a black shield superimposed by something that looked like a gold knight’s helmet.
“To eat,” Cadet Black continued, “pick up your knife and fork. Cut an approximately one-square-inch piece of food. Big bites are not authorized! Raise your fork to your mouth. The forearm must be at a ninety-degree angle to the spine, elbow out.” He demonstrated. “Then once you’ve placed the food in your mouth, ground your fork and knife diagonally at the upper-right-hand corner of your plate—across the twelve-o’clock and three-o’clock positions. Return to the position of attention with your hands on your lap. Then and only then may you chew and swallow the food. With your mouths closed! DO YOU UNDERSTAND, KNUCKLEHEADS?”
“YES, SIR!”
I don’t think I can eat like this! And my defense against the roast beef was wearing thin. Oh, why didn’t I eat lunch today?
“Davis!” Cadet Daily cut in, yelling down the table at me. “You are the Cold Beverage Corporal.”
My heart dropped into my stomach. The what?
“Your function in life is to fill all those glasses with ice and a beverage.” He pointed to the upside-down glasses lined in neat rows before me. “You will hold up the pitcher of the preferred beverage above your right shoulder, with both hands, like this”—he demonstrated with his plate—“and away from your mouth. I don’t want your verminous spit anywhere near my beverage. You will look directly at the Table Com and announce in a command voice, ‘Sir, the cold beverage for this meal is—’ What’s in the pitcher, Davis?”
I peered into one of the two stainless-steel pitchers beside me and yelled, “Sir, water is in the pitcher!”
“No, Bonehead! The other pitcher. The one with the preferred beverage. What is it?”
I tilted the second pitcher and watched an unrecognizable dark liquid slosh around inside. I racked my brain. Iced tea? Coke? Grape juice?
“TODAY, DAVIS. TODAY! WHAT’S IN THE PITCHER?” He pounded the table, making the dishes, silverware, ketchup, salt and pepper shakers—and me—jump. “Immediate Response Please— IRP! Morons in the loony bin are quicker than you.”
Cadet Black and the other upperclassman sneered down the table and nodded in agreement. I was tired and hungry, and I wanted to cry. Even the mealtime insults I had endured back home were no preparation for West Point’s dinner conversation and table etiquette.
Then Cadet Daily said the unbelievable. “Grab a glass and taste it.”
I grabbed a glass and shakily poured the liquid. Three sets of upperclass eyes glared down the table at me, daring me to spill it on myself or, worse yet, on the pristine white tablecloth. My squadmates stared dutifully at their crests, probably thanking God, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, and every other higher power they could think of that they hadn’t sat in my spot tonight. When I tried to drink, all three upperclassmen jumped out of their seats in rage, roaring corrections and insults at me. My forearm didn’t form a ninety-degree angle to my spine. I gulped instead of sipped. I brought my mouth to my glass instead of my glass to my mouth.
I can’t even drink right!
Finally, I choked down what tasted like bitter water. And after my fourth attempt of yelling over the din in the mess hall (“We can’t hear you, Davis! Try it again! Is that what I told you to say? Do it again!”), I correctly made the announcement, “Sir! The cold beverage for this meal is iced tea. Would anyone not care for iced tea, sir?”
“Just fill all the glasses with ice and water,” Cadet Daily said, motioning toward the stainless-steel bowl filled with cylindrical ice cubes. “Three whole ice cubes in each glass. No shrapnel. Do you think you can handle that, Davis?”
“Yes, sir!” I assured him.
“WORK!” Cadet Black bellowed.
I started spooning ice cubes into the glasses.
A mess-hall waiter suddenly appeared, wearing a red coat, white shirt, and black pants. He deposited
“To eat,” Cadet Black continued, “pick up your knife and fork. Cut an approximately one-square-inch piece of food. Big bites are not authorized! Raise your fork to your mouth. The forearm must be at a ninety-degree angle to the spine, elbow out.” He demonstrated. “Then once you’ve placed the food in your mouth, ground your fork and knife diagonally at the upper-right-hand corner of your plate—across the twelve-o’clock and three-o’clock positions. Return to the position of attention with your hands on your lap. Then and only then may you chew and swallow the food. With your mouths closed! DO YOU UNDERSTAND, KNUCKLEHEADS?”
“YES, SIR!”
I don’t think I can eat like this! And my defense against the roast beef was wearing thin. Oh, why didn’t I eat lunch today?
“Davis!” Cadet Daily cut in, yelling down the table at me. “You are the Cold Beverage Corporal.”
My heart dropped into my stomach. The what?
“Your function in life is to fill all those glasses with ice and a beverage.” He pointed to the upside-down glasses lined in neat rows before me. “You will hold up the pitcher of the preferred beverage above your right shoulder, with both hands, like this”—he demonstrated with his plate—“and away from your mouth. I don’t want your verminous spit anywhere near my beverage. You will look directly at the Table Com and announce in a command voice, ‘Sir, the cold beverage for this meal is—’ What’s in the pitcher, Davis?”
I peered into one of the two stainless-steel pitchers beside me and yelled, “Sir, water is in the pitcher!”
“No, Bonehead! The other pitcher. The one with the preferred beverage. What is it?”
I tilted the second pitcher and watched an unrecognizable dark liquid slosh around inside. I racked my brain. Iced tea? Coke? Grape juice?
“TODAY, DAVIS. TODAY! WHAT’S IN THE PITCHER?” He pounded the table, making the dishes, silverware, ketchup, salt and pepper shakers—and me—jump. “Immediate Response Please— IRP! Morons in the loony bin are quicker than you.”
Cadet Black and the other upperclassman sneered down the table and nodded in agreement. I was tired and hungry, and I wanted to cry. Even the mealtime insults I had endured back home were no preparation for West Point’s dinner conversation and table etiquette.
Then Cadet Daily said the unbelievable. “Grab a glass and taste it.”
I grabbed a glass and shakily poured the liquid. Three sets of upperclass eyes glared down the table at me, daring me to spill it on myself or, worse yet, on the pristine white tablecloth. My squadmates stared dutifully at their crests, probably thanking God, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, and every other higher power they could think of that they hadn’t sat in my spot tonight. When I tried to drink, all three upperclassmen jumped out of their seats in rage, roaring corrections and insults at me. My forearm didn’t form a ninety-degree angle to my spine. I gulped instead of sipped. I brought my mouth to my glass instead of my glass to my mouth.
I can’t even drink right!
Finally, I choked down what tasted like bitter water. And after my fourth attempt of yelling over the din in the mess hall (“We can’t hear you, Davis! Try it again! Is that what I told you to say? Do it again!”), I correctly made the announcement, “Sir! The cold beverage for this meal is iced tea. Would anyone not care for iced tea, sir?”
“Just fill all the glasses with ice and water,” Cadet Daily said, motioning toward the stainless-steel bowl filled with cylindrical ice cubes. “Three whole ice cubes in each glass. No shrapnel. Do you think you can handle that, Davis?”
“Yes, sir!” I assured him.
“WORK!” Cadet Black bellowed.
I started spooning ice cubes into the glasses.
A mess-hall waiter suddenly appeared, wearing a red coat, white shirt, and black pants. He deposited
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