The Academy: Militarization of Education in the US

By JP MIller

South Carolina’s The Citadel remains the most prestigious template for American military academies.

When I matriculated to a Prep school in 1974, I entered a military academy with a long tradition of combining war and kids. I will never forget the Library. It had very few books that I wanted to read but the volume after volume of dead soldiers and their heroic deeds transfixed me. The dusty tomes of vanquished soldiers from the Civil war to Vietnam were a virtual roll call of men who had faced a “proud death.”

There were the Confederate dead who walked straight into volley after volley of round shot and mini-balls from Union infantry. There were the graduates who had dived on grenades or faced down machine gun nests to save their fellow soldiers in WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. The Purple hearts, Bronze stars, Silver stars and Medals of Honor piled up so fast I could not count them. I believe I read every volume. And, the volumes contributed to around half the Academy’s available reading. I couldn’t find a book by Mark Twain nor a Jack London collection but I could look into the eyes of these Academy graduates who needlessly gave their lives in war, distant in time and place. Little did I know, when I became a man, I would face the same choices.

If one counts all the private prep school military academies, public school JROTC programs, junior college military academies and college military academies in the United States, the number is around 92. And, believe it or not there is a kindergarten military academy.

The tradition of the Academy I attended was a no different. It has been around since before the Civil War and the students during the Civil War became a combat unit. I remember reading that almost all those kids perished in the war. The few left after the war never came back to the Academy. They went home.

The famous comedy Animal House lampooned the ROTC subculture. Here the boys parade in the film’s chaotic finale. They carry M1 Garand rifles.

After my parents enrolled me in the Academy, I was immediately shocked at the stringent culture of military control. I was 14 and scared to death. I was a boot or a plebe and anyone new has to undergo the trials of hazing. Hazing was a rite of passage. That’s what I was told by the upperclassmen. Eventually, I ran away from home and the Academy. When my parents located me and flew me back to the Academy, I knew that I was in for trouble. The first two days and nights were surreal. I was hogtied, legs bound and throat cinched, (a southern thing) and whipped with coat hangers. I was water boarded, pissed on, and even, well, sexually assaulted with a line of cadets who masturbated in my presence. So, you see why I ran away.

When this tradition was over, I came to the tradition of the belt. The officers wore Sam Browne belts and if you were caught at the canteen then over the rail you went. I was beaten with these leather belts and just sitting in history class became a struggle. For over a couple of months, I endured this terrorism merely because I didn’t want to admit defeat and because, at home, there was a different kind of terrorism waiting for me. I kept thinking about those books with all the heroes in them. I wanted to be a hero as well. So, after some time, I acquiesced and became a proper, if not rebellious cadet. I shined my brass and shoes. I ironed my uniforms. I took the punishment and didn’t complain, frankly, due to the chain of command, there was no one to who I could field my complaints.

Over time, I was indoctrinated. Even now, the time I spent at the Academy is hard to express in a proper, realistic sense. The Academy versed us all in military science, a combination of words that escapes me. Map reading, enemy identification (Vietnamese), weapons training, rappelling, and fast roping, radio transmitting, patrol, light, and noise discipline Some of us were sent to a kind of Ranger school where we were trained by Vietnam veterans.  A couple of kids, younger than me, were injured and one died during the training because of the trainer’s mistakes. They gave us a Ranger patch for that one.

When I became an upperclassman, I have to say that I was no angel. I did not participate in the hazing directly but I tacitly approved it. One kid was beaten until his lips were split. We, I, encouraged him not to reveal the truth. He eventually claimed that he simply fell. Not that any instructor would have made a big deal out of the incident.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JP Miller is a writer and journalist who lives in the Outer banks of North Carolina. He has published stories in The Greanville Post, The Literary Yard, The Southern Cross Review, and Potent Magazine.