When the lemony yellow sunlight began to soften, and the leaves on the trees flickered flashes of orange and rusty-red, my father told me: “This fall, I’d like you to go to a new school.” He didn’t tell me why I was going 200 miles away; it never crossed my mind to ask. The name of my new school was Eastern Military Academy.
Today’s story is about a clash between a new cadet, and a dangerous trio of academy cadets called the 3-T’s. It ends with a lesson in leadership: power generated by helping others achieve their heart’s desire is far greater than that produced by fear.
Out of 400 cadets, only one had been trained to hurt and maim: Toby Tyler, aka “Tarantula.” He was a high-octane psychopath, as well as an albino: Lilly-white skin and hair the hue of freshly fallen snow. What made him creepy were his feminine, lace-like white eyelashes and brows, perched like mini-snow banks over two shocking pink eyes. Predator eyes.
Toby was a violent and cruel cadet whose burning ambition to be a famous prizefighter had stoked his boiler beyond temperatures compatible with the human heart. Rumors flew about: he’s a Golden Gloves champ in Detroit; his trainer is Muhammad Ali; he bit off the nose of his last opponent and swallowed it. It didn’t matter that the rumors were false, for I had witnessed him attack my friend Chris, when he felled him like an oak tree struck by lightning.
Tarantula, his younger and cowardly brother Tommy (aka Little-T) and a third cadet named Ben Torino (aka T-Box) were collectively known as the 3-T’s.
Today’s story begins on my first day, when I was told to report to Lt. Brown, for C-G duty. Since I didn’t know what C-G duty was, I asked Chris, a six-year Cadet. “Cans and Garbage Duty,” he snickered.
Lt. Brown was the new military director, and was a West Point graduate. “Have a seat, Cadet. Are you OK with your new position?” “Yes sir,” I replied, “but.” Lt. Brown plowed on, “I’ve put you down as my assistant, and we need to get the military classroom set up.” “Yes sir, but,” “Dismissed, private, check in with my Sergeant.” Confused, I asked the Sergeant for help. “What’s C-G duty?” The Sergeant explained, “Color-Guard duty is a great honor. It’s the five-man team which carries, raises and lowers the American flag each day. But beware: one little slip up and all five of you will be dismissed.”
For two months, all was OK. But then, the Cadet Commander of the C-G got sick, and Lt. Brown promoted me to take his place. As the new Commander, my rank shot up and I was issued a gleaming silver sword.
One of my C-G team members was “Little-T,” Tommy Tyler. To show me his anger about my promotion, he put on his Ray ban sunglasses while we marched. “Shades off Tommy,” I bellowed. He smirked back. Lt. Brown approached and barked at me, “If you can’t control your men, you don’t deserve your position.”
I tried to grab Tommy’s sunglasses, but he ducked and shoved me. It ended with my scream, “You’re out of the Color Guard.”
I went to bed early that night, but around 3 a.m., my light snapped on. There stood the 3-T’s. I sat up fast. Tarantula spoke. “Tommy is unhappy. T-Box is unhappy. What about you Commander? Are you unhappy?” To make me frown, he put his meaty hands on my face and pressed my mouth down. But I jerked back, and jumped over my desk.
I stood tall, clenched fists held high, chin down, left foot planted forward. Tarantula said, “Reinstate Tommy in the C-G, and we go away.” My head nod signaled yes. They left.
The next day, I woke defeated. After evening supper, Lt. Brown called me over: “Hey, lend me a hand.” As I unpacked crates of military books, one fell to the floor — “Mastery of Leadership.” “Take it,” Lt. Brown said. I read the book and made a plan.
I knew it was only a matter of time before Tommy began to disobey me again. The book taught me that everyone wanted something. To motivate Tommy, I had to find that something. Tommy is lazy, lazy means he is a sloth, sloths love to sleep.
“Tommy, if you follow all my orders, you no longer have to get up early at 5:45 a.m. to raise the flag. That’s an extra hour of sack time, every day. Like a catfish smelling cheese bait, he bit.
For two years, at 5:45 a.m., I raised the American flag, without the help of my C-G team. As their leader, I had to be fair: if one slept in, all could. In the winter, ice coated the rope, making it difficult for me to raise the flag alone. To my surprise, on the worst winter days, Lt. Brown came out, and together we raised the flag.
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.
