The Lords of Discipline by Pat Conroy

capture of a heavily fortified Japanese position, he had screamed to his staff that he didn’t care if it took a shipload of dog tags to do it. General Durrell won that battle while incurring extraordinarily heavy losses and picked up a battlefield nickname in the process. “Shipload” Durrell was more popular with the American public than he was with the infantrymen who cleared the way for his triumphal push toward the Japanese mainland.
    “The gentleman who did not finish the swimming race became one of our most successful alumni, Mr. McLean. He is a lawyer in Nashville, Tennessee, and I hear from him every year. He thanks me now for giving him such a valuable lesson so early in life. He has never quit at anything since. The reason I am letting you address the freshmen is because you fought back when I confronted you with Alexander and Braselton. I love a competitive spirit. Now, just what is the nature of your enmity with Cadet Alexander?”
    “I think he’s a jerk, sir.”
    “You are talking to the President of this college, Mr. McLean,” the General snapped harshly at me. “You will mind your mouth and manners.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. It began with a disagreement our plebe year.”
    “I happen to think Cadet Alexander is one of the most impressive cadets ever to go through the Long Gray Line. A born leader.”
    “Yes, sir. He thinks that too, sir. I just don’t agree, sir.”
    “Do you think you are potentially as fine a leader as Cadet Alexander?”
    “No, sir. I don’t think I’m much of a leader at all. Sir, Alexander and I had a fight when we were knobs. Not much of a fight, really, more of a shoving match. It happened after another freshman left the Institute. Since then, we’ve kept out of each other’s way. We usually don’t even talk to each other on campus unless it’s to exchange unpleasantries. It’s nothing serious, sir. There’s always going to be a couple of people you don’t like out of two thousand.”
    “Well, that will be all, Mr. McLean. Do your duty with the freshmen. Good day.”
    “Good day, sir, and thank you, sir,” I said, saluting.
    Before I got to the door, I heard the General ask, “Who won the fight between you and Cadet Alexander, McLean? I’m curious.”
    “I did, sir,” I answered. Then smiling, I added, “He quit.”

Chapter Six
    A fter a fine dinner at the St. Croixs’ on Sunday night, Abigail invited me to join her on a walk along the Battery. My roommates all returned early to the barracks. With the rest of the cadre, they would rise early to greet the freshmen as they arrived on campus. I had no assignments until the honor code speech on Wednesday morning.
    Our pace was unhurried as Abigail and I left the house. We walked down East Bay Street, crossed South Battery, and continued under the grove of wind-hewn oaks to the seawall that separated the aristocracy from the Ashley River. The tide was high and almost perfectly still, with the moon’s image graven into the water’s surface in a silvery imperfect coinage. Abigail drifted ahead of me, her head thrown back, looking at the stars. I did not try to catch up to her. Instead, I watched her as she danced awkwardly up the steps of the seawall, pausing against the railing to study the soft lights of houses strung along the shore of James Island. This walk was ritual with her. She knew this promenade well enough to give her undivided attention to stars and water and the lights of the familiar, marvelous harbor. The tide was reversing slowly, almost imperceptibly. The Atlantic was inhaling, and the two rivers that sketched the shape of Charleston began to feel the immense, light-inspirited authority of the lunar flux. To me, there was always a severe magnificence in this recall of rivers, especially on these clear, humming nights in the lowcountry when the air was sweet breathed and starry. I loved these salt rivers more than I loved the sea; I loved the movement of tides more than I loved the fury of