stainless-steel platters of steaming food—roast beef, wide noodles, and peas with mushrooms—on the table to my left and right before shuffling away.
“Pass that food up here!” Cadet Black growled.
“Boguslavsky!” yelled Cadet Daily, pointing down the long table at Jimmy Fallon’s lookalike on my left. “That means you! Function!”
When everyone had a glass of ice water and a plate of food before them, Cadet Black bellowed, “EAT!”
I grabbed my knife and fork and attacked my roast beef, cutting it into minuscule pieces and chomping it down, barely chewing.
“REGIMENT, RISE!” The command from the King of Beast, standing on the balcony in the center of the mess hall, came too quickly.
“ON YOUR FEET!” Cadet Black yelled. Hundreds of chairs pushed away from the tables. I was on my feet with the others, standing at attention and waiting for direction. I snuck a quick look at the table. So much food ... and all I had managed to get past my lips were three peas, four square-inch pieces of roast beef, and a clump of stuck-together noodles.
Cadet Daily herded us out of the mess hall and into New Cadet Ping’s room to teach us the basics—how to fold our clothes and make our beds—West Point style. New Cadet Ping’s side of the room was already in perfect order. Along with his own stuff, I noticed, he’d also arranged most of his roommate’s. I waited for Cadet Daily to tell us all that Ping was a model new cadet and would be promoted to an upperclassman instantly. Instead, he flipped Ping’s mattress upside down onto the floor.
What did he do wrong?
“THE FIRST THING YOU BETTER GET THROUGH YOUR DUMB KNUCKLEHEAD, PING,” Cadet Daily bellowed, “IS YOU DON’T DICK ON YOUR CLASSMATES !” He yanked the bleached white sheets and Army-green blanket from under the mattress and tossed them aside. “The objective here is not to make yourself look good, New Cadet Ping. This ain’t no dog and pony show! This is West Point . If you can’t hack it, beat it. Go back to being an E-5 in the Army!” Cadet Daily stood nose to nose with Ping, his veins straining against the skin of his neck. “The objective here, New Cadet Ping,” Cadet Daily said between clenched teeth, “is to cooperate and graduate . You got that, Hotshot?”
“Yes, sir!” yelled Ping.
But he had cooperated. He’d helped his roommate out! I thought of how he had helped me with my name tag earlier. Doesn’t cooperate mean help? But I wasn’t sure what anything meant anymore.
Cadet Daily turned from Ping, stepped over the crumpled mound of bedding, and walked over to the dismantled bed. “Get over here, Ping,” he snarled. “I’m going to show you miserable maggots how to properly make a bed.” He eyed Ping with disgust. “And Mr. Combat here”—he flicked the multicolored rectangular pins lined up on Ping’s chest—“is going to be my demonstrator.” Where Ping had medals, our uniforms were bare—including Cadet Daily’s.
When Cadet Daily had finished his step-by-step bed-making class, he smiled. With its tight hospital corners, the bed looked like an olive-drab business envelope. “Now, this is the standard, Third Squad! This bed is so tight, you can bounce a quarter off it.” He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and slammed it on the bed. Like a rubber ball, it sprang back into his hand.
Before he could repeat his trick, the door opened and an upperclass cadet stepped inside the room.
“Hey, Daily. Here’s the new addition to your squad.” The cadet moved aside, and behind him stood a tiny girl with sweaty red hair shaped into a bun. Her eyes, enormous in her face, darted nervously around the room. “New Cadet Bryen. First name, Gabrielle,” the cadet announced. “Her roommate decided Woo Poo U wasn’t the place for her, so after the parade, when we marched off the Plain, she just kept on going, right into her parents’ waiting car.” He smiled. “The CO told me to hand her over to you since your
“Pass that food up here!” Cadet Black growled.
“Boguslavsky!” yelled Cadet Daily, pointing down the long table at Jimmy Fallon’s lookalike on my left. “That means you! Function!”
When everyone had a glass of ice water and a plate of food before them, Cadet Black bellowed, “EAT!”
I grabbed my knife and fork and attacked my roast beef, cutting it into minuscule pieces and chomping it down, barely chewing.
“REGIMENT, RISE!” The command from the King of Beast, standing on the balcony in the center of the mess hall, came too quickly.
“ON YOUR FEET!” Cadet Black yelled. Hundreds of chairs pushed away from the tables. I was on my feet with the others, standing at attention and waiting for direction. I snuck a quick look at the table. So much food ... and all I had managed to get past my lips were three peas, four square-inch pieces of roast beef, and a clump of stuck-together noodles.
Cadet Daily herded us out of the mess hall and into New Cadet Ping’s room to teach us the basics—how to fold our clothes and make our beds—West Point style. New Cadet Ping’s side of the room was already in perfect order. Along with his own stuff, I noticed, he’d also arranged most of his roommate’s. I waited for Cadet Daily to tell us all that Ping was a model new cadet and would be promoted to an upperclassman instantly. Instead, he flipped Ping’s mattress upside down onto the floor.
What did he do wrong?
“THE FIRST THING YOU BETTER GET THROUGH YOUR DUMB KNUCKLEHEAD, PING,” Cadet Daily bellowed, “IS YOU DON’T DICK ON YOUR CLASSMATES !” He yanked the bleached white sheets and Army-green blanket from under the mattress and tossed them aside. “The objective here is not to make yourself look good, New Cadet Ping. This ain’t no dog and pony show! This is West Point . If you can’t hack it, beat it. Go back to being an E-5 in the Army!” Cadet Daily stood nose to nose with Ping, his veins straining against the skin of his neck. “The objective here, New Cadet Ping,” Cadet Daily said between clenched teeth, “is to cooperate and graduate . You got that, Hotshot?”
“Yes, sir!” yelled Ping.
But he had cooperated. He’d helped his roommate out! I thought of how he had helped me with my name tag earlier. Doesn’t cooperate mean help? But I wasn’t sure what anything meant anymore.
Cadet Daily turned from Ping, stepped over the crumpled mound of bedding, and walked over to the dismantled bed. “Get over here, Ping,” he snarled. “I’m going to show you miserable maggots how to properly make a bed.” He eyed Ping with disgust. “And Mr. Combat here”—he flicked the multicolored rectangular pins lined up on Ping’s chest—“is going to be my demonstrator.” Where Ping had medals, our uniforms were bare—including Cadet Daily’s.
When Cadet Daily had finished his step-by-step bed-making class, he smiled. With its tight hospital corners, the bed looked like an olive-drab business envelope. “Now, this is the standard, Third Squad! This bed is so tight, you can bounce a quarter off it.” He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and slammed it on the bed. Like a rubber ball, it sprang back into his hand.
Before he could repeat his trick, the door opened and an upperclass cadet stepped inside the room.
“Hey, Daily. Here’s the new addition to your squad.” The cadet moved aside, and behind him stood a tiny girl with sweaty red hair shaped into a bun. Her eyes, enormous in her face, darted nervously around the room. “New Cadet Bryen. First name, Gabrielle,” the cadet announced. “Her roommate decided Woo Poo U wasn’t the place for her, so after the parade, when we marched off the Plain, she just kept on going, right into her parents’ waiting car.” He smiled. “The CO told me to hand her over to you since your
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