by Doug Beason
Lieutenant Ranch returned his salute. “Stand at ease.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod clicked his hands behind him to parade rest, but kept rigid. His heart yammered, but he didn’t dare breathe too deep, in fear that Lieutenant Ranch might somehow find it offensive.
As Ranch pulled up a chair, Rod took the opportunity to glance around the room. He’d never had that chance the times that he was being disciplined.
The room was twice as large as the one that Rod had shared with Sly, but compared to their sparsely decorated, sterile cubicle, this looked like a mansion featured in the Saturday Evening Post. Patterned rugs covered the floor. Wicker chairs and twin ivory elephants sat next to a night stand. A painting of the Golden Gate Bridge hung over the bed, and pictures of different girls—no, women, all of them knockouts, 2000 on a scale from 1 to 10—sat on his chest of drawers.
It was a milieu that existed outside of Rod’s experience.
“At ease means parade rest, Mr. Simone, and not gape around.”
Rod clicked his eyeballs straight ahead. “Yes, sir.” He felt his face grow warm.
Ranch scooted his chair forward. “Mr. Simone, I wanted to talk to you about your new roommate. It’s going to be Mr. Delante.”
“Fred, sir?”
“That’s right. I’m moving Mr. Delante in with you. One reason for changing roommates is to force your class to bond.” He stopped for a moment. “Another reason is to help your classmate when one cadet has a strength where the other cadet has a weakness.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How well do you know Mr. Delante, Simone?”
Rod hesitated. “Sir, he’s my classmate.”
“I know that. What I mean is, how well do you know him as a person?”
“Sir … I do not know.”
Ranch muttered, “That’s what I thought.” He straightened in his chair and sat at the edge of his seat. “Mr. Simone, your class has the highest combination of intellect, athletic ability, and leadership skills ever assembled in the history of this country. I didn’t say the most common sense, that’s for sure. But it’s true for the combination of those traits. We went to incredible lengths to insure everyone was superior in every category. We went for the best, and we got the best.” He paused. “But sometimes what’s on paper does not correspond to reality.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod was confused about Lieutenant Ranch’s point.
“The BCT cadre has observed you over the past six weeks. We’ve noted that you are self-motivated and a self-starter. A potential leader. Which is why we’re putting you with Mr. Delante.” Lieutenant Ranch hesitated. “What I say next is not to leave this room, got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Mr. Delante needs you to help him get through this next year. It’s going to be tough. We’ve designed the Fourth class system to stretch you cadets to the limit, and everyone has to excel. In addition, everyone is going to have to show leadership skills. But right now, Delante can’t even lead his own dick out of a latrine. Not only does he tie up under pressure, but he only seems to care about himself.”
Ranch paused and looked Rod in the eye. “It’s important you understand that everyone in your class is going to have to pull together to graduate. Right now, Delante needs help. He needs help not from me, but from your class. And from you. Do you have any questions?”
Great, thought Rod. Not only do I have to survive this next crazy year, but now I have to carry Delante on my back as well. He shook his head. “No, sir.”
“I don’t want you to think that you’re the only one who is going to have to help Mr. Delante,” Ranch continued, “or that you’ve got to carry him on your back. Your whole class will have to pitch in. You’ve just been picked to room with him.” Ranch shifted his weight. “I’ll talk with Mr. Delante after he gets out of the hospital. You and the rest of your class are going to have to not shirk your side of the deal.
“And one more thing. This doesn’t have to do with just Mr. Delante. This is true of everyone in your class. If there’s someone who needs help, your class has to rise to the occasion and help him out. If any of your classmates fail, you all fail. Understand? And by the way, General Stillman was hoping something like this would happen; he wanted to see if your class would either leave him or look out for him. So good job today.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod stared straight ahead, unblinking. No one was going to get through this next year alone. Either they all pulled together, or life was going to be miserable. He understood completely.
He just wondered if the rest of his class did as well.
O O O
As he sat at his desk, every few minutes Rod would peek over his shoulder, unsure if an ATO would appear out of nowhere and start bawling him out for taking a blow. His class books were neatly shelved in the bookcase over his desk, arranged not by subject order—which would have made sense to Rod—but instead were arranged by height, so that the tops descended in a visibly pleasing manner.
It was Saturday morning, forty-five minutes before First Call, and for the first time in six weeks Rod had time on his hands. Fourth classmen were still not allowed to lie on their racks during the day, but a desk served nearly as good as a bed.
Rod looked down at the list of reading material required for his classes on Monday: Chemistry, History, English, Calculus, Engineering Mechanics, Navigation, and Military Studies.
Rod looked at the list of reading material, then over to his rack, then back to his desk. It was all a matter of priority.
The choice wasn’t hard.
Laying his head on his desk he fell instantly asleep, the best way he knew to prepare for his first academic class.
O O O
“Room, atten’hut.” Chairs pushed back, pens clattered against desks as the doolies bolted to attention.
A short, blonde officer walked into the room, resplendent in his dress blouse. Two ribbons were pinned on his khaki fabric, and unlike the majority of other officers, he had no silver wings denoting that he was a pilot. The man stopped in the center of the room and turned to face the cadets who were waiting in a brace.
Rod saluted. “Sir, Calculus 101 all present and accounted for.” He locked eyes with the officer; a chill ran down his spine as he recognized the Captain who’d thrown him off breakfast tables at the beginning of BCT.
The Captain whipped a salute in reply. “Thank you. Gentlemen, take your seats.”
Once settled, the officer turned and wrote his name on the blackboard: Captain Whitney.
Chalk dust wafted throughout the small wooden classroom. Twelve of Rod’s classmates were in the room, Sly and three others from his squadron, and two that he knew from BCT. The other half dozen were from throughout the Wing.
Captain Whitney turned and faced the cadets. He lifted his chin. “I say, good morning. I am Captain Whitney. I was largely responsible for establishing this Academy. As a West Pointer, I do not agree with the direction this institution has taken, but as a military officer, I follow orders—just as I expect you to do.” He pulled out a sheet. The doolies sat ramrod straight in their chairs. “You will sit in alphabetical order and will remain that way throughout the semester.” He scanned the sheet. “I say, Mr. Delante?”
“Here, sir.”
Whitney looked up. “Where are you from, Mr. Delante?”
“Colorado Springs, Colorado, sir.”
“Any relationship to Mr. George Delante?”
Fred straightened. “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
“Outstanding. Next time you write, give him my regards. He helped my wife pick out a lot for the house we’re building near Colorado Springs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Whitney pointed to a desk at the right front of the class. “Sit over here, Mr. Delante. You are now the class section marcher. It is your job to insure the cadets are in their seats and prepared for their lesson. That includes inspecting uniforms, closing the coat closet doors before class starts, insuring there is sufficient chalk at the black b
oard, and that the erasers and blackboards are completely cleaned. You will also call the room to attention when I enter. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Jakes?”
“Here, sir.”
After he finished the list, he wrote on the blackboard:
Start: _____
Stop: _____
He turned back to the class. “Mr. Delante, in addition to your other duties as section marcher, you will insure your classmates’ desks are clear of all material except for your math text and a notebook.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you do not, then you will be issued a Form 10.” At the blank response, he said, “Academic instructors issue an Air Force Cadet Wing Form 10 as punishment, with appropriate demerits apportioned depending upon the severity of the infraction. Everyone should have read the assignment for today. Does anyone have any questions over the homework?” He looked around the classroom.
Rod blinked. Wow. This is starting just as fast as BCT. He looked down and started flipping through his math book to avoid Captain Whitney’s gaze. He’d skimmed the calculus text last night and had read the discussion on infinite limits, but the accompanying delta and epsilon proofs had mystified him. The actual homework had been straightforward—and that was what Whitney had asked about. So applying the lessons he’d learned from BCT, he decided not to ask any questions; if he did, no telling what might happen.
Whitney paused for a moment as he continued looking around the room. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the instructor’s desk. “Good. No questions. Everyone must understand the material.”
He glanced at the clock at the back of the room. Picking up a piece of chalk, he wrote 0836 after the Start he had written earlier. After Stop he wrote 0851. “Put away your books and get out a pencil.” He distributed sheets of paper, laying them face down on each desk. “When I say start, it will be 0836. You will have 15 minutes to complete this pop quiz. When you are finished, check it over, then lay down your pencil, and do not talk. If you are not finished by the time I say stop, then immediately put your pencil down. Any questions?”
The room was dead silent; the doolies were shell-shocked.
Rod felt his face grow warm. A quiz, during the first class, on the first day, within the first ten minutes?
“Turn your papers over and begin.”
The classroom echoed with the sound of 12 papers being turned over simultaneously. Rod read the first question and drew in a breath: For epsilon greater than zero, prove that as delta goes to zero …
Great. He should have asked the question.
O O O
“Hey, Rod. Do you understand this force crap in Mech E?”
Rod rubbed his eyes and looked over to his roommate. Fred Delante wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at the trashcan. It plunged to the bottom of the metal container, rustling a dozen other papers. “What force stuff?” Rod said.
“This V-T diagram. I’m supposed to measure the area under a velocity curve to find the distance a projectile has traveled. Do you understand what’s going on?”
Rod put down his chemistry book. “Remember when we learned how to integrate?”
“Sure. Captain Whitney just taught us that: put the number from the denominator into the exponent. Easy.”
“Well, that’s how to do it mathematically. You’re doing the same thing graphically by adding up the area under the curve—you’re integrating.”
“I don’t get it. Mechanical engineering is black magic to me.”
Rod pushed back his chair to help Fred. “I’ll show you—”
A hoarse voice yelled from outside their door, down the hallway. “Sir, there are five minutes to first call for the evening meal—”
Rod and Fred slapped shut their books, their priorities suddenly changed. “Do you know what’s for breakfast and lunch tomorrow?”
“I’ll get the list.” Fred dug into his desk drawer and rummaged for the meal menu. Published three days in advance, it was part of their Fourth class knowledge to know exactly what meals were going to be served the next day.
They ran through a litany of facts, quizzing each other as they raced to get into the uniform of the day being announced by the minute caller.
“Where is Lieutenant Ranch’s home town?”
“Pleasanton, California.”
“What’s his girlfriend’s name?”
“Shen Too.”
“What’s his birthday?”
“December 29th.”
“What is Shen Too’s?”
Fred stopped. “Damn, I forgot.”
“October 17th. Come on, Fred.”
“I know, I know.” They checked each other off and sprinted out the door. They had to time things just right. If they allowed too much time to get to the squadron assembly area, they’d get dumped on while waiting. If they didn’t allow enough time, they’d run the risk of being stopped and being late—which was much worse than simply being thrown off a table, because in addition to not eating, they’d have to do squat-thrusts.
Ten minutes later, Rod and Fred sat at the end of the table, having just been instructed to take seats by Wing staff. As the designated Loadmaster by virtue of his position at the bottom of the table, Rod immediately turned and called down the aisle. “Mr. Garcia, may we have our food please?”
Mr. Raf Garcia swung an armload of steaming food from a cart onto the table.
“Thank you, Mr. Garcia!” Rod yelled as he started passing hamburgers, hot dogs, cole slaw, potato chips, and a pot of soup to the front of the table.
Next to him, in the Cold Pilot seat, Sly recited the Duty quote while sitting stiffly at attention, yet watching out of the corner of his eye for the cold drinks to arrive. Like a well-oiled machine, the doolies accomplished multiple tasks at once.
At the head of the table Lieutenant Ranch pounced on one cadet after another, like an orchestra director, not allowing any doolie to sit in silence. Rod didn’t have time to wonder how Lieutenant Ranch did it, or how he was able to catch the doolies when they messed up. He was more concerned with just surviving.
Through the yelling, the sounds of chairs being pushed back, the waiters being thanked, and the doolie knowledge being recited, the food finally made it down to Rod. His classmates had left him a portion, mindful that Lieutenant Ranch would punish the entire table for not watching after their classmate.
Just as Rod finished serving himself, he heard Lieutenant Ranch raise his voice over the commotion. “Delante! I asked you a question!”
Fred jerked his head up. “Yes, sir!”
“Why didn’t you answer me?”
Uh-oh, thought Rod. Here it comes. Shit screen.
The rest of cadets on the table immediately started eating as fast as they dare.
With Lieutenant Ranch’s attention now fixated on Fred Delante, Fred served as a screen for Ranch’s unrelenting wrath. The more he screwed up by not answering Ranch’s questions, the deeper a hole he dug—and the more the other doolies got to eat. It happened to one of them at least once a day. And although everyone felt bad for their classmate in drawing so much attention, it gave the rest of the doolies time to gulp down food that they may not ordinarily get to eat, because of the strictly enforced rule of taking only seven small chews before swallowing—or they themselves might become a shit screen.
Rod paid attention to the ongoing diatribe, just in case he was asked to help Fred. For the first time in days Rod was able to gulp down precious calories—
“Simone, why aren’t you helping out your classmate?”
Rod stiffened. “No excuse, sir!” Because he can’t memorize anything, sir!
“That’s right, there is no excuse. The two of you get off my table. Right now. You’d better know your knowledge tomorrow, Delante, or you’re going to starve. Understand?”
Rod and Fred pushed back their chairs to stand at attention. “Yes, sir!”
“And that goes for you, Simone. Help your roommate. Or you
’ll starve with him. Now get the hell out of here.” He pointed to one of their classmates near the end of the table. “You, man. Fill out the Form O-96.”
“Yes, sir!”
As they left Mitchell Hall, unfair as it was, Rod was at least thankful that he had eaten something. And although it had been obtained at the expense of his classmate, he knew there were only two choices for the future: ensure Fred knew his knowledge, or starve.
O O O
“I say, take seats. Whose turn is it?” Captain Whitney took the salute from the section marcher, Fred Delante, and placed his teaching material on his desk.
Rod pushed back his chair and stood. “Sir, it’s mine.”
“Good. Simone, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Cadet Simone. Tell the class one interesting thing about your life. Something that no one else might have experienced. You’ll have to come up with something pretty impressive though to beat Mr. Jake’s story of playing in the National Amateur Golf championship in high school.”
Rod swallowed. He had thought long and hard about this one.
He wouldn’t be able to unpack his bagpipes until Christmas break, when the doolies would be in the cadet area alone, but playing bagpipes wouldn’t stack up to Sly’s golfing expertise. And bringing up dad’s Scottish heritage wasn’t the real point of what Captain Whitney was asking every doolie in his class to do on a daily basis: reveal a little about themselves. Besides, except for Sly’s story, Captain Whitney always seemed to nod absently at whatever was presented, as if he himself was either unimpressed, or was inwardly comparing the experience to his own life.
“Well, Mr. Simone? What are you famous for?”
“Sir, I’m adopted.”
Whitney nodded. “That’s unusual, but hardly unique. Any more to the story?”
“Yes, sir. My father, my adoptive father, rescued me from a burning house in France during World War II. He lost his leg saving my life, and … and …
“Yes?” Whitney sniffed.
Rod whispered, “I killed a German that night. He was trying to strangle my father.”
The room was so quiet that Rod heard someone’s stomach growl.