Word: plebes
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...internal operation of West Point, its traditions, its undergraduate customs, are difficult for a person unacquainted with the Academy to learn. Still, a few of these customs are broadcast knowledge: the new cadet's trial of three weeks in "beast barracks", his life as an underling plebe, the bursting of the cocoon when he enters Third Class and the dignity of a yearling; the indiscriminate dubbing of plebes as Mr. Ducrot, from a scandal whispered in Keetel's French Grammar; the two months' practical camp training during July and August, accompanied by a cry of "Yea, furlough!", with results curiously...
Then, too, there is the spirit of the Corps--something intangible, something which grows into one after one wears the gray. A lowly plebe has some of it--a first classman, quite a bit more. It is that attraction which our motto, "Duty, Honor, Country," holds for us. It stays with one long after his Cadet days are over. It is that spirit that we of the Corps are treading today "where they of the Corps have trod." It is somewhat different from that spirit of brotherhood and fellowship between men who say, "I am a Harvard...
...answer that fits our purpose. The rest of the world may praise or blame as it sees fit. To us they are standards that we must follow to be worthy of the men before us. Some are for the good of the individual--though he often doubts it is plebe days and some we would not part with for gold...
...there are many lighter things that have their place. A plebe, for instance, is not recognized by the Corps for his first year. He is by himself in a world apart, subject to judgment at all times. And this is wise. Conceive Mr. Dumbjohn the name is itself traditional who receives an appointment to the Academy Promptly Father and Mother Dumbjohn print accounts of young hopeful's appointment in the Podunk paper. He is given farewell parties, he lords it over the soft-eyed damsels, he is escorted to the train with the Podunk Fireman's band. The hero...
Then the Corps wheels through the sally-ports, and the silent ranks become alive. For the last time the plebe tucks his chin into his collar, heaves until his muscles crack on his shoulders, and holds his breath for a last instant. The ranks are halted; the front rank faces about, and the hands that were denied him for a year are seeking his. The bitterness leaves him. That is a holy time...