cleaned ones from the previous day, you never had to bother your clothing drawer. Once your footlocker passed inspection, you only needed to keep the dust off. They tried to explain this to everyone else. Yet they continuously watched the rest of them wasting precious free time pressing clothes. Each item in the clothing drawer had to adhere to a six-inch rule. Towels were to be pressed also, in six-inch squares. The same was true for washcloths, underwear, socks, T-shirts, and handkerchiefs. The only items larger than six inches were the fatigues, but they all had to be pressed also. All four sets in Em’s drawer were stacked in a four-inch pile. His drawer was perfect, and as long as he wore the previous day’s clothes, he should never have to disturb the drawer again. This worked. He had proven it for well over a week now. Yet somehow, the pressing and folding continued each night.
Em began to use this time to write to Irene. He had been writing in the laundry room each day, but he and Jack had been goofing off so much lately he had been less faithful in his writing. He tried to write something every day. Since each day was a carbon copy of the one before, it was getting more difficult. It was easier to write at night. While lying in his bunk, listening to the chaos around him, he wrote about the conversations that took place around him. When he was finally permitted to mail his letter to Irene, he thought that she would think him mad. Tomorrow was day 14, and that meant mail. Two weeks did not sound like such a long time. When it stretched into 336 hours of agonizing repetitiveness, it seemed much longer. Now Em estimated that it was less than twelve hours until he heard from Irene. He still thought about her continuously. He closed his eyes and immediately thought of the white dress. He could see her standing at the train station with her right hand above her brow and her left one resting on her hip. She was smiling. With this picture in his head, he drifted off to sleep.
The next day started in exactly the same way as the previous twelve, though there was a sense of anticipation in the air. Everyone was aware of day 14. Em did not think anyone wanted mail more than he did. He thought of Irene with every breath he took. It felt as though he had been gone for six months. In the past few days, he began to worry about Irene at home. Would she be thinking of him as much as he thought of her? He desperately hoped that her letters would reassure him of her devotion. When would they get mail? Would it be in the morning? Maybe before breakfast, Em thought. He was consumed with only thoughts of mail.
Once again, he found himself dressed and ready to fall out before any of his fellow airmen. He walked toward Corby’s bunk so he could talk with him before he had to leave for chow runner duties. Corby was nowhere to be found. Everything seemed to be in order with his bunk and locker. Maybe he is already outside, Em thought. That would be different. Em chuckled out loud when he thought about a responsible Corby. “Responsibility” was one word you never associated with Corby Cook. Em recalled when they were ten years old. Corby had caught a rabbit, and he wanted to keep it as a pet. He spent an entire day building a pen. He was so proud when he showed it to Em. The rabbit was going to have the finest home a rabbit ever had. He faithfully cared for the rabbit—which he had, of course, named Hoppy—for about two weeks. When Em asked him about it one day, Corby told him he let it go. Em later found out that Corby had let it starve to death inside the pen he had built.
Em picked up his battle pack, slung it over his shoulder, and proceeded to exit the barracks. When he got outside, he was astonished to see Corby already in formation, standing at attention. There were only ten guys outside. Corby was the sharpest-looking one. His boots almost glowed in the early predawn. His fatigues were as if pressed and starched while he was wearing them. He looked like the poster that had enticed them to join the air corps. “Well, I’ll say, Cookie,” Em used Sergeant Cannon’s nickname for Corby, “you sure are looking sharp.”
“Please join ranks and stand at attention,” Corby said this without even looking at Em.
Em felt hurt at first, but as he made his way to his place in formation, he noticed the two sergeants over by the corner of the building. He knew then that Corby was just trying to avoid any confrontations. As soon as they were formed up in ranks, they were marched directly to the chow hall where they were first in line. After a full seven minutes to eat, they were back outside and formed up again. This time, Cannon led them in a new direction. They had not seen very much of their new home, so going in a new direction made Em forget momentarily about mail.
Sergeant Cannon led them at a leisurely pace. Not one of them knew where they were going. What happened next truly surprised everyone in the flight. Cannon angled his stride until he was shoulder to shoulder with Corby. He marched in this way for two or three hundred yards and then abruptly disappeared from Em’s view as he began to march in place. Corby then stepped out of ranks and took the position normally occupied by Cannon. He then began to call cadence in a loud clear voice. Em grinned. He could not explain in completely, but he felt pride. Corby had come a long way in two short weeks. Em thought he even looked taller. Cannon must have told Corby where they were going because Corby bellowed in a voice that Em had never heard. He thundered, “Hut, two, three, four!” over and over again. He led them for about five minutes before he bellowed, “Flight…halt!” Corby stood in front of the flight and directed each column to designated areas that had been marked in orange paint on the ground. He ordered them to remain at attention and wait for further instructions.
Em was in column 4, so he knew he would receive instructions last. They stood at attention for quite a while. Em watched Corby the entire time. Cannon pulled him to the side once again and spoke to him alone. Em noticed the look on Cannon’s face. It was not the same look that Em had learned to tolerate. He spoke to Corby as was speaking to an equal. Could Corby have matured so much that Cannon now thought of him as a leader? Was this some elaborate scheme to humiliate him once more?
Em continued to watch as Corby went to column 1 while Cannon began with column 2. Momentarily, Corby went to column 3. Em saw a few of the guys begin to ask Corby questions. They would not dare speak to Sergeant Cannon that way, Em thought. Corby politely reminded them that they were still at attention. It was amazing to see how fast all heads snapped to the position of attention. Corby was not interrupted again.
“All right, you maggots, your turn!” Cannon had arrived in front of them. Not having seen him coming, several heads snapped to the left awfully quick. “What the devil are you looking at, son? Nobody told you to gawk around like some kind of turtle! Atten-hut!”
How had this happened? Em stared straight ahead. Cannon kept screaming, but he did not seem to be saying anything. Em didn’t really hear him anymore. He was staring straight ahead. The only thing in his field of vision was Corby. He stood in front of column 1 and stared straight back at Em. They stood this way, without moving an eyeball the entire time that Cannon lost his temper. Em could not quite understand what was going on. Somehow, his quiet existence here at Camp Cannon had turned into something resembling his worst nightmare. He refused to think that it was even possible for Corby to be where he was right now and himself to be the new target. It just could not be happening.
He continued to stare at Corby as he heard Cannon scream something about his sister being his mother. Corby didn’t even crack a smile. He heard other snickers from several different places. Usually, this enraged Cannon. This time was no exception. Only this time, he turned all the anger toward Em.
“What in the world is your name anyhow, son?” Cannon was staring directly into Em’s eyes. Em thought that his luck had indeed officially run out. He had managed to stay anonymous for over two weeks. He had begun to think this training was going to be as easy as riding a bike.
“Story, Emory, sir,” Em replied back almost automatically. He had also begun to think of himself as Story, Emory, 2876.
Cannon began to lose the redness in his forehead. Em knew by now that this meant he was calming down. He had seen him throw so many tantrums that had been aimed at Corby that he was beginning to notice the subtle changes in voice that accompanied the normal color returning to his skin. Now that the tantrum was over, Cannon decided that he was
