Free The Lords of Discipline by Pat Conroy

the honor manual. I know all those words and all those definitions. I just can’t define honor in my own words yet. The words were all written by someone else.”
    “Then you are not certain what honor is?”
    “No, sir, I’m not certain what honor is. I’ve been thinking about it all summer, but I’m not absolutely sure what it is or who of my friends has or does not have it.”
    “That is a major difference between you and me, Mr. McLean. A major difference. I have never had to look up a definition of honor. I knew instinctively what it was. It is something I had the day I was born, and I never had to question where it came from or by what right it was mine. If I was stripped of my honor, I would choose death as certainly and unemotionally as I clean my shoes in the morning. Honor is the presence of God in man. It distresses me deeply that you are having a problem. It gives me cause to wonder about your ability to infuse the freshmen with the necessary zeal required for them to become exemplary graduates of the Institute. You must remember that the goal of the Institute is to produce ‘the Whole Man.’ The Whole Man, Mr. McLean. It is a noble concept. But the man without honor cannot be the Whole Man. He is not a man at all.”
    “Sir, I do know this,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. “When I was elected to the honor court, I made a vow to myself, to uphold the honor system as it is written. That is what the cadets of fourth battalion elected me to do, and I’m going to represent them to the best of my ability. I admit to being confused about honor and I admit to not liking some parts of the system. But if a cadet is tried before me this year and the prosecution proves to me that the cadet is a liar, a thief, or a cheat, or one who tolerates lying, stealing, or cheating, then I am going to vote guilty. I’m going to vote to have him removed from the Corps of Cadets.”
    “I hope you don’t expect me to applaud this decision, Mr. McLean. You are merely doing your duty and I’ve never had any difficulty in the performance of duty. And I would like you to specify which parts of the honor system you do not happen to like.”
    I hesitated a moment, then said, “I don’t like the Walk of Shame, sir.”
    He gave a short laugh and responded, “You know, of course, that I instituted the Walk of Shame when I returned as President.”
    Blushing, I answered, “Yes, sir, I know that.”
    “And you are also aware that the number of honor violations has decreased by sixty percent since my return to the Institute.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said as he rose and walked to the rear door of his office. From what appeared to be a small, well-appointed anteroom, he ushered two cadets into the office: John Alexander, the second battalion commander, and his exec, a spaniel-eyed boy named Wayne Braselton, whose identity was irretrievably fastened to the destiny of the fiercer, more charismatic Alexander. John Alexander was a splendid looking cadet, erect and arrogant, with an instinct for survival in the Corps that was as uncanny as it was disingenuous. They walked to the two leather chairs on the right side of the General’s desk and sat facing me, not the General. Their faces were austere, inquisitorial. Then I heard the General’s voice again: “Mr. McLean, you know your classmates, Cadet Alexander and Cadet Braselton, I’m sure. They asked to meet with you in my presence. These two cadets are concerned about the efficacy of allowing a senior private to address the incoming freshmen. They feel strongly that a cadet officer would make a much better impression on the freshmen. Is this not correct, gentlemen?”
    “Yes, sir,” Alexander answered forcefully, with Braselton nodding his vigorous assent. “We feel that the training cadre is composed of specially selected elite men whose personal appearance and devotion to military excellence provide a high standard for the plebes to emulate. Mr. McLean