by Doug Beason
“I knew there was a catch.”
They quickly checked each other off before heading out the door. They had learned to watch out for each other and had found that it was harder this way for Lieutenant Ranch to find discrepancies. Once in the hallway, they turned into automata: chest out, shoulders back and down, chin in, arms to the side.
An ATO walked toward them, ready to rip off their heads.
They slammed against the wall. “By your leave, sir!”
The ATO said, “Two, smack!”
“Yes, sir! Good afternoon, sir! Bravo squadron dominates, sir!”
With their shoulder pressed against the wall, they tapped down the stairs one at a time and sprinted to formation. Slowing to a walk, they saluted and bellowed, “Good afternoon, sir. Bravo dominates!”
Justice glared as he inspected the troops. “One of your classmates didn’t wear his raincoat. Unbelievable. What’s going to happen when you don’t put on a parachute and your airplane crashes? Can anybody tell me?” His words hung in the air, but no one dared to answer the unusual question.
Squashed strawberry jam, Rod thought. Jumping out of an airplane without a parachute; what else would happen if you fell 20,000 feet? And all because he forgot to wear his raincoat. The incongruity almost made him laugh. From the corner of his eye the squadron looked ridiculous, dressed in the outlandish combination of uniform parts.
“You doolies make me sick,” Justice spat. “Now get down and knock out fifty. Maybe that will help you pay attention to detail.”
Once through, they stood sweating in the Colorado noon sun, the heat trapped inside their plastic raincoat. Justice put his hands on his hips and surveyed the basics. “Let’s see if your puny little brains can remember another uniform combination by the time you get back to your rooms. First Call for the next formation is five minutes from now. Uniform is: swimsuit, khaki pants with jock on the outside, t-shirt with winter parka, and combat boots under arms. Now move. Dismissed.”
“Good afternoon, sir!” They took a step backwards and broke ranks, scrambling for the dorm rooms, while ATOs ranged throughout the assembly area. It looked as if Justice had stirred up a pile of ants.
Back in their rooms, Rod and Sly gasped for breath while changing into the next outlandish uniform. “What’s going on?” Sly asked, stretching his jockstrap over his pants. “Just when I thought I figured out the system, Justice throws this at us.” He adjusted the clothing around his crotch. “Look at this: Clothing issue didn’t think I needed a large!”
Rod told him about his strawberry jam vision and they both burst out laughing.
Sly lowered his M-1 rifle from the stand and wiped a tear from his eye just as they headed out the door. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. Now every time Justice bawls us out, I’m going to think of a blob of jam.”
“Then think of something else.”
“Like what?”
“Toast,” Rod said, as he prepared he leave the room.
“Toast?”
“Yeah, something to divert your attention.” Rod slapped his weapon to his side and stepped smartly into the hallway. “You know, toast and jam.”
They made it to formation without being stopped, having mastered the art of passing officers both in- and outside the dorms.
O O O
“Squeeze the trigger, son. Gently—”
An explosion went off next to Rod’s ear. It felt as though his eardrum had popped as the rifle banged back into his shoulder. A hundred feet down range the paper target fluttered in the wind as a burst of dirt sprayed from the berm.
The master sergeant rifle instructor continued speaking in an unhurried, patient voice. “Put the next round in the chamber, son. This time, just gently squeeze your right hand. Don’t jerk it, squeeze.”
Rod clacked the mechanism, and another round rotated into the firing chamber. He wet his lips and brought the rifle up.
On either side of him a row of cadets cracked off rounds, most hitting the paper targets. Some drilled the center of the target in a perfect bull’s-eye, using the heavy M-1 rifles. Rod brought his rifle up and concentrated on his target.
“That’s it,” the sergeant said. He squatted next to Rod. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Rod kept the rifle pointed downrange and glanced up with his cheek still on the stock. “Excuse me?”
“A girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend back home?”
“Yes, master sergeant,” Rod said, zeroing in on the target.
“What’s her name?”
“Sandy. Sandy Allison.” Her latest letter was folded neatly in his pocket; he’d take it out when sitting in the john and re-read it.
“Okay,” the crusty old sergeant lifted Rod’s rifle minutely as he scrunched next to Rod on the dirt. The pop pop pop sound of bullets being fired drifted down the firing range. “Now close your eyes for a moment.”
Surprised, Rod released his hand from the trigger and shut his eyes. He’d learned to never question an order, and although this didn’t rate with conducting a uniform formation, it was still pretty weird to be closing his eyes on the firing range.
The sergeant’s calm voice spoke over the sound of rifle fire. “Can you see Sandy’s face?”
“Yes, sergeant,” Rod nodded, his eyes still closed. Shoulder length brunette hair, the ends flipping up at her shoulders, a perky nose, and a small mole over her left eye.
“How’s she look?”
“Fine,” Rod said. “Swell.”
“How’s she look in a swimsuit? Nice?”
“Yeah,” Rod smiled, his eyes still closed. “Real nice.”
“That’s good. Real shapely I bet. She’s got a good figure?”
“A great figure. A real looker.”
“Just what I thought. Now imagine you’ve got your right hand on Sandy’s tit. Nice and gentle. You wouldn’t jerk your hand, squeeze too fast, and upset Miss Sandy, now would you, son?”
“No …”
“So just squeeze slowly, real gentle. Can you imagine that?”
“Oh, yeah.” The thought of being anywhere else but Colorado, and being with Sandy brought the point home for Rod.
Rod heard the sergeant straighten. “Now open your eyes, son. Sight in the target, caress that breast with your hand and squeeze—this time gently, understand?”
Rod detached himself from the firing range, the surroundings, and the incessant popping of the controlled explosions of rifle firings, and in one, continuous fluid-like motion he closed his hand, the recoil barely bothered him when the rifle fired.
The master sergeant brought a pair of field binoculars up and gazed downrange. “That’s it! Good shot, son. Try it again.” He brought down the glasses and squeezed Rod’s shoulder. “Nice and gentle. Never forget Miss Sandy.”
Rod brought up the M-1. “You got it, Master Sergeant.”
O O O
At the evening meal Lieutenant Ranch held up a white Air Force Academy form that measured five by seven inches on a side. “Listen up. This is a Form O-96. You smacks need to fill this out at the end of every meal so the Mitchell Hall staff can see what we think of their food and service. The approved solution is to mark the categories: fast, neat, average; friendly, good, good. Do not forget! Do you understand?”
The table answered as one. “Sir, I do not understand!”
Ranch turned red. “The first category is for the waiter: was he slow, fast or average? Get it? The other categories are similar. Unless you have a real beef with the meal, mark down the approved solution. Understand, cretins?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Carry on.”
O O O
“All right, listen up.” Flight B-2 sat on two wooden benches inside a canvas tent. Little light made its way inside, and the smell of wet sandbags permeated the darkness. Pinpricks of light peppered the top of the canvas. A raw bulb burned by the canvas door by the side. Dust from the dirt floor was on the benches and the side of the tent.
An officer pace
d the space between the benches. Although apprehensive about what was to come, Rod still felt grateful for the chance to finally sit in the dark, something he had not had the chance to do during the hectic early days of BCT.
One of Rod’s classmates started snoring softly, validating their classes’ reaction to the arduous pace: lights out, eyes shut. They were so tired all the time it was difficult to stay awake.
A classmate jabbed the sleeper in the side of the ribs, eliciting a snort, but the sleeper woke, and thus saved all of them from ten minutes of squat-thrusts.
The officer continued his lecture. “This is your final exam in unconventional warfare. Does anyone have any questions about donning the gas mask?”
No answer.
“Good.” He pulled his own mask over his head. “Assume the position.”
Twenty basics pulled gas masks over their head, mimicking their instructor.
“Position the mask.”
Again, Rod and his classmates followed the officer’s lead, fitting their mask to their face. Rod ran a finger on either side of the rubber, ensuring a tight fit. He peered out through the mask’s two frog-eyed lenses, and although his eyes had grown used to the low light level in the tent, everything looked distorted, out of focus.
The officer strode down the center of the tent and stopped in front of a box at the end of the aisle, he rummaged inside and pulled out a small canister.
A metal ring extended from the end of the canister. He held the canister up for all to see and grasped the metal ring with his right hand; his muffled voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. “This is tear gas. If one of these lands near you and you don’t have a mask, run like hell, otherwise you’ll be unable to fight.
“The purpose of today’s training is twofold. First, you should know how to correctly use a gas mask.” He pulled the ring. Thick smoke poured from the canister. The officer held the tear gas unit above his head, allowing the gas, which was heavier than air, to billow throughout the enclosed tent. It swirled around the officer. “If your mask is on correctly, and you have a good filter in your canister, you should not be able detect the gas. If your mask leaks, stick out a paw. Is everyone okay?”
“Yes, sir!” Twenty muffled voices spoke through their masks. Even in the darkness, everyone looked like embryonic frogs.
As the canister spewed gas the room became hazy; Rod couldn’t see past his classmate sitting next to him. Pinpricks of light in the ceiling faded like headlights attenuated in a thick fog.
Someone spoke up at the end of the tent. “Sir, may I ask a question?”
“Is your hand out?”
“Yes, sir.” The cadet was barely visible through the viscous fumes.
Rod heard a shuffling as the officer moved through the haze. “What is it?”
“Sir, I can smell something through my mask. Is it leaking?”
“No. The filter isn’t perfect, but believe me, you’d know if the mask doesn’t work. And that brings us to the second part of the training. Does everyone see the tent door? Know how to get out of here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You men need to experience the effects of tear gas and understand firsthand what it will do to your troops if they’re exposed to it. At the count of three, take off your masks and stay inside the tent as long as you can bear it. Any questions?”
“No, sir.” The muffled reply didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic as before.
“One … two … three. Rip off those masks, men!”
Rod drew in a deep breath and pulled back his mask—
Pain. A thousand knifes slashed into his face, his nose, eyes, and ears. Simultaneous itching and suffocating, he gasped for breath. His eyes felt as though they were on fire. All around him came the sound of hacking, choking. Someone started to heave. A mile away, through thick fog and noxious fumes, the tent flap opened.
Rod staggered for the light and stumbled over his own feet. Later he realized that two long wooden benches had been set up to funnel the basics to the exit. But now his sole focus was to get outside.
Coughing, he lurched into one of his classmates and toppled into a heap just outside the tent; fumes poured outside and diffused over the ground.
With his gas mask still on, the officer stood by the entrance and pulled basics outside. “Buddy up!” he yelled, his voice muffled by the mask. “Find your roommate and make sure he’s out of the tent!” As another basic staggered out, the officer disappeared inside the tent to insure everyone was accounted for.
Rod found Sly on the ground, well away from the tent. His arms flung over his knees, he kept his head down and wheezed.
“You okay?” Rod said.
“I’m alive.”
Rod plopped down beside him. “I hope that’s the last time we’ll do that.”
Sly looked up sharply. “Don’t ever say that again. You know it’s bad luck. Someone might decide we need to experience the tear gas again.”
“You men!” The officer stood with his hands on his hips and from the tent yelled at them. “Stop taking a blow and stand up! Get over here and join your classmates.”
“You’re right,” Rod said, reaching out to steady himself on Sly’s shoulder as he shakily took his feet. “Justice might hear us and make us do it over again, just for spite.”
O O O
“At ease, gentlemen. Take seats.” Lieutenant Ranch walked to the front of the squadron assembly room and leaned back against the table that was pushed to the wall. Years ago the room had been used as a common area for an airman’s dormitory. Now barren except for chairs, a table, and a blackboard, the room had been converted into a meeting area for the basics, where they were given lectures on hygiene, military history and customs, survival, airmanship, navigation, tactics, and Air Force tradition.
The tenseness in the room dissipated. The atmosphere was noticeably more at ease when the basics realized that tonight’s lesson would be led by Ranch. Although they knew they still had their shower formation afterwards, at least Captain Justice wasn’t present.
Rod sat in the front row between Sly and Manuel Rojo, a lanky Hispanic from Albuquerque. Rod had heard that Manuel was the oldest child of nine, and the first in his immigrant family’s history to attend college. It was like sitting between two extremes of the human spectrum, both physically and intellectually: somehow still able to maintain a slight pudginess despite the grueling summer, Sly couldn’t take anything seriously; on the other hand, Manuel looked as if he weighed half of what Sly did, and at 6 inches taller, carried an erudite air about him. The basics sat next to the classmates whom they normally stood next to in formation, rather than sit with the others in the Flight. As a result, Rod knew the others by sight, but they had all been much too busy to get to know each other personally.
Ranch set a box of pencils and a sheaf of papers next to him on the table. He folded his arms and looked over the basics. “Tonight we’re going to do something a little different. Yesterday your class received a briefing on the West Point and Annapolis Honor Codes. You’ve been exposed to the differences between the two, and you’ve had lectures on the need for establishing your own code. Next week you’ll elect one of your classmates as your Honor Representative, and over the next month you’ll decide if you want a code, and if you do, what your code will be.”
Ranch paused. “The crux of the matter is that you are going to have to construct a code so that honor supersedes loyalty to the individual, and ensures the unit’s survival.”
Manuel Rojo stood. “Sir, may I make a statement?”
“Shoot.”
“I thought we were always loyal to our classmates, sir.”
Ranch nodded and looked pleased. “That’s right; you’re being taught to put the needs of others before you: Never let your classmate down. But the ultimate goal is loyalty to the unit, and not the individual. Your loyalty should not be blind, but selective.”
Sly raised his hand. “Sir, I do not understand.”
“Okay,” Ranch said. “Suppose you’re on enemy patrol and your classmate lights up a cigarette, possibly putting your Flight in danger by pinpointing your location. Which is more important: the individual’s right to smoke or the unit’s right to survive?”
One of their classmates, a beefy blonde who looked as though he might be one of the football players, snorted, “No one would do that, sir!”
Lieutenant Ranch lifted an eyebrow. He said softly, “You’d be surprised what people do in the real world, Mr. Delante.” He turned to the squadron. “So don’t take this lightly. I’m going to leave you here alone, and you’ll have the rest of the night to discuss this with your classmates. You’ll be setting up a system that will not only affect the classes that come after you, but also establish a culture that defines how the entire Academy interacts with you—the academic faculty, the athletic department, and the military training cadre. And that will permeate into the Air Force.
“You will be establishing a core value system that will define the very essence of officership for decades to come. But most important, it all comes down to this: You are entering the only profession in the United States of America that has been given the authorization by Congress and the President to kill. With that responsibility, our nation must ensure that you have the highest honor and ethics to accomplish your mission. Your honor code—not mine, nor anyone else’s—will serve as a foundation for our nation’s trust.
“Tonight it’s time to talk among yourselves, debate the issue. You’ll do this every other night and take a vote in the next few weeks.” He straightened. “I’ve left you some reference material on the table, so good luck. I’ll see you at shower formation in two hours.”
He walked to the door. Sly stood and shouted, “Room, atten’hut.” Chairs slid back as the basics stood at attention.
“Carry on,” Lieutenant Ranch said as he left the room.
The door shut. No one spoke. They looked at each other, wondering what to do next. Up to now, every second of BCT had been supervised.
Sly drawled, breaking the silence. “Well, we’ve got two uninterrupted hours. Anybody up for taking a nap?”
***
