Honor and Duty

by Gus Lee

Genres: Asian American; War & Military; Suspense

Synopsis

Kai Ting knows what it means to become an American and lose all that is Chinese. It happened to his father, a former officer in Chiang Kai-shek's army, who never came to terms with his new life in the United States. Now, as a West Point cadet in the 1960s, Kai has a golden chance both to retain his heritage and to become undeniably, gloriously American.

But the Point has dangerous preconceptions about Asians, especially as the war in Vietnam escalates. Kai walks on a razor's edge...and falls into the dark pit of a cheating scandal. Suddenly, he must learn a new tribal behavior, a new etiquette. And his very survival depends on learning it fast....

Release date: August 20, 2014

Publisher: Ivy Books

Print pages: 420

Sample

1
 
 
BEAST
 
United States Military Academy, West Point, July 1, 1964
 
It was the most beautiful morning in my life. A warm and gentle breeze caressed my face and rustled my shirt as I walked up the winding river road toward West Point. It was late dawn of Reception Day for a thousand men and boys. No one wanted to be here more than I. Sunlight glittered on the Hudson and birds trilled in deep green oaks and maples as I followed the stone wall of Thayer Road to the beat of my pounding heart. I swung the suitcase to the lilt of imaginary bagpipes and the murmur of distant drums. The bag, filled with my worldly goods, was light. I was going to trade it and my past for a new life. I wanted to be the first to report.
 
An imposing array of tall, granite towers and stark, gray battlements came into view. Their majestic austerity consumed my vision with each nearing step. I inhaled history. After all the years of hope, I was here. This was America’s Hanlin Academy, its Forest of Pens, designed by Washington, built by Jefferson. It was the object of my father’s desire; here I would fulfill his dreams. The outline of spires seemed to be etchings from his spiritual blueprint, in which I was the human ink.
 
The grand oaks whispered sibilantly, carrying away my father’s expectations. For a precious, golden moment, West Point was my dream. I heard the paratrooper captain from the Academy entrance exams say, “West Point is a school in the mountains and the clouds. There, at the River and the Rock, young men are bound to each other not by hopes of fame but by pledges to honor. A West Pointer is an honest man, all his life. He always strives to do the right thing.”
 
I was seventeen and thirsted for redemption from more wrongs than I could admit. The air was different, and I paused. American flags waved softly, and I imagined the yellow pennons of the Ch’ing emperors snapping across the years of history in the face of gritty Manchurian winds. I saw the great Chinese military hero Guan Yu and his red face and barrel chest. I stood straighter, flexing the arms that had worked in a YMCA weight room for ten years, preparing for this day. I was strong and ready. I exercised one of my talents, learned only this year: I smiled from an inner pleasure. Sparrows whistled in high, five-note calls and a deep and distant buzzer rang. Heat came down and the earth began to warm.
 
A mile later, I obeyed the sign “Candidates Report Here.” I stood alone at the great doors to a gray-stoned building. A tall, silver-haired janitor with a badly scarred face stood with his mop and stared at me, a Negro elder studying a Chinese youth at the gateway to West Point. “Good luck to you, young man,” he said as I entered. “Thank you, sir,” I replied, warmed by his kindness.
 
The building was a vast gymnasium. I was processed through tables manned by straight-postured Army sergeants. I filled out an ID tags form (Ting, Kai/O-positive/religion: none), surrendered cash ($18.61), received inoculations, and did pull-ups. I could normally do fifty. Unnerved by the observing sergeants, I did forty-two, but I basked in their admiration. I was photographed in a jockstrap, which could not cloak my scoliosis, the curvature of the spine.
 
The candidate buses unloaded, and my status of being the first was lost. The reminder, in echoing tones, of a five-year service obligation after graduation, induced a few to leave, beginning a process of attrition that would last for over three years. The grim words invited me to belong to something honorable; there was no going back. We were briefed on the oath of service and directed to Central Area. I was the only Chinese I saw.
 
As we left with our bags to meet our fates, the sergeants gazed at us as if we were boys instead of projections of parental ambition. The Negro janitor and I exchanged a glance. He was solemn, as if he were saying farewell to someone he knew. I nodded, appreciating his presence, wishing he knew that I had been raised as a Negro youth, knowing that, for an American, I always dipped my head too low in deference to China.
 
We stepped into the bright and angry flare of a day that was now alarmingly hot. The heat broiled my skin. I was entering a huge quadrangle filled with a deep, primitive roar of voices.
 
A breathtakingly immaculate cadet awaited me. He thrust his intensely focused features directly into my face and I jerked Man—too close! “Hi,” I gulped, “my name’s Kai and—”
 
“DROP THAT BAG!” he roared, and I recoiled as my unguarded mind took his angry words like punches to the head. I gaped as my smarts fled before this yu chao, bad omen. I placed my luggage at my feet. Others began to drop their bags in small “whaps” across the Area.
 
“PICK IT UP!” the cadet screamed, then bellowed, “DROP THAT BAG!” I winced as the bag smashed onto the concrete: it contained my father’s carefully preserved Colt super .38 automatic pistol. “PICK IT UP!” I picked it up, faster. “DROP THAT BAG!” I dropped it. “PICK IT UP!” I recovered it before the “UP!” I had become a human marionette, bobbing at my master, disarmed by the emotion.
 
“MISTER!” the cadet shouted. “YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY EXECUTE THE COMMAND GIVEN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”
 
“Yes,” I said, voice quavering, eardrums ringing.
 
“MISTER! You have THREE ANSWERS: ‘YES, SIR,’ ‘NO, SIR,’ AND ‘NO EXCUSE, SIR.’ DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”
 
“Uh, yes, sir,” I said, politely.
 
He was impeccable in a starched white shirt with blue, gold-striped shoulder epaulets; a bright, black-visored, snow-white cap; razor-sharp, black-striped gray pants; brilliant shoes; and advertising-quality white gloves. His name tag said “Rice,” a name I liked. I had never seen anyone so marvelously perfect.
 
“I CANNOT HEAR YOU, SMACKHEAD!” he bellowed, as if I were back at the hotel rather than an inch from his clanging tonsils.
 
“Yes, sir,” I said, pupils and testicles contracting.
 
“POP OFF, MISTER! KNOCK YOUR EQUIPMENT TOGETHER! YOU SOUND LIKE A WEEPING GIRL! DO YOU HEAR ME?! DROP THAT BAG!” he screamed.
 
“YES, SIR!” I cried, wincing at my own voice, the bag slapping the concrete. His face filled my vision. Uncle Shim believed that shouting was for thoughtless men. To my mother, shouting was a mortal sin. A street ditty inanely ran through my addled brain:
 
Step on a crack, break yo’ momma’s back.
 
Yell at her face, lose all yo’ grace.
 
“BRACE, MISTER! You are CROOKED! PUSH that neck IN! KEEP YOUR EYES UP—SQUASH THAT NECK BACK! MAKE WRINKLES IN YOUR CHIN! CRAM IT IN! ROLL YOUR SHOULDERS BACK! PUFF OUT THAT PUNY, BIRDLIKE CHEST! HEELS TOGETHER, FEET AT FORTY-FIVE DEGREES! ELBOWS IN! THUMBS BEHIND THE SEAMS OF YOUR TROUSERS! KEEP YOUR HEAD STRAIGHT! ROLL YOUR HIPS UNDER! How old are you, SMACKHEAD!?”
 
I balked. He had almost spit in my face. “Se-seventeen,” I said. Ten years in the ring spoke to me: take your stance, gloves high, and box this bully with the Godzilla voice. It was an old tune: China boy trips in and bingo from the jump, it’s Fist City.
 
“IRP!—IMMEDIATE RESPONSE, PLEASE! ‘SEVENTEEN, SIR,’ RIGHT?! NOT ‘Se-seventeen.’ ” The “IRP!” was the dark, sonorous belch of a thunder lizard; “RIGHT?!” was the sound of silk being slit by a sharp butcher knife. The cadence and emphasis of his speech were almost Negro, but there was no comfort in it.
 
“Yessir, seventeen, SIR, YESSIR!!”
 
“CROTHEAD,” he hissed, “I WANT SEVENTEEN WRINKLES! PICK UP THAT BAG! BRACE! ROLL YOUR SHOULDERS DOWN AND BACK! LIFT YOUR HEAD UP! CRAM YOUR NECK IN! BRACING IS THE MILITARY POSTURE FOR A MEMBER OF THE FOURTH CLASS! IF YOU SURVIVE BEAST, YOU WILL BRACE FOR ONE YEAR! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, DUMBJOHNWILLIE CROT!? SOUND-OFF!”
 
“YES, SIR!” I cried.
 
“KEEP YOUR BEADY LITTLE EYES STRAIGHT AHEAD! NEW CADETS ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO GAZE AROUND! REPORT TO THE MAN IN THE RED SASH AND SAY, ‘Sir, New Cadet X reports to the Man in the Red Sash as ordered.’ PRESENT ARMS—SALUTE HIM. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, CROTWASTE!”
 
“YES, SIR!” I screamed, catching only the inner threat of his incomprehensible speech. I struggled with the seventeen parts of bracing while recovering my luggage and trying to breathe the bad air and survive the truly awful lack of ho, harmony, in this place.
 
“NEW CADETS DOUBLE-TIME WHEN THEY ARE ABOUT THEIR DUTIES. ‘DOUBLE-TIME’ MEANS YOU WILL RUN IN A MILITARY MANNER, FOREARMS PARALLEL TO THE GROUND, HEAD IN. POST, MISTER!” he bellowed, and I trembled isometrically in exaggerated rigidity, trying to simulate an American picket fence post, stiff, unbreathing, and white.
 
“POST, MISTER! DO NOT SPAZ ON ME! TAKE YOUR POST AND GET YOUR SORRY UNMILITARY WAYS OUT OF MY AREA! MOVE IT!”
 
I bolted and crashed into someone. “Oof,” he said. I bounced off, staggered sideways in the staccato minuet of a bracing wino confused by the rotation of the earth. I cleverly dropped my bag and tripped over it backward and crashed awkwardly. My victim smashed hard into the Area, nose down, hurling his bag into another candidate, who went down like a lone pin plucked by a speeding bowling ball. “OW!” said this one. The admission of pain drew cadre like shoppers to bargains and they descended on him with rabid enthusiasm. The man I had hit was Sonny Rappa, whom I had met yesterday at the Hotel Thayer. I helped him up while making seventeen wrinkles. I wanted to apologize but it wasn’t one of my three answers. I mouthed “Sorry,” my pantomime making his cheeks redden, his cheeks swelling. He guffawed. He covered his mouth.