Step up to my line. Do not step on my line. Do not step over my line. Step up to my line." A cadet glared at me under the black brim of a white service cap and swung his hand in front of his face, signaling that I should advance precisely to the line of demarcation pasted on the pavement in green tape. This was the first lesson in literal obedience.
He was the "Cadet in the Red Sash"-the first cadre member I needed to report to in order to join my company. I stood before him in a ludicrous uniform of newly issued cadet gym shorts, knee-high black socks, and Oxford low-quarter dress shoes. My head had been shorn of its five-inch locks, revealing a topography of old scars and virgin white scalp.
"Re-port," he bellowed at me from a distance of eighteen inches.
"New Cadet Mullaney reports to the…the…"
"Are you stuttering while you report?" His hot breath dried the sweat on my face.
"Yes, sir."
"Did I give you permission to stutter?"
"No, sir."
I began again: "New Cadet Mullaney…"
"Stop. What did you do wrong?" My newly bald scalp burned under the midday sun.
"Sir, I don't know."
"I don't know. I don't know," he repeated. "Is 'I don't know' one of your four responses?"
"No, sir."
"What are your four responses?" he asked, testing whether I remembered another cadet's instructions on answering questions.
"Yes, sir. No, Sir. No excuse, sir. Sir, I do not understand."
"That's right, New Cadet. Why did you stutter? Did you not have sufficient time to practice?"
"I forgot, sir." I could almost see smoke billow out of his ears.
" 'I forgot' is not one of your four responses. Try again."
"No excuse, sir," I responded correctly. I must have replied "No excuse, sir" a thousand times that first year, hammering into my head an acknowledgment of personal responsibility that eventually became second nature.
"Try again, New Cadet."
"Sir, New Cadet --"
"Aren't you going to ask to make a correction?"
"Yes, sir. Sir, may I make a correction?"
"Yes."
"Sir, New Cadet Mullaney reports to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered."
"Are you going to salute when you report?"
"Yes, sir. Sir, may I make a correction?"
"Make it."
I raised my fingertips to my eyebrow as I saluted and repeated my report.
"New Cadet, that is the sorriest salute I have seen today." I couldn't believe how many mistakes I was making. I am better than this, I told myself.
The red-sashed, barrel-chested cadet manipulated my arm into a better approximation of a West Point salute: fingers closed and extended in a straight line to my elbow, arm parallel to the ground, palm canted toward my eyes.
"Move out, New Cadet. I haven't got all day."
A line extended behind me, other sheep waiting for the slaughter.
.
.
