<p>Here's a piece posted by William Kristol of the Weekly Standard about a visit to West Point by a friend last week. West Point is, indeed, a special place with special people. Our children are (or will be) better people for having spent time there.</p>
<p>A Day at West Point</p>
<p>An e-mail from my friend Michael Anton, who gave me permission to pass it on:</p>
<p>I visited West Point today for a series of business meetings, mostly with faculty and some with Cadets. Not to go into too much boring detail, but the purpose was to get some feedback for some work my boss and colleagues and I are doing that will (we think and hope) shake up the military's thinking in a positive way.</p>
<p>It was of course the eighth anniversary of 9/11, which was on my mind as I listened to the NY radio stations' remembrance shows on the way up. But once there the only reminder I saw was flags at half-staff. I understand that they had a ceremony earlier in the day but I did not see it.</p>
<p>The meetings went very well. The faculty were receptive and the students were extremely bright and inquisitive.</p>
<p>The day was not all business. We got to see, among other things, the Formation: the entire Corps of Cadets lines up by brigade on down outside the Mess Hall, then they all file in together for lunch. Today it rained like hell. Army regulations say no umbrellas with uniforms, ever. So they get wet.</p>
<p>They feed the entire Corps (4,400) plus much of the faculty and staff in one sitting, every day, in a gigantic building shaped like a six-pointed asterisk. Every table has ten seats. Most tables are all cadets, but there are often visitors. Our table had four visitors.</p>
<p>In the center of the hall -- the hub of the spokes, as it were -- there is a balcony several stories up that they call the "poop deck." (I forgot to ask why the Army uses a naval term.) </p>
<p>"VIP" visitors are brought up there and announced. Today there was the captain of the Army football team from the late '50s who is being inducted into the West Point Athletics Hall of Fame tomorrow. Then the football coach gave a pep talk in advance of the Army-Duke game tomorrow. The Cadets gave him a rousing "Hoo-ah" Army cheer.</p>
<p>Then we ate. The tables are all fully set before anyone comes in, and the food is brought out on platters. Today they served a down-home Southern meal: fried chicken, sweet potatoes, collard greens, corn bread (all of it surprisingly good). There was also an apple pie and tub of ice cream on every table. Every table has cadets in every grade. The plebes (first year cadets) "serve" everyone else and are not to speak unless spoken to, unless they are offering food, cutting the pie, etc. When they do speak, they shout.</p>
<p>The whole process -- from the end of the Formation until the Cadets eat and leave -- takes at most 20 minutes. They can't linger because they all have somewhere to be and they absolutely have to be on time.</p>
<p>I spoke to a young Second Class (third year) who is an econ major and who intends to be an armor officer. He had interned at the White House this past summer, so we told stories about the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and I told him of my time at the CIA, NSC, and WH. He is an impressive young man. All of the ones I talked to or just listened to were.</p>
<p>About halfway through the meal, there was another announcement from the poop deck. This was surprising, as I had just assumed that these things were done before the meal and then were over with. I also assumed that they were always festive. Not so.</p>
<p>Cadet First Class (i.e., fourth year or senior) _____ _____ announced the death in Afghanistan scarcely a day earlier of 2nd Lt. ______ _______, West Point, Class of 2008. The dead soldier's brother is a Cadet Second Class (i.e., third year). A minute of silence was observed. 5,000 people absolutely shut the bleep up. You could have audiotaped the sound of a single ant's footfalls in that hall. The announcement was unexpected, jarring, like a punch in the gut. I almost cried. The Cadets -- none of them older than 22, I would guess -- did not flinch.</p>
<p>The dead soldier was probably 22 or 23. He sought out this career knowing he might get shot in some awful desert, and eagerly went anyway. There were 4,400 kids in that hall who might meet the same fate. 1,100 might meet it in less than a year. No one at my college ever thought of such a thing, nor did they have any reason to. Those 4,400 live with it every day. They live to hear that their friends -- their brothers, literally and figuratively -- are dead even before they themselves graduate. And they soldier on.</p>
<p>Somewhere, a mom and dad just lost their boy before age 25. They also know that another of their boys -- maybe their only other child -- is about to go and risk the same fate.</p>
<p>As many of you know, I am plagued by a pessimistic turn of mind. I did not drive north today looking for an antidote to that vice, but I found it -- or it found me. America is a lot stronger than we think in our darker moments.</p>