The Cadet Read Online Free PDF

slumped into his chair, and the more he didn’t want to be next to the guy. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be smart to bring attention to himself.
    The barber finished Rod’s hair with two swipes of the clippers. He announced, “Next!” He whipped the apron from around Rod’s neck, and with a crack of the cloth, dumped Rod’s hair on the floor.
    Rod stood uncertainly. Turning to the mirror, he saw a stranger, dressed in his clothes but with a ridiculous-looking, untanned white scalp. His head felt like a field of stubble. At least he wouldn’t have to carry around a comb for a while.
    The short candidate next to him wailed. “The co-eds at Wellesley are crying today.” Even the barbers started laughing.
    Rod quickly picked up his duffle bag and left, eager to get as far away from the clown as he could.
    O O O
    The sergeants’ tempers grew shorter the closer it got to 11 a.m.
    His arms aching from myriad shots, Rod stood outside clothing issue behind one of the largest candidates he had seen. The guy must have weighed over 200 pounds, yet Rod didn’t see an ounce of fat on him. He was obviously one of the football players that would make up the Academy’s fledgling football team. When the line moved inside the building, the hulk in front of Rod stepped forward, leaving Rod at the front of the line.
    Rod stood at the end of yet another long hallway. Doors and long counters were interspersed on either side of the corridor, making the passageway seem like a maze.
    An airman waved Rod forward. “Next! Step lively, young man, we’re running short of time.” The airman wasn’t much older than Rod and had a curt, no-nonsense attitude. Two twenty-pound weights sat on the side of the desk, next to a box of pencils.
    An old man stood by the airman. He had large ears, a red freckled face, thin hair, and grinned as if he was really enjoying himself. The man’s tie was loose and pulled to the side. A tape measure hung around his neck.
    Now familiar with the drill, Rod walked curtly up to the airman and held out the tag hanging from his neck.
    The airman lifted the card from around Rod’s neck and wrote something down in his notebook. He motioned Rod to move to the side of the table. “Stand up straight, candidate. If Mr. Mushala doesn’t get your measurements right, you’ll be wearing tight trou for the next four years.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”
    “Yes, sir. Okay, sure,” Rod said.
    “What’s your shoe size?”
    “Ten, sir. I mean, just size ten.”
    “We’ll see.” The airman pointed to the two barbells lying on the table. “Take off your shoes, grab these weights and step on the shoe scale.”
    Rod complied, grunting as he lifted the weights.
    The airman squinted down at the scale. “Size 11 and a half. Put down the weights.”
    “Hey!” Rod said. “That’s too big.”
    “Not when you’re carrying an 80 pound pack. Believe me, your feet are going to flatten out. Now stand up straight.”
    Walking stooped over, Mr. Mushala moved behind Rod and quickly wrapped a tape measure around Rod’s neck. “Fifteen neck,” he said. The airman dutifully wrote on Rod’s tag.
    “Arms, 32; waist, 30; inseam, 32 …” For being so old the man scurried around Rod like a hummingbird, calling out measurements and brandishing the measuring tape like a whip. Now in front of him, the man asked, “What side do you wear your pants?”
    Rod blinked. “Excuse me?”
    “Your pants, young man,” the old man smiled. “On what side do you wear your pants?” He pointed to Rod’s crotch.
    “I wear my pants straight, I guess.” Rod looked helplessly at the young airman.
    “Your nuts,” the airman said; he rapidly tapped a pencil on the desk. “He wants to know on what side of your pants your balls dangle.”
    “I don’t know,” Rod said, mystified. “I guess I never thought about it.”
    “You right handed, young man?” said the tailor.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Then we say