Lieutenant Ranch.
One of the basics started eating his food as soon as he served himself.
Ranch tapped on his glass and said coldly, “Wait until all your classmates are served, mister. Don’t ever forget them. What if your plane crashes and you need to depend on your classmate to rescue you? You don’t want your wingman to remember that you forgot about him in basic training, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Just as it was Rod’s turn to help himself, Goldstein came back to the table. He stood at attention behind his chair for a moment, as though he had forgotten something.
Lieutenant Ranch looked up. “What’s the matter Goldstein?”
“Sir, the waiter’s name is Mr. Sanchez.”
“Outstanding, Goldstein. Now report and take a seat.”
Goldstein opened his mouth, then promptly shut it, confused.
“Well?” Lieutenant Ranch said.
A short, blonde Captain walked up and interrupted Goldstein’s reply. “I say, is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Ranch frowned as he stood; he quickly gazed around Mitchell Hall as though he were looking for someone, then turned his attention to the Captain. “Excuse me, sir … may I help you?”
The Captain lifted his chin. “I am Captain Whitney. I’m observing training. What seems to be the problem?”
Lieutenant Ranch hesitated, then said slowly, “My basics are having trouble remembering their manners, sir.”
“You have that right, Lieutenant,” Whitney sniffed. “These cretins don’t even have the courtesy to stand when a senior officer approaches the table.”
The basics immediately pushed back and bolted to attention.
“Nice try, gentlemen,” Captain Whitney said sarcastically, “But it’s obvious you need to reconsider your table manners. Get out of here, all of you. It makes me sick to think my United States Air Force is going to waste their money on you, and you don’t even have the decency to acknowledge a superior officer.”
Lieutenant Ranch stared at the Captain.
No one moved. Whitney raised his voice. “Basics! I’m talking to you! Get the hell off this table!”
“Yes, sir! Good morning, sir!” Rod and his classmates turned and marched away. With his stomach growling and unsure of what to do next, Rod followed his classmates to the door.
An announcement came over loudspeakers set high above the floor. “Attention in the area, attention in the area! Basics may now be dismissed from the morning meal. First call for PT is in ten minutes. I say again, first call for PT is in ten minutes.”
The yelling crescendoed as the basics still sitting shoved back their chairs and joined the ranks of those exiting the dining hall. One by one the basics slapped their elbows to their sides as they reached the door, then sprinted at attention in a single file for the dormitory. They followed on each other’s heels, silently urging everyone to hurry up.
Seeing an ATO, Rod slowed to attention, called out, “Good morning, sir!” and continued on his way. With less than five minutes to First Call, and after the experience of being late to the morning formation, he didn’t want to be late again. And with missing breakfast, he couldn’t imagine anything worse that could happen to him.
A voice called out to Rod. “You man, drive over here!”
Rod immediately stopped, causing the line of basic cadets following close behind him to run into each other, like a twenty-car pileup on a narrow mountain road. He stepped out of the line, allowing the basics behind him to continue to the dorm.
It was Lieutenant Ranch, but he looked as though his mind were elsewhere. He returned Rod’s salute. “Mr. Simone. You’re minute caller today. Uniform is gym clothes, USAFA t-shirt, black sneakers, white socks. Get going.”
“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” Popping off a salute, Rod turned and sprinted off, determined to get to the dorm in time.
On the way, he told himself he just had to stop thinking that things wouldn’t get any worse.
O O
One of the basics started eating his food as soon as he served himself.
Ranch tapped on his glass and said coldly, “Wait until all your classmates are served, mister. Don’t ever forget them. What if your plane crashes and you need to depend on your classmate to rescue you? You don’t want your wingman to remember that you forgot about him in basic training, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Just as it was Rod’s turn to help himself, Goldstein came back to the table. He stood at attention behind his chair for a moment, as though he had forgotten something.
Lieutenant Ranch looked up. “What’s the matter Goldstein?”
“Sir, the waiter’s name is Mr. Sanchez.”
“Outstanding, Goldstein. Now report and take a seat.”
Goldstein opened his mouth, then promptly shut it, confused.
“Well?” Lieutenant Ranch said.
A short, blonde Captain walked up and interrupted Goldstein’s reply. “I say, is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Ranch frowned as he stood; he quickly gazed around Mitchell Hall as though he were looking for someone, then turned his attention to the Captain. “Excuse me, sir … may I help you?”
The Captain lifted his chin. “I am Captain Whitney. I’m observing training. What seems to be the problem?”
Lieutenant Ranch hesitated, then said slowly, “My basics are having trouble remembering their manners, sir.”
“You have that right, Lieutenant,” Whitney sniffed. “These cretins don’t even have the courtesy to stand when a senior officer approaches the table.”
The basics immediately pushed back and bolted to attention.
“Nice try, gentlemen,” Captain Whitney said sarcastically, “But it’s obvious you need to reconsider your table manners. Get out of here, all of you. It makes me sick to think my United States Air Force is going to waste their money on you, and you don’t even have the decency to acknowledge a superior officer.”
Lieutenant Ranch stared at the Captain.
No one moved. Whitney raised his voice. “Basics! I’m talking to you! Get the hell off this table!”
“Yes, sir! Good morning, sir!” Rod and his classmates turned and marched away. With his stomach growling and unsure of what to do next, Rod followed his classmates to the door.
An announcement came over loudspeakers set high above the floor. “Attention in the area, attention in the area! Basics may now be dismissed from the morning meal. First call for PT is in ten minutes. I say again, first call for PT is in ten minutes.”
The yelling crescendoed as the basics still sitting shoved back their chairs and joined the ranks of those exiting the dining hall. One by one the basics slapped their elbows to their sides as they reached the door, then sprinted at attention in a single file for the dormitory. They followed on each other’s heels, silently urging everyone to hurry up.
Seeing an ATO, Rod slowed to attention, called out, “Good morning, sir!” and continued on his way. With less than five minutes to First Call, and after the experience of being late to the morning formation, he didn’t want to be late again. And with missing breakfast, he couldn’t imagine anything worse that could happen to him.
A voice called out to Rod. “You man, drive over here!”
Rod immediately stopped, causing the line of basic cadets following close behind him to run into each other, like a twenty-car pileup on a narrow mountain road. He stepped out of the line, allowing the basics behind him to continue to the dorm.
It was Lieutenant Ranch, but he looked as though his mind were elsewhere. He returned Rod’s salute. “Mr. Simone. You’re minute caller today. Uniform is gym clothes, USAFA t-shirt, black sneakers, white socks. Get going.”
“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” Popping off a salute, Rod turned and sprinted off, determined to get to the dorm in time.
On the way, he told himself he just had to stop thinking that things wouldn’t get any worse.
O O
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