Two and half months earlier.
Virginia Nebraska
WESTPOINT
…It was another day of freaking exercises at the USMA West-point. For the last seventeen days the other 19 selected recruits and I had done nothing but endured an endless onslaught of training exercises. Running, water exercises shooting-drills, endurance tests, combat drills and even written examinations on military doctrine and tactics.
At this point, like the other ‘invited’ recruits, I began to wonder if the invitations we received to ‘try out’ for a new elite division of the armed forces were a hoax. After-all I was thirty-two and been a Ranger for eight years before I transferred to the Marine Corps. I had “washed out” of SEAL training three times. The second time, I did so, with a broken leg and three cracked ribs. I was no stranger to training. Or failure. But even I wondered if there was a purpose to all this.
Our ‘hosts’ always looked on, taking notes. Today after ‘fast-roping’ from an old AH 60 Black-Hawk helicopter, we ran five miles in just under thirty-five minutes to a weapons range. Where a series of stationery and moving targets along with a selection of small arms and assault rifles waited for us. Four hours later we returned, after a ten mile run, to our temporary barracks for interviews. Since our arrival at West-point our ‘hosts’, as we called them, had never interacted with us. Until now.
“…file here says your call-sign is: ‘Rabbit.’ Are you gay or something? What’s that about?” asked the pretty-one. As much as I and the other candidates, sitting out in the waiting-room could figure out - her name was Dowling.
It was already late afternoon and all the other candidates had completed their interviews and just like in our little marathons across the country-side I was last.
The other man who sat to her left was also dressed in brown combat fatigues. He was older. His head was clean-shaven and he had a thick salt and pepper beard. Though he never seemed to speak he was the man in charge. He just sat there with his arms folded staring at me.
“It shouldn’t matter if I was. But as you probably know, Ma’am,” I began, “I failed SEAL training three times, three years in row. When I returned to my unit my C.O. said that I had the shittiest luck he’d ever seen one man have and that I didn’t need a lucky rabbit’s foot I needed the whole god-damned rabbit.”
She grinned. I liked that. I thought that I might actually have a chance. Word among the candidates was that out of the twenty of us they only wanted one.
“He might be right,” she said. Her brow furrowed as she flipped through the pages of my ‘file’. “It says here that you were part of a convoy that was attacked by insurgents in Afghanistan. According to the report while you were in pursuit of an enemy ‘technical’ and I.E.D. took out the lead Cougar transport and two Hum-vees killing all your superior officers. Word is you assumed command, despite severe injuries. The report goes on to credit your actions for saving the life of two of your fellow soldiers that day. ”
I blushed inadvertently. I figured that was “strike one.”
“While you were commended for your behavior,” She continued stone-faced. “Some might consider your actions reckless and foolish and not heroic. The fact of the matter is that you acted without thinking and acted contrary to your unit’s search and destroy orders.”
I winced visibly at the reprimand.
She continued her barrage, “You risked the lives of your remaining men attempting to assist wounded soldiers instead of pursuing the insurgents who attacked a convoy under your protection.”
“All the hostiles in the immediate area had been eliminated.” I said trying to keep my cool.
“But your men had not yet secured the surrounding area as per military procedure and you attempted to pull Sergeant Hartford from a burning Hum-vee.” “With all due respect, Ma’am, my mother wouldn’t have approved either but I wasn’t trying to be hero.”
“Your mother? Which one - the librarian who adopted you or the crack-whore who died when you were six years old?”
“Listen, Lady, there was a situation and I acted.” I shot back trying to remain calm and ignore the intentional insult.
The ‘old-man’ huffed in amusement. “Strike two,” I figured. Then he asked,
“You violated military procedure and disobeyed direct orders to save the life of a man who would later die on an operating table?”
“The hostiles were no longer a threat to the convoy,” I replied softly. “In my position, Sir, what would you have done?”
He didn’t answer. He simply sighed, leaned back into his chair and stared at me.
Shattering the tense silence the woman barked at me,
“The only reason that you are here right now is because the soldier, whose life you saved, happens to be the son of an influential senator. But you wouldn’t know anything about that. Now would you?”
I leaned back in resignation. As far as I was concerned this ’interview’ or ’interogation’ or whatever the hell it was- was over
“Why did you enlist, soldier?”
“I wanted to serve my country,” I lied.
“Then perhaps you should have been a waiter,” she said dryly tossing the file onto the desk. “Your file says that you joined shortly after leaving college. More precisely three weeks after your adopted father’s un-timely death. Add to that the fact that two thirds of your monthly salary is always wired back to your ‘mother’ in Ohio without fail,” she leaned back on her chair’s arm-rest and steepled her fingers and stared at me with her cold blue-eyes, “I’d say you were lying.”
I averted my gazed said nothing. She was right. “Strike three.” I suddenly didn’t like her much anymore.
“Needless to say your claims of being able to speak German, French, Spanish, Mandarin, Farsi and four other languages are now highly suspect in my mind. What? you just expect me to believe that you just picked up those languages along the way?”
“Something like that-”
“This Unit doesn’t have room for liars,” she interupted angrily. ”Lieutenant Colton! Get this man out of my sight. We didn’t come here to recruit a translator. We came here to recruit a soldier. And not a border-line average one at that.”
I really didn’t like her now.
The barrel-chested M.P. Colton, who had come with Dowling and the “Old-man” to West-point, entered the room and stood next to me. I had already saluted and was being escorted to the door when just by chance I noticed,
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Hold it!” someone shouted. I turned around. It was the old-man.
“What did you say, son?”
“I said “Congratulations” to the Lieutenant. Sir.”
“Why?”
