Excerpt from: The Return of Philo T. McGiffin
 

Published by: Bluejacket Books, U.S. Naval Institute Press

They both agreed, as the game was ending, that it was one hopping hell of a Homecoming game.

For a full three hours the two men -- not young, not yet quite old -- had cheered and shouted from the fifty-yard line. When the Cannoneers fired for the last time, throwing a wreath of smoke out over the Navy stands, they shook hands, smiling in the clear late sunlight of October. Then, coming to attention, they faced front. Below them on the held four thousand midshipmen, the Brigade, stood at attention with them as they all, together, sang "Navy Blue and Gold":
 

Four years together by the Bay

Where Severn joins the tide,

Then by the Service called away

We've scattered far and wide;

But still where two or three shall meet

And old tales be retold,

From low to highest in the Fleet

Will pledge the Blue and Gold.
 

And now it was evening. They sat, the two of them, at a table in the basement of Alumni Hall, on King George Street. In front of the man in civilian clothes was a martini. In front of the man in service dress, his chest stiff with fading ribbons, was a double shot of Anchor bourbon. Around them in the taproom other men, young and old, fresh-minted ensigns and long-retired admirals so ancient they could barely sit erect in their wheelchairs, argued and drank beneath the paintings of vanished ships and the seals of classes gone from living memory. Behind the bar three Filipino stewards stood impassively, watching it all.

"Quite a game," said the uniformed man again. He grinned and swallowed half his bourbon. Above the ribbons he had a long, ugly face, crushed together at the sides, a wide smiling mouth, and a nose like the bow of a cruiser. His skin was dark, pitted, and leathered, as if he had spent years squinting into an open flame.

The civilian nodded silently, intent on relighting his pipe. He was shorter than the officer, stocky in a blue blazer, blond, with a closetrimmed, graying beard. His eyes, small and set deeply in a network of wrinkles, looked out skeptically, warily, but with a kind of suspicious humor.

Both of them -- like everyone else in the room -- wore massive gold rings, as much a part of their left hands as their thumbs.

"Sure was," he said at last, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "That last quarter was close, though. I thought the defense might lose it for us."

"Never happen at a Homecoming. Remember our youngster year, when Truck nabbed the ball on the forty, in the last ten minutes -- "

The double clang of a ship's bell interrupted him. At the door a fortyish man, built like a weightlifter, was taking his cap off, too late to avoid the penalty. He Looked around, smiling a little sheepishly, and as the room filled with shouts of "Double here!" and "Thanks for the free drink, Bill!" he shrugged and reached for his wallet. He wore the uniform of a Marine colonel.

"You know him?"

"Him? That's Bill Tabor. Played fieldball with him when we were segundoes. Eighth company, I think. He's with CINCLANT now."

"That's right. I remember him," said the civilian. He glanced at his pipe and saw that he had to relight it. Instead he laid it down. "So. How have things been for you, classmate?"

"Not that bad. You know what it's like. Retired on three-quarters of what you couldn't live on before."

"How's Kath! And the kids?"

"Great. Great. Jack got his appointment for next year."

"That's fine."

"How's your business going? Consulting, wasn't it?"

"That's right. It's going well, thanks."

They sat together silent for a time then, watching their drinks. "You know," said the civilian at last, "it's damned funny, the way we all turned out."

The officer--he was a full commander, the three gold stripes on his sleeves tarnished with age and the sea--looked up from his empty glass. "Funny? What do you mean?"

"Just ... strange. When you think about who we were--and how we've ended up. J.J. dead out in the Pacific. Truck Cross the chairman of--what is it--General Dynamics. Remember how he used to sweat over his shoes? Len Ind a senator, the Wop a high-powered Ph.D. You and Rollo and the rest staying in, getting all we used to dream about--battles, rank, medals, command."

"Command," repeated the officer. He wiggled his nose a little. "And don't forget the others. Like Norforms. He's probably still in jail in Turkey. Think he's learned any Dago by now?"

"He always used to say--you rate what you can get away with."

They laughed together. "And Tony Castigliano."

"Good old Wop," said the commander softly. "Remember the time Lunchbags had him under the sink, with the doors closed, smoking that foot-long stinker he brought back from Cuba? And to make it more entertaining he ran the hot water the whole time."

"Lunchbags wasn't the most squared away guy I ever knew," said the civilian. "I heard that when he went up for his nuclear power interview Rickover asked him:'What do you think of the Jewish race, Mr. Baylor?' And he clutches for a minute and then comes out with,'I don't know, Admiral--who are they racing this year?"

"And Snorkel," said the commander, leaning back in his chair. "Leadership by example--what a joke. Remember the night he caught us at the Beehive, chugging pitchers inside the Limit? We were all in civvies, too. We'd have been marching extra duty till June Week--only the lieutenant happened to be dragging somebody else's wife that night."

"A conspiracy of silence," said the civilian.

The new drinks came. They raised them, nodding thanks toward the Marine, and looked at each other over the rims for a long moment.

"To Mother Bancroft," said the civilian.

"To the Brigade."

"Yes. They looked good out there today."

"The women too?"

"Them too," said the civilian. "Why not? All of them. Poor bastards."

"Poor bastards," agreed the commander. They drank, then sat looking into their glasses.

"And the Mouse."

They both smiled suddenly, simultaneously. "God," said the civilian, "the Mouse. It's been years since I've heard anyone say that. It's been a while, hasn't it! And remember how we used to think, when we were plebes, that climbing Herndon would be the end of the world." He noticed his pipe again and picked it up, and then said suddenly, "Herndon--the Chapel, that night--"

"The sword trick he pulled at Army--"

"The buns on Breen's balcony--"

"The time he and Do-Dirty Dan went over the Wall, and Black Bart was waiting for them--"

"The night he was going for the Virgin Guns, and took White Lightning out instead-"

They both laughed hard, forgetting themselves. "Christ, he was something, the Mouse," said the commander, his face reddening. He unbuttoned his uniform blouse. "It sure would be nice seeing him here tonight, wouldn't it?"

"It sure would," said the civilian. He pulled his tie loose. "Getting a little tight ... you know, on Black Thursday I weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. By Hundredth Night I weighed one-twenty-five."

"That was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was."

"But then," said the commander, his eyes going far off, as if estimating a target angle on a distant ship, "It doesn't seem that long ... not today. Not here."

"I know what you mean," said the civilian. "It's as if time doesn't really exist here, doesn't pass; as if nothing changes, the way it does on the outside. It's hard to tell even what year it is, here in the Yard."

At the tables around them the old men reminisced. The young men, single stripes gleaming new, drank furtively, not looking around, abashed by the brass that showed up on this one evening out of the year.

"Yes," said the civilian again, pulling on his pipe. It was well lit now, drawing solid deep down in the bowl. It would smoke for a long time. The night was early, only a little after eight bells by the brass chronometer behind the bar. "A long time. I remember it all, though. It doesn't leave you, it doesn't fade. Stays with you--like Keyes used to say about the mess hall pancakes."

"Uh huh," said the officer. He smiled a little with his ugly mouth. "I guess we'll remember it forever, all of us. June twenty-eighth, Black Thursday. When it all started."

"The day," said the civilian, taking a deep draw and then watching the smoke ebb outward, dissolving, slowly becoming one with the already hazy air of the taproom, "the day we first met Philo T. McGiffin."
 

CHAPTER ONE
 

TDSY WUX RE ROME NY TO: MUNICIPAL HOME RAYMONDSVILLE PA

2022 15Z FINAL RECORD RECEIVED AND IS ACCEPTABLE. YOU ARE AUTHORIZED TO REPORT NAVAL ACADEMY THURS 28 JUNE 0900. ALL PAPERS MAILED TO YOU FROM BUREAU NAVAL PERSONNEL 5 MAY. SUPERINTENDENT US NAVAL ACADEMY ANNAPOLIS MD SENDS =
 

Midshipman (n): A young man with great opportunities behind him.

-Graffito found in seaward head, 5-2
 

The Yard was green and hot and lovely that late June afternoon. It was green and quiet, green and shaded between the granite buildings, the old trees, the marble monuments; and a sea wind from the Chesapeake rustled in the elms above Stribling Walk and the Macedonian monument and the Chapel. The faded red brick walks were empty. The Brigade was away; at sea, on leave, in Pensacola for flight training, out with the Fleet for summer cruise. The bronze doors of the Rotunda were closed, and in Dewey Basin the knockabouts nodded gently to their dolphins.

Only in back of the gray stone pile of Bancroft Hall was any activity apparent.

The Class--though it was not a class yet, in any sense but the potential--was standing there in line. They stood in quiet, apprehensive groups between the chain-link fences of the tennis courts. They wore sport coats, suits, dress whites, loud shirts, expensive loafers, farm boots with mud still in the crevices. They carried tennis racquets and golf clubs, sea bags and guitars, and suitcases full of books and brand-new razors. They stood uneasily in the heat, a thousand of them, with a thousand photographs of young, anonymous girls, most of whom they would never kiss again, in their wallets.

At the edge of one of the groups, standing a hundred yards back from the head of the line, a short, dark-haired boy of seventeen shifted from foot to foot, sweating silently. His face was narrow and his complexion poor. He was thin, stood with his shoulders hunched, and wore a hunted expression, a worn black suit coat a couple of sizes too large, a white shirt, a black tie, and cheap new black shoes. His hands were sunk deep in the pockets of brown corduroy pants.

Jeez, it's hot, thought Philo McGiffin.

That morning he had come in by bus. It was a long trip, twenty-eight hours, with connections in Pittsburgh and Scranton. He'd gotten off up on West Street, with about fifty others, and along with most of them headed straight for the station restroom. Waiting for a urinal, his eyes drifting over the scrawled comments on the walls, he realized suddenly that he was really, finally here--in Annapolis.

USNA: Marking time for four years in the P-rade of Life.

All personnel desiring to put clamps to T. Doyle sign up with respective battalion adjutants by taps tonight

What has eight wings, three hundred and sixty heads, and sucks?

Along with the others, none of them speaking much, he walked the long downhill mile through the cobblestoned streets, between the shuttered storefronts, the old white clapboard and brick colonial homes. Few of them, burdened with bags and gear, knew where they were going; they simply followed the crowd, down Main to Market House Circle, and then down Randall to Gate One. At the circle, looking up as he made the last turn, he saw something gleaming and sparkling in the sun, beyond the gray buildings: the Chesapeake.

Salt water, he thought, stopping as he caught the smell of it on the wind. It was the first time he had ever seen it. From his uncle's sea stories, from the books he had devoured, he had expected a deep clear blue, but the bay was gray-green.

He swung the suitcase to his shoulder and went through the gate without looking back.

In the line now they talked in subdued voices, passing time. The sun beat down on them and the wind gradually died. Some took their jackets off. Most stood silently, thinking about what they had left behind, or what was to come. They looked about them, at the athletic fields, at the bay, at the copper-green mansard upper works of the building that filled the whole western sky.

"Where you from, pal?"

"Tulsa."

"Boca Raton."

"Bolivia."

"Oahu."

"Chi."

"From all over. I'm an Air Force junior."

"Air Force! Aren't you at the wrong academy?"

"Didn't have enough teeth for Colorado Springs."

The line shuffled forward. "Where you from?" someone asked the thin boy.

"Raymondsville. That's in Pennsylvania."

"I'm from Severna Park. Right here in Maryland. Isn't that crazy?"

"Yeah," said Philo, looking away. Out beyond the tennis courts, beyond the flat green of the playing fields, he could see the white sails of a boat far off on the horizon. He wondered where it was going. He put his hand in his jacket to check that the papers, the telegram, were still there. The line shuffled forward. At its head, two men in white uniforms and military caps stood with clipboards. If he strained his ears he could hear them.

"Name?"

"Sam Cross."

"He on your list?"

"You from Huntsville, Alabama, Mister Cross?"

"Yeah. Here's my--"

"Hold on to them. Go on in. You'll be in Lima Company this summer. Get in line under L."

The line moved forward. The thin boy dragged sweat from his forehead and moved his suitcase a few feet on. The sun was intense. Heat shimmered up from the tennis courts, making the sea and the buildings and the distant sails dance and flicker. He had never felt heat like this before. He moved up. The two men in short-sleeved whites looked crisp, hard, virile; their voices were rapid and assured. Then, suddenly, he found himself at the head of the line and they were looking down on him as he went through the wrong pockets for his papers.

"What's your name, stud?"

"Philo McGiffin."

Above his head the two men exchanged looks. "Knock off the bullshit," said the bigger one. "This ain't the place for it. What's your name, mister?" The way he said mister chilled Philo's heart.

"It's, uh, McGiffin," he said. He found the papers. The two men stared down at him. He dropped the papers, retrieved them, and held them out, the damp pages trembling. After a moment one of them took them, holding them by the corner. From under the lowpulled, gleaming black visor of his cap he looked them over, and his expression changed subtly.

"That's what his orders say."

"They say McGiffin?"

"They say Philo T. McGiffin."

"No shit!"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"He's not on the list."

"Friggin' joke, probably ... some smartass in Main Office." The bigger man handed him back the papers and jerked his head to one side. "We'll check you out later, stud. Wait over there. Come on, move!"

He stood to the side of the line for two hours, till the last man was through. He was limp with sweat and heat. He was afraid even to sit on his suitcase. He looked away from the line, toward the playing fields. A brown and black mongrel lay there, watching them with its head between its paws. It had an odd look of belonging. Beyond it was the bay. He watched as the sailboat grew smaller and smaller and at last was gone. Birds circled overhead, gray and white in the sunlight, and with a little shock he realized that he was seeing his first seagulls.

When the last civilian was through one of the men in white went inside. The other leaned slightly against the side of the building. He looked as crisp and neat in the starched uniform, white cap, black shoulderboards striped with gold, as he had when he started. He tucked the clipboard under his arm, narrowed his eyes to the sun, and finally looked over to where McCiffin was standing. Phil straightened nervously. The man looked at him for several seconds. Philo tried to smile but the only thing that happened was that sweat slid saltily into his mouth. The other did not smile back.

"Your name really Philo McGiffin?"

"Yeah. It is."

"You better start saying 'sir,' stud. From here on."

"Yessir."

"Sir."

"Yes, sir."

"You know who I am, Mister McGiffin?"

"Your name tag thing there says Corpen."

"Sir."

"Sir. Your name thing there says Corpen, sir." He laughed, intending it to be friendly, but it came out as a squeaky giggle. Corpen stared at him, disgust gradually overtaking his features. The second officer (Were they officers? Or what!) came out.

"He's on the master list all right. Jimzo thought it was a joke so he left him off ours."

"Holy hell," said Corpen, looking at Philo with distaste. "It's really Philo McGiffin?"

"That's right. Wait. It gets better. He's assigned to 34^th."

"Sweet Christ," said Corpen, the distaste growing sharper until it seemed his upper lip would split. "Of all the ... and a lousy sandblower, too. Get in the line for Lima, boot. McGiffin!"

"Yes, sir."
 

The afternoon began too fast and grew progressively out of hand. Lost in the granite immensities, the endless green-tiled corridors of Bancroft Hall, he wandered with a thousand other lost souls, each with a checkoff list and a smudged, unreadable map in hand. He found sick bay, and his arms bled from flinching during a series of shots that suggested the plebe class was destined for an invasion of New Guinea. He found the barber shop and came out a pound lighter, with an odd, clear feeling of space impinging on his nearnude scalp. At noon there was a quick meal in a dark, immense cavern called the mess hall, and there he heard his first 1MC announcement echo through the corridors: "Personnel to be sworn in as midshipmen, United States Navy, assemble in T-court at this time."

"Where's tea court?"

"Everybody's going that way."

"I hope whoever's up front knows what he's doing."

A thousand shaven-headed civilians, encircled and overawed by granite and ffapping flags, stood in a vast space of yellow brick. Blinking in the bright June sunlight, his arm trembling as he held it aloft, he repeated in unison with a thousand others: "I, Philo T. McGiffin, having been appointed a midshipman in the United States Navy, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely ... and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter; so help me God."

The sense of dedication, the glow, was allowed to last for about four minutes. After the swearing-in the assembly line began again. He crept to the mid store and was issued soap and toilet articles; to the bookstore, for a stack of books two feet high, and a slide rule (an ominous engine--he was afraid of mathematics); back to sick bay, for yellow fever, which they'd run out of the first time he'd been there.

At three o'clock he stood in the corridor in what he hoped was the second wing, third deck, and studied his list again. All he had left was the uniform issue.

"Shoe size!"

"Seven, sir."

"Doan' need to call me sir, boy."

"Yes, sir."

"White works. Say, how short are you, kid?"

"Five three and a half, sir."

"Chart only goes down to five four. That's minimum."

"Then I'm five four, sir."

"Well, take these. You'll grow."

"Neckerchiefs, two."

"Hats, blue rim, two."

"Socks, athletic, six pair. Black, twelve pair. White, six pair. Sign here."

"Undershirts, small, twelve."

"Drawers."

"Neckties."

"Gloves."

"Belts."

He passed from civilian to military somewhere along a line of scuffed folding tables, his arms wilting as the pile grew higher.

"Net bags."

"Sweat gear. Gonna be your best friend, buddy."

"Athletic shoes."

"Rain gear."

"Reindeer, sir?"

"Boonies."

"Bath sandals."

"Stencil kit. You got to mark all this gear."

He panted. Faces blurred in front of him. With a pile higher than his head, holding more under his arms, dragging two more bags bump-bump behind him, he toiled up six flights of stairs to the room that was pencilled on one of the pieces of paper. He dropped it all on a naked mattress, dopped into a chair, and looked around the empty room, seeing it with the same sudden terrible clarity with which he had seen everything that day.

Room 2230 was for three men; at least, he saw three beds. Three bare gray-striped mattresses. Two full-length mirrors in wooden frames. Beige walls, without decoration. Two metal desks. Three sturdy-looking metal chairs. Green tile floor, rather dusty. Three built-in light wood closets, with lots of removable shelves. Near the door were a sink, a shower stall, and a closet with a hanging bar and what looked like book racks, though they were oddly arranged. It smelled of floor wax and closed-in heat, and aside from the furniture it was as bare as if no one had ever inhabited it. As he was investigating it someone backed into him, coming through the door. They both turned, startled, and faced each other. To Philo the big guy looked vaguely familiar. "Hi, he said, then saw the uniform and said, "sir--"

"It's okay," said the big guy. "I'm former enlisted. Same as you now. J.J. Fayaway. Who're you?"

"Phil McGiffin."

"Good to meet ya, Phil. Guess we're wives."

"What?"

"Roomies." They shook hands. Phil felt the power; Fayaway's hand was twice the size of his. They looked each other over. The sailor was enormous, in a chunky way; his face was square and open; his short hair was the color of chewed gum. He looked to be twenty, twenty-one. His air was calm and unhurried. He heaved his gear onto one of the beds and looked around the room. "Who else we got, Phil?"

"Me," said someone from the corridor. A high voice, rather pissed off. "This twenty-two-thirty?"

"That's what it says on the door," said Philo.

The third occupant was taller than Fayaway. He was thin, though, thinner even than Philo, and incredibly bony. His cheekbones arched high on an eroded face and his nose jutted like the gnomon of a sundial. Black greasy-looking hair fell across his forehead. He stared at them, too-long arms wrapped around two enormous bundles of clothes, like an ant caught in the act of plunder. There was a wild, focussed, glassy look in his eyes.

"I'm Howard Zeard," he said. "And I'm taking that upper bunk."

"You got it," said Philo. "I'm afraid of heights."

Zeard circled around Fayaway as if he feared he might explode. The sailor turned to follow him around, his mouth open a little. "Hey," he said. "You missed your haircut."

"Screw that."

"Hey-"

"I got a infection," said Zeard, cutting off any further speculation on the subject. He let his bundles thump to the floor and slammed open one of the lockers. "Shit," he mumbled.

"Plebe ho," someone shouted in the corridor. They turned to look at the door. "Plebe ho! Everybody out here. Get hot!"

In the corridor, twenty feet wide, ten high, and some hundred yards long, stood two men. One of them Philo recognized instantly as Corpen. He stood rocking on his heels, still in the incredibly crisp white uniform, his thumbs inserted lightly under his white uniform belt, under the brass buckle that gleamed like gold. His cap was shoved back, and he stood watching the recent civilians, half in mufti and half in uniform, come hesitantly out of their rooms. The other man, compact, dark, and scowling, stood with his bare hairy legs wide apart. He wore blue shorts with a gold stripe and a gray USNA T-shirt, and he carried a lacrosse stick, tossing a ball up occasionally and catching it with a cradling motion.

"Everybody out!" Corpen shouted again. He paced past a couple of the rooms, looking in to see that they were empty. Plebes stood awkwardly about in the corridor. His eyes fixed on Philo for a long second, then moved on, roving over the others. His mouth narrowed in what looked like angry nausea. Abruptly, he pointed to the wall. "All right, studs, hit that bulkhead."

They looked where he pointed.

"Hit it!" Corpen screamed suddenly. "Get your asses up there!"

"The wall," Fayaway whispered. He pushed Zeard and Philo toward the side of the corridor. The others began to move too, scared, half comprehending.

"Up against the bulkhead!" Corpen screamed, stalking along the rough line of plebes that formed, facing one another's paling faces, across the width of the hallway. He walked like a Doberman barely held in leash; his eyes flicked over them contemptuously. "Get those guts in. Hands at your sides. I want you pussies at attention."

Behind him, silent, the other upperclassman tossed the ball up and caught it; tossed it up and caught it.

"I'm Midshipman Second Class Corpen," said Corpen, his voice dropping suddenly to a nearly normal tone. "You will call me Mister Corpen, sir. This gentleman in gym gear is Midshipman Second Class Stamper. You will call him Mister Stamper, sir. Do you understand?"

When they had shouted yes sir four times, each time louder, till the tile walls of the corridor rang and their ears rang, he paced the length of the line and turned back. His spotless white suede shoes, rubber-soled, whispered on the gleaming floor. Except for that the silence was complete.

"Mister Stamper and I," he resumed, "are your first set plebe summer squad leaders, gentlemen. We would like to take this opportunity of first meeting you to welcome you to the Trade School, to the Chesapeake University of Naval Technology, to Crabtown Finishing School, to the Annapolis Yacht Club, to Ernie Flagg's Hotel Bancroft. I venture to say, gentlemen, that you will remember it, and most particularly us, after many other things have grown dim." He paced the length of the line again, shoes whispering uninterpretable secrets, and thirty pairs of eyes followed him as he turned.

"Gentlemen, you are now in the Navy. Midshipmen fourth class, and--God help us--the future backbone of the Fleet. You are now at Annapolis. This is not a college. This is your first duty assignment in the Navy. USNA, Lima Company, Thirty-fourth Platoon."

He paused, and paced again. "So who are we? Mister Stamper and I are not your teachers. We are not your wet nurses. We were ordered here. It is our unenviable and perhaps ultimately hopeless task to transform a sloppy lot of ill-assorted pussies, maggots, whimps, baggers, and pukes--yourselves, gentlemen--into something halfway ready to meet the Brigade when, in nine short but never-to-be-forgotten weeks, it comes back to the Hall. We expect your full cooperation in this mission, important as it is to the national security of the United States and the preservation of the Free World."

He glanced at Stamper. The other second class stood juggling the ball, staring off toward the end of the corridor, where late afternoon sunlight streamed in to lie in squared-off golden ranks along the deck.

"In doing this," Corpen continued, pacing again, "you'll have to know one another, help one another. No one ever got through this place alone. You're classmates now, God help you. You'll depend on one another. You never bilge a classmate. You never let a classmate down. So you'd better start getting acquainted." He pointed to a sleepy-looking kid at the end of one line. "You. Sound off, stud. Name and nickname."

"Uh, Anthony Castigliano. Tony, sir."

"Knock off the sir for now. You're talking to your classmates. Next."

"Stan Mitchell. Stan--or Butch."

"Moishe Kaufman. Mick."

"Richard Gray the third. Dick."

"Fayaway, John. J.J."

"Robert Engel. Bob, I guess. My sister calls me-"

Stamper pivoted suddenly. There was a moving blur and then a flat splat as the ball rebounded from where Engel's head had been. White-faced, he straightened slowly.

"Just what you're asked," Corpen said softly. "We don't go for excess bullshit here, Engel. Remember that. Next."

"Uh ...Roger Darrin. Rog."

The names went on. Philo tried to concentrate on them, tried to link names to faces. But all the faces were the same. Shaven. Scared. Young. Only the single black plebe was at all distinguishable from the rest. With something like insight he realized that, except for height, all of them looked alike. The sole clue to individuation was the black-and-yellow name tags that some had already pinned on their white cotton jumpers.

"Ash, John. John's okay."

"Sherman Shubrick. Sherm."

"Sam Cross. Truck."

"Zeard, Howard."

"No nickname?"

"Nope," said Zeard. There was something indefinable in his voice. It was not respect.

"Wait a minute," said Stamper. It was the first time the dark upperclass had spoken and they heard his voice with a collective thrill of horror. He crossed to Zeard and stood in front of him for a while, fondling the ball in the thonged pocket of the stick. "You. Zeard. Wasn't there a haircut on your checkoff list, mister?"

"I have a scalp infection," said Zeard. "Sir."

"Let's see your chit."

Zeard produced a crumpled half-sheet of paper. Corpen came over and the two second class examined it with interest. "Who's this?" said Corpen. "This scribble?"

"That's my dad's signature," said Zeard.

"You got to be shitting me," said Stamper. His mouth had come open a little.

"He's a doctor," said Zeard. He was taller than either second class and his lids drooped in his ruined, old-looking face as he looked down at them.

"Drop," said Corpen.

"What?"

"I said drop, shithead. Give me ten. Ten pushups." Corpen pointed to the floor. "That's a deck, Mister Zeard. I strongly suggest you hit it. Now. And count."

"One."

"Sir, Zeard. Say sir."

"Two, sir."

"You missed one. Start over, stud."

"One, sir. Two, sir. Three, sir. Four, sir. Five, sir. Six, sir. Seven, sir. Eight, sir. Nine, sir. Ten, sir." He started to get up. Corpen's white shoe on his back stopped him.

"How about one to beat Army, Mister Zeard?"

"One to what?"

"To beat Army, hot dog. An extra pushup to beat Army. Clean the shit out of your ears, Weird."

"One to beat Army." Philo could see that the last pushup hurt, but Zeard finished it. "Sir."

"Good. No, don't get up. You can just stay like that till we secure.., this position, by the way, is what we call 'leaning rest.' Now, gentlemen; proceed."

"Charles Hartford. Chuck."

"Philo McGiffin. Phi--"

Splat.

Shaken, Philo straightened. Still filling his sight was the black circle of Stamper's lacrosse ball, aimed straight at his face. "Whoa, Snatch," said Corpen. "That's really his name."

"You're shitting me," said Stamper, staring at him. "Philo McGiffin!"

"Yes, sir."

"Gimme ten," said Stamper, cradling the ball.

"Sir! What did I--"

"Make that twenty," said Corpen, "And pipe down. We got a lot to get through this afternoon. You can count under your breath.

"Now. You fourteen on that side: my squad. You men: Mister Stamper's squad."

"Welcome aboard," said Stamper ominously.

"Mr. Stamper and I wish to extend to you, once again, the warmest of welcomes to plebe summer. But now our pleasure ends. It's time for official business." He handed papers to one of the fourth class. "Pass these out, boot ... you are now being issued the following, one per each: locker stowage diagram for wings one through six, stenciling instructions, uniform table, basic daily routine, Plebe Summer training schedule, room assignments for summer classes, and a copy of COMDTMIDN Instruction 1531.2, Professional Development of the Fourth Class, Procedures for."

The plebe with the papers stopped beside Phil, who was still at "leaning rest," his arms beginning to ache. Finally he laid them beside him on the deck.

"Tonight, after I dismiss you, you will proceed to your rooms in a timely manner. You will not visit other rooms tonight except for the head. You will occupy yourselves with checking your uniforms and gear against the list on page 14-2 of your reg book to ensure that you have a complete issue. You will try on your uniforms for fit, preparing yourselves for inspection in White Works Charlie tomorrow morning. You will stencil each item as per instructions. You will read the U.S. Naval Academy Reg Book, one copy of which will be issued to the ICOR in each room. You will read your Reef Points, the little blue book, completely through, preparing to memorize it."

Philo glanced at Mister Stamper, who was staring, quiescent once again, out the window. Blue sky was visible beyond him, dimming toward evening. He snapped his eyes back to Corpen. "Lights out will go tonight at twenty-two-hundred. That's ten o'clock; better get used to the twenty-four-hour system. After that you will be free to visit between rooms until twenty-two-fifteen, at which time all hands will be in bed with room lights out. Reveille will be at zero-six-fifteen. You will know it is reveille because a bell will ring very loudly. At reveille one man from each room will appear at the door before the bell stops and will make the report,'All hands on deck.' This means everyone in the room is out of the rack, covers turned back to air, room lights on. Don't let us catch you touching that sack after that except to make it after morning meal. Any time. Got that? Good. Snatch?"

"Nothin' to add," said Stamper, looking out the window.

"Any questions, maggots?" said Corpen. He waited, pushing his cap forward and settling its bill an inch over his nose, so that he had to tilt his head back slightly to see them. There were none. "Good. If you have questions later, or if any of you have realized yet you've made a terrible mistake, Mister Stamper and I will be in room twenty-oh-five. That is the squad leaders' room and platoon office. Mister Zeard, report to us there when your classmates secure."

"I'd like to see this character, too," said Stamper, looking at Philo. "You hear me, cowboy? Let's make it right now."

"All right, sir," said Philo.

"Okay, turkeys--fall out," said Corpen. No one moved. "Fall out! Secure! Assholes and elbows--clear this passageway. Too fucking slow, shitheads! Move!"

The corridor was suddenly filled with running, colliding bodies.

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