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
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
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