David Lipsky is a contributing editor for Rolling Stone magazine, where he has more or less covered the younger generation beat. He'd written stories from about 35 college campuses and done various features on hot young actors and media executives, and was, like most young people, entirely cut off from military life. The Army was the one profession his father absolutely refused to let him consider, and, as he says, ''I never liked the military at all as a kid.''

But he was asked by Rolling Stone's publisher, Jann Wenner, to visit West Point to do a short piece on life there. He resisted the assignment, but finally agreed to spend a few weeks, and the weeks turned to months and finally to years. The result is ''Absolutely American: Four Years at West Point,'' a superb description of modern military culture, and one of the most gripping accounts of university life I have read.

Sometime during his stay, he realized that ''of all the young people I'd met, the West Point cadets -- although they were grand, epic complainers -- were the happiest.'' The academy, he found, was ''a place where everyone tried their hardest. A place where everybody -- or at least most people -- looked out for each other. A place where people -- intelligent, talented people -- said honestly that money wasn't what drove them. A place where people spoke openly about their feelings and about trying to make themselves better.''

Lipsky obviously came to admire West Point, but this book is not a whitewash or a sales brochure. It essentially describes a contest between two competing values systems. There is first the pure huah value system of the military, emphasizing discipline, self-sacrifice, duty, honor, courage and controlled but savage violence. Then there is the value system of society at large (and of Rolling Stone in particular), emphasizing freedom, self-expression, pleasure and commerce.

The story is interesting because West Point is not a reactionary bastion of chivalry amid a sea of hedonism. The cadets want their MP3 players, their PlayStations and their casual sex just like every other group of young people. The administrators want the military to be seen as a profession, just like medicine and the law. And yet as worldly as it has become, West Point also teaches young people to be willing to die for the sake of others, which is not on the curriculum in the Ivy League, or almost anywhere else. The military is still a calling as much as a job. And the interplay between military chivalry and worldly ambition is constantly in flux, shaping every facet of life.

Lipsky follows several cadets and faculty members through their years at the academy, and their stories are the most powerful parts of this book. One of his heroes is Lt. Col. Hank Keirsey, a career officer who is, as Lipsky's tale begins, chief of military training. Big, loud and barrel-chested -- physical charisma means a great deal at West Point -- Keirsey tells inspiring war stories. His phrases permeate the atmosphere. Soldiers aren't physically fit, they are ''steely-eyed and flat-bellied.'' Cadets don't just jog, they ''run like scalded apes.''

He gives the inspiring speeches at the climactic moments of cadet life:

''We don't know what division will go to the frontier of freedom here. But I can guarantee you this: this class will move out, will go into the ranks of the Army. And somewhere, in some disputed barricade along the frontier, you will meet your destiny. And you will stack this nation's enemies like cordwood.''

He is, in other words, the personification of huah, which is the romantic warrior code of George S. Patton put into verbal form. As Lipsky writes: ''Huah is an all-purpose expression. Want to describe a cadet who's very gung-ho, you call them huah. Understand instructions, say huah. Agree with what another cadet just said, murmur huah. Impressed by someone else's accomplishment, a soft, reflective huah.''

Cadets revere Keirsey; one collects a used cigar of his and puts it into a Ziploc bag just so he will have a souvenir of the great man. But in an army trying to be both Sparta and Athens, Keirsey is a problem. One fall while Lipsky is on campus one of Keirsey's subordinates, Dan Dent, produces a parody PowerPoint presentation slide headlined, ''Class of 2000 Homo Factor Report,'' a crude stab at humor.

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The slide made it into the e-mail circles, and before long there was talk of court-martial for the instructor. Keirsey decided it was his duty to take responsibility for his subordinate, both as a matter of loyalty and because he thought his stature was such that he could take the hit without being tossed out of the Army. He was wrong. Keirsey was relieved of command of military training and dismissed from the Army.

Lipsky concludes: ''For me, what Hank Keirsey did for Dan Dent was one of the clearest examples I have of West Point values. When I tell civilian friends Keirsey's story, I have to go over it twice, because they keep asking, 'Wait, didn't the other guy make the slide?' A leader takes care of his soldiers. He puts their concerns ahead of his own.''

Keirsey's real problem is that he couldn't be bicultural; he was too much the gung-ho warrior and did not embrace the modernizing ethos, which would have made his superiors more charitably disposed toward him. Another of Lipsky's heroes is George Rash. Unlike Keirsey, Rash is something of a goofball. He has no military bearing. He talks too much, he's always looking around when he should be staring straight ahead, he does not project that surplus of manly charisma that military people call leadership. He is anti-huah.

When we first meet Rash he is about to be tossed out of West Point because he can't meet the minimum standards for the two-mile run. He scrapes by but then almost quits because he can't take the rigors of the long marches. He becomes known on campus as the universal loser. Cadets sneer at him. Administrators decide that there is no way this man can be permitted to graduate. ''If he makes it through, the credibility of this place will be seriously impacted,'' one sergeant tells Lipsky.

Rash is under constant pressure to resign from the academy. A few more times he is almost expelled, or separated, as they say, for failing the physical requirements. He is hauled before a disciplinary committee on an alleged honors violation. He is allowed to bring a friend for support. Rash has no close friends, but he scrapes by and is acquitted.

In his third year administrators ask him to quit. They tell him he will be loathed everywhere he goes in the Army by officers who prey on the physically weak. ''That's reality. This is not your niche,'' one says. In his fourth year, just before graduation, his captain calls him into his office and tells him that he's going to recommend Rash be expelled from the academy and forced to repay the $250,000 the government spent educating him. Rash slumps in his chair.

But in the end he does not quit -- he has absorbed that much of the West Point ethos -- and he is not separated. At graduation, where he finishes second from the bottom of his class, his fellow soldiers look at him with a mixture of bewilderment and awe. Through some mixture of obliviousness and stubbornness he has endured hardships and setbacks none of them have faced.

Lipsky has many other stories of this sort, of men and women caught between the unique rigors of military service and the normal urges and vicissitudes of being young, hormonal and American. There are romances, career perplexities, lost souls and cruel expulsions. Lipsky is a fine reporter and observer, and his weakness for similes aside, an elegant writer. The book must have been extremely hard to organize. And yet it reads with a novelistic flow.

When we saw members of the Army's Third Infantry Division roaring toward Baghdad, we saw among them young officers who believed in their organization, who were idealistic about service to the nation and who are, from all appearances, extremely good at what they do. It turns out that how teenagers get turned into leaders is not a simple story, but it is wonderfully told in this book.

David Brooks is a senior editor at The Weekly Standard and a contributing editor at Newsweek.

I came to love, really love, road marching. It's called a suck or a haze at West Point, but I think the cadets aren't being fair to it. There's something wonderful about being in a column of marching people: the gravel popping under soles, the leather flexing in boots, the kind of saddle-top sounds as the ruck (what a backpack gets called in the Army) frames settle. Occasionally someone, out of sheer misery, sighing Oooh, or just blowing out air, which in the general silence is like a whale breaching and then slipping back under the surface. You can watch a leaf float down from a tree or stare at the guy's rifle in front of you. The boiling down of life to its basic questions: Can you do this? What kind of person are you, and what can you make yourself finish? Can you hang with the rest of us? Those questions don't get asked much, in the civilian world.

One night I got stuck with a West Point company that was spending the entire evening on patrol in the woods. They had brought ponchos in their rucks and I hadn't. It was about two in the morning when the rain started. A nice earth-smelling drizzle at first. Then it became a pretty hard, thundery storm. I'd never noticed that rain makes different noises on different articles of clothing: a kind of spreading, sinking hiss into a shirt, a loud spattery ploink! on jeans. One of the cadets offered me his poncho, but of course you couldn't accept it. In the dark, I found my way to two trees that had grown so close together that their upper branches formed a canopy. I obviously wasn't going to sleep, so I marched back and forth all night under this umbrella, rain dripping into my ears and down over my lips. Then, in the morning, at five, everyone shook themselves off and we marched again.

I never liked the military at all as a kid. My father told us it was the one profession we couldn't pursue: if my brother or I joined up, he promised to hire strong guys to come break our legs. In his eyes, compared to the military, hired leg-breaking was an act of kindness. So when Rolling Stone magazine first assigned me to write about the United States Military Academy, I fought it. And I mean fought hard, as hard as you can fight Rolling Stone's publisher, Jann Wenner, who can be firm and cajoling in a kind of (at least to a writer) irresistible way. When I gave in, and traveled to West Point, I was followed by members of the Academy's Public Affairs Office. They chose the people I could speak with, they sat in on the interviews. I saw my way out; I was thrilled and relieved. I said I could not do the story under those circumstances, and I left. A few days later the colonel who oversees the daily management of West Point-Joe Adamczyk, a thin, steely man the cadets nicknamed Skeletor-called back to say it was fine. There would be no one picking out ideal cadets for me to interview, no one escorting me, no doors closed. I could have the run of the place. "We have nothing of which we should be ashamed," he said.

So that was the first step toward my love of road marching. Very different from my original idea of the Army. And there was no avoiding the story anymore.

It had all seemed so foreign, a kind of dense green forest. Slowly, the trees parted a little, enough for me to step inside, and then I could feel the basic goodness of the place. As I listened to the cadets and understood how they were living, I had a strange, funny thought. Not only was the Army not the awful thing my father had imagined, it was the sort of America he always pictured when he explained (this would happen every four years, during an election cycle) his best hopes for the country. A place where everyone tried their hardest. A place where everybody-or at least most people-looked out for each other. A place where people-intelligent, talented people-said honestly that money wasn't what drove them. A place where people spoke openly about their feelings and about trying to make themselves better.

One reason Rolling Stone wanted me on the story was that I'd become a kind of young-person specialist. You specialize at a magazine. On news stories, I mainly covered universities and students. I must have traveled to about thirty-five colleges in the five years before I first went to West Point. From tiny places like Wisconsin's obscure, homemade- feeling Beloit to a thirty-thousand-student factory like the University of Georgia at Athens to places like Harvard and Yale that made me feel like maybe I wasn't changing my socks often enough. I'd also written about young TV actors and the young rich and young media executives, people who had every reason to be consistently delighted. And of all the young people I'd met, the West Point cadets-although they are grand, epic complainers-were the happiest. That was probably step two on the path toward my love of road marching.

Here's three: My friends had reached the phase, in their early thirties, when things slow down and you can relax and look around yourself again for maybe the first time since college. Before that, life is like sticking your head out the window of a fast-moving car: everything is rushing at you, flattening back your skin, your eyes are blinking and you can barely overhear your own thoughts. Most of those thoughts are "Will I find a job?" and "Can I find a partner?" and "What kind of life am I going to have?" By the early thirties, this stuff had quieted down, and my friends were thinking, "OK, I've found a life." And then the second part hit: "Is this the life I want? Does the job I'm doing matter to anyone else?" It was right at this time that the Army and the Academy dawned on me, and I saw what it meant to live as a group, to share experiences, and to have that sense that other people were honestly looking out for you. And I have to say, that looked pretty good to me too.

And so, a road march. Everyone dressed the same. Everyone with a clear assignment: You will depart from this first point and you will arrive at this second point, and it will be clear to you when you have accomplished this. It will be difficult (in the Army, they say challenging). In place of the anxiety that comes from jobs that involve only the brain, the pleasure of a task that would engage the entire body. When cadets faltered, other cadets would softly encourage them. "Come on. You can do this. I know you can do this." The sound of the boots and the smell of the road and the sun on the leaves and this soft, encouraging undertone. When cadets fell, other cadets would move forward, lift them up. I remember, during my first road marches, feeling simply blessed.

The magazine originally treated the assignment, when it began in 1998, as a journalistic public service. That summer, the West Point superintendent, a three-star general, had parked with some other military leaders at the sort of big roadside welcome center that features a TCBY and a Great American Pretzel Company (so that even rest stops offer the channel-surfing pleasures of a mall) and where there is usually one restaurant with sit-down service. The superintendent was wearing his green class-B uniform, and so were the hungry officers in his party. The hostess looked him up and down, from polished shoes to epaulets, then she smiled and thanked him for the selfless work he was doing as a member of the Parks Department. The superintendent wondered if maybe the gap between the civilian and military worlds hadn't become too large. A few weeks later, the superintendent and the commandant arrived at the Rolling Stone offices in their full uniforms, marching past black-and-white photographs of Eric Clapton and framed guitars. The initial idea was for me to spend a few weeks on post, follow around a bunch of plebes, write something short. I ended up staying most of the year.

When that time was over, I didn't believe the story was fully told. I decided to rent a house in Highland Falls, and stayed until the plebe class graduated four years later-the only time West Point has let a writer in for such an extended tour of hanging out. I saw cadets in combat with themselves, unlearning many of the skills and instincts that had brought them to West Point; I saw some cadets thriving; I saw lots of suffering (academic, physical, homesickness); I saw spot meanness and acts of great generosity. My friends were full of questions: What kinds of people still wanted such a regimented life? Why would cadets willingly put themselves through it? Didn't they realize the way they were living was out-of-date? Those were questions I set out to answer. But I mostly wanted to give people the experience of spending forty-seven months at the United States Military Academy, an experience that only around sixty thousand people have had since the place got up and running two centuries ago. I learned how to read a uniform and how to tie many types of knots. I learned that soldiers are people-that when I flip on the news and there's some officer in a helmet standing before a tank, I'm looking at someone a lot like myself, who's lived through most of the same events I have, eats the same drive-through, can trace the same internal map of favorite movie dialogue and TV scenes, but who has made the decision to put on a uniform and serve in the nation's military.

I've changed the names of several cadets, mostly at their request, including people involved in an honor hearing and three cadets who endured various hardships-a consuming relationship, loss of rank, separation from the Academy. Scott Mellon, Kim Wilkins, Loryn Winter, Nick Calabanos, Mrs. Como, Virginia Whistler and James Edgar are fictitious names-real people under a verbal false nose and eyeglasses. Otherwise, the names and nicknames in this book are the cadets' real ones. I followed the men and women of one company, G-4, from the months they arrived at West Point until the day they graduated; this is their story.

Excerpted from Absolutely American by David Lipsky Copyright © 2003 by David Lipsky