The Cadet (13 page)

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.

Captain Whitney cocked his head. “That’s good, Cadet Simone. Very good. How old were you?”

“I was six years old, sir.”

Someone sniggered at the back of the room.

Whitney looked around for the perpetuator and smiled. “I see. A six year old killing a professionally-trained German Storm Trooper.” He picked up a sheaf of papers. “So when did Mister Simone bring you to America?”

Rod wiped away a tear with his sleeve. “Sir, I kept my family name. My adoptive father was a downed pilot, Hank McCluney.”

Captain Whitney straightened. Turning his head slightly, he narrowed his eyes at Rod and didn’t speak; a moment passed and the classroom was eerily quiet. Rod felt that all eyes were on him.

A faraway look came over Captain Whitney’s eyes. “McCluney …”

“Yes, sir. Hank McCluney. He’s Scottish, from the Lowlands.”

Someone coughed, and Whitney abruptly started handing out the papers. “I say, who’s on for tomorrow?”

Jeff Goldstein stood. “Sir, I’m up next. I’ll tell the class how my shooting hoops in the Bronx led to winning the New York State High School Basketball championship.”

“Not good enough, Mr. Goldstein. You’ll need to be more creative if you’re going to top Simone’s little fantasy. Now, put away your books in preparation for a pop quiz.”

O O O

Rod woke with a start. He lifted his head from the floor and felt stiff all over. What a way to spend a Friday night.

Or wake up Saturday morning.

It took him a moment to remember, but it came back quickly: Their first Saturday Morning Inspection, or SAMI, was going to occur this morning and there was no way he was going to risk remaking his bed, especially after all the time he had spent on it the night before. It had taken a while to fall asleep last night, even after being dog-tired from boxing in gym class and playing flickerball in intramurals. But what kept him awake was that before Captain Whitney’s class, he hadn’t thought of killing that German for a long, long time.…

He listened for a moment, but couldn’t tell what had woken him. It must have been his internal clock.

Fred snored softly, still asleep on the floor next to him. The beds were pushed up against the dorm room wall, immaculately made, tighter than a board of wood, and with hospital corners so sharp they’d slice off a finger.

Rod held up his wristwatch and read the green glow from the radium dial. Five fifteen. They had another forty-five minutes to reveille, and all hell would break loose.

Rod leaned over and shook Fred. “Hey. Wake up. We’ve got latrine duty.”

“Oh, no,” Fred moaned. He twisted around and sat up on the floor. “I had the strangest dream. Captain Justice tied me to a board and dragged me behind his car.”

Rod pushed up and stretched. “Don’t tell anyone about that dream. Justice may do it if he finds out.”

“Uh-oh.”

They pulled on pants, shirts, and took their shoes to the edge of the room, not wanting to risk scuffing up the floor. They had spent too much time the night before cleaning every part of their room to mess things up now.

They slipped out of their room. Pressed against the wall, they walked at attention to the latrine. Rod carefully opened the door so as not to wake Lieutenant Ranch or any other ATO that might be around, and flicked on the light.

Fred headed for the urinal. “I’ve got to go before we clean up.”

Rod reached out and grabbed arm. “Wait. We sanitized the urinals and toilets last night. We’ve got to clean the sinks and get back to our room.”

“But I’ve got to go!”

“What are you trying to do, get everyone in trouble by soiling the toilets? No one uses the bathroom until after the SAMI, remember? The squadron agreed last night.”

A pained expression swept over Fred’s face. “Rod, I’m serious. If I don’t go, I’m going to pop.”

“Think of the squadron, Fred.”

“Think of me! How am I going to hold it? Reveille isn’t for another forty minutes, then we’ve got the morning run and breakfast before the SAMI. I can’t make it!”

“The squadron, Fred! Think of the rest of us.”

“Uh-oh—”

Rod picked up a sponge and cleaner from a small closet set underneath the sink. “Come on, we’ve got to finish the sinks.”

“Uh-oh—” Fred grabbed at his crotch. “I’m really not going to make it.”

Rod glanced at the urinals, then the row of toilets. The doors were partially opened, yet perfectly aligned. The whole squadron must have spent three hours in here last night, scraping out grit, scouring off mold, and turning the latrine from a place that barely passed as a bathroom into a sterile showcase where their waiter, Mr. Raf Garcia, could have served the evening meal.

As much as Rod sympathized for his roommate, the squadron had just spent too much time cleaning up the latrine. They had all sworn not to drink anything after the evening meal, and not to use the latrine until after this morning’s SAMI.

“Uh-oh—”

Rod started to dump the cleaning powder into the sink when he waved a hand at Fred. “All right. If you have to go, then go in the sink. But you wash it out, and you clean it up when you’re done.”

Fred quickly unzipped and stepped up to the basin. Seconds later he wore a satisfied smile.

O O O

It didn’t take Captain Justice more than three minutes to decide that Rod and Fred’s room was worthless.

For the first two minutes and forty five seconds, Justice rummaged through their clothing drawer, searching for who-knows-what type of contraband. He ran a white-gloved finger along every surface in the room inspecting for dust; he scrutinized their combat boots; he checked to see if their clothes were properly lined up; he bounced quarters off both beds, only to have them pop up impressively high into the air; he checked under their beds for dust; he checked their textbooks to see if they were arranged in descending order; he checked for dust behind the textbooks; he opened their medicine cabinets and ran a finger over the glass, checking for mold or spilled toothpaste; he checked to see if their toothpaste dispensers were properly rolled.

As Captain Justice turned to leave, he spotted something on Fred’s bed. “Look at this.” He leaned over. With white-gloved hands he picked up a hair. “This is disgusting. This is the grossest thing I’ve seen in my entire life. You men live in a pigsty!”