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"
Do
n't
call
me
'
sir
.
'
I
call
you
'
sir
.
'
But
you
wo
n't
like
it
.
"
I
am
not
going
to
describe
Officer
Candidates
School
.
It
's
like
Basic
,
but
squared
and
cubed
with
books
added
.
In
the
mornings
we
behaved
like
privates
,
doing
the
same
old
things
we
had
done
in
Basic
and
in
combat
and
being
chewed
out
for
the
way
we
did
them
--
by
sergeants
.
In
the
afternoons
we
were
cadets
and
"
gentlemen
,
"
and
recited
on
and
were
lectured
concerning
an
endless
list
of
subjects
:
math
,
science
,
galactography
,
xenology
,
hypnopedia
,
logistics
,
strategy
and
tactics
,
communications
,
military
law
,
terrain
reading
,
special
weapons
,
psychology
of
leadership
,
anything
from
the
care
and
feeding
of
privates
to
why
Xerxes
lost
the
big
one
.
Most
especially
how
to
be
a
one-man
catastrophe
yourself
while
keeping
track
of
fifty
other
men
,
nursing
them
,
loving
them
,
leading
them
,
saving
them
--
but
never
babying
them
.
We
had
beds
,
which
we
used
all
too
little
;
we
had
rooms
and
showers
and
inside
plumbing
;
and
each
four
candidates
had
a
civilian
servant
,
to
make
our
beds
and
clean
our
rooms
and
shine
our
shoes
and
lay
out
our
uniforms
and
run
errands
.
This
service
was
not
intended
as
a
luxury
and
was
not
;
its
purpose
was
to
give
the
student
more
time
to
accomplish
the
plainly
impossible
by
relieving
him
of
things
any
graduate
of
Basic
can
already
do
perfectly
.
Six
days
shalt
thou
work
and
do
all
thou
art
able
,
The
seventh
the
same
and
pound
on
the
cable
.
Or
the
Army
version
ends
:
--
and
clean
out
the
stable
,
which
shows
you
how
many
centuries
this
sort
of
thing
has
been
going
on
.
I
wish
I
could
catch
just
one
of
those
civilians
who
think
we
loaf
and
put
them
through
one
month
of
O.
C.
S.
In
the
evenings
and
all
day
Sundays
we
studied
until
our
eyes
burned
and
our
ears
ached
--
then
slept
(
if
we
slept
)
with
a
hypnopedic
speaker
droning
away
under
the
pillow
.
Our
marching
songs
were
appropriately
downbeat
:
"
No
Army
for
mine
,
no
Army
for
mine
!
I
'd
rather
be
behind
the
plow
any
old
time
!
"
and
"
Do
n't
wanta
study
war
no
more
,
"
and
"
Do
n't
make
my
boy
a
soldier
,
the
weeping
mother
cried
,
"
and
--
favorite
of
all
--
the
old
classic
"
Gentlemen
Rankers
"
with
its
chorus
about
the
Little
Lost
Sheep
:
"
--
God
ha
'
pity
on
such
as
we
.
Baa
!
Yah
!
Bah
!
"
Yet
somehow
I
do
n't
remember
being
unhappy
.
Too
busy
,
I
guess
.
There
was
never
that
psychological
"
hump
"
to
get
over
,
the
one
everybody
hits
in
Basic
;
there
was
simply
the
ever-present
fear
of
flunking
out
.
My
poor
preparation
in
math
bothered
me
especially
.
My
roommate
,
a
colonial
from
Hesperus
with
the
oddly
appropriate
name
of
"
Angel
,
"
sat
up
night
after
night
,
tutoring
me
.
Most
of
the
instructors
,
especially
the
officers
,
were
disabled
.
The
only
ones
I
can
remember
who
had
a
full
complement
of
arms
,
legs
,
eyesight
,
hearing
,
etc.
,
were
some
of
the
non-commissioned
combat
instructors
--
and
not
all
of
those
.
Our
coach
in
dirty
fighting
sat
in
a
powered
chair
,
wearing
a
plastic
collar
,
and
was
completely
paralyzed
from
the
neck
down
.
But
his
tongue
was
n't
paralyzed
,
his
eye
was
photographic
,
and
the
savage
way
in
which
he
could
analyze
and
criticize
what
he
had
seen
made
up
for
his
minor
impediment
.
At
first
I
wondered
why
these
obvious
candidates
for
physical
retirement
and
full-pay
pension
did
n't
take
it
and
go
home
.
Then
I
quit
wondering
.
