when I report in,” Tradd said. “And besides, I haven’t told Mother and Father any of these terrible things that have been happening to you. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. Mother was so upset about. . .”

He stopped before he said Pig’s name. “We’re leaving right after parade.”

“Have you told your mother, Will?” Mark asked.

“No,” I answered. “I want her to be happy for at least a couple of more days in her life. I kept thinking that this really wouldn’t happen, that they really wouldn’t go through with it. Denial is a wonderful thing sometimes.”

“I want to stop talking about it,” Tradd insisted.

“See what I mean about denial?” I said, going up and putting my arm around his shoulders. He was embarrassed by the gesture and pulled back shyly.

“I haven’t told my parents either,” Mark said, adjusting his shako. “Every relative I’ve got from North Philly to southern Italy is planning to come for graduation next week. It’s hard to get up the nerve to tell them there’s not going to be a graduation.”

“Room, attention!” Tradd suddenly shouted.

The Bear filled the doorway and he moved swiftly into the room, with angry eyes blazing. He let loose with a yell that caused all of us to jump.

“Out of here, Santoro. Move it, boy. Out of here, St. Croix. Move, move. Move. Stand fast, McLean. Get those shoulders back, mister, and stand tall like a cadet. Take those beady eyes off me. You want to buy this uniform, mister?”

“No, sir, I …” I began.

“Shut up,” he roared.

It had been a long time since I had heard the Bear in top form, using his spectacular voice like a weapon requisitioned from ordnance. Mark and Tradd sprinted out the door, their swords slapping against their thighs as they ran.

His face was flushed and agitated. Placing his thick loose lips against my earlobe he began racking me like I was a knob again.

“Mister, I thought I told you to report to me after inspection last Saturday. I thought I gave you a direct order to get your fat ass over to see me on the double. Do you think I like wasting my time tracking all over this campus looking for my wayward lambs, boy?”

“Sir,” I tried to say.

“Shut up. You’ll answer me when I want you to, boy. Now, speak,” he ordered.

“Sir, I . . .”

“Shut up,” he yelled, blowing cigar smoke into my face. “Now what do you have to say for yourself, boy? I want to hear your excuse.”

“Sir, my excuse is. . .”

“Shut up,” he yelled again. “I’m sick of playing your little games, McLean. I’m tired of it and you’re in serious trouble, lamb.”

“Sir.”

“Shut up,” screamed the Bear, shoving me against my desk. “Unless I’m mistaken, Mr. McLean, the Institute is still a military college and you’re still a cadet and you’re still subject to the rules of the Blue Book even though it looks like you’re not going to be subject to those rules in a couple of days, Bubba. The Bear wants to know what’s been going on over here in fourth battalion and why you’ve started to look at me like I was some kind of low-grade dogshit.”

“Because I think you’re some kind of low-grade dogshit, Colonel,” I said.

I thought he was going to knock me on the floor; in fact, I braced myself to be struck by the Commandant of Cadets. I didn’t know if the Bear was a powerful man physically but he had a craggy, massively roughhewn face that gave him the appearance of being a fighter of extraordinary gifts. At that moment, I both hated and feared the man.

But he said nothing and made no hostile advances toward me. Instead, his eyes softened and his voice sounded hurt as he turned away from me and said, “Why, Bubba? I don’t understand it.”

“It’s no good to act any longer, Colonel. It’s over.”

“You’re damn right it’s over, lamb,” he said, waving a memorandum in front of my eyes. “This is an order from the General, Will. He wants you to report to his office at 1300 on Monday. See the color of this paper, Bubba? That’s a code. Anytime the General sends me an order typed on blue paper that cadet is long gone. Long gone, Bubba, and there’s nothing that can bring him back. You go in at 1300. Santoro follows at 1330. Then I meet with you, process you, and drive you to the Gates of Legrand.”

“We’ll go peacefully, Colonel.”

“Why didn’t you come to me for help, Bubba? Why didn’t you come and tell me what was going on? I don’t understand it. I should have seen this coming but I was too busy with the other lambs. Two thousand cadets is too many for one man. If this was VMI, I’d only have twelve hundred lambs to watch after, and you boys couldn’t take a crap without the Bear being there to hand you toilet paper. But it’s hard to keep up with this big a flock.”

“You’re one of them, Colonel,” I said, wanting to spit in his face.

“One of whom, Bubba?”

“The Ten, Colonel. I’ve known for a long time now. So you don’t have to pretend any longer. I don’t even care anymore. I’m getting where I don’t even want to graduate from a school like this.”

“This is a great school, Bubba, so don’t talk about the school.”

“Yeh, it’s a fabulous school. I hear botulism’s a nice disease, too.”

“Who told you I was a member of The Ten?”

“Another member of The Ten.”

“Names, Bubba. The Bear deals in names.”

“I’m not going to give you any names. I’m not going to give you anything, Colonel.”

“He’s a goddam liar.”

“One of you is, that’s for sure.”

“Put a ‘sir’ at the end of your sentences, mister. You may be gone but you’re going out of here like a cadet.”

“Sir,”
I said mockingly.

“You found out that The Ten actually exists?” he asked, and I exploded.

“I don’t deserve to be played with,
sir,
” I screamed at him. “I’ve been played with enough in the past couple of weeks,
sir.
Your bastards have put me and Mark on fishhooks,
sir,
and let us dangle from the lines,
sir.
I’ve had enough,
sir.
Enough, do you hear me,
sir?
Do you hear me good,
sir?
Enough, goddammit. You set me up and I walked right into the trap. The liaison for Pearce. What bullshit! I got a roommate killed. My roommate’s dead because you called me to your office at the beginning of the year. It’s like I put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger,
sir.
That’s horrible to live with for the rest of your life,
sir.
”

“Don’t you see, Bubba,” he said, “don’t you understand I’m the only one who can help you and Santoro? And I’m not even sure I can help you now.”

“You can help me by leaving me alone,” I said.

He walked over to my desk. He removed his Institute ring and laid it in the center of the desk.

“Bubba, you take this ring. You know what it means to me. I’m giving you this ring as a pledge that I’m talking the truth. The ring is my word of honor. If you don’t believe me then throw my ring away. Come to my quarters when you’ve figured some of this out. There’s not much time. On Monday I’ll have to sign an order of dismissal for excess demerits. That’s twelve days before you graduate, Bubba.”

The last call for parade sounded through the barracks.

“Don’t be late to formation, Bubba,” he said, leaving the room. “I’d hate to have to write you up.”

Chapter Forty-four

I
did not have time to analyze the meaning of the Bear’s visit or the significance of the symbolic removing of his ring as proof of his word. The gesture had moved me powerfully and confused me deeply. But I was late to formation and R Company was leaving the barracks as I hit the quadrangle and I had to sprint to overtake them. I did not want to miss my last parade at the Institute.

I loved those Friday afternoon parades at the Institute. It was the one military ceremony that never failed to please me, to satisfy some instinctive human craving for ceremony within me. It was the Corps’s grandest hour, the coming together of the four battalions in a stunningly beautiful and ritualistic dance of two thousand across the parade ground.

When R Company strutted on the field that day, I felt closer to the Corps than I ever had, felt the old solidarity and oneness of the brotherhood as they marched in unison to the drums and bugles and bagpipes. The seniors of R Company had gathered around me in a protective phalanx, enveloped me in the heart of the company, bantered with me all the way out to the field, and, in the way of the . Corps, tried to make me forget for a time the events that had led to my imminent expulsion.

A vast crowd had gathered in the reviewing stand, and the richly variegated colors in their summer garments made the stand look like an enormous impressionist painting in the sunlight. American flags snapped in the wind on top of every building contiguous to the parade ground. The General, in a snow-white dress uniform, watched as the companies moved out to their positions, following the sharp flowing movements of seventeen guidon corporals. I would gladly have left R Company, walked over to where the General was standing, and beat out his dentures with the stock of my M-1, but the astonishing power of the group had seized me again, and I marched as one with the Corps, congruent with the multilimbed kinetics of the regiment, obedient to the cadence of drums as two thousand heels struck lowcountry dirt at the same time.

R Company moved into its position on the parade ground as smoothly as a ship gliding into its moorings. John Kinnell gave the command for the company to halt. I studied Jim Massengale’s ample shoulders. As I did, a mosquito the size of a thumbnail landed on the back of his neck. Mosquitoes and gnats were put on earth to test the fortitude of cadets at parade.

“B-52, six o’clock, Jim,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” Jim sore. “I got to kill the little cocksucker.”

“Hell, Jim,” Murray Seivers said, biting his chin strap, “you’re almost a Whole Man. Only a pussy would slap that poor little mosquito.”

“Little!” Jim protested. “He almost knocked me over when he landed. Oh, Jesus! He’s already sucked a gallon of my blood.”

“That’s a smart mosquito,” Murray whispered. “He picked the fattest blivet in the Corps.”

“You ever seen Jim’s dick?” Webb Stockton said, joining the secret colloquy among the seniors. “It’s fourteen pounds of baby fat. When he’s with a girl it doesn’t get hard, it sweats.”

“Hey, Santoro,” Eddie Sheer whispered to Mark at the front of the company, “the sun’s hot as hell. How about moving your nose an inch and darkening this side of the parade ground?”

“What’s the difference between an Italian and a nigger?” Jim whispered through the ranks.

“I don’t know, you fat fucking creep, but I better like the answer,” Mark said as we presented arms by order of the Battalion Commander.

“The spelling,” Jim said.

To the audience in the reviewing stand, the companies presented an image of absolute stillness, order, silence, and discipline. But all along the ranks the companies engaged in secret interior dialogues. Cadets at parade were masterful ventriloquists and adept at not getting caught unaware by the quiet approach of a tac officer from the rear. You developed an uncanny sixth sense about when it was safe to communicate and when it was not. Yet there were moments of absolute stillness among the ranks. When we presented arms for the national anthem, not a single word was spoken. When the General announced the names of alumni killed in Vietnam, there was not a single movement or sound in the ranks. Even in breaking the rules, an inviolable etiquette was at work. The Corps made its own rules and broke them all in the proper time. Many of the jokes at parade we had heard as freshmen from the senior privates. They were part of the legacy and tradition of R Company.

“Beaver shot. Ten o’clock. Yellow dress,” Jim whispered.

“That’s my mama,” Eddie Sheer gasped in mock surprise.

“No, it isn’t,” Murray said, “that’s my daddy. I told him never to come to parade dressed like that.”

“I thought that beaver looked funny,” Webb said.

“Beaver shot, twelve o’clock,” Jim said again. Jim’s whole sexual life was centered around carelessly seated women at parade.

“That woman’s standing up,” Webb complained.

“Use your imagination,” said Henry Peak.

“Hey, Tradd,” I said, my eyes scanning the crowd, “there’s your folks.”

“Where, Will?” he asked.

“Two o’clock.”

“Which one’s the mother?” Webb asked.

“Please leave my mother out of this grossness,” Tradd pleaded.

“She looks like a real lady, Tradd,” Jim said.

“Thank you for not being gross, James,” Tradd said, a little too quickly.

“Do you think she would like to sit in my face?” Jim asked.

When the Regimental Commander gave the loud resonant command to pass in review and the bagpipers led the band across the entire length of the field, I had a long moment of resigned sadness when I realized that I would miss all of this, would miss the uncomplicated camaraderie of boys, would miss being a part of something so alien yet so magical to me.

I followed the drums, submitted myself to them, as R Company moved out in a simultaneous step, the first lovely movement of our dance across the green. It was that submission to a larger will that I secretly loved about the Institute, the complete subjugation of the ego to the grand scheme and the utter majesty of moving in step with two thousand men. The drums sounded in my ear and in my brain, as I instinctively obeyed the rhythm of the Corps. “Discipline, discipline, discipline,” the drums said each time my foot struck the ground. We made the turn at the far end of the parade ground and began our exaggerated, formal strut past the eyes of tourists and alumni and generals.