Absolutely American by David Lipsky

Author:David Lipsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

The Braves

Beast is split into two details, which gives a new roster of upperclassmen their swing at command: George Rash is now on deck. The new cadets have been warmed up for him. They’re already speaking West Point dialect. They pass off Knowledge, they sham out of duties. (“I wasn’t shamming—I was at sick call.”) They’ve dropped for push-ups. They’ve discovered that the secret acronym for TEDs is BCGs—birth control glasses (because you have no chance, cadets believe, of getting laid while wearing them). And they’ve learned why ass is the most popular slang term at West Point. The ass is the unprotected flank, the one important body terrain you can’t even see—if you get shot at, you can always duck your head, you can jerk your arms and legs, but what can you do about your ass? At West Point, the ass is on the chopping block; it’s either getting ripped or it’s getting sunshine piped up it. There’s chewed ass and, if you have quick enough footwork, covered ass. Your ass gets hazed, if you’re taken out for some really exhausting PT it’s smoked, if you move too slow you get a boot put to it, on a bad day you’re assed up or have gotten the ass. All this in addition to the civilian usages, which still apply. Vermeesch reminds his Beast chain of command to send their new cadets to parade rest during room inspections, “because—I mean, think about it—nobody likes to stand at attention for some asshole who’s going through their stuff. So my advice to you would be, do not be that asshole.”

John Vermeesch in the field is a changed man. He’s an infantryman, a field guy; West Point offices are not his natural habitat. He’s like something domesticated sprung from captivity, one lean crackle of energy. He prowls the ranks of a drizzly road march, head snaking and bobbing, sniffing out sore spots and the wobble of surrender. A new cadet starts to crumple under her thirty-pound ruck. Vermeesch paces in front, gives her a tow on his ruck straps. After a mandatory ten-minute break, he plants his ruck on the gravel by his toes, leans forward, then saddles up in the Infantry style: the pack goes trapezing up and over his shoulders until it bangs down hard against his back.

It’s been a wet summer, the smell of mud as pungent as in a greenhouse. (The new cadets have picked up the traditional Army salute to poor weather: “If it ain’t raining, we ain’t training.”) After a march, while the cadets flick muck off their boots, and some Bible studiers kick back for a discussion of the Scripture—“you open up Ezekiel, start reading about the dragons, that stuff is deep”—Vermeesch talks about the essence of officership. In the field he’s more direct, as if his argument is up and patrolling by his side.

And as much as the Academy talks values, Vermeesch knows that officership is half physical: what the body says is just as important as any words.

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