All The Admirals In The Whole Damned Navy

Copyright 1997 (REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION)
by Dempsey N. Darrow

What do Plebes Rank?

Sir, the Superintendent's dog, the commandant's cat, the waiters in the Mess Hall, the Hellcats, the Generals in the Air Force, and all the Admirals in the whole damned Navy.
                - West Point Bugle Notes, 1971

Cadet D. Merit stood at the sink in his room holding the tube of Colgate in his hand. It was Friday evening; another week of the sadistic rite of passage known as "Plebe year" had passed for the West Point freshman.  It had been a particularly stressful week at meals, culminating in a miserable supper that evening. Cadet Merit and his two classmates had finished their duties of distributing the food and drinks at their ten man table, ensuring that each beverage glass contained the correct beverage (from a choice of two) and the correct number of ice cubes as dictated by the upperclassman for whom the drink had been poured. His head up, chin pulled sharply in to his neck, eyes riveted on the West Point Academy crest which adorned every supper plate at the twelve o'clock position, Cadet Merit had torn a slice of bread into small pieces and splurted catsup on every fifth one.  These pieces of bread would be the "ammunition" that the Plebes at the table would rapidly ingest when commanded to "Eat!"; every fifth one, dribbling with catsup, having been assigned the distinction of being a "tracer".

Preparations completed, Cadet Merit had dropped his hands to his lap and had initiated the approved ritual.

"Sir!"

He was addressing the Table Commandant, the ranking Cadet sitting at the opposite end of the table facing him.

"The Fourth Class Cadets at this table have properly completed their duties and are now prepared to eat!"

Please, thought Merit, please, let us eat; we'll get a full meal, you'll get out of here without heartburn and can go to the movie, escort your girl, or do whatever the hell it is you Firsties do to spend your time when you're not wasting it giving us fits.

Nothing.

Still staring at the crest, Merit had become conscious of the trickles of sweat making their ticklish way slowly down his back when the Table Commandant had responded.

"What's the movie in south aud, tonight, Merit?"

The senior Cadet was referring to the motion picture scheduled to be shown that evening in the south auditorium theater. Inwardly, Merit had breathed a heavy sigh of relief; he had known this one. Since arriving at the Academy, he had rebelled against memorizing the trivial information required of all Fourth Class Cadets and known collectively as "Fourth Class Knowledge" or, among the Cadets themselves, as "Plebe Poop". This was, in Merit's estimation, a ridiculous and degrading waste of time. "How are they all?" What?? (They are all fickle but one, sir.) "How many lights in Cullum Hall?"  What difference does it make? (340 lights, sir.) "How many gallons in Lusk Reservoir?" Who gives a damn? (78 million gallons sir, when the water is flowing over the spillway.) It would be several years before the reasons behind the mandated memorization of these and other trivialities would become clear to Merit.  Indeed, the overall purpose of West Point's Fourth Class System would elude him until, in time, the blinds of youthful ignorance were raised to let shine in the slightest illuminating beam of maturation. But for now - today - he had known what the evening movie was. He had known it because it was an old movie, and that fact set it apart and made it easier to remember.

"Sir, the motion picture for this evening is Pillow Talk, starring Rock Hudson and Doris Day!"

The Table Commandant's reaction had been sudden and furious.

"Doris Day? DORIS??!! You two on a first name basis, mister? What's the story, you and she tight? She your drag for the next hop? Will we catch you two on Flirty? Hey, be sure and drive her by so I can get her autograph...DORIS?? MISTER, DON'T YOU MEAN 'MISS' DORIS DAY?? WHEN DID YOU START GETTING SO BJ??  SLAM IT BACK, CROT, AND GRAB SOME MORE WRINKLES!! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM, SMACK?? IRP!!"

The Table Commandant was soon joined in his efforts by upperclassmen from surrounding tables wanting to share in the fun and excitement. The remaining Plebes at the table had been granted permission to eat ("Fall out, you two") while Merit sweated and suffered until the Battalions Rise command had granted a merciful reprieve. His food had remained untouched.

Yes, it had been a long week, a torturous week. There was no food in the room. The end of the semester, when each Cadet room would be allowed to have one "Boodle Box" containing snack food, was still some weeks away.

Merit unscrewed the top of the tube of toothpaste. Holding his left arm across his body in front of him, he extended his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he squeezed a line of the white paste along the top of his left index finger. He then put the finger in his mouth, tasting the sweetness as the day's evening meal slowly dissolved on his tongue.

***

Cadet Merit walked slowly around the corner of the immense masonry monolith housing the Cadet barracks known as the "lost 50s". Under one arm he held a non-descript brown cardboard box; a shoebox. There was no one in sight. Making no effort to conceal his cargo, he quickened his step and entered the building. He doubletimed up the steps and, in the manner prescribed by the bible of Plebe behavior - the Fourth Class System - squared the hallway corners as he made his way to his room. His luck held. He encountered no upperclassmen. Had one been present, Merit would have had to stop and ask permission to pass by. At that point, there would have been little doubt but that the senior Cadet would have asked Merit what it was that he was carrying.

In his room now with his roommates absent, he secreted the box in the closet. It would be safe there until tomorrow morning when the closet doors would have to remain open while the room was in AMI order.

The next morning, after mandatory breakfast, Merit brought the box out of the closet and put it on his desk. He looked over at his roommates who were finishing the room preparation. They stopped what they were doing and looked back at him. One of them, Cadet Ty Upp, came closer, his eyes riveted to the shoebox.

"What's that"?

Merit grinned and, with a dramatic slowness befitting the unveiling of a grand prize, lifted the top off the box.

His roommates gasped at the splendor of the sight.

Cookies. Chocolate Chip cookies. Huge round golden disks of oven-browned dough, replete with fingertip thick chunks of sweet black chocolate. The shoebox was filled to brimming with the culinary treasure.

"My god", breathed Upp, "Where did you get THAT?"

The cookies were a gift from a friend. She worked at the Hotel Thayer, running the switchboard. Merit had spoken with her on several occasions when his parents were guests at the hotel while visiting him at the Academy. She and Merit had developed a relationship, to the extent that a relationship was possible between her work schedule and the fact that Merit had no free time save a number of weekend hours numbering in the single digits. She had baked the cookies for him. She was also dating a First Classman, or senior, so Merit did his best to keep their association a secret.

Like vultures waiting for the lions to leave their kill, both roommates hovered and stared at the sensory feast until Upp, somewhat involuntarily, stretched a tentative hand toward the box's contents. He stopped in mid-reach and looked questioningly at Merit.

"Go ahead", Merit said, "I've got class anyway. You guys have a few and then hide the box in case the Tac comes through. Listen for him, you can hear those taps on his shoes a mile away."

"Damn, Merit, if he finds this boodle he'll slug your ass and you'll be walking tours 'til Cow year!"

The remark was not too great an exaggeration; Merit chuckled.

"Yeah, well, make sure you leave the box right out in the open where he can see it, idiot."

With that, Merit straightened the black tie of his class uniform, measured a two-finger space between the bridge of his nose and the brim of his cap, and stepped out the door.

***

Cadet Merit reached the top of the stairs and squared the last corner on the way back to his room. Calculus, a class every Plebe attended six days per week, hadn't been too bad. He had been given a problem to work "at the boards" for grade which hadn't been shamefully difficult. He felt that his subsequent explanation of his work to the class had been thorough and that the instructor, or "P" had been pleased. And when the "P" had attempted to roll a pencil under the heel of Merit's shoe, it hadn't fit; so Merit had been spared the demerits for a disreputable uniform. Yes, all in all it had been a pretty good class. A small victory at a time when personal triumphs were measured infrequently and in marginal increments. He could now look forward to a snack of tasty, albeit illegal, chocolate chip cookies in his room.  Merit felt pretty good.

It was a feeling that would be shortlived.

The shoebox sat opened on Merit's desk. The area around it was littered with cookie crumbs. Both his roommates sat at their own desks and stared at him as he entered the room. Merit saw that the box was nowhere near full anymore; his roommates had devoured half of its contents. Feeling his face flush, Merit turned his back to them. He felt the adrenaline begin to flow and his knees become unsteady. He would go into the latrine, where the big sink was, and touch up the spitshine on his shoes; he would take the box with him.

Cadet Upp approached him.

"Let me have another cookie."

Merit ignored him and put the top back onto the box.

"C'mon, I always share with you when I get something. Give me another cookie."

Merit looked at him. Upp's mouth was ringed with cookie crumbs. Melted chocolate had streaked down the side of his chin giving the impression of half of a Fu Manchu moustache.

Merit picked up his shoes and the box and walked out the door.

The latrine was at the end of the hall. Merit had just entered when, incredibly, Upp walked in behind him. They were alone.

"Come on, give me another cookie!" Upp spoke distinctly, emphasizing each word with a slight nod of his head.

"You've had enough! You ate half the goddamn box, now get the hell out of here and leave me alone!"

Merit then turned his back to Upp, putting the box of cookies on the cold steam radiator and placing his shoes on top of the box. Upp stood behind him and behind Upp was the door to the latrine. It had swung shut. Without warning Upp reached around Merit and grabbed the shoebox, giving it a hard and violent pull. Time suddenly slowed for Merit and he saw the box come open. He watched as the cookies exited the box in a brown cloud, some of them beginning to break apart in flight. He saw his shoes float up over his head, his mind registering that the spitshine and all the work it represented would disappear when they descended. Instinctively he reached
for Upp, his hand grasping a fistful of cloth on the back of his shirt as Upp attempted to turn away. Then Merit's other hand had a solid grip and with a lurching heave, he propelled Upp's body toward the latrine door.

The door was made of metal with a large window of opaque glass set in its upper half. Upp had turned away from Merit and was now facing toward the door as he made contact with it. The door opened inward, so there was no give as the Cadet's body struck it.  The metal bottom of the door absorbed the hard impact of Upp's legs and pelvis, arresting their forward motion. The upper half of the door provided no such resistance. The glass exploded outward with a tempestuous roar as Upp's torso smashed through it. His feet on the floor inside the latrine, Upp's body now whiplashed backward. Dragging his arms across the serrated shards of glass jutting from the window frame, he fell to a sitting position inside the door. Scrambling to his feet, he scurried out into the hall with Merit hard on his heels. It was then that Upp froze. He held his arm up with his palm to his face.

"NOW look what you've done..."

The words came from Upp, but the voice was unrecognizable. Merit watched, transfixed, as a thin red line snaked its way down Upp's bare arm from his wrist to his elbow.

The Cadet then lowered his arm so that it was parallel to the floor.

A great geyser of red shot from Upp's wrist. The thick stream arced through the air and struck the wall with a loud spattering sound, flowing thickly to the floor. This spurt was immediately followed by another, then several more in rapid succession. In the span of a few seconds, the severed artery had poured out enough blood to form a dishpan size pool on the floor at the Cadets' feet.

The rage that Merit had felt an instant before dissolved into urgency. He seized Upp's wrist with both hands and, encircling it with his fingers, squeezed with all his strength. It worked; the spurting stopped. Merit glanced at the wound as the blood drained from it. Within the gaping slash, he watched the tendons slide as Upp moved his fingers. Merit's legs suddenly lost their strength and it seemed that someone was dimming the hallway lights. He shook his head violently to fight off the encroaching unconsciousness. Taking several deep gulps of air, he began to lead Upp to the stairs.

"Come on, let's get you to the hospital."

Their feet crunching loudly on the broken glass, the Cadets stepped around the still flowing pool of blood and made their way through the gathering crowd to the orderly room with Merit keeping a vise grip on Upp's wrist.

***

Cadet D. Merit brought the M14 rifle up sharply across his body. With the knife edge of his right hand, he crisply forced the bolt to the rear. Facing him, the inspecting officer's hand came up in a short arc. With an audible pop, the hand snatched the weapon from Merit's grasp.

An ambulance had taken Upp to the West Point hospital, and with him had gone Merit's hopes for a military career. It wouldn't be long, he had thought, before the appropriate disciplinary board would invite him to take a one way trip out the main gate. The disciplinary body that had subsequently been convened was a Brigade Board, consisting of the highest ranking Cadets in the Corps. This puzzled Merit; he had thought that the offense was severe enough to warrant a board of commissioned officers. If this turn of events surprised him, the actual punishment that had been handed down left him totally bewildered. It had been a "fifteen, twenty two
and two" or fifteen demerits, twenty two punishment tours walking "The Area", and two months of confinement to his room. A far cry from the summary dismissal he had expected.

The written offense, as reported on the Academy's form 2-1, had read:
"Horseplay in the barracks with resulting damage to government property". Had the board been serious? Or, did they display a sense of humor? After all, they had been Plebes themselves and were aware of the unique pressures and demands placed on Cadets by West Point's Fourth Class System.

Merit had gone to visit Upp in the hospital. The surgeons had repaired the transected artery and done what they could for a damaged tendon and nerve. Upp had been in relatively good spirits, all things considered. He and Merit had had a pleasant enough chat. Upp said that the doctors expected him to regain seventy percent usage of his wrist.

Upp and Merit would never be roommates again.

The inspecting officer returned Merit's weapon to him and moved off.  Merit shouldered the rifle and looked upward. Not a cloud in the sky.  The uniform flag for Area formation this day had specified raincoats. It would be a hot one.

As he began walking, he could feel the needles of sweat begin forming on his skin.

--------------------------------------------------

Author's note: For reasons largely unrelated to these events, Cadet Tyrone Upp was later separated from the Academy.

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