Honor and Duty | Asian American Bookview

Honor and Duty
by Gus Lee
Alfred A Knopf Inc, New York, 1994, 425 pp, $24
A Chinese American West Point cadet gets caught up in a disciplinary scandal.

EXCERPT

t 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 desires; here I would fulfill his dreams. The outline of spires seemed to be etching 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 of 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 aone 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.

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