Authors: Susan I. Spieth
As
you can see, I have a number of questions and concerns about whom and what you
represent.
I am not one to just
dive into something without knowing what I’m getting into.
I am cautious like that.
Also, Plebe English is the ONLY course I
like.
Regards,
Esmeralda
(thought I'd use a code name, too)
Jan and her classmates settled into
the routine of plebe life: delivering laundry and newspapers to the
upperclassmen at zero dark thirty each morning, rushing to and from classes,
athletics and formations, and memorizing the ever growing list of poop.
Plebes had to memorize The Code of
Conduct, General Orders, insignia for all non-commissioned and commissioned
officers of the US Army, the location and significance of every monument at
West Point, the colors of all service medals, the words to various songs
,
including
:
“The Star Spangled Banner,” “The Alma Mater,” “Benny Haven's, Oh!”
“The Corps,” and much other West Point or Army trivia.
Knowing the menu for each meal and
familiarity with any article in the New York Times was also expected.
Testing plebes on poop seemed to be
the single, most enjoyable task for upper-class cadets.
Any wrong answers usually resulted in
demerits.
Too many demerits led to
a cadet's worst nightmare—walking tours.
This punishment was a most effective
deterrent because it took away the only enjoyment at West Point—free
time.
Those with too many demerits
spent Saturdays in full uniform with an M-14 over their shoulder, walking back
and forth in Central Area.
Therefore, every plebe worked very hard at memorizing poop.
“SIR, THERE ARE TEN MINUTES UNTIL
DINNER FORMATION.
THE MENU FOR DINNER TONIGHT IS ROAST PORK, SWEET POTATOES, TURNIP
GREENS, APPLE CIDER, AND BLUEBERRY PIE.
THE UNIFORM FOR DINNER
IS DRESS GREY OVER GREY.
TEN
MINUTES, SIR!”
Jan stood directly
below the wall clock in the hallway and performed her duty as minute
caller.
It was more like
“minute screaming” she thought as she returned to her room to wait five
minutes.
All other plebes had
already left the building to be at formation by the ten-minute bell, giving the
upperclassmen plenty of time to haze them.
She returned to the hallway
clock.
“SIR, THERE ARE FIVE MINUTES
UNTIL DINNER FORMATION.
THE MENU FOR DINNER TONIGHT IS ROAST PORK, SWEET POTATOES, TURNIP
GREENS, APPLE CIDER, AND BLUEBERRY PIE.
THE UNIFORM FOR DINNER
IS DRESS GREY OVER GREY.
FIVE MINUTES, SIR!”
She
stayed standing at attention under the clock waiting to call the four, three
and two minute bells.
Cadet
Dogety
stuck his head outside his door, “
Wishart
, tell me
the Code of Conduct.”
When she
hesitated, he barked,
“I’m waiting
Wishart
!”
“Sir, I am an American fighting
man.
I serve in the
forces which
guard my country and our way of life.
I…I am prepared to give my life in their
defense.
I will… I will never
surrender of my own free will.
If
in command, I will… never surrender… my men while they still have the means to
resist.
If I escape...I will…I
mean, if I am captured...I will… escape...I mean,”
“Which is it,
Wishart
?”
“Sir, may I make a statement.”
“What?”
“Sir, I do not know the third
statement of the Code of Conduct yet!”
“Well, you better know it by
breakfast,
Wishart
.”
“Yes, Sir!”
She would know it cold by then.
Jan found her table and stood at
attention behind the end chair.
From the Poop Deck, the two story stone structure that stood in the
middle of the Mess Hall, a booming voice announced, “TAKE SEATS!”
She sat at the end chair next to Cadet
Davidson and began filling glasses with ice.
“Sir, the dessert for tonight’s meal
is blueberry pie.
Would anyone not
care for blueberry pie, Sir?”
Rick
Davidson announced from the dessert corporal’s chair.
The drink corporal on her other side
made a similar announcement.
“Sir,
the drink for tonight’s meal is apple cider.
Would anyone not care for apple cider,
Sir?”
Jan held the glasses while her
classmate poured the cider.
Davidson proceeded to cut the dessert.
Crust usually made it impossible to cut
straight lines in a pie.
He also
managed to spread blueberry goop everywhere with each cut.
This
is not good.
Davidson smirked at Jan before
announcing, “Sir, the dessert has been cut and is ready for your inspection,
Sir!”
Handing the pie to the left,
it made its way from cadet to cadet, all the way to the table Commander,
Dogety
.
On its way up the table, Jan heard comments from the yearlings and cows:
“uh-oh,” “oh-no,” and “geez.”
When it reached
Dogety
,
he winced and shouted, “You blundering idiot, Davidson!
You totally screwed this pie!”
“Yes Sir!”
Davidson answered with a grin.
“This is disgusting!
All of you give me a 4-C!”
Dogety
ordered.
Each plebe at the table
passed a small, green paper, the Fourth Class Demerit Report, up the table.
Dogety
would
fill it out later, stating that the plebes at Table 112 were “grossly
negligent” or something to that effect.
After receiving the three slips of
paper,
Dogety
passed the pie back down the other side
of the table so that everyone on that side could make their own disparaging
remark.
One of the cows, a junior
year cadet, became enraged.
“This
pie is gross!
No one wants to eat
it now!”
He threw the pie, like a
Frisbee, to the plebe end of the table.
He probably intended it to land on a
plate or somewhere on the table, but the pie hit a serving dish, took a bounce,
and landed face down in Jan's lap.
In a flash, blueberry goop covered the front of her Dress Gray.
Her wool trousers began soaking up pie
filling.
Everything kicked into slow motion.
Jan stood up slowly, exposing the
damaged uniform for everyone to see.
She stared straight ahead at
Dogety
, expecting
him to shout at her for the mess.
Then she looked at Davidson, expecting his usual smirk.
Yet both men appeared stunned.
No one spoke; the entire table stared at
Jan in silence.
She felt the
familiar lump rising in her throat and the tears that were close behind, but
she would never cry in front of them.
Without permission and forgetting her hat stowed under her seat, she
executed a right face and marched out of the Mess Hall.
As she crossed Central Area, someone
yelled out a fourth floor window, “Hey,
Beanhead
!
Where’s your headgear?”
Jan kept going, knowing that cadet could
neither see nor catch her from the fourth floor.
She pinged back to her room, tears
threatening from the corners of her eyes.
Once inside, the dam burst forth,
unrestrained and unrelenting.
She
unzipped her gray coat, placed it in the sink and began rinsing off the
blueberry goop.
Her weeping mixed
with the tap water as she spoke out loud.
“What the fuck am I doing here?
This is insane.
I hate this
place!
I hate these assholes!
I hate, hate,
HATE
everything about this hell hole!”
She scrubbed the blueberry spots with
soap until they looked black, not exactly the best way to clean wool.
She hung the Dress Gray coat in her
closet, stripped off her wool trousers and began to work on them in the same
way.
These pants had to be salvaged
at all costs.
With only one other
pair, she would be forced to wear the wool skirt when her trousers went out for
cleaning.
Jan loathed the
skirt.
The skirt screamed:
“I AM FEMALE!”
No sane, female cadet wanted that much
attention.
Her classmates could not
help either because they needed both pairs of pants, too.
She turned off the water.
Her trousers were almost entirely
soaked.
The blueberry goop was gone,
but Jan wondered if they would ever fit the same.
Just as she hung them up to dry on the
closet door, an upperclassman pounded two loud knocks on the door.
“Shit,” she mumbled.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Tired of playing this silly game, sick
of all the bullshit, she almost yelled, “GO THE FUCK AWAY, SIR!”
Instead, she took a deep breath and
jumped into her PT shorts.
“Enter,
Sir.”
One of only two female cows in
Company H-3 stood at the door.
“I
heard about the blueberry pie,” Cadet
Rallins
said.
“I'm so sorry that
happened.
It should not have.
There's nothing that can be done about
it now.”
Jan stared blankly.
So what's your point, woman?
“I thought you might be able to use
this.”
She held up a clothes iron
that Jan had not noticed.
“It might
help smooth out any wrinkles.”
Jan was so moved by this small
gesture she almost started crying all over again.
Instead, she cleared her throat.
“Thank you, Ma'am.”
She took the iron from Cadet
Rallins
.
“If there's anything else you need,
please let me know.
These guys can
be assholes sometimes, but most of them really don't mean to hurt anyone.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
P
lease go away before I start crying again.
“I talked to the guy who threw the
pie.
He feels terrible.
But he probably won't apologize.
So I’m here to apologize for him.”
Shit,
did you have to say
that?
Jan eyes welled up
again.
Just go away, please!
“Of course, some guys really are
assholes.”
Enough
already!
“And it's best to just steer clear of
them if you can.”
“Yes, Ma'am,” Jan concurred.
Now please go.
Her prayer was finally answered and Cadet
Rallins
walked away.
Company H-3’s highest-ranking women
were two cows.
Thankfully, the term
“cow” started many years before women were admitted to West Point.
Jan wondered how this stunningly
beautiful woman survived so long at the academy.
Cadet
Rallins
seemed to generate controversy every year.
She entered a beauty pageant during leave after her plebe year which
some considered tasteless.
As a
yearling (sophomore), she dated the Superintendent’s son while he was still a
plebe.
That infraction made her the
first “Century Woman”—with one hundred hours of walking tours.
Rallins
seemed
almost mythical to Jan who rarely saw her in person.
By handing the iron to Jan, Cadet
Rallins
broke a seemingly, unwritten rule among
upperclass
women—the “No Helping Plebes” rule.
The women in the classes of 1982,
1983 and 1984, probably like the women in the classes before them, seemed to
take a hands-off approach to female plebes.
It was a mystery to Jan why these
trailblazers didn’t do more to help the fourth-class women.
They could have offered advice or shared
wisdom—perhaps only in the latrines away from male ears and
eyes—but they seemed content to let plebe women fend for themselves.
Maybe
they’re just trying to survive too,
Jan thought that night.
Well, I can forgive them for that.