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Oh, one or more of them did always accompany us on route marches and twice Captain Frankel had demonstrated his virtuosity at la savate. But officers didn't work, not real work, and they had no worries because sergeants were under them, not over them.
But it appeared that Captain Frankel worked so hard that he skipped meals, was kept so busy with something or other that he complained of lack of exercise and would waste his own free time just to work up a sweat.
As for worries, he had honestly seemed to be even more upset at what had happened to Hendrick than Zim had been. And yet he hadn't even known Hendrick by sight; he had been forced to ask his name.
I had an unsettling feeling that I had been completely mistaken as to the very nature of the world I was in, as if every part of it was something wildly different from what it appeared to be—like discovering that your own mother isn't anyone you've ever seen before, but a stranger in a rubber mask.
But I was sure of one thing: I didn't even want to find out what the M. I. really was. If it was so tough that even the gods-that-be—sergeants and officers -- were made unhappy by it, it was certainly too tough for Joh
And yet Hendrick hadn't done anything that I hadn't thought about doing a thousand times. Why hadn't I? Timid, I guess. I knew that those instructors, any one of them, could beat the tar out of me, so I had buttoned my lip and hadn't tried it. No guts, Joh
Besides that, Captain Frankel hadn't even considered it to be Ted's fault. Even if I didn't buy a 9080, through lack of guts, what day would I do something other than a 9080 something not my fault—and wind up slumped against the whipping post anyhow? Time to get out, Joh
My mother's letter simply confirmed my decision. I had been able to harden my heart to my parents as long as they were refusing me—but when they softened, I couldn't stand it. Or when Mother softened, at least. She had written:
but I am afraid I must tell you that your father will still not permit your name to be mentioned. But, dearest, that is his way of grieving, since he ca
Myself? How could anything her baby boy does anger his mother? You can hurt me, but you ca
A thousand kisses to my baby,
YOUR MOTHER
I understood, all right—and if Father could not cry, I could. I did.
And at last I got to sleep... and was awakened at once by an alert. We bounced out to the bombing range, the whole regiment, and ran through a simulated exercise, without ammo. We were wearing full unarmored kit otherwise, including ear-plug receivers, and we had no more than extended when the word came to freeze.
We held that freeze for at least an hour -- and I mean we held it, barely breathing. A mouse tiptoeing past would have sounded noisy. Something did go past and ran right over me, a coyote I think. I never twitched. We got awfully cold holding that freeze, but I didn't care; I knew it was my last.
I didn't even hear reveille the next morning; for the first time in weeks I had to be whacked out of my sack and barely made formation for morning jerks. There was no point in trying to resign before breakfast anyhow, since I had to see Zim as the first step. But he wasn't at breakfast. I did ask Bronski's permission to see the C. C. and he said, "Sure. Help yourself," and didn't ask me why.
But you can't see a man who isn't there. We started a route march after breakfast and I still hadn't laid eyes on him. It was an out-and-back, with lunch fetched out to us by copter—an unexpected luxury, since failure to issue field rations before marching usually meant practice starvation except for whatever you had cached... and I hadn't; too much on my mind.
Sergeant Zim came out with the rations and he held mail call in the field—which was not an unexpected luxury. I'll say this for the M. I.; they might chop off your food, water, sleep, or anything else, without warning, but they never held up a person's mail a minute longer than circumstances required. That was yours, and they got it to you by the first transportation available and you could read it at your earliest break, even on maneuvers. This hadn't been too important for me, as (aside from a couple of letters from Carl) I hadn't had anything but junk mail until Mother wrote to me.
I didn't even gather around when Zim handed it out; I figured now on not speaking to him until we got in—no point in giving him reason to notice me until we were actually in reach of headquarters. So I was surprised when he called my name and held up a letter. I bounced over and took it.
And was surprised again -- it was from Mr. Dubois, my high school instructor in History and Moral Philosophy. I would sooner have expected a letter from Santa Claus
Then, when I read it, it still seemed like a mistake. I had to check the address and the return address to convince myself that he had written it and had meant it for me.
MY DEAR BOY,
I would have written to you much sooner to express my delight and my pride in learning that you had not only volunteered to serve but also had chosen my own service. But not to express surprise it is what I expected of you except, possibly, the additional and very personal bonus that you chose the M. I. This is the sort of consummation, which does not happen too often, that nevertheless makes all of a teacher's efforts worth while. We necessarily sift a great many pebbles, much sand, for each nugget—but the nuggets are the reward.
By now the reason I did not write at once is obvious to you. Many young men, not necessarily through any reprehensible fault, are dropped during recruit training. I have waited (I have kept in touch through my own co