The boy in front of me was named Fox.

"An English major," he said disgustedly. "Do you want to suck my dick, boy? Pop off."

"No sir."

"Shit, dumbhead, everyone knows English majors love to suck and blow on dicks."

"I wouldn't say that, Fox," Wentworth said, still studying the clipboard. "I'm an English major."

"What's my name, douchebag? Pop off," Fox said.

"Your name is Fox, sir," I said.

"Put a 'mister' on that."

"Your name is Mister Fox, sir," I said.

"What am I, idiot?" he yelled, pointing to the insignia on his collar. "Look at my uniform and tell me what I am."

I stared at his uniform, at the unfamiliar insignia, at his nametag, at his face. I was confused, disoriented, and I did not know what he wanted me to say.

"You better tell me what I am, idiot. Now, douchebag. Now. Say something. Anything. But you better answer me, smackhead. Now, boy. Now. Now. Now."

I looked at his nametag and said, "Sir, you are a small carnivorous animal kin to the dog."

The punch came from behind me, delivered by an invisible assailant, a perfect blow to the kidney. I staggered forward, fell to one knee, and almost knocked Fox and the card table over.

"Not here, Newman, you stupid bastard," the company commander said. "Wait until you get him to his room. If a tac officer sees you, we'll all be walking tours. If the Bear sees you, we'll be lucky to graduate."

"I don't like a smartass knob," a deep voice said from behind me.

"Get up, douchebag," Fox commanded. "You make any more remarks like that and we'll send you home with your nuts in your pocket. And for your information, I'm your platoon sergeant."

Late that afternoon, before evening formation, I studied my shaved head in the mirror. I did not recognize the boy in the mirror who stared accusingly back at me, did not recognize the desperate blue eyes. I felt silly in the new summer uniform the upperclassmen had called the "gray nasties." The uniform exuded the nauseating odor of new clothing. My hands smelled of Brasso and Kiwi polish. The heat was fierce and sweat stains spread beneath my arms, along my collar, and down my back. I spoke to my image in the mirror, "You stupid asshole, McLean. You poor dumb fucker. How did you get yourself in this mess?"

"Give me a shirt tuck, what's-your-name?" my new roommate said behind me. "Hurry up, will you? We've got to get to evening formation."

His name was Harvey Clearwater and he was from Memphis, Tennessee. "The Clearwaters of Memphis," he had been careful to explain.

"My names Will, Harvey," I said. "Will. It's a simple little name. Four letters. Starts with a capital W. Ends with a little bitty word synonymous with 'sick.' I like being called Will. It's a habit I got into in childhood."

"Just give me a shirt tuck, will you? They'll kill us if we're late."

"They'll kill us if we're early."

"My mother certainly didn't tell me this school would be anything like this," Harvey said. I cannot tell you how I detested Harvey.

"Well, The Clearwaters of Memphis have always been a tight-lipped crew."

"How do you like this place so far, tell me?" he said as I was giving him a shirt tuck.

"Oh me, Harvey," I answered, unable to keep myself from lashing out at my roommate every time he spoke. "I've found myself a home. This is a fabulous place. There's not many colleges in the country where you get to see seven of your classmates pass out from heat exhaustion the very first day of school."

Ignoring me, he said, "I'd be big stuff in a fraternity if I'd gone to the University of Tennessee. Clearwater is a big name in Tennessee."

"Yeh, you've only told me that a couple of thousand times today, Harvey, and I've only seen you alone for ten minutes."

"You've got a bad attitude, what's-your-name."

"I'm only beginning to have a bad attitude. I'm just getting started. In a month, I plan to have the shittiest goddam attitude in the United States."

"I don't want you to hurt my chances to make rank, you hear?" he said.

"What?" I could barely believe my rotten luck in getting this boy for a roommate.

"I plan to be a company commander. That's the least I can do for Mother. What are you shooting for, whatchamacallit?"

"If my mother will let me, Harvey, I'm shooting to be a civilian by tomorrow morning."

"They won't let you near a telephone for two weeks. And you can't write a letter, send up smoke signals, or pound on a tom-tom. Your mama won't even know if you're alive for two weeks. They lose twenty percent of the class in the first month."

"I hope I can make up part of that twenty percent," I said.

"You'll know if you can take it or not after tomorrow night," Harvey said, checking his watch.

"What happens tomorrow night that could be worse than what happened today?" I asked in alarm.

"Tomorrow is Hell Night."

"What happens on Hell Night?"

"Let your imagination run wild," he said, rolling his eyes. "And tell me your name just one more time. I'm terrible on names. I'll get it this time."

"Lee Vercingetorix. My mother was from Virginia and my father was from Gaul."

"Bad attitude, Lee," Harvey said, shaking his head back and forth. "Say, I've been having a tough time with those pushups and that constant running. I hope they let up some after Hell Night."

"We've got two minutes to get to formation," I said, turning my head sideways to read his watch.

"Will you support me, Lee?" he asked.

"Support you for what?"

"For company commander. You have to get the support of your classmates early."

"Harvey," I said. "If you want to be mayor of Charleston or Yertle the Turtle you have my solemn support. But you're not listening to me. I'm not going to be around. I don't belong here. I'm getting out in the next couple of days. I've just got to get to a phone."

"One more question, Lee."

"Shoot, Harvey."

"What's a douchebag?"

"I don't know," I said. "I've never heard of one, but a lot of people sure think I have a strong family resemblance to one."

All was prelude. The first day was a dress rehearsal, for the most severe test of the plebe system did not officially begin until the second evening. They ran and taunted and hustled us through the second day. We had no time to ourselves, no time to think, no time to rest, no time to familiarize ourselves with the cramped, austere cells where we slept at night. We changed uniforms four times during the second day. They screamed at us, abused us, beat on our chests with their fists. They ran us from one end of campus to the other.

In the late afternoon, the fatigue had entered my bloodstream and my legs glowed with pain. The blood seemed to collect around my brain. I felt a strange giddiness in the heat as though at any time I might faint and my skull would break against the scorched concrete of the quadrangle. Plebes fainted often during the first week. It was a sign to the cadre that they were performing their duties well. The prestige of sergeants increased when one of their knobs hit the planet unconscious. The sun seemed to be in collusion with the cadre. The heat had a man-eating quality about it. With each uniform change, I could squeeze cupfuls of perspiration into the small sink by the door. There was a ubiquitous stink to the platoons of freshmen, and it was the first time I had ever prayed for rain.

At 1700 hours, we stood at attention on the quadrangle at the end of a forty-five-minute segment of practicing rifle manual. Blasingame, the company commander, shouted out a final command to us, a surprise one, when he said, "At ease, dumbheads."

He continued to talk to us in a relaxed, intimate voice, friendly and void of menace. "Now, dumbheads. I know it's been a long, hot, upsetting day for all of you. I want to give all of you a chance to rest before mess tonight. When I order you to your rooms, I'd like you to put on your bathrobes and just relax in your rooms. Write a letter home to your parents if you want to. Take a nap. Or go down to the shower room and take a nice refreshing shower. You gentlemen have put out for big R today and to show you my appreciation, I'm going to let you have this time to yourselves."

His manner was so kindly and so brotherly that I felt like weeping out of pure human gratitude. This was the first time since I had entered the Gates of Legrand that an upperclassman had been anything but bestial to a group of freshmen. It was the first time a member of the cadre had spoken to us as though we had some standing, no matter how low, in the human community.

He continued in the same soothing voice, "Now go to your rooms, dumbheads. The cadre won't bother you. We need time to rest, too. Just relax, turn on your radios, and take it easy."

Then with a shout that echoed off the enclosed cement walls of the barracks, he screamed, "And you fucking scumbags better be back down on this quadrangle in thirty seconds, Now move it, waste-wads. Change your smelly uniforms and get back here on the double. We're going for more PT"

The sixty of us thundered off the quadrangle, yelling as we went. I made it quickly to my room on the first division. Harvey came in right behind me as we began stripping off our wet uniforms and hurling them anywhere in our frantic haste to beat the thirty-second mark when they would begin chanting for us again. As I put on my Institute T-shirt and PT shorts, I noticed that a change had taken place in Harvey's eyes; the confidence that had gleamed in his shining gray eyes the day before was under siege. He had not spoken a word since before breakfast that morning. As he stood naked before me looking for his gym shoes, I saw how painfully underdeveloped his body was and realized that the strenuous physical exertion of these first days was taking an inestimable toll on the Clearwater boy from Memphis.

"Are you all right, Harvey?" I asked as I tied the laces of my shoes.

"They're not letting me eat at mess," he said. "I've got to eat or I can't stand this."

"Whose mess are you on?"

"Mr. Fox's."

I reached into my press where my one suit of civilian clothes hung limply among the uniforms and pulled out a package of M&M Peanuts.

"I'm a fanatic about M&M Peanuts. Eat all you want, Harvey."

He shoved a handful in his mouth.

"Five seconds, dumbheads," a voice shouted from the gallery.

"Two seconds, scumbags."

"My mother didn't tell me it was going to be like this at all," Harvey said.

"Neither did mine."

"Where are you, maggot-shits? Get down here, people. Now, people. I don't care if you run PT naked, dumbheads. I want you out of those rooms."

Doors slammed all over the R Company area as freshmen sprinted down the stairs.

"Thanks for the M&M's, Bill," Harvey said, laying an exhausted head on my shoulder. "They've got to let me eat. I've always needed regular meals."

"Harvey, you've got to pace yourself better. You look all washed out."

"I'm dying," he replied. "I've never done a pushup."

"Get down here, scumbags."

They took us on a two-mile run. We lapped the parade ground twice, circled the armory, passed the yacht basin, crossed the baseball field, and halted finally at the farthest perimeter of the campus by the edge of the salt marsh, which separated the grounds of the Institute from the Ashley River. On the run, some of my classmates had stumbled, faltered, dropped out from exhaustion, and lay moaning on the grass or on the pavement, surrounded by the flushed, hostile faces of several cadre members screaming for them to rise. They were being forced to rise, to run again, to catch up to the chanting, driven platoon, and to rejoin their classmates. To drop out was to betray your fellows, and the central theme of those first hours of plebe week was that no one had the right "to shit on his classmates." It was the first and most basic law of the Corps.

The cadre broke off from us and drove the platoon of freshmen into the marsh itself. The long blades of Spartina grass sliced our bare legs, and the marsh was undermined by the immensity of our herded, desperate weight. We began to sink into the mud, first to our ankles, then to our knees. When we had gone far enough, they stood us at rigid attention and told us they would beat our asses bloody with their swords if we moved a single muscle. My shoes filled with water. I did not know why they had brought us to the marsh or why they watched us with such amused attention from their vantage points on dry land.

As I stood there, I realized that except for Harvey, I did not know the face of another classmate. They all looked the same to me, a race of bald, timorous zombies chanting a debased, newly minted language in a country alive with cruelty. As I waited in the marsh grass, the other plebes seemed repugnant to me, odious and contemptible. They looked too much like me, and their faces, like mine, were in pain. In their humiliation, they reminded me of what I had become.

The cadre began to cover each other with spray from aerosol cans. The hiss of the spray sounded like a colloquy of snakes in the parched summer grass. My tongue was swollen and I needed water. With the sun declining, in the stillness of the late afternoon in the Carolina lowcountry, we suddenly knew why we had ended the long run by being forced into the marsh. The first mosquito bit into my thigh. Instinctively, I made a move to kill it.

"Don't you move, maggot," Fox screamed at me.

Clouds of gnats and mosquitoes began to swarm before my eyes. I counted eight mosquitoes on the neck of the boy in front of me. Our coming had stirred an invisible empire of insects, and we had come as food for that empire. Soon I felt the insects biting me in a dozen places. It seemed as though the entire motionless platoon disappeared beneath an awful living drapery of tiny wings and feathery black legs. Around me, I began to hear the moans of freshmen about to break from the ordeal by insect. The mosquitoes fed deeply and leisurely, as though they had come upon a freshly slaughtered battalion with the blood still warm and fragrant in the quiet veins. Some of the upper-classmen were laughing so hard they were on their knees in the grass.

When I thought I could not endure another moment, Blasingame ordered us to hit the ground and we obeyed his order gratefully. My body entered the mud with a feeling of exquisite relief. We snaked our way back to the dry land on our bellies, fingering our way through the mud and marsh grass and destroying a large colony of fiddler crabs in our passage. The mud felt delicious and cool.

When we reached solid land again, they lined us up in long squads, laughing at our appearance. Now we were ludicrous, like actors in blackface. They assured us again and again that this ceremony in the marsh was simply an amusing preliminary, that the plebe system had not even begun. A freshman behind me began crying. Two of the cadre cut him out of the platoon and began racking him somewhere behind us. He was still crying when they ran us back to the barracks to face Hell Night. They wanted us showered and fresh for the real test. And as we ran, I could no longer control my terror. I could no longer pretend I was brave or calm or anything but afraid. Of the sixty mud-stained plebes who quick-timed back to fourth battalion, ten of us would be leaving the Institute the next morning. I was not the only freshman suffering from a severe crisis of nerves.

At 2000 hours Hell Night began. They herded us into the large alcove room on the first division, dressed in our bathrobes, underwear, fatigue caps, and flip-flops. They had turned on the radiators in the room that morning and locked the windows. Outside in an airless, humid Charleston night, the temperature was ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. We could hear the hammering of the radiators furiously working out of season, and the heat in the room dazzled and staggered us simultaneously. Our collective stink after a minute in the room repelled even us. There was something tropical and malarial in the corrupt fragrance in the room.

As I entered, I heard a radio somewhere in the barracks loudly playing "I Want to Hold Your Hand." I would never hear that song again without feeling the urgent movement of plebes being driven into that dark cell of heat and violence. I would never be able to appreciate the music of the Beatles, never be able to define my coming of age through their joyous lyrics, because of that one radio playing that one song as I moved into the alcove room for the opening ceremonies of Hell Night. The Beatles died for me at that very moment, long before they ripened into the definitive voice of my generation. For in some far more essential way, I was abandoning my membership in that generation by the mere act of entering that room.

Only two members of the cadre, both sophomore corporals, were responsible for herding us into that room, but they packed us in with remarkable economy. It was as though some cynical modern theologian had challenged them to stand sixty freshmen on the head of a pin.

"Tighter. Tighter, dumbheads," they shouted. "Stick your dick into the asshole of the knob in front of you. Keep your eyes straight ahead. Tighter, people. Tighter."

We stood in a moist, trembling rectangle of flesh. An immense psychological pressure, palpable and inchoate, was loose in that room. Panic blossomed in grotesque and lurid forms among the freshmen in the sinking half-light of a luminous and mysterious dusk. In the shimmering greenhouse of the alcove, we sweated and waited in melancholy silence for the entrance of the full cadre.

After fifteen minutes, they marched into the room in an immaculate single file, moving with such precision that they seemed otherworldly, superhuman. They were elite and slim and malignant. Their presence was an articulate tribute to the force and puissance of men united by indivisible will, by absolute conviction. They were dressed in freshly starched cotton uniforms. Their grooming was impeccable. They were what we aspired to be. Circling us, they stood at attention, wincing as they caught the smell of us.

I heard someone else enter the room. His footsteps echoed loudly as though he were goose-stepping into the alcove. There was malice in his approach. He mounted a table directly in front of the plebes. Behind me, a freshman breathed hotly on my neck. I could feel the buttocks of the boy in front of me pressed flat against my groin. My arms were pinned to my side by the pressure of arms on my right and my left. Sweat poured down my body, and my eyes burned with salt and fatigue. The atmosphere was so thick and overheated it was like breathing underwater.

The figure on the table was R Company's first sergeant, Maccabee. He eyed us with contempt for several moments, then screamed out, "Sit down, dumbheads."

In the crash that followed in blind obedience to that single command, I do not understand why bones were not broken or why someone was not seriously hurt. We landed together in a massive, disarranged pile. My right leg was draped over someone's shoulder. Someone sat on my left arm. I was sitting astride another boy's leg. But they let us writhe and maneuver like worms in a can until at last all of us could see the speaker, who stood rigidly on the table slapping his open palm with a swagger stick.

Then Maccabee began to speak in a deep, pitiless voice: "Gentlemen, I am your first sergeant and I want you to prepare for the ram."

He slapped his swagger stick loudly against his open palm.

"It is my responsibility, gentlemen, to turn this pile of maggot-sperm into Institute men. From what I have seen already from this putrid mound of dogshit, I think I have been assigned a hopeless task. But with the help of this cadre and this swagger stick I'm going to do my best to make sure that Romeo Company remains the best goddam company in the Corps. To accomplish this, gentlemen, I'm going to jack this swagger stick up your foul assholes every time I get near you this year. I'm going to be a monster who screams at you during every waking moment. I'm going to be watching every single move you make this year, gentlemen. For tonight we begin the long agonizing journey that will transform you from worthless scumbags into full-fledged Institute men. The cadre has an awesome responsibility to uphold. We are responsible to all the men who wear the ring not to allow any diarrhea to survive the plebe system. No diarrhea, I repeat, gentlemen. No diarrhea will wear the ring. That is my personal vow to you.

"There are sixty of you in this room tonight. When your class graduates in four years, there will be only twenty survivors from this room. Most of you will leave the first year. Some of you will not measure up academically; some of you will leave for honor violations; and some of you"-he paused dramatically-"will leave tonight.

"I will tell you what we, the cadre, expect from you. We expect-as you were-we demand absolute unquestioning obedience from you at all times. If you hesitate, if you question, if you refuse, then the full fury of this cadre will descend upon you in terrible force, and together we will drive you out of this school in forty-eight hours. No knob can withstand the power and the fury of the brotherhood when it is directed at him alone. Your only chance for survival is to band together in a tight, impregnable brotherhood of your own, to protect each other, to care for each other, and to lean on each other from this day forward until the day you graduate.