Mr. X by Peter Straub Page A

were in. I considered saying “Sir, the pledge is not familiar with the term ‘jukin’ with,’ sir,” but kept my mouth shut.
    “It falls to us to straighten up these sorry-ass rebels as best we can. As a general rule, we have about a sixty-forty chance if we get them in their second year. If they come into Artillery, it’s less than fifty-fifty we can pound some sense into their heads. By Cavalry, it’s a lost cause. All we do is, we concentrate on teaching them to stand up straight and how to tell their right foot from the left one so they can manage the drills, and we push them through the course work until they graduate and get the hell out.” He folded at the waist like a puppet, tightened his shoelaces, and snapped upright again. “If it was up to me, we’d refuse to transfer students into Cavalry. Eighteen is too old to adapt to our way of life.”
    He turned to face the mirror over my dresser and gave the jacket another series of precise tugs. He lifted his chin and examined the effect. “The little clowns come in laughing, and I have to waste a hellacious amount of time convincing them with all the means at my disposal, which are many, that we are not to be sneered at.” He caught my eyes in the mirror. “I believe I can claim a one hundred percent success rate at carrying out that particular mission. Maybe those feebs were a long way from being soldiers when they walked through the gate for the last time, but I guarantee you this much, they were believers.” He was still holding my eyes.
    “I became a believer as soon as I got here,” I said. “Sir.”
    Squadron turned around and leaned against the dresser without bending. His wide, blunt face was distorted by a broken nose that would have made him look like a fighter had it not been the size of the nose on a shrunken head. “I’ll give you this much, you had me fooled.”
    “Sir?”
    “You had me thinking, this pledge is going to change your mind about admissions policy, Captain. In a couple of days, he snaps off a salute could shatter a brick. Trims his uniform like a West Point grad. In a week, memorized the Reg Book and
Lore and Traditions
. Respectful and well prepared in class. Okay, he had a little problem with his roommate, but these things happen. Fact is, Pledge Squiers is an unrelenting motormouth who should have been paired with a deaf-mute. This new pledge fit in from the moment his shoe leather hit Pershing Quad and is a fine asset to his class. Look at the way he braces those squirts in Infantry! He’s a goddamned natural! You know what that young man is?” He pushed himself off the dresser, raised his arms at his sides and gazed upward. “That young man is officer material!”
    “I do my best,” I said.
    Captain Squadron canted backward against the dresser and pushed his hands into his pockets. In the mirror, the clean line of a fresh haircut curved above the starched collar of his tan shirt. The dark stubble on his head and his tiny, dented nose made him look like a gas station attendant. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?” He smiled exactly as if he had just decided to punch someone in the face.
    “I don’t follow you, sir,” I said.
    “How many friends have you made here? Who are your pals, your asshole buddies?”
    I named three or four dullards in my class.
    “When was the last time you and one or more of your buddies took the bus into town, caught a movie, had a few burgers, that kind of thing?”
    The question meant that he already knew the answer. When we left the grounds we had to sign out in groups. I had taken the bus into Owlsburg once, looked around at the dreary streets, and returned immediately. “I tend to devote my weekends to study.”
    He rocked back and smiled again. “I’m inclined to think that you have no friends and zero interest in making any. Didn’t go home for Thanksgiving, did we? Or over Christmas break.”
    “You know I didn’t, sir,” I said, beginning to get