At 15, I left home to attend “The Academy,” a military school in St. Louis. This is a fictionalized account of how I survived the first week.
Day 1, Tuesday: I stood in line with 60 other new cadets, “Newbies,” as my military uniform was issued. Fully dressed, I gazed into the mirror: Who is that handsome devil dressed entirely in blue: hat, shirt, tie, pants and jacket? I’m Blue-Boy. You know, that painting by Gainsborough?
We marched to the mess hall for supper, where I sat with my roommate Tom and the boys who lived across from us, Henry and Bobby. Mouth-watering platters of steaming roast beef, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob were served. Delicious!
Day 2, Wednesday: Ironically, the classroom became my island of safety. Prior to the acade,u, I detested reading. Here, on this island, my mind opened: See that quote above the chalkboard — “Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body” (R. Steele).
Day 3, Thursday: While the battalion marched on the fancy parade ground, Newbies trudged on the wet grass of the upper field. Sergeant Blane, a.k.a. “Sgt. Buzz,” (his hair was a buzz cut), taught us precision drill while shouldering our rifles.
Day 4, Friday: Friday night was a beehive of busy. To prepare for our first inspection — Saturday at 9 a.m. — the four of us, Tom, Henry, Bobby and I scoured the bathroom. As we talked, Bobby revealed that, unlike us, he was not a Newby!
He explained, “My mother died giving birth to me, Dad fell apart, drank alcohol and got killed in a car wreck. Since I had no siblings, my legal guardian sent me here. Tom asked, “Bobby, eight years here and no rank?” “Yeah,” Bobby said, “I keep getting busted because I’m the procurer — you want contraband? I’ll get it. Tobacco, alcohol.”
Bobby could pick a locked door and navigate the underground tunnels which ran beneath the Academy into the city. But it was his inventions we admired.
“This is my silent, reverse-motor fan. It sucks out tobacco smoke from your room, venting it outside. Here are black out curtains you place over your windows to let you stay up past curfew. My newest invention is the bunk tightener. See these hooks and this spring? Fasten your sheets and then tighten the spring.”
That night we slept on the floor, on rugs, to ensure our beds stayed taut.
Day 5, Saturday: Like a tornado, Colonel Moore, the Commandant, swept into our room. He donned white gloves and ran his fingers over every surface. Next, he took out a quarter, bent down and bounced it on my bunk. BOING! Up flew the quarter, so high it grazed his mustache. “Outstanding Cadets!”
The four of us received the top inspection score for the whole academy!
At 11 p.m. that night, Bobby and Henry snuck into our room. Bobby installed the fan and blackout curtain. “Back soon,” he said.
He returned with KFC chicken, cigars, a bottle of wine. We played poker, smoked cigars — careful to put the butts into our “butt can,” an empty Crisco can. At 2:10 a.m., Henry whispered, “quiet.” In horror, my door flung open and Col. Moore swaggered in.
He seized the butt can and the wine bottle and barked, “8 a.m. Monday, my office.” Coiled like a boa constrictor, fear squeezed the air out of my lungs. Bobby took control, “Your Newbies I’m not, and so, I’m the ring-leader. I take the blame.” We nodded, “OK.”
Day 6, Sunday: My mood matched the weather, gloomy-cold, rainy-gray.
Day 7, Monday: 8 a.m. We were interrogated separately, I was last. Col. Moore began, “Cadet Elghammer, when I asked Tom, Bobby and Henry who was the ring-leader, all three said “I was.” Next, he took a towel, placed it over his waste basket and poured out the contents from our “butt can.” Chicken bones!
“Cadet, what we have here is the mystery of the vanishing evidence. Where is the wine bottle? How did cigar butts transform into chicken bones? Take this letter to Sgt. Blane — Dismissed!”
“Reporting as ordered with this letter.” Sgt. Buzz pointed to a chair. I sat down as he read the letter. “Lots of mischief, Cadet. Here are your duty hours for working here.”
“Is that my punishment,” I asked?
“Cadet, you’re not going to be punished.”
Confused, I asked, “Why not?”
Sgt. Buzz explained, “What does punishment do for your motivation or your self-worth?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Correct. In place of punishment, we will protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” I asked.
Holding the letter up high, he said, “First, from yourself. Second, from fear. The type of fear faced on the battleground. To protect you from that, you must understand this: When the blast of fear blows out the flame within you, scan the faces of your comrades and let their courage rekindle yours.”
Day 8. Tuesday: The full battalion, marching to the beat of one drum, raised their voices: “1, 2, 3, 4, look to your left, look to your right, tell me what you see. Hero’s here, warriors here, hail to the academy!” As our feet stomped upon the red brick road, together, we made thunder.
Conclusion: When the demon face of fear rears its grisly head, and with venomous fangs enfleshed, fills your heart with dread, what can you do? Call out the names of those you trust and as they rush in to stand beside you, raise your righteous swords and with a whooping war cry — off with its head — attack, attack, attack!
The content of this article is for educational purposes only, and should not be used as a substitute for treatment by a professional. The characters in this story are not real. Names and details have been changed to protect confidentiality.
Dr. Richard Elghammer contributes his column each week to the Journal Review.
