BadLuckCadetfhtml

by Suzie Ivy

  The shrill noise sounded and we all ran away from the gas. Besides coughing and choking we were also throwing up. Everyone had tears, snot and saliva running down their faces. I'm still amazed at the amount of mucus we expelled. It was not a pretty site, but we had succeeded. And that is all that mattered.

  Our skin was still on fire, but after about ten minutes our breathing returned to normal. We were marched back to the classroom.

  Sgt. Dickens came in.

  “I am so fucking proud of you! This is what I’ve been waiting for. You are a team. You are Class 95. You are my Class and you should be proud of yourselves.”

  And we were. It was a great moment. We were all smiling and laughing and ready to take on the world. It didn't matter that our lungs were scorched, our skin was still burning, and our eyes and noses hadn't stopped running. On that day our Sergeant could have led us anywhere, and told us to do anything, and we would have followed.

  This was how soldiers were made. I was forty-five years old but entirely susceptible to the phenomenon. We all wanted to go out and fight evil and we felt we had earned the right. After everyone showered, we gathered outside and talked and laughed until late in the evening. We didn’t want the day to end.

  Throughout the rest of the week we spent every available minute trying to come up with a suitable class slogan. Our first slogan was rejected by the Sergeant Dickens as being inadequate. We worked late into the night on Thursday worried that our hard work would be rejected again and our positive week would be ruined.

  Friday morning, when called to attention for morning inspection, we belted out.

  “Class ninety five is the best by far.

  We smoke all the rest like a cheap cigar. Ugh.”

  Sgt. Dickens liked it and gave his approval. The new class 95 slogan was officially added to our drills. We had succeeded

  I didn’t drive back to Small Town that weekend. My husband was away on a business trip and it was easier to stay on campus and relax.

  I took a trip to the drugstore on Saturday to get some cream for my head. It itched like crazy. I was getting used to what I looked like in the mirror but if I had scratched like this when I’d had hair everyone would have thought I had lice. I bought a couple of scarves as well and experimented with no luck. I couldn’t scratch with the scarf on and even with the lotion my fingernails needed access to my scalp.

  I ate dinner in the cafeteria Sunday evening with a few fellow cadets. We watched as Class 96 marched in with the same looks on their faces that we’d had on ours that first day.

  It sucked to be them.

  Chapter 12

  Small Acts of Defiance

  Week six began with us sporting our new polo shirts and the sounds of Class 96 being yelled at by their Sergeant. It was nice to breathe without a tie around our necks and Sgt. Dickens lowered his voice and tried to pretend we were human. Inspection went smoothly. We were only given twenty pushups and not a single hill run. Our Sergeant wanted us to appear superior and leave 'the hill' for Class 96. It wouldn’t last, but that week we suffered very few punishments.

  We took our weekly academic test Monday morning. Nine cadets did not pass. After the retake test the following day, all passed but two. Cadet Rodriguez barely scraped through. Out of the original thirty-five cadets, we were now down to twenty-nine.

  I was lucky, the academic training came easy for me. The physical and defensive tactics training did not. I had never been last at anything in my life. During my childhood, I was athletic and competitive. At the academy, though much stronger than when I started, I felt like a loser.

  Wednesday morning we were marched to our dorm rooms before class for a surprise room inspection. We were made to stand outside our room, with the door open. We could not enter the room before inspection began.

  This was not our first room inspection, and Donna and I were finally at a point where we felt confident in having our dorm ready for inspection each morning. We had learned through prior error that all shirts in our closet had to be facing in the same direction (buttons east), all shoes pointing outward and beds made to pass a military quarter bounce.

  For every room gig (mistake), our entire class was lined up in formation and made to do ten pushups. We’d had as many as fourteen gigs in one inspection. If you do the math it means one hundred and forty pushups. We learned very fast to fix the problems.

  Donna and I were lucky at this point because our room contained just the two of us. It made it easier to keep things organized, or so we thought.

  When we arrived at the dorms, I opened our door and realized the radio was blaring. I looked at Donna, who had panic written all over her face. She said quietly that she had left the radio on. We had a dilemma.

  The rules of dorm inspection were simple; open your door, do not enter the room and stand at ease outside the door. Either our Sergeant or an Advisor would arrive and begin the inspection. The first Cadet seeing one of them come around the corner would yell, “Staff on deck,” and we would immediately come to attention.

  As we stood outside the room listening to the music, our panic increased steadily. I thought Donna was going to pass out.

  I looked around and couldn’t see our Sergeant or any class advisors. I ran inside the room and shut the radio off. As I turned around to head back out, I heard those fateful words, “Staff on deck.” There was nothing I could do but step out of the room and face the music, literally.

  Sgt. Dickens was staring at our room and watched me come out and get into position. I think I might have been the only cadet in his history of him being Class Sergeant that defied him. His face was red and he looked like he was ready to explode.

  I was already in trouble and suffering a moment of rebellion. I stared him straight in the eye. Yes I remembered, “Stare through me not at me.” I’d had enough. Hill runs, push ups, papers to write, even after an easy week, it just never ended. I went into the “fight or flight,” mode. My decision was made and it was time to fight.

  I stood my ground looking into Sergeant Dickens’ eyes. I did not have long to wait for the explosion to happen.

  “Cadet Ivy, what the hell are you doing? Do you know the rules, are you stupid?”

  Now how do you answer that question? Was I stupid? I didn’t think so; I thought I was helping a friend. I understood the rules but had made the choice to break them. Did this mean I wasn’t good officer material? Again I didn’t think so.

  My response was simple and answered his questions, “I entered our room to turn off the radio, yes I know the rules, and no I’m not stupid.” Humble I was not.

  Sgt. Dickens’ face reddened even further.

  “Cadet Ivy you will leave the dorms and go wait outside my office immediately.” He said in a soft voice.

  This was even scarier than if he had yelled. I turned and left the area heading to his office.

  He kept me waiting for an hour. It was hard not knowing what was happening back at the dorms. The longer I waited the more stupid I realized I was. It must be an age thing. Middle age was not meant to be a subservient time in your life. It is a take charge and be a leader time. Sgt. Dickens was approximately thirty-two. He didn’t understand. Or maybe I didn’t.

  I also had another problem with my age. I needed to pee frequently. It had been over two hours and like an idiot I hadn't made a detour on the way to his office. I was regretting it with every minute that went by. I knew if I went to the restroom now, he would return as soon as I was out of sight.

  I waited. When he arrived, it was hard to come to attention. Before he was there I could at least jump around a little bit.

  Sgt. Dickens never even invited me into his domain. I was chastised in the hallway. The following one-sided conversation took place. I did manage a, “Yes sir,” here and there.

  “Cadet Ivy, you’ve surpassed none of my expectations (that was eloquent). You can’t follow orders, you can’t keep up physically with the rest of the class and you have authority issues. I will have a
ten page memo on, “Why it’s important to follow orders,” on my desk tomorrow morning and you will run ten hills after class today. Now go back to the classroom and stay out of my face.”

  That was it. Ten hill runs and a ten-page paper. I detoured to the restroom and then entered the classroom. A few cadets gave me smiles. I’m sure they wondered why I was still in the academy.

  It was a long day and an even longer night. Donna ran the hills with me and we made up a cadence along the way.

  “Sergeant Dickens is a pill. Made me go and run the hill. At the top I slipped and fell. May Sergeant Dickens go to hell.”

  Not so original but it passed the time. Class 96 was running their hills while Donna and I were doing ours. They laughed the entire time and we were rather pleased with ourselves.

  My rebellion continued as I sat down to write my paper. I remembered the hell Donna went through so I made mine subtler.

  I started my paper with, “Following rules is important. When I had my first child the doctor told me not to push. I didn’t listen. This was a bad time not to be following rules. I split wide open and the baby popped out. Another time to follow rules is when you are reading the directions on a cake box. My cakes kept falling in the middle and it took three disasters to understand that there are directions for high altitude on the side of the box. I had to learn that an asterisk under the directions was a rule to follow.”

  And on it went. I actually had fun and Donna laughed while shining my boots. She thought I was crazy but we both enjoyed our small acts of defiance. I told her I would take the retaliation if it came.

  My last thought as sleep overtook me was one of satisfaction.

  Chapter 13

  Gun Fights and Car Chases

  We had been told several weeks before that our defensive tactics gunfight was coming. This seemed to be a highlight for the instructors. We didn’t know what to expect and I was already exhausted. Thursday morning turned out to be the day.

  We were each paired up with someone of similar body size. This left Donna and I as a pair. She was in better shape and I felt it an unfair match. At the same time, the odds that I would ever have a fight on the street, for my gun, with someone my size was extremely slim.

  We had been shown police video of officers in fights with angry speeders, drunks and assorted bad guys over their guns. It is a deadly serious scenario. You have thirty pounds of equipment including vest, gun, Taser, pepper spray, and baton. Each one of these is potentially deadly in the wrong hands. And each one weighs against you in the fight.

  Our training exercise began with the cadets forming a circle around two fighters to keep them on the mat. If the fighters got too close to the mat’s edge they were none-too-gently pushed back on. The only rule was “There are no rules.” We were given no mouth or head protection, since we would have none on the street. The fights were brutal and the blood on the mat had to be cleaned off between each match.

  One “blue gun” is placed at the center of the mat. Both fighters lay down prone, facing each other. First one fighter takes a grip on the gun with one hand and then the second fighter does the same. Then the first fighter places their other hand on the gun followed by the second fighter. Once all four hands are on the gun, a whistle blows and the fight begins.

  When it was our turn, Donna and I did as instructed. The guys had been waiting for this and catcalls and friendly cheering ensued. I had been watching the other fighters closely. It seemed a lucky elbow in the nose ended the fight sooner. A head butt did too, but was devastating to the recipient.

  As soon as the whistle blew I pulled my face out of the way. Donna and I were wrestling on the floor with everything we had. I was determined to get my feet underneath me. I had figured out if I had the leverage, to pull away while she was on the ground, I could win.

  We continued wrestling and our legs and elbows were doing each other damage. The adrenaline was keeping us from feeling the majority of the pain. Donna got in a good hit to my chest with her knee and it knocked the wind out of me. I had suffered the feeling several times in my life and knew not to panic. The air would be back before I passed out. The strike enabled her to get her legs beneath her and pull up using the mat to stabilize her legs and establish a backwards momentum to possibly win.

  This was it, do or die. I swung my body around on the mat and planted my legs on either side of her chest. Before she could kick me in the groin I shoved with everything I had while holding on to the gun for dear life. My chest expanded at the same time. Donna was shoved to the outer rim of the mat with no gun in her hands.

  I had won. I rolled over on my side trying to get more air in and trying to get my arms and legs underneath me. It would have been easier if I released the gun, but I had won it and I wasn't letting go.

  Our fight lasted four minutes. It was the longest four minutes of my life. The guys were cheering like crazy. What is it about a girl fight that gets them going?

  When everyone’s match was finished, we were divided into two groups; the winners in one and the losers in the other. The winning group was congratulating each other and I was getting a lot of back slaps. I don’t think any of them thought I could beat Donna.

  We didn’t expect what happened next.

  The losers were given a punishment. They had to write a letter to their families telling them why they died that day. The letter had to be turned in the following morning to our squad leaders.

  Up until this point we had been taught we never die. When we put our uniforms on to head out for duty, our number one goal was to return to our families. Staring at the other group and thinking about what those letters would be like was devastating. You could see defeat on their faces.

  We silently left the gym.

  Later that afternoon, we noticed some unusual activity in the hallway, outside our classroom door. The leader from squad six and our class leader, Cadet Clark, were called to Sgt. Dickens’ office. About twenty minutes later Cadet Clark came back into the room and collected the squad leader’s personal items. We never saw the squad leader again and a new one was chosen for squad six.

  The rumor would later circulate that the unfortunate cadet was caught lying on his police application, and when his background was closely examined, the lie came out. He would never again be eligible to apply as a police officer in the state of Arizona. We were now down to twenty-eight cadets.

  That evening, Donna typed her letter. This was psychological torture for her and I watched her cry the entire time. She wasn’t angry at me. Donna had a six-year-old son at home, and addressed the letter to him. She cried for hours and I had a hard time getting her out of her funk. The letters were never sent to family members, but it was a hard lesson whether you won or lost.

  Friday was uneventful. There was no retaliation for my smart-ass paper on following orders. But I didn’t feel as satisfied with my wit any longer. Reality was crashing down.

  I headed home to spend time with my husband. He was lonely without me and I managed to pull myself out of a pain-induced stupor and take a day trip with him on Saturday. I cleaned my house on Sunday morning and then headed back to the academy at noon for some much needed study time.

  It was now the beginning of week seven and our first in a two-week driving course. Our classroom time was cut in half and we headed to the speed track.

  Before the training I thought I was a good driver, but I learned an entirely new way to approach driving situations at the academy. I never considered the difficulties of police driving -- that is, having to turn the stirring wheel with one hand, while holding a microphone in the other and trying to speak into it, without getting everything twisted up. Like everything else at the academy, the training was very intensive but it was fun as well.

  The phrase “stopping on a dime” had to have been invented by cops. We learned to stop, swerve, and make “J” turns, while being shot at with paintball guns. Our windows had to be down so we could actually be hit if we didn’t do what we were shown. It w
as fun, exciting and for some cadets painful.

  Driving instruction made the two weeks speed by (pun intended), but it didn’t stop our anxiety over the approaching ninth week. We were facing our three-hundred question midterm test and our first practical tests, where we would have to act out pretend scenarios with play actors. This was all “do or die” testing. If we didn’t pass the midterm we would be sent home. If we didn’t pass the practical tests we would be sent home.

  Oh yeah, we also had our first official POPAT agility test. We would be given two times to pass POPAT, the first was week nine, and then a final time one week before graduation.

  I stayed at the academy that weekend practicing POPAT, studying, and applying ice packs. My stress levels were at their breaking point.

  Chapter 14

  Testing Hell Week Begins

  Monday morning brought our midterms. It would take half the day. We all attended the previous evening’s study session and I had a review at my breakfast table that morning. For the first time two other tables were pushed closer and about half our class participated.

  It was a long and grueling test, but everyone passed. Cadet Rodriguez actually did very well and was twenty-second in the class. I was ninth and not very happy. Our academic rankings were posted on the wall and I wanted more than anything to be in the top five. I guess I should have been satisfied that at least academically I wasn’t in last place, but I was not happy.

  Tuesday was POPAT and our schedules showed no morning inspection. We were to be at the training field at 0800. We double timed it over at 0745.

  The Police Officers Physical Agility Test starts with running a ninety-nine yard obstacle course. You next scale a six-foot chain link fences followed by a six foot solid fence, then drag a 165 pound "body' 32 feet and when you’re good and tired you get to run 500 yards. Our POPAT testing lasted until lunch. I didn’t know if I’d made it or not. The results would be available that evening.