uniforms and the solemnity of the Oath Ceremony reminds them that this is something different. They stand on the bleachers to take in the sight, and the spectacle is impressive. This morning’s thirteen hundred civilians have been changed dramatically, and if they’re not yet soldiers, they are no longer high school students.
Up in the aluminum stands, two women who look remarkably alike, perhaps the mother and grandmother of a new cadet, sing with gusto when the band plays the National Anthem. Across the whole of the bleachers, there is a good deal more enthusiasm for the song than is usually heard at baseball games. There is a flurry of commands and sharp salutes, though the flags stir only occasionally in the heavy summer air. Then the companies pass in review, wheeling by the Superintendent (the three-star general who is both president of the college and military commander of West Point) and the Commandant (the one-star who is responsible for cadets’ military training). There are ripples of excitement as the cadets pass close to the bleachers, while families strain to spot a son or daughter. The new cadets tramp by at 120 steps per minute, on past the generals, on past their families; they wheel sharply in front of the white confection that is the Superintendent’s House, then, quickly, the class of 2002 disappears back into the dark tunnels.
For the mothers and fathers, sisters, brothers, and grandparents, the parade marks the end of something momentous. They will leave West Point without the children who have been with them for seventeen or eighteen years. Understandably, the families take their timegetting out of the stands, as if they’re unsure that their part in the drama is over.
In the barracks, the members of West Point’s Class of 2002 have hours of unfamiliar tasks ahead of them. There is equipment to draw and store, rules to be memorized, whole new ways of speaking and eating and walking to be mastered. Somewhere in the course of the evening, they will be told to sit down and write a letter home. Most of them will manage only a line or two, something about all the work to be done on this, the first of many long days ahead of them.
BEAST
T he first days of Beast Barracks slide by in a blur for the new cadets. If they are remarkable for anything, it is for the mundane and seemingly endless nature of the tasks to be learned: how to wear various uniforms, how to salute, eat in the Mess Hall, march, carry a rifle. But over the first week, the details add up, and by the time the new cadets climb down off the trucks for their first day of field training, they have started to look like GIs.
They clamber out of the big five-ton trucks onto the dusty road wearing battle dress uniform, or BDUs, the familiar baggy camouflage. They carry big green rucksacks, with rolled foam pads slung across the top; load-bearing equipment (called LBE); a set of suspenders and a belt from which hang canteens, first aid, and ammunition pouches. They wear the coal-bucket Kevlar helmet, which everyone calls a K-pot, and carry the M16A2 rifle, standard issue for the Army and Marine Corps. In the past few days they have learned to put all of this together: the hooks and buckles and belts and straps,so that they at least look like soldiers. They have learned how to form into squads and platoons, to respond to marching commands to get them from one place to another. They stand straight, head and eyes to the front, and wait until they’re told to move.
This first day of field training has brought them to a pleasant, shady hillside on West Point’s sprawling reservation, the “NBC Site,” where they will be introduced to Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare. They will learn how to wear the “MOPP” suit, a charcoal-treated coat and pants that, with its rubber gloves and overshoes, is supposed to keep the soldier safe from chemical weapons. They will learn to wear the protective masks, the huge, black-rubber headpiece with
Up in the aluminum stands, two women who look remarkably alike, perhaps the mother and grandmother of a new cadet, sing with gusto when the band plays the National Anthem. Across the whole of the bleachers, there is a good deal more enthusiasm for the song than is usually heard at baseball games. There is a flurry of commands and sharp salutes, though the flags stir only occasionally in the heavy summer air. Then the companies pass in review, wheeling by the Superintendent (the three-star general who is both president of the college and military commander of West Point) and the Commandant (the one-star who is responsible for cadets’ military training). There are ripples of excitement as the cadets pass close to the bleachers, while families strain to spot a son or daughter. The new cadets tramp by at 120 steps per minute, on past the generals, on past their families; they wheel sharply in front of the white confection that is the Superintendent’s House, then, quickly, the class of 2002 disappears back into the dark tunnels.
For the mothers and fathers, sisters, brothers, and grandparents, the parade marks the end of something momentous. They will leave West Point without the children who have been with them for seventeen or eighteen years. Understandably, the families take their timegetting out of the stands, as if they’re unsure that their part in the drama is over.
In the barracks, the members of West Point’s Class of 2002 have hours of unfamiliar tasks ahead of them. There is equipment to draw and store, rules to be memorized, whole new ways of speaking and eating and walking to be mastered. Somewhere in the course of the evening, they will be told to sit down and write a letter home. Most of them will manage only a line or two, something about all the work to be done on this, the first of many long days ahead of them.
BEAST
T he first days of Beast Barracks slide by in a blur for the new cadets. If they are remarkable for anything, it is for the mundane and seemingly endless nature of the tasks to be learned: how to wear various uniforms, how to salute, eat in the Mess Hall, march, carry a rifle. But over the first week, the details add up, and by the time the new cadets climb down off the trucks for their first day of field training, they have started to look like GIs.
They clamber out of the big five-ton trucks onto the dusty road wearing battle dress uniform, or BDUs, the familiar baggy camouflage. They carry big green rucksacks, with rolled foam pads slung across the top; load-bearing equipment (called LBE); a set of suspenders and a belt from which hang canteens, first aid, and ammunition pouches. They wear the coal-bucket Kevlar helmet, which everyone calls a K-pot, and carry the M16A2 rifle, standard issue for the Army and Marine Corps. In the past few days they have learned to put all of this together: the hooks and buckles and belts and straps,so that they at least look like soldiers. They have learned how to form into squads and platoons, to respond to marching commands to get them from one place to another. They stand straight, head and eyes to the front, and wait until they’re told to move.
This first day of field training has brought them to a pleasant, shady hillside on West Point’s sprawling reservation, the “NBC Site,” where they will be introduced to Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare. They will learn how to wear the “MOPP” suit, a charcoal-treated coat and pants that, with its rubber gloves and overshoes, is supposed to keep the soldier safe from chemical weapons. They will learn to wear the protective masks, the huge, black-rubber headpiece with
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