including three women, who are arriving for the first day of the Seventy-Ninth Basic Training School. Here they will spend the next five months; and here, through 288 hours of instruction, theyâll learn what it takes to be a North Carolina state trooper. For some, the experience will prove too difficult to endure. For those who stay, the training will provide them with strengths and challenges they have never encountered before.
Initiation into the patrolâs paramilitary rules and regulations begins immediately.
âAny of you people want to be troopers?â yells First Sergeant Braxton B. Oliver, basic school commandant. âThen fall in line!â
He is tall, blonde, and lean, and wears wire-frame glasses that give him an almost boyish look. Accompanying him are four officers, a line sergeant, a first sergeant, a lieutenant, and a major.
Squinting against the harsh sunlight, the group quickly forms three lines. Dressed in civilian clothes, hair ranging from collar-length shags to crew cuts, they are a motley bunch. One youth is wearing shorts and a bright-colored sport shirt.
Sergeant Oliver approaches and glares at him, nose to nose.
âDid you ever see a trooper wear shorts?â he growls.
The cadet shakes his head.
âThen put on some pants!
Now!â
The boy races off to change clothes.
Another cadet, twenty minutes late, comes wheeling into the parking lot, jumps out of his car, and hurries to the line of people who are standing at attention. Despite the dayâs warmth, the atmosphere is decidedly cool.
âWhere you been, boy?â Sergeant Oliver says.
The youth mumbles an excuse and Oliver, much to the boyâs relief, moves on.
Circling the group, closely eyeing each cadet, are the schoolâs instructors, four troopers assigned to mold raw recruits into professional officers during the next twenty weeks. It is these men the cadets will come to know, fear, and respect the most.
But it is Sergeant Oliver who has their attention now. His fingers tapping the clipboard that contains the name and address of each cadet, he launches into a speech. It is one he has given numerous times before.
âOur program isnât easy,â he tells the group. âWhat it takes to get through this school is determination. And along the way you may find that you donât really want to be a trooper. Well, thatâs okay. This world has got to have something in it besides troopers. Just be honest and tell me. If you slip out of here at night like a dogâand Iâve had that happenâyouâll never get a recommendation from me for a job in any state agency. If you stay, thatâs great. We need you. But we want you to be the best you can be. Weâre not going to put you on the highway if youâre not prepared. I wouldnât do that to my fellow officers.â
Next comes a grueling physical assessment that includes push-ups, pull-ups, hand-strength tests, and endurance runs. During the assessment, one cadet faints from the heat and another, deciding that an hour of patrol school is enough, resigns. The remaining recruits are marched to a classroom across campus for orientation. At each desk are seven manuals and three loose-leaf notebooks, containing subjects that range from college freshman English to highway patrol policy. The cadets, seated rigidly in green plastic chairs, are not allowed to speak without permission. A few, exhausted from the physical evaluation, appear dazed, like battle-scarred soldiers who accidentally wandered into enemy camp.
What Trooper Randy Hammonds is about to say is not meant to make them feel better. A handsome, muscular Indian in charge of physical training, he strides purposefully to the front of the room.
âWe only have one race here,â he says bluntly. âAnd thatâs cadet. And only one color, confederate gray.
âIâm not gonna make you do anything during your training. But Iâm not gonna do
Initiation into the patrolâs paramilitary rules and regulations begins immediately.
âAny of you people want to be troopers?â yells First Sergeant Braxton B. Oliver, basic school commandant. âThen fall in line!â
He is tall, blonde, and lean, and wears wire-frame glasses that give him an almost boyish look. Accompanying him are four officers, a line sergeant, a first sergeant, a lieutenant, and a major.
Squinting against the harsh sunlight, the group quickly forms three lines. Dressed in civilian clothes, hair ranging from collar-length shags to crew cuts, they are a motley bunch. One youth is wearing shorts and a bright-colored sport shirt.
Sergeant Oliver approaches and glares at him, nose to nose.
âDid you ever see a trooper wear shorts?â he growls.
The cadet shakes his head.
âThen put on some pants!
Now!â
The boy races off to change clothes.
Another cadet, twenty minutes late, comes wheeling into the parking lot, jumps out of his car, and hurries to the line of people who are standing at attention. Despite the dayâs warmth, the atmosphere is decidedly cool.
âWhere you been, boy?â Sergeant Oliver says.
The youth mumbles an excuse and Oliver, much to the boyâs relief, moves on.
Circling the group, closely eyeing each cadet, are the schoolâs instructors, four troopers assigned to mold raw recruits into professional officers during the next twenty weeks. It is these men the cadets will come to know, fear, and respect the most.
But it is Sergeant Oliver who has their attention now. His fingers tapping the clipboard that contains the name and address of each cadet, he launches into a speech. It is one he has given numerous times before.
âOur program isnât easy,â he tells the group. âWhat it takes to get through this school is determination. And along the way you may find that you donât really want to be a trooper. Well, thatâs okay. This world has got to have something in it besides troopers. Just be honest and tell me. If you slip out of here at night like a dogâand Iâve had that happenâyouâll never get a recommendation from me for a job in any state agency. If you stay, thatâs great. We need you. But we want you to be the best you can be. Weâre not going to put you on the highway if youâre not prepared. I wouldnât do that to my fellow officers.â
Next comes a grueling physical assessment that includes push-ups, pull-ups, hand-strength tests, and endurance runs. During the assessment, one cadet faints from the heat and another, deciding that an hour of patrol school is enough, resigns. The remaining recruits are marched to a classroom across campus for orientation. At each desk are seven manuals and three loose-leaf notebooks, containing subjects that range from college freshman English to highway patrol policy. The cadets, seated rigidly in green plastic chairs, are not allowed to speak without permission. A few, exhausted from the physical evaluation, appear dazed, like battle-scarred soldiers who accidentally wandered into enemy camp.
What Trooper Randy Hammonds is about to say is not meant to make them feel better. A handsome, muscular Indian in charge of physical training, he strides purposefully to the front of the room.
âWe only have one race here,â he says bluntly. âAnd thatâs cadet. And only one color, confederate gray.
âIâm not gonna make you do anything during your training. But Iâm not gonna do
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