Authors: Susan I. Spieth
After being sent to what seemed like
a hundred lines, she was sorted into another line of ten new cadets called a
squad.
The first red sash man
explained that he would be their new Squad Leader—their father and
mother, their priest and pastor, their judge, jury and parole officer—
for
the
next
seven weeks.
Cadet
Dogety
marched them around a huge paved area shouting, “Your
left, right, left! Your left, right, left!”
Because new cadets made many mistakes, he
was constantly yelling, “Your other left, New Cadet!” or
“What part of RIGHT do you not
understand, New Cadet?” or
“This
isn’t marching band practice, New Cadet!”
Jan kept her eyes straight ahead,
thankful she had more coordination than others.
Just
keep in step and don’t draw attention.
When
Dogety
was satisfied they had mastered the basics of marching, he led them to a
barber shop
beneath the huge Mess Hall.
He lined them up against the wall facing
twelve barbers, three rows of four chairs.
Each barber held an electric hair clipper; each chair held a new
cadet.
Jan planned ahead for this, coming to
West Point with a fashionably short “Dorothy Hamill,” a bob style haircut which
had set her back about twelve bucks.
She didn’t need another haircut.
“Sir, may I make a statement?”
She shouted up to
Dogety
at the front of the
squad line.
Dogety
turned and faced the whole squad. “What is it,
Wishart
?”
“Sir, I already had a haircut before
arriving.”
She knew she screwed up
the moment it left her mouth.
“Is that so,
Wishart
?”
Dogety
said as
he fumed down the squad line to where Jan stood, third from the end.
“So you don’t think you need to get a
haircut like everyone else.
Is that
it?”
She froze.
“I asked you a question,
Wishart
!”
“Sir, I just thought…”
“YOU DON’T GET PAID TO THINK,
WISHART!”
He stood in front of her,
inside her personal space.
“Do you
think you’re special,
Wishart
,
that
you should get to skip a
haircut
cuz
you’re female.
Is that what you think?”
“No, Sir.”
She cussed herself for being so stupid.
“
Wishart
,
no one gets a pass in my squad.
What would the rest of the squad think of you if you get out of doing
what they have to do?
Huh?
What would they think about me if I let
you get out of doing what they have to do?”
She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“So get this in your little brain
right now
Wishart
—YOU DO WHAT EVERYONE
DOES.
GOT IT?”
“YES, SIR!”
Dogety
lunged back to the front of the squad.
Jan’s eyes stung as she swallowed back the rock that had risen in her
throat.
Dogety
motioned each squad mate to a barber chair as soon as one vacated.
Jan sat down just as another female new
cadet with hair to her elbows sat in the chair directly behind her.
They could see each other in the
mirrors.
The middle-aged barbers
secured capes around their necks. Then, with shaking hands, both men picked up the
electric hair clippers.
Jan gave
her classmate a slight smile as their faces met in the mirror.
The other woman shrugged as if saying,
“Easy come, easy go!”
Jan’s barber combed her feathered
hair straight down all the way around her head.
Then he proceeded to dot the electric
clippers, full circle, starting with her bangs.
Jan closed her eyes in hopes that he
might not ruin the feathering for which she had already paid.
But when she opened them again, her hair
was cut in a bowl shape above her ears.
I am a boy.
The woman in the mirror had the very
same haircut.
Only it seemed much
worse.
The barbers didn’t try to style their
hair; they just pulled the plastic sheets off both women and said
simultaneously, “NEXT!”
Jan stood
up and read the other woman’s nametag.
McCarron.
Didn’t
seem to bother her one bit.
After the barbershop, Jan’s squad
marched up the stairs, then up another set of stairs to the Mess Hall.
She would have liked to take in this
majestic space, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself.
Dogety
led
them to a table with ten chairs.
He
stood behind the head chair while the new cadets fell in behind every remaining
chair.
He instructed them to pull
out their chairs, move to the right and sit down, after the order “Take Seats”
was given.
He showed them how they
were to sit in the chairs—with straight backs one fist distance away from
the table and the back of the chair.
Then, they learned a new way of slow motion eating.
Beginning with both hands on their
lap, eyes straight ahead, they could use their fork to lift one morsel of food,
about the size of a raisin, to their mouths.
Only after placing the utensil back down
on the plate and returning the hand back on the lap, could they begin to chew,
slowly.
After completely swallowing
that bite, they could repeat the process.
Jan jumped when she heard a familiar
voice shouting from the next table.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, New Cadet?"
It was the fourth floor man in the red
sash, Cadet Jackson.
Jan froze again, forgetting for a
moment that she wasn’t the one in trouble this time.
“I'm talking to you, New Cadet!”
He bellowed again.
"Uh, eating, Sir."
The male voice sounded scared.
"IS THAT ONE
OF YOUR FIVE RESPONSES?”
"No, Sir."
"Then I'll ask again: what the
hell are you doing?"
He asked
more calmly this time.
The new
cadet didn’t answer.
“Well, New
Cadet, I’m waiting?”
“Sir, may I ask a question?”
“No, you may not.
Answer MY question, New Cadet?”
“No excuse, Sir.”
"Damn right no excuse.
That was the biggest piece of chicken
I've ever seen on one fork.
You
some kind of pig, New Cadet?"
"No, Sir."
"You just sit there and think
about that huge bite you just took.
Think about how gross that looks."
“Yes, Sir.”
Jan used her peripheral vision to see
her squad mates taking their own unauthorized big bites.
Cadet
Dogety
didn’t seem to look up very much.
He concentrated on his own plate.
Finally, the great hour of R-Day
came.
All new cadets changed into
white shirts, gray trousers and black shoes without hats.
Apparently, new cadets could not be
trusted to keep hats on their heads.
They lined up in squads, in platoons and in companies, and marched
onto
“The Plain” in front of all
those spectators—family, friends and alumni.
The first day hadn’t even ended and
Jan’s calves, biceps and neck were throbbing.
Throwing up was not out of the realm of
possibility.
Yet, she also felt pride to be in
this elite group, on this honorable field, with so many adoring
spectators.
In just a few hours,
they had transformed from mere civilians into disciplined soldiers.
They were the future leaders of the
United States Army and on that glorious, sunny afternoon, the West Point Class
of 1985 became part of the Long Gray Line.
Together with her classmates, she
raised her right hand and took the West Point oath:
“I, Jan
Wishart
,
do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States,
and bear true allegiance to the National Government; that I will maintain and
defend the sovereignty of the United States, paramount to any and all allegiance,
sovereignty, or fealty that I may owe to any State or country whatsoever; and
that I will at all times obey the legal orders of my superior officers, and the
Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
She wondered what “fealty” meant but
figured there wouldn’t ever be a good time to ask.
Then all 1528 new cadets, along with the
“cadre,” which Jan decided meant “old cadets,” passed in review and presented
arms.
In that glorious exhibition of
tradition, as Jan’s platoon rounded the corner, a male voice shouted from
somewhere in the crowd, “Go home, Bitch.”
3
Thursday,
May 6, 1982
1700
hours
“What happened after Cadet
Wishart’s
third
time to your room?” Conrad asked Jackson.
Here
it comes.
Jan dreaded this
part.
She hoped he would say
something that seemed out of place, anything that would raise a red flag in
their minds.
But Jackson’s as cool as a carrot.
“Cadet
Wishart
came back to my room while I
had stepped out for a minute to use the latrine.
When I came back, I saw the routing
envelope leaning against my door.
I
opened it and found the note that you have in the honor investigation
file.”
Jackson motioned to the
thick manila folder in front of Conrad.
The Honor Board chairman opened the thick file of papers, pulled out a
clump attached with a paperclip, and distributed one to each cadet.
Major Hastings, Jan’s JAG counsel, also
opened a binder and handed Jan a copy of the same paper: Exhibit A.
“Is this what you found in the routing envelope at that time?”
Conrad asked Jackson while holding up
the piece of paper.
“Yes, it is,
”
Jackson
said.
Jan looked at the copy in front of her, the same one in front of the
jury of her peers.
The plain sheet
of paper, eight and a half by eleven inches, contained a concise message in
big, bold letters:
Quit fucking with
Wishart
, Assholes!
If either of you messes with her again, neither of you will walk, on
your own accord, across the stage on graduation day.
Signed,
Someone you don’t want to mess
with!
Conrad cleared his throat.
A few of the other jurists fidgeted in their chairs.
Jan saw smirks and grins.
Apparently they found Exhibit A amusing.
“Continue, Cadet Jackson.
What happened next?”
“Well, I was furious.
I
figured
Wishart
opened the routing envelope and took
the messages between Cadet
Dogety
and me.
I thought she had also written this note
to intimidate us,” Jackson said.
“Wouldn’t that be a bit bold for a plebe, Cadet Jackson?”
Tourney asked.
“Well, normally yes,” Jackson replied.
“But we have known Miss
Wishart
since R-Day.
We have seen her insubordination on many occasions.
It didn’t seem unreasonable to me that
she could have written this kind of thing.”
Jan rolled her eyes again.
Right,
as if I needed any more attention from you!
“So you asked her about it?”
Leavitt asked this time.
“I took the envelope and its contents back to Cadet
Dogety
first.
He and I then went to her
room and ordered her to meet us in the CQ room.”
The Charge of Quarters (CQ) room, usually located near the entrance to
each Company area, contained only a small desk and black rotary dial
phone.
One yearling, or sophomore,
assigned to CQ duty every night, monitored the halls, checked cadet rooms every
couple of hours, inspected and secured all common areas, and made a bed count
at Taps—ensuring all cadets were in their rooms.
When not going about their duties,
yearling CQs sat at the desk in the small CQ room reading, studying or writing
letters home.
The black rotary
phone was only used to communicate with the Brigade Charge of Quarters, usually
a cow or junior year cadet, who ensured all the Company CQs were doing their
jobs.
“Why there?”
Conrad asked.
“Because the CQ room is not off limits to anyone.
We figured we could question her there
without violating any regulations,” Jackson said.
And you could also close the door
in a room without windows.
Conrad checked his watch.
“We only have half an hour left before
we need to break for dinner.
I’m
going to ask Cadet Jackson to tell us what happened in the CQ room before we
break.
There’s not enough time for
questions, so please write down any that come to mind, and we will deal with
them when we resume later tonight.”
Cadet Seymour, the Fourth Regimental
Honor Captain spoke up.
“Casey, I
would prefer to ask questions as we hear the witness testify.
Should we wait until after dinner before
Markus continues?”
“Well, we need to get as much done as
we can.
If a question cannot wait
until later, then of course, ask it.
Otherwise, let’s allow Cadet Jackson to speak uninterrupted.”
Conrad nodded to Jackson.
“Markus, please continue.”
Jackson took another deep breath and
resumed his testimony.
“Sam and I
waited in the CQ room for Cadet
Wishart
.
When she reported, we asked her about
the routing envelope.
Did she open
it?
Did she read our messages?
Where are those pages now?
Did she write the new note?
Or did she know how the new note came to
be in the envelope?”
Jan remembered it a little
differently.
Jackson continued,
“She replied in the negative to all our questions.
She didn’t open the envelope.
She didn’t read our notes, she didn’t
write the new note, and she didn’t have any idea how our messages were replaced
by the new note.
She denied knowing
anything about it.”
“Of course, we thought she HAD to
have known something.”
He went on,
“so we continued to ask her questions.
Did she have the routing envelope in her possession at all times?
Did she leave it at any point, at any
place, in between trips to our rooms?
Could she think of anyone who might have been able to open the
envelope?”
Jan saw a slight smirk
on his face as he spoke.
“She said she had the envelope at all
times, she did not have it out of her possession at any point.
And no, she could not think of anyone
who had access to the envelope.”
Cadet Jackson took another deep breath.
“So you see, she denied having any
knowledge of what happened to our messages and she denied writing the new
note.
YET, the envelope was in her
custody the whole time.
Obviously,
something wasn’t quite right.”
Finally Cadet Seymour interrupted, “Was
anyone else in the room to witness this questioning of Cadet
Wishart
?”
“Sam
Dogety
was there.”
“I mean anyone else?”
“No, just us,” Jackson said.
“What time did this questioning
occur?”
Seymour asked again.
“This was, oh, about 2100 hours, I
guess,” Jackson admitted.
“Okay, so it’s an hour and a half
after study hours have begun,” Seymour clarified.
“Yes, but…”
“And did you consider that Miss
Wishart
might need to be studying, instead of being
interrogated by two
firsties
during study
hours?”
Jan hoped Seymour was on to
something.
“Yes, I have already said we were
wrong on that account.
But that
doesn’t excuse her for lying!”
Jackson had raised his voice.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right, is
that it?”
She began to like Seymour
right then.
“Look, we were wrong.
But we did not lie about it,
”
Jackson
reiterated more calmly.
Conrad interrupted, “I think we need
to stop for now. We will meet back here at 1930 hours and continue to hear
testimony until 2200 hours this evening.
I want to remind everyone that these proceedings are strictly
confidential. You cannot and will not speak to anyone about anything that has
transpired in this room.
If there
are no further questions,” he didn’t wait for anyone to ask any, “dismissed.”
Jan turned to her legal counsel,
Major Hastings, “Any advice, Sir?”
Legal counsel at Honor Boards could not speak during the “trial.”
He could only offer guidance and advice
to the accused cadet.
Hastings said, “Well, you have
already admitted that the routing envelope never went out of your sight,
right?”
“Well, I did write that in my
statement, but….”
“Then I’m afraid there’s not much
more I can say.”
Well,
that’s helpful.
Jan waited
until he turned to leave before rolling her eyes again.
Jan’s roommates waited anxiously while she removed her Dress Gray hat and
flopped down on her bed.
They had
fifteen minutes before dinner formation.
“Well?
How’s it going?”
Kristi asked.
“Swimmingly.”
Jan closed her
eyes.
“It’s not good, Kissy.”
Kristi McCarron, the
long-haired
, new cadet Jan
saw in the barber shop on R-day, also ended up in Company H-3.
They became roommates second
semester along with Jan’s first semester roommate Angel Trane.
“If it comes down to his word against
yours, they can’t find you guilty.
He doesn’t have proof that you lied, just as you don’t have proof that
you’re telling the truth.”
Kristi
always saw things in the best possible light.
“He has proof that the original notes are missing and a new note showed
up in its place,” Jan said.
“He has
proof that only I had the envelope between his room and
Dogety’s
.
He has proof that I was previously
insubordinate.
But most
importantly, he’s a
firstie
, about to graduate, and
five of his classmates are on the Honor Board.”
The plebe women sat in silence,
contemplating “winning” against these odds.
Kristi practically shouted, “Well, don’t go down without a fight.
When I testify, I’m going to tell what
assholes they have been to you.
I’m
going to tell everything they have done to mess you over.
I’m going to insinuate, very subtly of
course, that they schemed this whole thing up just to get rid of you.”
“Oh good, because subtlety is your strong suit.”
Jan watched Kristi’s face fall.
“I’m sorry, Kissy.
I just don’t feel very positive right
now.”
“It’s okay,” Kristi said softly.
“This has to be killing you.”
“You know, I had to talk myself into
not
quitting all year and now that I’m in jeopardy of being kicked out, I’m
trying like hell to stay.”
She
paused before adding, “I mean, I could accept failing out or even getting
booted for breaking too may rules or something cool like that.
But getting kicked out for an honor
violation?
That would mean a life
sentence of shame.
I can’t go home
that way.
I could never face my
father again.”
Angel, a petite black woman from somewhere in
New York City, chimed in.
“This is a spiritual battle,
Jan.
You have to fight it with
prayer.”
Jan looked at Kristi with
her lips slightly askew.
“Jesus
will give you the strength to fight the demons.”
Despite Angel’s religiosity, Jan felt deeply grateful for two roommates
who still believed in her.
Other
classmates had already started distancing themselves.
She could feel their avoidance and their
abhorrence—a common reaction to anyone undergoing an Honor Board.
Most would never know what really
happened, but simply being “charged with honor” caused most everyone to back
away.
An honor charge at West Point
gave you social leprosy.
“Gee Angel, I knew Jackson and
Dogety
were
jerks, but I didn’t realize they were demons,” she smiled and winked at
Kristi.