why are you looking at me, don’t you look at me!
The bag gets heavier and heavier; you’ve got to carry it everywhere, and you very quickly have no idea where you’re going or where you’re supposed to be going, and that’s the point. If you get through the day, it’s because you finally realize you have no choice but to not think, just
do
, usually whatever the last thing the nearest upperclassman said. It’s arduous, humiliating, and stressful, and more than a few cadets don’t make it ’til sundown. I did, though just barely. I’d never been yelled at like this before, and it was only the beginning.
The first eight weeks of your first year are called “plebe summer,” and they are designed to drive out those men and women who can’t handle the physical and psychological stress. The survivors learn discipline and skills they need not only to get along at the academy, but more importantly in Starfleet. It is the one thing that separates it from the rest of the Federation: cadets, crewmen, and officers know the importance of following orders, because it saves lives.
At around noon, by which time I’d learned, among other things, to march in formation carrying a 50-pound bag, I was assigned to a company, the Second Cadet Corps, a barracks, and reported to my room. My section commander (there were eight of us in the section) was a cadet captain named Ben Finney. A few years older, big and fit, he commanded my attention immediately. He ordered me, two other humans, and an Andorian to stand at attention and hold our bags until further orders. We stood two on each side in front of our bunk beds for about an hour. My arms were shaking from the strain. I was looking straight ahead into the pale green eyes of the blue-skinned cadet. I’d never met an Andorian; I had dozens of questions for him, but one of the lessons I’d learned from that first day was not to speak until spoken to by an upperclassman.
“Drop your bags!” It was Finney, who finally came into our room. We dumped our bags on the floor, and before I could stop myself, I let out a “whew.” Bad mistake. Finney went right up to me.
“You tired, plebe?”
“No sir!”
“Glad to hear it! Pick up your bag; you can hold on to it for a little while longer. The rest of you, unpack. I want this room shipshape.” And with that, he left. While my roommates tried to navigate around me, I stood holding the bag. About an hour later, the roommates were now relaxing on their beds while I stood there, sweat pouring from me, my arms shaking.
“Atten-shun!” It was one of my roommates, who saw another upperclassman come into the room. He was a cadet lieutenant named Sean Finnegan—a big, blond, smiling Irishman.
“What’s been going on in here, boyos?” I hadn’t really heard an Irish accent as pronounced as this one, and felt it had to be somewhat affected. He looked at my three roommates. “You boyos should be getting down to lunch.” They left, and he then turned to look at me.
“And what might you be doing?”
“Lieutenant sir, I’ve been ordered to hold my bag, sir!”
“What’s your name, Cadet?”
“Lieutenant sir, Cadet James T. Kirk, sir!”
“Oh, well, Jimmy Boy,” he said, pronouncing boy “bahy,” “if you don’t get unpacked, you’re gonna miss chow. See you down there.”
“Lieutenant sir, yes sir.” I put the bag down, and Finnegan sauntered out, whistling “Danny Boy.” I unpacked and made it down to lunch just in time. As I sat at the table, Finney looked up at me, stupefied.
“Kirk! You stupid plebe, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
“Sir, I was ordered to lunch, sir!”
“Who ordered you?” Finney said, and he was bellowing. The whole room was quiet.
“Sir, Cadet Lieutenant Finney—” I said.
“There is no Cadet Lieutenant Finney!”
“Sir, sorry, sir, I meant Cadet Lieutenant Finnegan, sir.” It wasn’t the last time I would mix up their unfortunately similar names.
The bag gets heavier and heavier; you’ve got to carry it everywhere, and you very quickly have no idea where you’re going or where you’re supposed to be going, and that’s the point. If you get through the day, it’s because you finally realize you have no choice but to not think, just
do
, usually whatever the last thing the nearest upperclassman said. It’s arduous, humiliating, and stressful, and more than a few cadets don’t make it ’til sundown. I did, though just barely. I’d never been yelled at like this before, and it was only the beginning.
The first eight weeks of your first year are called “plebe summer,” and they are designed to drive out those men and women who can’t handle the physical and psychological stress. The survivors learn discipline and skills they need not only to get along at the academy, but more importantly in Starfleet. It is the one thing that separates it from the rest of the Federation: cadets, crewmen, and officers know the importance of following orders, because it saves lives.
At around noon, by which time I’d learned, among other things, to march in formation carrying a 50-pound bag, I was assigned to a company, the Second Cadet Corps, a barracks, and reported to my room. My section commander (there were eight of us in the section) was a cadet captain named Ben Finney. A few years older, big and fit, he commanded my attention immediately. He ordered me, two other humans, and an Andorian to stand at attention and hold our bags until further orders. We stood two on each side in front of our bunk beds for about an hour. My arms were shaking from the strain. I was looking straight ahead into the pale green eyes of the blue-skinned cadet. I’d never met an Andorian; I had dozens of questions for him, but one of the lessons I’d learned from that first day was not to speak until spoken to by an upperclassman.
“Drop your bags!” It was Finney, who finally came into our room. We dumped our bags on the floor, and before I could stop myself, I let out a “whew.” Bad mistake. Finney went right up to me.
“You tired, plebe?”
“No sir!”
“Glad to hear it! Pick up your bag; you can hold on to it for a little while longer. The rest of you, unpack. I want this room shipshape.” And with that, he left. While my roommates tried to navigate around me, I stood holding the bag. About an hour later, the roommates were now relaxing on their beds while I stood there, sweat pouring from me, my arms shaking.
“Atten-shun!” It was one of my roommates, who saw another upperclassman come into the room. He was a cadet lieutenant named Sean Finnegan—a big, blond, smiling Irishman.
“What’s been going on in here, boyos?” I hadn’t really heard an Irish accent as pronounced as this one, and felt it had to be somewhat affected. He looked at my three roommates. “You boyos should be getting down to lunch.” They left, and he then turned to look at me.
“And what might you be doing?”
“Lieutenant sir, I’ve been ordered to hold my bag, sir!”
“What’s your name, Cadet?”
“Lieutenant sir, Cadet James T. Kirk, sir!”
“Oh, well, Jimmy Boy,” he said, pronouncing boy “bahy,” “if you don’t get unpacked, you’re gonna miss chow. See you down there.”
“Lieutenant sir, yes sir.” I put the bag down, and Finnegan sauntered out, whistling “Danny Boy.” I unpacked and made it down to lunch just in time. As I sat at the table, Finney looked up at me, stupefied.
“Kirk! You stupid plebe, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
“Sir, I was ordered to lunch, sir!”
“Who ordered you?” Finney said, and he was bellowing. The whole room was quiet.
“Sir, Cadet Lieutenant Finney—” I said.
“There is no Cadet Lieutenant Finney!”
“Sir, sorry, sir, I meant Cadet Lieutenant Finnegan, sir.” It wasn’t the last time I would mix up their unfortunately similar names.
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