The plebes arrived on the following day. They came from forty states and seven foreign countries. Seven hundred freshmen, most of them accompanied by their parents, entered through the Gates of Legrand on a day of astonishing clearness, a sweltering, bone-rusting day beneath a blue sky that made the heat seem all the more potent and dazzling. The campus was weightless and tense.

This was the day officially set aside for the swift business of transformation; a day when civilians would become recruits and boys would be reduced to something less than boys. The cadre was brisk, efficient, and courteous. The courtesy would vanish when the parents departed from campus that afternoon.

I spent the morning walking among the freshmen and their parents. Outside the four barracks, I witnessed scenes of unbearable tenderness in the awkward charades of sons leaving their families for the first time. I saw women kissing their sons again and again and the sons pull back blushing and moved. Fathers shook hands stiffly with their sons as they attempted to address them as men for the first time. The cadre watched, their eyes invisible beneath the oiled brims of their field caps. They joked and laughed with both the parents and the recruits. The laughter would cease when the parents left through the Gates of Legrand.

The plebes were fine-looking boys for the most part, but their eyes were lusterless and fearful. You could see in their faces the need to survive this one day, this one hour, so that they then could be about the business of surviving the year. You could feel their need to escape the soft, worried eyes of their families. They wanted to make it as easy as possible on their families and on themselves. Most of all, they wanted it to begin. At last, they wanted to measure for themselves the mystique and cunning weight of the plebe system. They wanted to test themselves in its landscape. But the landscape would not present itself until the parents left the city of Charleston.

Parents took a last measure of their sons, so that at the end of this year they could calculate how far their sons had traveled.

As the morning deepened, more and more freshmen took leave of their families and entered the main sally port of Number Two barracks to face the icefield of the cadre's eyes. Inside the barracks, cadre members sat at card tables with file boxes and name tags, their black field hats pulled low over the eyes and noses giving each of them the appearance of a monstrous, carnivorous species of bird. Once you entered the barracks, you surrendered to the plebe system, renounced the world outside the Gates of Legrand, and submitted to the laws of the Corps.

By 1000 hours, sophomore corporals swollen with the joy of calling cadence for the first time expertly marched squads of freshmen to Durrell Hall for the ritual haircuts. Other long lines of freshmen queued up outside of Alumni Hall being fitted for uniforms. I walked across the parade ground to Durrell Hall, where I watched the ceremony of Institute barbers render new heads bald with several athletic sweeps of their humming razors. A black janitor swept the immense piles of hair toward the back door. Each movement of his broom brought forth a new creature with its own perverse shape. After their haircuts, the freshmen, transformed now into plebes, moved back across the parade ground with their heads shiny as light bulbs. The air filled up with the rhythm of cadence. There was a decorous, efficient simplicity in this transfiguration from civilian to military, and the cadre performed its tasks with extraordinary precision and dispatch.

I enjoyed watching the fear and anxiety of the plebes. I had to admit that. It made me feel infinitely superior to these trembling, perspiring newcomers. I, along with every member of the cadre, had experienced my own first day. I had known the terror of this day but now found I enjoyed seeing the terror in others. The Institute had changed me as it changed all its sons. I knew that anyone who aspired to become an Institute man had to tolerate the solitary astonishment of that first day. All had to know and endure the awful violence of separation. I had all the markings of an upperclassman: There was something instinctive and primal in me that wanted all plebes to suffer as I had suffered. That and that alone gave any kind of certification to the fear and solitude of my own plebe year.

On the second floor of Durrell Hall at 1100 hours I listened to the General address the parents on what to expect from the Institute and what to expect from their sons in the coming weeks. Clearly, some of the parents were nervous (and, brother, did they have a right to be, I thought), but the vast majority of them believed that the Institute offered their sons the very finest education in the country. But apprehension was loose in the room; it created a tremulous, undirected energy that danced above the crowd like phosphorous on a night sea. They had come to be reassured, comforted, even praised. They rose when the General entered and gave him an emotional standing ovation that lasted for minutes. Imperially, he faced them, tall, slim, and imposing, as if he had been fashioned and whittled down from the barrel of a howitzer. When the applause subsided, his voice broke through the hall.

"Because of you, the parents of the Class of 1970, we have been able to assemble the finest incoming class of freshmen in the history of Carolina Military Institute. They will be trained by the finest cadre in the school's history. They have chosen the finest school in the United States of America."

The parents, hearing what they needed to hear, applauded wildly. With an upraised hand, he silenced them and continued: "Today, your sons are alone. They are frightened and they are leaving home for the first time. I promise you this: We will not strip your son of his individuality; we will enhance it. Today, you hand us a new recruit. In June, I will hand you back a cadet. Four Junes from now, I will hand you back an Institute man, and I can promise all of you parents that it will be one of the proudest days in his and your lives. He will wear the ring of the Institute, the tangible symbol of his worth and sacrifice, a symbol that is recognized all over the world by the men who belong to the brotherhood, to the proud intrepid fraternity of Institute men."

A reverent silence gripped the hall as the Great Man spoke. His voice controlled the audience by the power and conviction of his fervent, undistilled belief.

"Now," he said, his mood lightening. "I will tell you parents something that I know is a fact. In the next month you will be receiving a frantic phone call from your son. Mothers, you will be especially vulnerable to this call. In fact, your sons will probably call when they are sure their fathers are not home. When this call comes, brace yourself. Your son will be asking you, possibly begging you, to let him come home. Tell him no. Emphatically, tell him no. Tell him that under no circumstances will you allow him to quit before the completion of his freshman year. Tell him that you did not raise him to be a quitter, a man who ran away the first time he faced adversity.

"The first year is hard, ladies and gentlemen; make no mistake about it. It was hard when I was a freshman; it will be hard one hundred years from now. I will let you in on a little secret. As President of this college, I have done everything in my power to make the system harder. But the system is also effective. It has produced an extraordinary breed of Americans, and your son is about to embark on a journey that will make him equal to that breed. As you were, it will make him better than that breed. We are producing a higher quality of Institute man now than ever before. That is because America requires more than ever the kind of man produced by the Institute."

He paused, drew a deep breath, and, with a slow magisterial gaze, swept his eyes from the right side of the hall to the left. The pause was prelude. He always ended his speeches with grand, symphonic statements. I always waited for his exultant finishes; I always enjoyed them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I will tell you why I chose not to go into politics after my military career was over. I came to the Institute not simply because I believe in the greatness of this college. No. I came here because I was and am appalled at the weakness and vulnerability of America. It has always been my dream that the Institute and her sons would be at the vanguard of a moral revolution, a resurgence of the American dream itself. It is my most heartfelt desire that the American spirit be rejuvenated from its weakness and degeneracy by the disciplined, patriotic bands of men we produce at the Institute each year. I am asking you this favor. Give your sons to me and let me keep them for this first year. I want them to know the satisfaction of submitting themselves fully to a system of discipline that has been tried and tested as effective again and again. I want each of them to know the pleasure of walking up to his parents four years from now, strong, proud, clear-eyed, and erect, and thanking you for giving him the strength and fortitude to endure the rigors of the plebe system. America is fat, ladies and gentlemen. America is fat and sloppy and amoral. We need men of iron to get her on the right path again. We need Institute men. We need your sons. Help us not to lose them in the difficult but rewarding days ahead. Help us make them submit to the will of the cadre, the shapers and molders of our strong creed. Help us turn them from the frightened boys you have brought us today into men of iron, men of the Institute."

General Durrell walked off the stage quickly and down the aisle to the exit. He did not acknowledge the deafening cheers. As he disappeared, I thought that he had neglected to tell the parents some important and vital statistics. Of the seven hundred boys who arrived on campus this August morning, one hundred would not survive plebe week, three hundred would not survive plebe year. Only men of iron would remain. Men like me, I thought.

Chapter Eight.

So the fearful order lived again. From reveille to taps, the barracks filled with the screams of the cadre. During plebe week, laryngitis was a mark of vocational honor among sergeants and corporals and an almost universal condition among the freshmen. With the coming of the plebes, the barracks seemed normal again. It was difficult to relate to that environment without freshmen loping along the galleries with their zombie-like gaits and their chins tucked into fierce braces. It required the presence of human fear for normality to be restored after the long silent emptiness of summer. When the plebes arrived and the cadre was in full cry, the barracks came into a stunned and violent life again, full-blooded and lusty with the aphrodisiacs of duty and cruelty.

But now in my senior year the plebe system no longer seemed serious to me. For the most part, I was aloof to this inconsequential suffering. Some of the plebes would leave and some would stay. They had chosen the Institute, and their misery affected me only occasionally. My vision had acquired a longer range; it had deepened and broadened in my tenure at the school. Many of the boys who suffered most grievously would turn into the cruelest guidon corporals, the most sadistic platoon leaders. That was the way it was with the system; that was the way it was with the human race. These same bereft and frightened boys would populate the nightmares of future freshmen. I had seen it happen over and over and over again. I would not get involved with them, I promised myself. It was not my fault they were here and I had business with only one of them.

I waited for two days before I went to see the black freshman, Pearce; I knew it would be impolitic to make contact with him too early. An early rendezvous would arouse suspicion among the cadre of E Company, and Pearce would have enough on his mind during Hell Night without worrying about assignations and plots hatched in secrecy against him.

But on Wednesday morning, I entered the E Company area in second battalion to introduce myself to Pearce in my newly appointed role as his lord high protector. The E Company freshmen were on the quadrangle learning the rudiments and intricacies of the manual of arms. The steel-plated bottoms of the M-1 stocks smacked against the cement squares in unison. In the history of the Institute, there had never been an easier freshman to spot among the ranks. For several moments, I studied Pearce's physique with an admiring eye. He had the squat muscled body of a middle-weight wrestler, and he would have little difficulty in surviving the physical rigors of the system. His coloring was remarkable, a deep glistening ebony like a spit-shined shoe. His very blackness surprised me: Southern colleges traditionally began their experiments in integration with the lightest-skinned Negroes available on the planet. As I watched the E Company freshmen practice going from right shoulder to port arms, Alexander and Braselton walked up and stood beside me in the shadow that the second division cast over the first.

"This the first time you've seen the nigger, McLean?" Braselton asked.

"Hi, Wayne," I answered. "Yeh. This is my first glimpse of the young smackhead. They weren't lying, were they? He certainly does not appear to be white."

"Blackest son of a bitch that ever lived. You better see him quick, McLean," Braselton continued, looking toward Alexander. "We'll be running him out of here in a day or two."

"Maybe. Maybe not," I said, in my Gary Cooper voice.

"I heard John here say that he'd turn in his rank if he hasn't run that nigger out of South Carolina by Christmas."

I looked at John Alexander, who was gazing at me with what I know he considered to be unbearable menace. "I'd pay for his transportation if he took John here with him," I said.

"What are you doing in my battalion, McLean?" Alexander demanded, staring down at my comfortable but unshined shoes.

"I'm thinking about buying it, John. My quarters are so small."

"Fuck you, McLean," Alexander said. "Beat it."

"But, John, we haven't really had a chance to talk except for last week in the General's office. Our friendship is too beautiful a thing to wither from neglect. Let's spend the night, put our hair up in curlers, giggle a lot, and I'll stick my prick in your mouth so you won't have to use your thumb."

"Get out of my battalion, McLean," Alexander ordered.

"It's not yours, your highness."

"I think you ought to go, Will," Braselton said officiously.

"I don't like stool pigeons in my battalion, McLean, and you have no business over here during plebe week. Unless the rumor is true and you're over here to kiss the nigger's black ass," Alexander said, moving in closer to me.

"You're wasting your time with the nigger, McLean," Braselton insisted. "If John says he's gone, that means he's long gone. John eats knobs for breakfast."

"I bet Pearce makes it through the year, Wayne. I bet ten bucks he watches us graduate in June."

"I don't want to steal your money, McLean." Braselton laughed. "You're my classmate. And you don't seem to hear what I'm telling you. John here says that he's going to run him out or turn in his rank."

"Alexander would rather turn in his pubic hair than his rank," I said. "But he's not going to run that kid out, Wayne. That's no ordinary knob. That there boy has been carefully selected from the whole black race in these degenerate Deep South states to represent his people in this shithole we call a military college."

"If it's such a shithole, why didn't you leave three years ago, McLean?" Alexander asked.

"I couldn't stand the idea of missing parade on Friday."

"Don't you ever get serious about anything, McLean?" Braselton said angrily. "Or do you just enjoy being a professional wiseass?"

"Sometimes I do get serious, Wayne. But only with people I take seriously. But let's do cut the bullshit. I've already heard that you've sworn to run the nigger out, Alexander. But that doesn't exactly make you unique. So have five hundred other guys in the Corps. The Bear has given me the assignment of making sure the nigger gets an even break. No favors, just an even break."

"He'll be treated like every other knob in my battalion," Alexander declared huffily.

"That's all I want."

"Then why doesn't the Bear assign some asshole like you to every goddam dumbhead in the Corps?"

"The Bear has this strange idea, Alexander," I said. "He feels that some of you Deep South white boys look upon our black brother with something less than a tolerant eye. Word from the Bear to Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Alexander. As Pearce goes, so goes Alexander."

"There's been a lot of talk about the Bear among the alumni, McLean," Braselton said. "A lot of people think he's done a poor job handling discipline."

"Run the nigger out and you'll get a chance to see how he handles discipline," I answered, turning back to watch the E Company freshmen.

"I'm going to find a way to get you this year, McLean," Alexander said as he and Braselton moved toward the front sally port. "That's a promise, stool pigeon."

"Gosh, it was nice talking to you boys," I replied.

Watching Alexander leave, I decided you could write a fairly accurate biography of him just by observing him crossing a street. There was a swaggering cockiness to his walk, and he strutted like an imperfect cross between a pit bull and a bird of paradise.

I drifted into the harsh sunlight over toward Pearce's platoon and waited for the first sergeant to give the order for the drill period to end. When the freshmen broke for their rooms, I screamed at Pearce who was ten feet away from me.

"Halt, dumbhead. Rack it in, Pearce," I yelled.

Approaching him slowly, I stared into Pearce's dark brown eyes. He returned my stare measure for measure. For a plebe, his stare was too intense and bellicose. He had eyes that issued challenges. For several moments, I just looked at him and watched the sweat pour from his brow. I was studying a part of history. For one hundred twenty-five years the Institute had been an enterprise of Caucasians until this squat dark boy who stood before me made a decision to reverse history in his own small way.

"Pearce," I said at last.

"Yes, sir," he screamed.

"Talk quietly. I'm the guy they told you about."

"Yes, sir," he said in a softer voice, but one dangerously strained and undermined by the pressure of his first two days.

"You've got great taste in colleges, my friend. Heinrich Himmler must have been your guidance counselor in high school. But that's your business, not mine. Here's what I want to tell you. You can make it through here. You've got a good company commander and he's going to help. A lot of other guys are going to help, too. A lot of guys are pulling for you as much as they pull for any other poor dumbhead who comes here. Now hand me your rifle and give me ten pushups just for show, so these poor white boys will think I'm doing my level best to make your life hell."

I could feel the eyes of the barracks studying us at leisure. Pearce was astonishingly visible, and I could not hold a conversation with him without attracting the curiosity of everyone in sight. I returned his rifle to him after he had counted out his ten pushups and jumped up again to attention.

"Wasn't that fun?" I inquired.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Sure it was, Pearce. So is cancer," I said. "Now here's our main problem, Pearce. Everyone's going to know by this afternoon that I'm your liaison on campus. So if anyone on campus ever sees us talking, they're going to think you're a stool pigeon, and they'll run you out of here for sure. This is going to be the last time you and I are ever seen together on campus. Here's how we're going to communicate. If you ever need to tell me something, if there's ever a time when you have any names to give or if anyone looks like they're taking an extreme dislike to you for reasons pertaining, how should I say it, to your unusual racial makeup . . . then you write me a note on a piece of paper and place it between pages three hundred eight and nine of The Decline of the West by Oswald Spengler in the philosophy section of the library. The book hasn't been checked out in the history of the Institute. Can you remember that, Pearce? It's very important and I'll be going to the library twice a day."

"Three hundred eight and nine, Decline of the West by Spangler."

"Spengler, Pearce. Now I know all this sounds like a spy movie, but some people think there may be a secret group on campus that does not want you to enjoy the fruits of education at this grand institution. I belong to a group that does. Any questions?"

"Sir?" he asked.

"Speak freely, Pearce."

"What group do you belong to, sir?"

"We are called the nigger-lovers, Pearce."

He smiled.

"Glad you've got a sense of humor, dumbhead. You're going to need it. Good luck and welcome to the most miserable year in your entire life. Just do what they tell you and show lots of enthusiasm. If they're killing you and you show lots of enthusiasm, they think it's a sign of a wonderful attitude. You've got to change the expression in your eyes, Pearce. That's going to hurt you. It's the guys who looked pissed off that they try to break. I speak from experience, friend. Be hearing from you."

"I hope not, sir."

"Me, too, Pearce. By the way, how does it feel to be the dumbest fucking nigger in the world?"

"Not so good right now, sir."

"That's how I felt my knob year. Like the dumbest white boy, like the stupidest goddam cracker that ever lived. The funny thing was, Pearce, I was right. Absolutely right. Now I'm going to scream at you and order you up to your room. We've got to make this look official. Get ready for McLean, the assracker. You better fly to your room, dumbhead," I screamed into Pearce's ear.

Pearce turned and sprinted for the E Company stairwell on the first division. "I said move, boy, move. Move. Move. Move," I chanted as he moved rapidly up the stairs, the sweat staining his gray cotton field shirt from his underarm to his waist.

Chapter Nine.

That afternoon I sat on the auditorium stage of Durrell Hall watching the plebes filing down the long rows of folding chairs minutes before I would address them on the Institute's honor system. The shouts of cadremen rang through the hall, and the plebes, bovine and disoriented, moved without animation in a blind, stunned herd toward their seats. The smell of them was overpowering. It was easy to loathe a group that smelled so horrible.

Gauldin Grace, the chairman of the honor committee, rose to deliver a brief synoptic history of the honor system at the Institute. His voice, fervent and evangelical, carried with it an absolute conviction of the rectitude and efficacy of a society ruled by honor; it quavered slightly and conveyed the earnestness and gentle decency of the speaker. In his simplicity and radiant faith in all systems of order, Gauldin represented to me the embodiment of the Institute man. Unimaginative but virtuous, unflamboyant but solid, he was good in the religious sense of that oft-abused, word. He embraced the honor code as his personal catechism, and there was nothing ironic or incredulous in his solemn devotions to its service. When he introduced me to the freshmen, he listed my credentials and accomplishments at the Institute. It was an embarrassingly short introduction.

I rose and walked to the podium. Power flowed through my veins like a quicksilver intake of oxygen. When I spoke, my voice, magnified by the microphone, boomed out godlike over the hall. It was the phony, insincere voice I always use when I address assemblies. Today I was princely; today I was cadre.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning, sir," they roared back.

"Gentlemen, my name is Will McLean and I'm a senior private in Romeo Company. This is my fourth year as a private at the Institute. You and I are the same rank. When the rest of the Corps returns next week, you'll see other privates like me, but I'm your first glimpse of this strange, maligned breed of cadet life. Today, I would like to talk to you about honor.

"There are some wonderful things about this school, although it's very hard for you to notice them right now. You are thinking, quite naturally, that you screwed up badly when you selected the Institute as your college. But the Institute has promised to make a man out of you and this Institute will do it.

"Gentlemen, I too entered the Institute as a spindly freshman. Like you, the cadre tortured, humiliated, beat, and otherwise abused me during my plebe year. They made me do pushups until I dropped, run the stairs until I couldn't feel my legs, and hold my M-1 straight out until I couldn't feel my arms. But at the end of the year when I looked into the mirror, I saw what the plebe system was all about. I had become an Institute man. I had a twenty-inch neck, legs like redwood trees, the temper of a piranha, and my IQ had dropped a hundred points. In other words, gentlemen, I had become the rock who stands confidently before you today."

I could feel Gauldin's rising disapproval blaze into life behind me as the laughter grew in volume. It made Gauldin ill to see a freshman smile. He had always opposed my militant flippancy about the plebe system, and I knew it would offend him deeply to see it directed at newly ordained aspirants to the invigorating rituals of that system. Laughter was the one unassailable survival technique of the plebe year, and one you would never learn from the cadre.

"Gentlemen," I continued, "you do not understand what you've been going through in the past couple of days. It is as though the world has gone suddenly berserk, completely unraveled, taken leave of its senses, and someone has thrown you like meat to the wolves. I remember sitting as a freshman listening to the chairman and vice chairman of the honor court intoning very solemnly and pompously about the importance of honor and how you would be kicked out of school if you did not have it. I remember how the two cadets who spoke to me about honor that day seemed as mean and inhuman as all the rest of the cadre. I came away from plebe week with a very distorted view of honor. The men who told me about honor brutalized me in the barracks, and they did not seem to be honorable men to me.

"I later found out that they were men of high integrity. But I was confused by the relationship of honor to the plebe system. I never quite separated honor from the first traumatic week of life at the Institute. Honor was a concept of fear. This is how my cadre failed me during plebe week."

I then told them in the clearest, simplest language possible the rules and pitfalls of the honor system as written and practiced by cadets of the Institute. I praised the uncompromising simplicity of the system. The cadet cannot lie, steal, or cheat, or tolerate anyone who does. I cited cases and gave illustrative examples from the past. Briefly, I recited the history of the honor system and compared it to the systems of other military academies. As I spoke, I began to feel rather foolish as I faced the inert artillery of their stunned, botanized gazes. Over and over again I repeated the word "honor," until it became like a pulse beat of my speech. The abstraction defeated me, strangled me in its maddening inexpressibility. It was like describing the hierarchy of the Trinity or the language of phalaropes. I could feel myself struggle with a game and ardent inarticulateness as I tried to explain the concept of honor to the staggered, uncomprehending mass of boys who shivered in the air conditioning below me. I sounded like a minor character in a flawed and cheaply produced operetta who delivers charmingly absurd recitations that have no meaning.