arrived.
My seat was soft and comfortable when we finally were allowed—no, ordered —to sit. The air-conditioning cooled my skin, making me both refreshed and sleepy. This was the only relief any of us had had all day. And Cadet Daily knew it. “Listen up, Knuckleheads! Don’t let me catch any of you racking in here. You will not be comfortable. That’s an order! You will sit at attention.” He peered down our row to ensure each of us was listening. “If I see any of you chilling out, I will personally crank up the heat on your sorry maggot bodies! Got it? Instant dee -frost!”
So I sat on the edge of my seat and stared at a cadet walking onto the stage at the front of the auditorium.
“I am Cadet Captain Knight, Regimental Commander of Cadet Basic Training,” the cadet said. “Otherwise known as King of Beast.” His voice lacked the malice that most of the upperclassmen’s voices contained, and his welcome was cordial enough, but something about him chilled the room.
“Keep a sense of humor and a high degree of motivation,” he told us. He reminded us that we had been selected out of thousands of applicants because each one of us demonstrated that trace of the exceptional intelligence, drive, and leadership ability that marked members of the Corps of Cadets.
“Now, look at the person to your left and right.” I looked. New Cadet Ping, the guy who had helped me with my name tag, sat at my left. New Cadet McGill, the guy with the sun-bleached hair and lifeguard tan, sat at my right. “Four years from now, one of you will be gone.”
I looked down at my hands in my lap. Four years. My feet ached. My eyes burned. My stomach growled. Sweat, dried and crusty, traced my hairline. Four years of days like this?
“Most of those won’t make it through Cadet Basic Training.” He paused. “That’s why we call it ‘Beast.’”
Will I be the one to leave? I thought of my alternatives. It’s either here or home. I sat up even straighter on the edge of my soft seat. No. I will make it. I will.
7:15 P.M.
The medieval mess hall was filled with noise—of clanging dishes and roaring voices—as if the Crusades were being fought within its very walls. The other new cadets and I sat, by squad, around rectangular tables for ten.
“I am Cadet Black,” boomed Cadet Black, sitting at the head of our table. I snapped my head to face him. So did the six other new cadets who had helped me get dressed earlier and were now sitting with me. “No pun intended.” His lips twitched. Cadet Daily and another upperclassman flanked his sides. “I am your Table Commandant.” Earlier, at lunch, Cadet Black had ignored the new cadets under his charge as they ate. Now he glared steadily at each of us around the table. The overwhelming aroma of roast beef made my empty stomach grumble. I concentrated on breathing in and out of my mouth so I wouldn’t have to smell the food.
Cadet Black’s eyes rested on me. I hoped it was only because I was sitting opposite him. “I had the pleasure of dining with some of you at lunch.”
I rewound my memories from earlier in the day at triple speed. Did I mess up for him, too?
“That was then. This is now.” He narrowed his eyes. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.” Then he began to rattle off orders faster than my mother could hurl dishes. “You will sit at the position of attention at all times. Sit one fist’s distance from the table edge, and one fist’s distance from the back of the chair. Spread your napkins on your laps, and place your hands on top of the napkins. Position your plate so the West Point crest rests at twelve o’clock. Stare at the crest. NO GAZING AROUND! ” Once again his eyes traveled around the table, following the contours of our sweaty faces. “YOU GOT THAT, BEANSMACKS?”
“YES, SIR!”
“GOOD. MAKE THE CORRECTION!”
Shaky hands spread linen napkins, fists sandwiched stomachs, and torsos shifted. I stared at my empty plate, my eyes locked on the crest,
My seat was soft and comfortable when we finally were allowed—no, ordered —to sit. The air-conditioning cooled my skin, making me both refreshed and sleepy. This was the only relief any of us had had all day. And Cadet Daily knew it. “Listen up, Knuckleheads! Don’t let me catch any of you racking in here. You will not be comfortable. That’s an order! You will sit at attention.” He peered down our row to ensure each of us was listening. “If I see any of you chilling out, I will personally crank up the heat on your sorry maggot bodies! Got it? Instant dee -frost!”
So I sat on the edge of my seat and stared at a cadet walking onto the stage at the front of the auditorium.
“I am Cadet Captain Knight, Regimental Commander of Cadet Basic Training,” the cadet said. “Otherwise known as King of Beast.” His voice lacked the malice that most of the upperclassmen’s voices contained, and his welcome was cordial enough, but something about him chilled the room.
“Keep a sense of humor and a high degree of motivation,” he told us. He reminded us that we had been selected out of thousands of applicants because each one of us demonstrated that trace of the exceptional intelligence, drive, and leadership ability that marked members of the Corps of Cadets.
“Now, look at the person to your left and right.” I looked. New Cadet Ping, the guy who had helped me with my name tag, sat at my left. New Cadet McGill, the guy with the sun-bleached hair and lifeguard tan, sat at my right. “Four years from now, one of you will be gone.”
I looked down at my hands in my lap. Four years. My feet ached. My eyes burned. My stomach growled. Sweat, dried and crusty, traced my hairline. Four years of days like this?
“Most of those won’t make it through Cadet Basic Training.” He paused. “That’s why we call it ‘Beast.’”
Will I be the one to leave? I thought of my alternatives. It’s either here or home. I sat up even straighter on the edge of my soft seat. No. I will make it. I will.
7:15 P.M.
The medieval mess hall was filled with noise—of clanging dishes and roaring voices—as if the Crusades were being fought within its very walls. The other new cadets and I sat, by squad, around rectangular tables for ten.
“I am Cadet Black,” boomed Cadet Black, sitting at the head of our table. I snapped my head to face him. So did the six other new cadets who had helped me get dressed earlier and were now sitting with me. “No pun intended.” His lips twitched. Cadet Daily and another upperclassman flanked his sides. “I am your Table Commandant.” Earlier, at lunch, Cadet Black had ignored the new cadets under his charge as they ate. Now he glared steadily at each of us around the table. The overwhelming aroma of roast beef made my empty stomach grumble. I concentrated on breathing in and out of my mouth so I wouldn’t have to smell the food.
Cadet Black’s eyes rested on me. I hoped it was only because I was sitting opposite him. “I had the pleasure of dining with some of you at lunch.”
I rewound my memories from earlier in the day at triple speed. Did I mess up for him, too?
“That was then. This is now.” He narrowed his eyes. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.” Then he began to rattle off orders faster than my mother could hurl dishes. “You will sit at the position of attention at all times. Sit one fist’s distance from the table edge, and one fist’s distance from the back of the chair. Spread your napkins on your laps, and place your hands on top of the napkins. Position your plate so the West Point crest rests at twelve o’clock. Stare at the crest. NO GAZING AROUND! ” Once again his eyes traveled around the table, following the contours of our sweaty faces. “YOU GOT THAT, BEANSMACKS?”
“YES, SIR!”
“GOOD. MAKE THE CORRECTION!”
Shaky hands spread linen napkins, fists sandwiched stomachs, and torsos shifted. I stared at my empty plate, my eyes locked on the crest,
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