tried to catch the room numbers out of the corner of my eye as I passed door after closed door on the opposite side of the hall. Random thoughts whipped through my mind. Sir, I am in Third Squad, Third Platoon. Room 305. The First Sergeant is my enemy. Cadet Daily is my squad leader. The Cadet in the Red Sash winked at me, and I look like I’m scared. I am a dirtbag, a bonehead, a stupid, pea-brained, stinking-carcassed knucklehead. I dared to equate myself to the Class of 2004. I have Four Responses. My name is Davis. I slither like a snake.
Room 305. I crossed the hall and opened a solid oak door. No locks, no keys. I shut out the clamor of the hallway, dropped my bag, and leaned against the door. I squeezed my eyes shut and took deep breath after deep breath until I finally stopped shaking.
CHAPTER 3
MONDAY, JUNE 28 11:13 A.M.
War is hell.
—GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN, WEST POINT CLASS OF 1840
If General Sherman’s definition be right,
West Point is war.
—GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON, JR.,
WEST POINT CLASS OF 1909 (IN A LETTER WRITTEN
HOME WHILE HE WAS A PLEBE AT WEST POINT)
I OPENED MY EYES to four windows and a window ledge over a radiator. Two desks, two vinyl armchairs, and two single beds, completely covered with Army equipment, mirrored each other on opposite sides of the room. A waist-high dresser, two wooden closets, and a sink with two mirrored medicine cabinets above it completed the room.
The name tag DAVIS, stuck on the corner of one desk, drew me to the left-hand side of the room. A piece of paper on the desk told me to take ten minutes to relax and get a drink of water before heading out again. It was signed by Cadet William F. Haywood, H Company Commander. It wasn’t exactly a “We hope you enjoy your stay” card with a red-and-white peppermint candy beside it, but it was the only West Point welcome I had gotten today.
The tag on the other desk read QUINN. New Cadet Quinn. My roommate. She hadn’t arrived yet. I wondered what she looked like, where she was from. What her first name was. Would she want to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to her?
I leaned against the window ledge above the radiator and peered out one of the half-open windows. A green field of closely cropped grass spread before me. Granite buildings bordered the field, their long shadows stretching over the grass like cool fingers. And beyond the buildings, I could make out a faint outline of tree-covered ridges gently curving in the distance—a beautiful contrast to the bright-blue sky. It made me feel better.
I walked over to my bed and stared at all the equipment covering it. Orange pegs, folded canvas, a scratchy dark-green wool blanket, green pouches and straps of all shapes and sizes.
My mouth was parched. I walked over to the sink and slurped out of the faucet, just like I used to do in the bathroom at home in the middle of the night.
My watch said that I had been there nine minutes. I couldn’t wait any longer for my roommate to show up. I just knew that somebody was watching my door, hoping that I’d stay a second longer than ten minutes so he’d have an excuse to throw a temper tantrum.
I took a deep breath, grabbed the doorknob, and slithered along the wall to the stairwell.
The stairwell emptied out into the sally port containing the Cadet in the Red Sash. He greeted me with a scowl and said with disgust, “Pretty weak salute, New Cadet. Your next station is Drill.” Then he had me join a row of about ten new cadets standing in North Area.
A black cadet faced us. “The position of attention,” he announced as if he were introducing the President. “Keep your head straight, roll your shoulders back. Arms to your side, elbows in, hands loosely cupped.”
I squinted, trying to protect my eyes from his white shirt and hat, which reflected the blinding sun pounding down on us.
“Heels together, feet at forty-five degrees. Now assume the position.” We rearranged our bodies until we
Room 305. I crossed the hall and opened a solid oak door. No locks, no keys. I shut out the clamor of the hallway, dropped my bag, and leaned against the door. I squeezed my eyes shut and took deep breath after deep breath until I finally stopped shaking.
CHAPTER 3
MONDAY, JUNE 28 11:13 A.M.
War is hell.
—GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN, WEST POINT CLASS OF 1840
If General Sherman’s definition be right,
West Point is war.
—GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON, JR.,
WEST POINT CLASS OF 1909 (IN A LETTER WRITTEN
HOME WHILE HE WAS A PLEBE AT WEST POINT)
I OPENED MY EYES to four windows and a window ledge over a radiator. Two desks, two vinyl armchairs, and two single beds, completely covered with Army equipment, mirrored each other on opposite sides of the room. A waist-high dresser, two wooden closets, and a sink with two mirrored medicine cabinets above it completed the room.
The name tag DAVIS, stuck on the corner of one desk, drew me to the left-hand side of the room. A piece of paper on the desk told me to take ten minutes to relax and get a drink of water before heading out again. It was signed by Cadet William F. Haywood, H Company Commander. It wasn’t exactly a “We hope you enjoy your stay” card with a red-and-white peppermint candy beside it, but it was the only West Point welcome I had gotten today.
The tag on the other desk read QUINN. New Cadet Quinn. My roommate. She hadn’t arrived yet. I wondered what she looked like, where she was from. What her first name was. Would she want to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to her?
I leaned against the window ledge above the radiator and peered out one of the half-open windows. A green field of closely cropped grass spread before me. Granite buildings bordered the field, their long shadows stretching over the grass like cool fingers. And beyond the buildings, I could make out a faint outline of tree-covered ridges gently curving in the distance—a beautiful contrast to the bright-blue sky. It made me feel better.
I walked over to my bed and stared at all the equipment covering it. Orange pegs, folded canvas, a scratchy dark-green wool blanket, green pouches and straps of all shapes and sizes.
My mouth was parched. I walked over to the sink and slurped out of the faucet, just like I used to do in the bathroom at home in the middle of the night.
My watch said that I had been there nine minutes. I couldn’t wait any longer for my roommate to show up. I just knew that somebody was watching my door, hoping that I’d stay a second longer than ten minutes so he’d have an excuse to throw a temper tantrum.
I took a deep breath, grabbed the doorknob, and slithered along the wall to the stairwell.
The stairwell emptied out into the sally port containing the Cadet in the Red Sash. He greeted me with a scowl and said with disgust, “Pretty weak salute, New Cadet. Your next station is Drill.” Then he had me join a row of about ten new cadets standing in North Area.
A black cadet faced us. “The position of attention,” he announced as if he were introducing the President. “Keep your head straight, roll your shoulders back. Arms to your side, elbows in, hands loosely cupped.”
I squinted, trying to protect my eyes from his white shirt and hat, which reflected the blinding sun pounding down on us.
“Heels together, feet at forty-five degrees. Now assume the position.” We rearranged our bodies until we
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