He steps out the front door of his barracks like a ghost into the fog of West Point, where no one notices the contrast of the white of his uniform on the white of the misty air around him. He’s on his way to my car, disobeying the orders that tell him he has to stay in his room, and on post, for the night. Lights out was at ten, but here it is, 11:30 - well after the hour the the cadet on duty has ceased paying attention - and I’m sitting in my car, engine running, and parked in the darkness between the chapel we’ll be married in and the cadet laundromat. I wait for him to ascend the tall stone steps between his barracks below, and where I sit. Rules are about to be broken, and, anyway, in between the moon and you, only the angles get a better a view of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.

The difference between right and wrong is everywhere here. It’s more than just him sneaking out to spend a rare night with me. To know the difference between the two is a vow he’s taken just by accepting his nomination here - to not lie, cheat, or steal or tolerate those who do - and it’s a vow we’ll take in just over a year. And then there’s the reality of the military. There’s a war - or, a “peace keeping mission,” as the talking heads for the military call it - going on in Kosovo. Derek is sure he’ll be going as soon as he graduates. Not because it’s that serious, and bound to last the year and change that he has left here at the Academy, but because it rained on his R Day parade. Poured, really. I wasn’t there then, didn’t yet know him, but he’s told me about it. Hats blew off, he said. Instruments that band members couldn’t hold in the face of the wind and rain flew across the grassy field where he and his classmates stood as they were accepted into the United States Military Academy. It has rained, he told me, on the R Day parades of every class that went to war: WWII, Vietnam, and, most recently, Kosovo. “So even if this Kosovo thing blows over,” he says, “there’ll be something, some other war. Mark my words.”

I’m angry at even the thought of him going, because they’re fighting in Belgrade, where my mom grew up. And, someday, I’d like to see the bridges and roads that my mom walked through her childhood, the cities that have been in my blood since before I was born. But the fighting is destroying them, and I’m indignant that we’re there at all, even more upset that my Derek will be there, too. But my mom disagrees. She’s an American now, she says. And if we think it’s right to be there, we should. And she’s told Derek she’ll teach him the language, help him get by.   

In the faint glow of my parking lights, I see the top of Derek’s head as he scuttles up the stairs. He walks in the air, between the rain, quick footsteps carrying him to my passenger door, his pace hurried to avoid being seen. He collapses into the seat, running his hand over his blue-black hair. He kisses me quickly, and the cold from his lips runs through my self and back out again, before he scans the area for prying eyes. In addition to leaving without permission, public displays of affection are not permitted. “You ready?” I nod.

“Where to?” I ask as I shift into reverse.

“I don’t know.“

We end up, as we often do, in a hotel a half hour away; it’s cost-effective, and close, and it allows us more time together than we would normally ever have. I live with my parents, and he lives in a dorm where girls aren’t allowed, so to spend a night together, alone, is rare. And it’s strange. We’re not accustomed to sharing a bed, sheets, the air while we sleep. But we’re so grateful for the nights we have, that rarely does any sleeping get done. I pretend, on nights like this, that this is our life. This generic hotel room becomes our bedroom, the day before us is nothing but a typical Sunday. I wish for a kitchen, a pantry stocked with food, for a breakfast together that doesn’t involve a waitress. I tell myself that those days will be here before I know it while I glace at my engagement ring, but I’m eager for it know.

But all we have is a few hours. Derek will have to be back on post early enough to not be noticed as missing, but not so early that he should still be in his room. He’s already discussed his cover story with his roommate, who will tell anyone who stops by that Derek’s gone to the library. He’s brought his weekend uniform - a running suit emblazoned with West Point insignia and his last name - to wear back, so that he can stroll out of the library and appear to have been there the whole time. But it’s laughable, really. Anyone who knows Derek, knows that he’s not the kind of guy who wakes up early to go the library.

The next morning, we take the interstate back to West Point. We snake through the land that belongs to the government, passing Camp Buckner, where he completed his initial Hell Week, or “Beast,” as they call it, at the academy. We pass the pond where they say a cadet went missing some fifty years ago. We roll through the gate, the MP there saluting my father’s Officer sticker on my car, and we creep through post, towards the library, at the required 20 miles per hour.

Post is busy already, and it’s not even nine in the morning. Although there’s no morning formation on Sunday, and obviously no school, uniformed cadets with books tucked beneath their toned arms walk along the sidewalks. Here, they always stand up straight. They salute oncoming officers, they make way for ladies as they pass. They wear their hats outside, and remove them as soon as they step indoors. Here, there’s a rule for everything. I’ve learned them all.

We park on the roof of Thayer Hall. When we’re here, we’re usually parked at the far end, where the stone ledge of the roof overlooks the Hudson River, the mansions built into the hillside across the water. There’s a house there that they say Rockefeller built for his mistress. But she died, or left him, in the middle of construction, so it just sits there; a sprawling white mansion, dotted with dark windows, huge and vacant, buried in trees. And another house, it’s been said, was the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz. It’s not hard to believe, even from this far away. It’s a tall, lean gray building, with a circular tower on one side, capped by a conical red roof. Derek says that the monkeys in the movie are wearing West Point dress gray, and that the author had something against the school. He’s told me all of these stories on this very roof. But, today, we choose the spot closest to the pass-over to the library, facing away from the river. He kisses me again, and thanks me for driving, as he always does. He tosses his backpack over his shoulder and gets out of the car, his running suit swishing with every move he makes. I watch him as he half walks, half runs, down the pass over, past the spot where we carved our names into cement, past the Patton statue, and into the towering, heavy wooden doors of the library.

I sit in my spot there for a few moments longer. I love West Point, every inch of it. Derek thinks it’s too gray, too melancholy. But that’s because he attends the school, where his every day is planned down to the second, filled with academics and responsibilities. For those of us who only visit, it’s amazing. Something radiates here; history and honor, the spirit of all of those who came before, the prestige of the institution. I love driving the old roads, drinking in all of the stone and stained glass that towers over the expertly manicured parade plains. I love the daily ritual of the cannon blast at 1700 hours, the sad cry of Taps on a trumpet, the descent and folding of the flag. But that, I suppose, is because that’s something I’ve been watching since I was a little girl. The military will always feel like home for me. Derek’s different.

Derek came from Idaho, his suitcase in his hand, scared of school and all that lay before him, having nothing before to do with the Army. He was a good student back in Boise, heavily involved in sports and student government. But he never really chose West Point for himself; his dad did. I’m not sure if his dad thought it was what Derek wanted to do, or if he just wanted to say he had a son at West Point. It was Derek’s father who contacted the congressman who ultimately nominated him, it was his father who coached him through the application process. And all of his father’s work paid off, when Derek was one of the two kids from Idaho chosen to attend USMA’s Class of 2001.

When Derek arrived in 1997, he took to the military like a duck to water. He loved getting down into the dirt and crawling around with his pack on. He loved the face paint and the strategizing, he loved the guns, and the leading. He was good at it, too. It was the academics that didn’t suit him so well. He shone in high school, but barely made it by at West Point. The classes were hard to say the least, and the work load was intense. He had a minimum of five classes a day, none of which were basket weaving or PE. His classes were Physics and Engineering based, with a little history, foreign language and calculus thrown in. He had more homework than I’d ever seen in my life, and he hated every bit of it. He struggled, and spent each of his three summers at the Point in summer school. He considered dropping out, sure, but he found that he loved the Army. So, even now, he walks along the edge of where the military meets the school, just like he’s walking on a wire in a circus.

He overcompensates for his poor markings by being a class clown, a bit of a braggart, and a star in field training. He has tons of friends at the academy, all of whom I know, and have accepted me as part of their close circle, but I know that there are more than few people who find him loathsome. He’s just a little misunderstood, and has trouble acting normal when he’s nervous; He’s just over confident, is all, in the face of those smarter than him. It’s the only way he has to even out the playing field. I don’t mind it at all. If there’s anything I want him to be, it’s a good soldier. All of his engineering and Russian classes won’t mean much when he goes to war. He could graduate last in his class, but he could save a whole platoon if he had to. That’s really all I care about.

Because, round here, they’re carving out their names in history. If not, the alternative lies in the cemetery that sprawls between the Post Exchange and Trophy Point. Row after row of headstones fan out toward the Hudson River, bending and snaking as I drive past. Derek and I have walked through that cemetery, many times. There are stones in there for Civil War soldiers, for Daughters of the Revolution, for World War I. There’s a pyramid mausoleum for someone who had himself cast in bronze, and monuments that stretch to meet the trees sprinkled over the field. But those crazy markers are rare. The rest are humble, white half moons of stone, etched in the same font, adorned with tiny American flags. They all look the same, the cadets, in life and in death.

And that’s what scares me: The reality of what he, or any soldier, is doing. Since his retirement, my father has lived each day regretting that he was never able to go to war for his country. “Like studying all your life for a test,” he says, “and never getting to take it.” And I see what he means: My father, like Derek, is an honorable man. My father joined the military because his father had, and he knew it was what he was meant to do. He retired an officer, a Ranger, Airborne and Air Assault. Those who served with him, loved and respected him. If he could, my father would have given anything to stay in for the rest of his life. And, while Derek sort of happened upon the military, he came to love it just as much as my dad does. And I know that, like my father, Derek would do anything for his country. And if Derek was right about the legend, if he does wind up going to war - if Kosovo doesn’t blow over, if these gurglings we keep hearing about in the Middle East amount to anything - then I might lose him to Old Glory.

And I’m frightened for every one of these men and women here. They’re all so tough; in the safety of their routine, they talk like lions about what they would do if they were in combat. They detail their weapons and talk about how what they’ve learned will keep them safe. But I shudder to think of them, young and green, still, sacrificed like lambs on a battlefield. I suppose it’s because it’s hard to see them as adults, because their lives are so regimented, because they have the freedom of babies bound in strollers, whose days - when they can eat, when they can play, when they can sleep - are ruled by an overbearing mother. They’re nothing but sleeping children now, and once they graduate, their overbearing mother won’t be there to tell them what to do, to tell them to run like the wind, out of the lightning, away from the fire, out of harm’s way. It scares me to death. And it scares them to death, too. Derek tells me about the late night conversations that erupt after lights out, when the truth about their future can sink in during the quiet of night. Everyone’s brandishing bravado, but everyone loses a little sleep each night over the possibility of having to actually do what they’ve been learning.

But it’s the thing, I think, that I love about Derek the most. That he’s scared, but not afraid to tell me. That he is, though, capable the safety they would all strive for if they needed to. And I love that he’s part of this world, part of this brotherhood of soldiers. He talks about getting out of the Army after he’s served his mandatory five years, and I try to convince him to be a career officer; because he’s good at it, because it’s a good life, but mostly, because I don’t know who he is if not adorned with the pomp and circumstance of the Army. I’m afraid that I won’t love him enough, as much, or at all, if he’s just Derek Hall, instead of Captain Derek Hall. I tell myself it’s only in my head, that it’s nothing but fear talking, but I’m not so sure. I hear myself telling him to stay in, no matter what; even when I should want to keep him out war, away from even the possibility of it. “No,” I say. “Stay in.” I don’t bother telling him that I really want to live the life I had growing up, with the uniforms and the balls, the commissary and the PX; and I’m afraid I just don’t know how to live any other way.

And I’d never have the courage, the guts, to do what he’s doing. I’m too chicken shit to join the Army, to fight for my country. But I’m happy to ride his coattails and accept his successes as my own. He tells me I’m an honorary cadet, because I help him with his homework and make sure he’s at formation on time, and I take him seriously. Because it’s not just me being selfish, helping guide him into the officer he wants to be: I love him, and I love what he does. And he needs me.

 But West Point wears on Derek. He’s tired and over-stressed, and constantly worried about his grades. He’s just as anxious to graduate as I am to get married; he’s tired of life there, ready to move on to the world beyond it. He’s sick of getting sent to bed early, of constantly waiting for everything. He loves that I’m there, but hates that I have to catch him. He’s grateful for my family - his home away from home - but wants us to make our own. He’s tired of seeing nothing but the stone walls around him, tired of being under the gun, of the pressure of his daily life. He wants to start our life together.

I’m afraid of that life he’s talking about. As it draws closer, I see that it’s not just military functions and an officer’s sticker on my car. There’s a whole mess of responisibilities and commitments that we’re going to make, just a year away. I’m just used to life round here.