Honor and Duty (51 page)

“They have access to the Frigault?” asked Sonny.

“Roger,” said Mike. “All profs have to secure writs in the exam safe before and after grading.”

“If I wanted to get into that safe,” said Sonny, “I’d trick a
Monument. Use a ruse. Guy wouldn’t know the culture or the system. Like, who’s gonna suspect cheating at West Point?”

“I’ll follow up on the Monuments,” said Mike.

“I talked to Colonel Smits,” I said.

“Why him?” asked Mike. “You didn’t drink with him, did you?”

“He’s Class of ’52, played football. He knew a lot about the cheating in ’51. If I drank, he gave me the poop.”

“What an asshole,” said Mike.

“I’ve known meaner drunks. Here’s what I remember. The ’51 cheating operation wasn’t complicated—no thefts of writs from safes or burglaries. It was cross-regimental—copying or spec’ing whufers by First Regiment guys on crib notes, who passed them to the Second Regiment guys, who took the writs one day later. The next semester, when the schedules reversed, they switched roles. It started with the tutors to the football team in Juice. Football became as important as Honor.”

Mike and Sonny looked at each other. “If they got enough guys,” said Mike, “they could pool their poop by committee. They wouldn’t need a hive to figure the answers.”

“Still need Big Dick, the planner,” said Sonny. “Staggered classes.” He shook his head. “Never think a the other regiments till brigade finals. There’s a whole world in East Barracks and the Lost Fifties. And the football team—”

“Would cross the regimental barrier,” said Mike. “The Team’s divided up through all the companies. It’s not the Team, is it?”

“These are my sectionmates who had canned writ answers,” I said. “None on the Team.” I couldn’t say their names. I wrote:

“Damn!” said Sonny. He had tutored all of them. “Sorry.” He exhaled loudly, running fingers through his hair.

“Sonny,” said Mike, “you take Jeff T., since he’s in your company. Galen’s company is next door to mine, so I’ll take him. Farren’s next to yours,” he said to me. “We have to follow them.”

“Why’d they do this?” asked Sonny. “It’s not logical.”

“They want to graduate,” I said.

“Let’s hope that trailin’ ’em leads to Big Dick,” said Sonny. He looked at me. “Why’d Kai get the writ copy?”

Mike jittered his right knee. Sonny peered at the ceiling. I adjusted my underwear.

“That’ll help you think,” said Sonny.

“Free promotion of the ring,” said Mike, his knee still. “Pass out free copies of the stolen writ to goats who need help. Do it covertly, in the night—no tracing back to sources. Give hints that the source was the tutor. They take the writ, they’re in.”

“So why didn’t other goats get the writ?” I asked.

“We don’t know that they didn’t,” said Mike.

“Guess we can’t worry about that,” I said. “We gotta find guys in First and Third who study with guys from Second and Fourth.”

“What do you mean ‘we,’ white man?” asked Sonny. “You’re the stud communicator, the Hudson High-Woo Poo schmoozer who raps all over campus. That’s why Maher picked you.”

“You got the bad detail, Kai,” said Mike. “You’re point man.” He slapped me on the leg. “You know we’re in this together. You just get to do it alone.”

Nine small orange figurines marched down the roofline of the Hanlin Academy at the gates of the Forbidden City. At the rear, driving the column, is a fierce and rotund dragon. In the lead is Prince Min, the irresponsibly corrupt Han official whose punishment for greed was permanent point man in the walk of life. These nine little figurines served as lightning rods, waiting for storms, to take the blow from heaven for the sake of the noble red roof. Min rode a ridiculous chicken and led the procession for hell, waiting for an ugly fate. I knew how he felt. I was on the chessboard, trying to fork an invisible enemy in the perfection of the Academy, while storm clouds gathered above my head.

“Sonny, what about the keys?” asked Mike.

“Woo Poo’s keys are cut by maintenance and held by the PM, the provost marshal. He’s got key control and keys for Bartlett and faculty offices are Top A Restricted, no copies authorized. That’s been SOP since 1951.

“Faculty offices have individualized keys, not keyed to department. So Maher, the department head, and the PM are the only ones with a key to his office.

“I know Cutler, the department head,” said Sonny. “He’s a
detail guy. Doesn’t lose his keys. Doesn’t lend or borrow keys.”

“Ben Franklin would like him,” I said.

“Everyone got very careful with keys after the scandal,” said Mike. “It wrecked a lot more than football.”

“What happened in the ’51 Navy game?” asked Sonny.

“We crashed and burned, forty-two to seven,” I said.

Mike whistled. “Talk about demoralized.”

“How many were found in ’51?” asked Sonny. I told him.

“Ninety guys.” Again, he ran his hand through his hair. “Kai, you mentioned the BPs. Maybe they opened Bartlett for the ring. We got fifty BPs on Post, each with keys to barracks or buildings. The obvious guy is the one who cleans Bartlett. I’ll check him out, but I want you guys to take fifteen BPs each; I’ll take twenty. We need standard questions, so we don’t screw ourselves by pulling random data out of the sample.” He scribbled, we corrected, and agreed on a final product.

On the way back to barracks, we stopped in the sally port to check Sonny and my make-up grades on our special Juice WFR. My heart pounded as I tried not to think of the consequences of not getting my needed 43 tenths to pass the course.

A gross Plebe, barely holding a smart Academy brace, was looking at the print-out and writing in a notepad. He heard our shoes scrunching and quickly left the tunnel. I saw the results:

Sonny and Mike hit me on my back. Then they dumped me in the snow and hit me with snowballs while we all laughed. I was flattered by their affection for me. Five times I had entered the sally port and learned that I was still a member of the Corps. There was only one tough semester left at West Point: the one that had just begun.

“I
hate
sweating these whufers with you!” shouted Sonny.

“Try it from my shide,” I said, snow in my mouth.

I met one by one with each of my lowerclass squad members on the frigid, icy roof of the Cadet Hilton. We had total privacy.

“I am part of an Honor investigation. I need your help. I want the names of Cows who cross the even-odd regiment line
to study, i.e., Cows from First or Third who study with Second or Fourth. I want the names of Cows who seem cool on Honor. Talk it over with everyone you trust. But you are not to reveal the purpose of your inquiries with anyone. If you sense physical clanger, disengage immediately and retrograde back to me. What are your questions?”

“Good mornin’, Kai,” said Elmer Scoggin as he hauled trash.

“Top of the morning,” I said. “Elmer, can I talk to you?”

“Be with you in a sec. Need some window cleaner?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing like that.” I turned on the heating coil to offer Elmer some java.

It was a bright and freezing day, with grand piles of thick white snow collecting in the Area, perfect for a snow war between the Cows and the Yearlings that would evolve into an epic wrestling match. Then Deke and Bob could start throwing Yearlings from the pile like garments from a fire sale. The generators were chugging, and great clouds of steam rose from the tunnels and grates of West Point into the dark and overcast sky over the Hudson. There were ghosts in the steam tunnels, lost souls of former cadets, the Immortals who could never leave West Point, imprisoned below the iron grates, trying to complete the years they had never finished at the Academy. The steam defied the cold that had frozen Washington’s army at Valley Forge.

“Just sugar,” Elmer said. I pulled out a sugar packet from my pocket and poured it in, stirring with a straw which I dried and replaced in the raincoat pocket. Elmer sat in my chair, far more composed and relaxed than I when Major Maher had asked for my help.

Elmer was old, in his late forties. Years ago, something very hot had hit him on the side of his face, cooking the skin around his right temple. He was tall, with a small gut, big ears, big hands, and overlarge, gunboat feet offset by an aristocratic head of silver hair. He wore the BP uniform of greenish gray work clothes and clean, soft old boots. He wore a matching baseball cap, which now rested on his knee. He looked at me kindly, as he had on my first day at West Point. Elmer liked to stand on the steps of the gym on R-Day and watch the entry of the lambs.

“Elmer, if you wanted the key to Bartlett and a key to a prof’s office inside Bartlett, could you get them?”

He nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“How?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “See Sam Marse, Bartlett BP, ask for his keys.” His voice had gruff scratches in it.

“Would he ask why?”

“No, sir. Bartlett’s got old linoleum that take wax and buff-spinners. Now, Adam Haskitt, he does northeast Central and Grant. Grant has wood floors. Haskitt swaps towels for Marse’s brushes.

“In the ole days, used ta trade, but it took two of us ta come on after hours for the swaps. Now we got us an Honor System. Haskitt, or Gene Reddy, who has them old floors in the Lost Fifties, they get Marse’s keys and stack solvent or paper towels in Bartlett an’ take floor wax and buff brushes. Sometimes they leave a six-pack for consideration.” He quietly studied me.

“If I asked for the Bartlett keys, would you give them to me?”

He frowned and put the coffee down, the large, work-stained fingers of his right hand fretting against each other, drumming a tattoo on his leg. He rubbed his scar and leaned in. “Why?”

“What if I left my slide rule in the lab and my notebooks in my P’s office, and I needed them?”

Elmer Scoggins squinted, his tongue running around inside his mouth. “I’d give you the keys. You askin’ for the keys, Kai?”

“Negative,” I said. “Would other BPs give keys to cadets?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “Not bad,” he said. “Used to drink java from a helmet like this working for Gen’ral Patton.

“Years back, after we come up from Bliss ta be the cleaners for West Point, some cadets tried gettin’ Bartlett keys by askin’ the youngest punk in the cleanin’ detail.” He shook his head. “He wanted ta give them cadets the keys. It stank. I said no.”

“When did this happen?”

He thought for a moment. “Nineteen fifty.”

He canted his head to one side and studied me. He coughed drily. “I figure we got a problem. We got a problem?”

“Yes, sir, we do. I’m going to ask a real big favor. Could you ask the other senior BPs if they’ve lent keys to cadets? Particularly, keys to Bartlett. One of my classmates is going to be talking to Mr. Marse, but I wanted to talk to you, too. I want the names of the cadets who got the keys, Elmer. More than I want to know the names of the BPs.”

“That’s askin’ a lot,” he said. “It’s a queer question.”

“I’m not asking for me. It’s for West Point.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s cheatin’ again, ain’t it?”

I nodded. “Bad cheating, with stealing and organization. They’ve gotten into Bartlett, a faculty office, and a prof’s safe.” My brows ached; I had been frowning for a long time. “Whatever you do, please do not talk about this,” I said.

He clucked his tongue, scolding me. “Boy, I bin here longer than you bin in pants! I bin takin’ care a West Point ’fore you was outa diapers an’ pins. You’re a squirt, bouncin’ to get grown. You say we got some burglars at the Point, stealin’ stuff from the professors an’ doin’ cheatin’—hey, Elmer Scoggin knows what to do!

“Still in the Army, mister. Mustered me in ’46—but I’ll always be a tanker. So let me ask
you
—you in the chain a command, or you makin’ like a comic-book hero with a red cape?”

“I’m in the chain. What rank were you?” I asked.

“I was a firs’ loo-tenant. Battlefield commission, Falaise Gap, summer, 1944. And this make me feel like I’m back in ranks.”

“Well, sir, for the first time, I feel like we’re going to get out of the woods. I surely appreciate it.”

“Not at all, Corporal,” he said.

“Lieutenant, you remember a football player in the Class of ’52 named Franz Smits?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m an old man with an old man’s memory,” he said. “You know how it is. Cadets jus’ see an ole black janitor. You’re mighty different, but, I’m sorry ta say—when you come back here as an old grad, on your twenty-fifth class reunion, in—,” and he counted on his fingers, mumbling—“1993, and I’m still alive—and if you make it through the wars an’ all, I won’t ’member yo’ name.”

“I’ll remember you, Elmer Scoggin,” I said.

He smiled. “If I save West Point, you might at that.
Nice
havin’ your coffee. Forgive me if I don’t finish it.”

I put my hand out and we shook. Paragraph l.b., Friendly Forces, had just been augmented.

The gym, hoops, and hockey teams were away, and the Saturday-night flick was a West German western. Please, Farren, I hoped: go to the library and consult with Big Dick. Show yourselves.

I followed Farren back to barracks after supper. I watched the Area from my room while Para-Rat chewed gently on my
fingers. There was Farren, walking alone in the snow, and I threw on scarf, short overcoat, and gloves and caught up with him in Central Area. He was headed for the gym without gear, so it was the flick. I sat behind him, hidden in a pack of First Regiment Plebes, nervous with my presence.

We were mesmerized by the foulness of the film. Two hundred head-dressed, face-painted Cherokee chiefs shot plastic arrows at a hundred Aryan, gum-chewing, German-drawling, dual-pistoled, white-hatted pilgrims in Roy Rogers shirts. The eventual massacre of the Cherokees to a Wagnerian soundtrack stopped even my appetite.

West Point was peacefully still and preindustrially dark when Farren left the gym and headed for the river. I had to stay well back as the cadet crowds thinned. Few cadets were genuine loners; tonight, Farren and I qualified, and it made us stand out. He looked at his watch; it was 2250 hours.