The Cadet by Doug Beason

next to him started to fall behind. Rod accelerated to stay with the group, but he was accosted by an ATO.
    “What are you doing, leaving your classmate alone? Get your butt back there and help him. You are all in this together. If one of your classmates falls behind, you have to help him! He fails, everyone fails.”
    Rod dropped back with a group of other basics, all trying to encourage their classmate. “Come on, you can make it!” “We’re here for you.” “Only a little farther!”
    All the time the ATOs circled the runners like wasps, darting in and out to make stinging corrections.
    They finally slowed and started marching into Mitchell Hall, sweating and catching their breath. Once inside, they passed row after row of tables filled with basics, standing and being yelled at—“trained” as Lieutenant Ranch would say.
    When they reached their table it seemed as though they stood for hours reciting knowledge. They recited quotes from famous generals, words to patriotic songs, types of airplanes. On and on the questioning went, zeroing in on the most minute details. The sound of 300 basics yelling roared throughout the dining facility.
    A low drone permeated the building. “Wing … attention!” An amplified voice echoed through Mitchell Hall and the vast room immediately fell silent. The basics remained rigidly at a brace, thankful for being saved from the yelling. Even the ATOs stood at attention.
    “Gentlemen, the Chaplain.”
    “Gentlemen, join me in prayer.” The Chaplain said grace while Rod mentally added his thanks for just getting some relief from the hectic pace.
    “Take seats.”
    Like a light being switched on, the shouting started again. Chairs scraped across the floor as basics rebounded back and forth from sitting to standing at attention.
    Lieutenant Ranch was at the head of Rod’s table. He tapped a spoon against an overturned glass to get their attention.
    “Listen up. You three basics at the end of the table: the one opposite me is the loadmaster. You are responsible for ensuring food is always on the table. To your right is the cold pilot, and to your left the hot pilot. You men are responsible for the cold and hot drinks. The rest of you help them out. If a plate is empty, ship it on down to the loadmaster; same goes with the drinks. Finally, be sure to thank the waiters by name. They are your only friends and your lifeline for nourishment. Any questions?”
    “No, sir!”
    “Good. If you didn’t catch on to the rules last night, all food is sent to the top of the table first. When it’s your turn to serve yourself, be sure to leave some for your classmates at the end of the table. If you have a question, stick out a paw and ask permission to speak.” He looked around, but all the basics sat rigidly at attention, probably glad not to be yelled at.
    A Hispanic waiter dressed in white wheeled a cart up to their table. With incredible rapidity, he deposited huge plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, steaming oatmeal, toast, waffles, butter, syrup, and pitchers of milk, juice, and coffee. As he turned away, Lieutenant Ranch yelled down at a tall basic cadet at the end of the table. “You, man. Thank the waiter! What’s his name?”
    Rod’s classmate flushed. “Sir, may I ask a question?”
    “What!”
    “Sir, may I leave the table to ask the waiter?”
    “Permission granted. What’s your name?”
    “Goldstein, sir. Basic Cadet Jeff Goldstein.”
    “Move.”
    “Yes, sir.” Like a rumbling giant, Goldstein left to track down the waiter, now at least ten tables away. Rod could see out of the corner of his eye that several other basics from other tables followed, obviously missing the waiter’s name as well.
    Lieutenant Ranch tapped his spoon on his empty glass and pointed at the end of the table. “Get that food up here before it gets cold.”
    “Yes, sir.” The basics scrambled to pass the breakfast to the head of the table, handing the platters one by one to