Brubaker sounds like my kind of person. He rode you hard, I take it?"
I nodded. "Fair to medium. Not just me, but all three of my roommates. Drove Gardner right out of the Navy—"
"Right out? I thought the deal is that if you drop out of the Naval Academy, the sailorboys can still hold you to two years enlisted service."
"If they want to; in practice, they only do if you don't have any pull. But he really broke Gardner; the poor bastard was carried off on a stretcher." He spent four years in an asylum, Major, I thought. It isn't funny.
"Maybe he wasn't the Navy type after all."
"Permission to speak bluntly, sir?"
"Sure." The Dutchman nodded. "I take it you don't agree."
"I've heard that bullshit ever since my first day as a plebe. I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now, Major. Anybody can be broken by the right kind of pressure—maybe, with a bit of time and patience, Gardner could have been one hell of a good officer, maybe even a fine captain."
The Dutchman snorted. "You don't think command is all that big a deal, do you?"
"Not necessarily." I shrugged. "And I don't think that riding someone until he breaks will ever help him exercise it."
The Dutchman didn't answer. "Go on."
"It went on for what felt like forever. There was the nonsense about the cow and leather and the Contact Service, and what a plebe was. Now, that was the normal sort of hazing that goes on at the Naval Academy. But Brubaker had some extras in mind for me. . . ."
III
I was in full uniform, book bag tucked under my left arm to keep my right arm free for saluting, heading down the quad to class. My uniform was absolutely immaculate, a spare pair of heavily shined shoes tucked into my book bag because earlier there had been a light rain and the water on the walk was certain to spot the shoes I was wearing.
I was taking special precautions to be spotless for this class: Lieutenant Commander Farrell was a stickler for clean uniforms.
I smiled inside. You have to keep the smile inside: an upperclassman might— will —notice a plebe with a grin on his face. And you don't want the upperclassmen to notice you; the idea is to try to get through the first year doing a Claude Rains imitation.
But I was excited about the class: Rotary Wing Familiarization. With a bit of luck, Farrell would let me have a turn at the controls; at the very least, I'd get in some time off the ground.
My feet flew out from underneath me, and I landed flat on my back in a puddle.
"Good afternoon, scumsucker," Brubaker said, smiling down at me. "And be more careful next time."
I leaped to my feet. The filthy water had soaked me from the back of my neck to my ankles.
"Go ahead, plebe. Please. Assaulting an upperclassman?"
* * *
"Chickenshit." The Dutchman smirked. "What's the penalty for assault? A couple of weeks in jail?"
I shook my head. "Military discipline, remember—court-martial."
"You could have run into him off grounds."
"I might have, if I'd ever been allowed off grounds. But even so, I wouldn't have. Try that and the upperclassmen'll run you right out of the Academy. At least with Brubaker bullying me I had a bit of sympathy coming from some quarters."
The Dutchman snorted. "Yeah. Sympathy."
"Such as it was."
"You were saying that he was riding all three of your roommates. One of the others was this asshole buddy of yours?"
I gave the Dutchman a long, hard look. It was intended to say, There are some lines you had better not cross. Major. It's been tried before.
Norfeldt shook his head. "Not really, Emmy. How about the fourth roommate?"
"Ortega took an upperclassman's suggestion and transferred out. Of the room, that is."
IV
Phil Ortega spread his hands. "I am very sorry, my friends. And if you ask me to change my mind . . ."
Manny Curdova shook his head as he sprawled back on his bed, smoothing his uniform blouse underneath him to avoid leaving wrinkles. Technically, lying on the bed between 0600 and 2200 was a violation, but
I nodded. "Fair to medium. Not just me, but all three of my roommates. Drove Gardner right out of the Navy—"
"Right out? I thought the deal is that if you drop out of the Naval Academy, the sailorboys can still hold you to two years enlisted service."
"If they want to; in practice, they only do if you don't have any pull. But he really broke Gardner; the poor bastard was carried off on a stretcher." He spent four years in an asylum, Major, I thought. It isn't funny.
"Maybe he wasn't the Navy type after all."
"Permission to speak bluntly, sir?"
"Sure." The Dutchman nodded. "I take it you don't agree."
"I've heard that bullshit ever since my first day as a plebe. I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now, Major. Anybody can be broken by the right kind of pressure—maybe, with a bit of time and patience, Gardner could have been one hell of a good officer, maybe even a fine captain."
The Dutchman snorted. "You don't think command is all that big a deal, do you?"
"Not necessarily." I shrugged. "And I don't think that riding someone until he breaks will ever help him exercise it."
The Dutchman didn't answer. "Go on."
"It went on for what felt like forever. There was the nonsense about the cow and leather and the Contact Service, and what a plebe was. Now, that was the normal sort of hazing that goes on at the Naval Academy. But Brubaker had some extras in mind for me. . . ."
III
I was in full uniform, book bag tucked under my left arm to keep my right arm free for saluting, heading down the quad to class. My uniform was absolutely immaculate, a spare pair of heavily shined shoes tucked into my book bag because earlier there had been a light rain and the water on the walk was certain to spot the shoes I was wearing.
I was taking special precautions to be spotless for this class: Lieutenant Commander Farrell was a stickler for clean uniforms.
I smiled inside. You have to keep the smile inside: an upperclassman might— will —notice a plebe with a grin on his face. And you don't want the upperclassmen to notice you; the idea is to try to get through the first year doing a Claude Rains imitation.
But I was excited about the class: Rotary Wing Familiarization. With a bit of luck, Farrell would let me have a turn at the controls; at the very least, I'd get in some time off the ground.
My feet flew out from underneath me, and I landed flat on my back in a puddle.
"Good afternoon, scumsucker," Brubaker said, smiling down at me. "And be more careful next time."
I leaped to my feet. The filthy water had soaked me from the back of my neck to my ankles.
"Go ahead, plebe. Please. Assaulting an upperclassman?"
* * *
"Chickenshit." The Dutchman smirked. "What's the penalty for assault? A couple of weeks in jail?"
I shook my head. "Military discipline, remember—court-martial."
"You could have run into him off grounds."
"I might have, if I'd ever been allowed off grounds. But even so, I wouldn't have. Try that and the upperclassmen'll run you right out of the Academy. At least with Brubaker bullying me I had a bit of sympathy coming from some quarters."
The Dutchman snorted. "Yeah. Sympathy."
"Such as it was."
"You were saying that he was riding all three of your roommates. One of the others was this asshole buddy of yours?"
I gave the Dutchman a long, hard look. It was intended to say, There are some lines you had better not cross. Major. It's been tried before.
Norfeldt shook his head. "Not really, Emmy. How about the fourth roommate?"
"Ortega took an upperclassman's suggestion and transferred out. Of the room, that is."
IV
Phil Ortega spread his hands. "I am very sorry, my friends. And if you ask me to change my mind . . ."
Manny Curdova shook his head as he sprawled back on his bed, smoothing his uniform blouse underneath him to avoid leaving wrinkles. Technically, lying on the bed between 0600 and 2200 was a violation, but
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