Cadet - 14. Cadet Second Class • III

Along with the Acceptance Parade after Basic Cadet Training and the Exemplar Dinner during the cadets’ second year, the Commitment Dinner was part of the Academy’s Legacy Events. The day before beginning their third year, Ritch and his fellow second classers renewed their commitment to the military. They acknowledged the obligation to serve in the Air Force, or repay the cost of their education if they left the Academy prior to commencement.

Graduates from the class of 1974 were invited to attend events marking milestones in the cadets’ journey. Since women were first admitted to the Academy in 1976, those returning to their old stomping grounds to celebrate the Class of 2024 were all men. A handful of them lived in the Colorado Springs area and attended every celebration. Others, like a man whose granddaughter was in Ritch’s class, traveled from all over the country.

“That was so fucking cool.” Ritch loosened his necktie’s knot and slipped it over his head.

Joel mirrored his roommate’s action as both shed their uniforms. “What? The fact we now owe a pile of money if we drop out?”

“Yeah, right, like that’s gonna happen.” Ritch reached for a pair of PT shorts and ditched the long pants. “You’re gonna be a lifer, bro.”

“The guy I was talking to at the end was in for thirty-five years.” During Legacy Events, cadets mingled with their predecessors, absorbing knowledge based on the veterans’ personal experience. “His class was the last one to send graduates to Vietnam. He was in Saigon when it fell, and he was part of the evacuation.”

“That had to be one of the biggest cluster fucks ever. I’ve watched a couple of documentaries about it, and I’m always amazed at the crowds on the embassy’s roof.”

“Lucky man in boxing team’s here.” Cadet Third Class Alp Vurdem draped a hairy arm over Ritch’s shoulders the moment they were inside the gym. Within athletic teams, formality was usually left outside the locker room doors.

Ritch grinned at the effusive greeting while wiggling out from underneath the much larger man. “Get off me, you big Turk. What the hell you talking about lucky anyway?”

Vurdem was older and bigger than other cadets on the boxing team. A member of the Turkish Air Force, he was one of a small contingent of foreigners admitted to the Academy each year. Quite a few of them came from NATO members.

“You have plenty money, and nice car now. And you get pussy all the time too.” Even by military bro standards, Vurdem was crude.

Ritch scanned the occupants to ensure non-team members were not in hearing range. The Academy required cadets take a boxing class as part of their physical education requirements; Ritch and the other members of the team were to put on a demonstration for the doolies’ benefit.

“Watch your language, cadet. You might slip and say the same thing in front of someone who might object. You have to be respectful.” Since Miranda Kerr had tongue-lashed him and a couple of friends for using demeaning language when referring to women, Ritch had worked hard at cleaning up his own. And he always spoke up when anyone else transgressed.

“They not hear me.” Vurdem swept an arm to encompass the doolies’ area. “We not need to be polite.”

That type of attitude was typical of the Turkish cadet and quite a few other athletes. The macho posturing was not as pronounced within the general population, even though Ritch thought the Academy should offer a course on cussing. “You’re wrong, cadet. Watching what you say in public’s important, but it has to be something you believe in. It’s disrespectful to refer to women as pussy.”

“I not talking about women.” The man shrugged. “I speak lower so only real boxers hear.” Team members had clustered together apart from the newbies.

Frustration rose in Ritch. “You still don’t get it, do you? As officers, we’re supposed to be respectful at all times. Acting one way in public and another when alone with a few guys, isn’t good enough. Being two-faced’s just as bad as being sexist.” Ritch gave the taller man a hard stare. “And what the heck do you mean you’re not talking about women?”

“You have fairy roommate.” Vurdem’s leer was disturbing. “You have boy pussy every time you want.”

Ritch stiffened. Adrenalin coursed through his body, and he was ready to fight. Closing the distance between them, he poked the larger man’s chest. “You’re out of order, cadet. If you haven’t yet figured out I despise homophobia, you’re stupid.” Ritch glanced at the other team members surrounding them, and was gratified to see most nodding their agreement.

“I don’t care what you think or believe, but you will not speak that way about anyone else.” Ritch tried to make himself taller by rising on his toes and staring into Vurdem’s eyes. “Particularly someone who’s your superior. That’s an order, cadet. Understood?”

The Turkish man looked confused; he was definitely not expecting the verbal whipping. “But I not say anything bad.” His pleading sounded pitiful. “I use boy pussy when no women available. It’s what fairies are for!”

Ritch was furious. “I gave you an order, cadet. The response is yes, sir. Or yes, Sergeant. You will address me properly! And you will obey. You use derogatory language when referring to a member of the United States Air Force again, there’ll be consequences you’ll regret.”

Taking a step back, Ritch realized he and Vurdem were the center of attention of everyone in the gym. He had raised his voice without being aware of it, and even the doolies’ instructor was staring at him. Ritch was not sure he saw the man wink at him.

The confusion evident on Alp Vurdem’s face suggested he had no idea why he was being berated. Ritch assumed it was a conflict between American standards and Turkish culture. He decided to try a different approach. Being a good leader required learning when to change tactics.

“Look, Vurdem.” Ritch tried to sound conciliatory and used the man’s name as a sign of good faith. “I realize there are societal differences between our countries. There will be times when something acceptable to most Americans, like homosexuality, is not favored in Turkey. But using demeaning language and making assumptions about someone isn’t the way to deal with being in the closet. If you—”

“Wait. You think I’m fairy?” Scrunching his unibrow, Vurdem ended up with a small, hairy mound in the middle of his forehead. “I’m not fairy.”

The first thing to cross Ritch’s mind was: Oh crap… here comes denial, “Fairy isn’t a nice way to refer to anyone, Vurdem. The proper word’s gay.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Vurdem, you just outed yourself a minute ago! You admitted you have sex with men.”

“I’m not gay!”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” Ritch decided he needed to step back for a moment, before he lost his composure. This was unlike any other situation he had experienced, and he was unsure how to proceed. He decided to seek guidance before making any further decisions. “You want to stay in the closet, that’s—”

“I’M NOT GAY!”

“STAND DOWN, CADET! I don’t give a shit what you are or aren’t, but you will show respect to your superiors.” Ritch decided he needed help with how to handle the matter and turned his head to look at the instructor working with the doolies.

He did not get a chance to ask for assistance. Vurdem threw a hook, and Ritch landed on his back.

“Motherfucker!” What had not happened in years of boxing came as a surprise. Raising a hand to his face, Ritch knew his nose was broken. The pain of touching himself and the blood trickle confirmed it.

Before he could stand and regain his composure, he found Vurdem on the ground next to him. It appeared the entire boxing team was on him, as the Turk laid face down, after being tackled. Ritch was surprised to find Simon Bremen, the lightweight from the Tampa Bay area, banging the Turk’s head against the canvas. After a few slams, he kept Vurdem’s pinned face down.

“STOP!” The instructor at last intervened. “Peterson, are you okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Ritch held a hand out, looking for someone to help him rise.

“Stay put, Peterson. You definitely have a broken nose. I sent a doolie to get Medical over here.”

Ritch gingerly reclined on his elbows, trying not to jiggle his head. “Yes, Sergeant.” The instructor was an NCO who had boxed competitively in a previous life.

“Let Vurdem up, guys. But do not allow him to leave the premises under any circumstance. I sent a doolie to get help with him too.”

The nurse tending to Ritch asked questions he knew were designed to determine if he had a concussion. Medical personnel would probably want to keep him under observation for a day or two, but his vision was not blurry, he was cognizant of his surroundings, and was able to answer all questions easily.

At the urging of President Theodore Roosevelt, the United States Military Academy introduced boxing to the curriculum. When the Air Force Academy came into existence, it followed West Point’s practice and required all cadets to take the sport as one of the required physical education courses.

Thanks to plebes at the Naval Academy in Annapolis facing a similar requirement, the three schools had won the vast majority of National Collegiate Boxing Association championships. Many considered it a barbaric tradition with no place in any of the institutions. Boxing accounted for twenty-five percent of concussions reported at the Air Force Academy.

“Thanks.” Ritch grinned at Bremen when the man helped him stand at last.

“You’re coming with me, cadet,” the nurse told Ritch. “We’ll be keeping you overnight at the clinic.”

Ritch looked at Vurdem as he exited the gym and felt bad for the guy. He still appeared confused about what had happened, but ignorance and cultural differences were not an excuse for disregarding orders and striking a superior. Ritch did not ever want to be in the Turk’s position.

“You asked to see me, sir?” Ritch stood at Kai Palakiko’s open door, waiting to be invited into the Squadron Commander’s room.

“Come in and shut the door, Peterson.” Palakiko smiled and pointed at a chair. “Take a load off, bro. This is entirely unofficial, okay?”

Ritch nodded. This was not his first informal meeting with Palakiko. The man was a hardass in public, but apparently favored an extremely relaxed approach when dealing with serious issues.

“You doing okay? Your black eye’s gone.”

“Yes, sir.” Ritch unconsciously touched his cheek. “Guess I’ll have a slightly crooked nose the rest of my life, even though Medical fixed it. Otherwise, I’m doing great.”

“Good to hear. I’m glad there was no concussion. We wouldn’t want to jeopardize you flying jets and shooting down enemies.”

“No, sir.”

“Drop the sir, Peterson. As I said, this is an informal chat. What did you think of the proceedings?”

The investigation into the events at the gym had surprised Ritch. “Pretty much what I expected, but I was surprised at the number of people who piled on Vurdem.” It had not only been the boxing team members who recounted the events, but the instructor and a bunch of doolies corroborated what Ritch’s teammates said. “I kinda feel sorry for him. I hope he doesn’t get into too much trouble back home.” The Turkish man was disenrolled following the investigation.

Recently, a U.S. District Court Judge had sentenced a cadet from Lima, Peru—at the Academy under similar circumstances as Alp Vurdem—on counts of aggravated sexual abuse and abusive sexual contact. He had raped a fellow cadet in her dorm room. The Academy was on the warpath against cadet violence and Vurdem was crucified for disobeying and striking Ritch.

“Yep, that’s it.” Palakiko vigorously nodded. “That’s the attitude.”

Ritch was confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Bro, you stood up to someone larger than you and didn’t flinch once. You used proper protocol, even when the cadet appeared oblivious. Privately, the instructor raved about you. Publicly, he stated you followed rules to a T, and praised you for trying to be conciliatory. You just did the same by feeling sorry for the loser.”

“I realized there were cultural differences and tried to understand and explain.”

“Yep, just what I thought. You’ve got the makings of a great officer. Anyway, it’ll be made public tomorrow, but I thought I’d give you a heads up. Congratulations on your appointment as Squadron First Sergeant.”

“BREMEN! Come with us, bro. Wanna meet my dads?” Ritch motioned for the diminutive cadet to walk with him.

The young man who everyone knew idolized Ritch—in all likelihood because his idol had tinkered with tradition and stopped boxing team hazing of doolies—stood frozen, as cadets flowed around him. He at last grinned. “Really? It would be my pleasure, Sergeant.”

Those exiting Falcon Stadium constituted a mass of Air Force cadets and supporters in a very good mood. Ritch stood in the middle of what some had taken to calling Ritch’s Squad, evoking the group of close friends surrounding his brother, CJ.

Will Bender and Edrice King had previously interacted with the fathers. Will in Colorado Springs and Vail, and Edrice in Washington. Joel Boxworth, Mitch Simmons, and Federico Rodriguez had never met them.

“Are we all gonna fit?” Edrice counted heads, as Ritch led the way. “Peterson, what did your folks get?”

“Who knows? If Cap handled it, they’ll be in a fancy two-seater sports car. If Mr. A did, it’ll be a large SUV.” Ritch had figured out a while back they seemed to alternate responsibilities when it came to car rentals.

“Yo! Bremen, catch up.” Joel encouraged the younger man lagging a couple of steps behind the group. “Peterson’s parents are taking us out for dinner. Roy Boys for barbecue. You cool with that?”

“Yes, sir. I even have my credit card with me, so I can afford it.”

Will Bender laughed the loudest. “Bro, if you’re gonna hang out with us, you better learn Peterson and his family are a bit eccentric.”

Edrice draped an arm around the short boxer and expanded on the lesson. “They have a problem when anyone else tries to pay for anything.”

“It’s all of them!” Federico, the quietest one in the group, apparently felt the need to comment. “Peterson’s brother and brother-in-law were the same when we were in Cancun for spring break.”

The fact someone had mentioned hanging around with the group in the future may have been too much for Simon; his mouth hung open as he tilted his head back to look at the men surrounding him. He was the shortest one by a good margin. Although they were not all in the same squadron, it was common knowledge they spent as much time together as any cadet could manage. All members of the Class of 2024, this was the first time they invited anyone in a different year to spend private time with them.

The band could still be heard outside the stadium, when Ritch and his companions encountered the fathers.

“Where the fuck have you been? We’re starving.” In a symphony of Air Force shirts and paraphernalia, Brett struck a discordant note with his Navy ball cap and pea coat. He and César had flown to Colorado to attend the football game.

Ritch grinned while hugging César. “And you’re gonna keep starving unless you take that silly hat off. I’m not gonna be embarrassed by people seeing me with you. We have to wait for Simmons anyway. He’s on the team. What are you doing wearing a Navy hat instead of a Marine Corps one?”

“I didn’t want dumbass Air Force cadets getting confused about who I was rooting for.”

“Screw you, Cap.”

“Cap! What happened to your ship? Did our missiles sink it?” Will was apparently going to rub the Falcons defeating the Middies in the Marine’s face.

“Fuck you, Bender. Just wait and see how fast I torpedo your career.” Brett scanned the quiet, smiling cadets and sighed. “Okay, I obviously know this loser and we’ve met that troublemaker.” He pointed at Edrice King. “The rest of you, names, rank, and serial number. Now!”

Ritch joined César in rolling his eyes. Brett was up to his usual: picking on people.

“Sorry, Cap.” Edrice bumped fists with both fathers. “Your son’s the only one who can order us around. Hell, after his most recent appointment, he’s now my squadron’s First Sergeant.”

“Mine too, sir. I’m Joel Boxworth, Peterson’s roommate.”

Ritch cringed. He had forgotten to tell his parents about the appointment.

“First Sergeant? I think I want to hear details.” César’s raised eyebrow promised an inquisition. “I’m César, guys. And the loudmouth’s Brett. Will and Ed will tell you our kids’ friends usually call us Mr. A and Cap. How about the rest of you introduce yourselves? Forget the rank and serial number bullshit.”

Names exchanged, the group waited for Mitch Simmons to be done in the locker room. “Since we didn’t see any of you on the field, I guess none of you work with the birds?” Brett received six headshakes in response.

In 1955, the first year of the inaugural class at the Academy, the Cadet Wing chose the falcon as the school mascot. Falconry was one of the extracurricular activities at the school. Cadets, under the supervision of a professional falconer, trained and displayed the birds throughout the year. Cadet falconers flew them during football games to the delight of fans and foes alike.

“Ritch, is the white one the new one you mentioned when you gave Liebe the stuffed falcon at Christmas?”

“Yep, Nova. She replaced Aurora, who died in 2019.” Nova, one of eight performing birds at the Academy, was a full white-phase Gyrfalcon, the largest of the falcons.

Brett insisted the platter holding bare bones remain on the table. He had instructed their server to bring a new order of baby back ribs whenever the previous one was annihilated. He wanted to see how much two grownups and seven Air Force cadets could eat.

“So, you’re the only one who was there out of this group.” César had remained quiet as the confrontation between Alp and Ritch was recounted for his and Brett’s benefit.

“Yes, sir.” Simon sat across the table from César. “I don’t think the rest of us heard the beginning, but when cadet Vurdem mentioned Sergeant Boxworth—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Bremen. Stop with rank already.” Edrice verbalized what Ritch was thinking. “When it’s just The Squad, and we’re in private, names are enough.”

Simon ducked his head and stared at the table. “Sorry…”

Ritch saw the small smile and assumed the kid was pleased he was considered part of the group. “And drop the sirs too.”

“Yes, sir! Ooops, sorry. Anyway, Mr. A, when Peterson stiffened and stepped away from the guy, we all figured there was trouble on the way. Then Vurdem threw the punch, and we jumped him.”

“First thing I saw when I raised my head from the ground, was Bremen on the guy’s back, holding his ears, banging the man’s head against the canvas. Vurdem looked worse than I did when they pried Simon off him.” Ritch was glad everyone testifying on the events had glossed over Bremen’s retaliation.

“By the way, Captain, Mr. Abelló.” Joel’s use of more deferential names for the older men made Ritch pay attention. “That’s the second time Ritch has stood up for me. The first one was a few hours after he met me last winter. I told him I hit the roommate jackpot when we were assigned together, but I had no idea how proud I’d be of having him as a friend.”

“Still not putting out, Boxworth.” Ritch shook his head. “No matter how much you kiss ass.”

“Asshole!” Brett threw his napkin at Ritch. “The man’s paying you a compliment, and you try to deflect by using bad jokes. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“He’s spent too much time around you and CJ, that’s what’s wrong with him.” César shifted his attention to Joel. “Thank you. We’re proud of him too. We think he turned out pretty darn well. Except for not telling his family about things like a broken nose and promotions.”

“I think he looks good with the new bump. He looks macho.”

“Shut up, Jarhead. So, Sergeant Peterson, want to explain why you hid the fight from us?”

“Come on, Dad. It wasn’t a fight. He sucker punched me.” Ritch tried to be dismissive of the matter. “And I didn’t hide it. I was gonna wait until after they confirmed I didn’t have a concussion, but then it slipped my mind with all the damn interviews I had to sit through.”

“He’s right.” Simon had surprisingly become more comfortable and was freely participating in the conversation. “We were all interviewed. Some of us more than once.”

“I’m glad to hear the Academy’s taking certain things more seriously.” César dropped his napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair. “When Ritch started the process of applying, I read most everything I could get my hands on about the school. I wasn’t sure the policy on handling violence and sexual assault would actually be enforced.”

“It is, Mr. A.” Will was emphatic. “After Ritch was attacked, we had a one day seminar on all that stuff. His name came up frequently. Instructors lauded him for standing up for Boxworth and for following military protocol.”

“The other side of the coin was we got hammered on obeying orders.” Edrice grinned. “That fucking animal had to ignore them from Peterson, and we paid the price. It was crazy for a while. If we didn’t comply within a second, we were yelled at.”

“Okay, if we’re done with the feel-good stuff, I have something else to say.” Brett had everyone turn their attention on him. “We have to do something about your group’s name. Two Squads are one too many for me. You guys need to pick something different, so I don’t get confused. I’m just a dumb Marine.”

Six upperclassmen walking together into McDermott Library on a Saturday evening drew stares. A refuge for doolies, it was the one place on campus they were not harassed. Looking around, Ritch realized, except for the uniforms, it could be a library on any college campus in the nation. It had a lot of books and young men and women bent over desks. He had instigated the gathering as a study session. The recent increase in non-academic responsibilities had left him with little time to relax. Watching the football game that afternoon had been his first break since his fathers visit.

Simmons was missing from the group. He was in Idaho, where a week after defeating Navy, the Falcons had fallen to the Boise State Broncos. The big guy took losses personally and was sure to be a pain to deal with for a couple of days.

“Ever been up there?” Ritch nudged Bremen and pointed upwards at the magnificent, six-story spiral staircase. Not only was Ritch a driving force trying to ensure his friends did well, he had taken on the job of mentoring the younger man.

Bremen grinned. “Yeah… I hid up there a few times as a doolie.”

“Okay, guys.” Ritch took hold of the staircase’s railing. “Let’s go find places on one of the upper floors. I hate being on display down here.”

About two hours later, everyone was ready for a break. “What are we gonna do with what Cap said about our group’s nickname?” Edrice brought up the subject Ritch and the rest of them had been chatting about during stolen moments since the prior week.

“I have an idea, but I’m not sure what you’ll think of it.” Simon looked at his fellow cadets huddled around the table.

“Spit it out, Bremen. Stop being so damn scared of us.” Edrice was relentless in his efforts to get the younger guy to assert himself.

“What about The Wing instead of The Squad?”

Will was the first one to nod. “I like it!”

“That fits.” Fred was the other quiet one in the group, but the rest were accustomed to his ways by now. “Are we going to get matching ink?” A couple of them had seen Brad Kennedy’s the previous year, and most had discovered Ritch’s brother and brother-in-law had the same tattoo.

“Simmons and I are the only ones with any ink right now.” Ritch grinned at his companions. “You all ready to lose your virginity?”

“Ready, willing, and able, Sergeant.”

“Shut the fuck up, King. If we’re gonna do it, we need a design.” Expectant faces made Ritch groan. “Don’t look at me. I have zero artistic ability.”

“I can draw.” Everyone’s attention shifted to Bremen. “When I thought of the name, I figured we could do something with an airplane wing at the center.”