Highest Duty_ My Search for What Really Matters - Chesley B. Sullenberger [37]
“Sir, you win,” I said. He saw my lips turn into the hint of a grin, and even though doolies weren’t allowed to smile while in formation, he cut me some slack by not calling me on it.
There were plenty of other times I had to stifle my smile.
While marching in basic training, we were required to take turns counting off in cadence: “Left, left…left, right, left…”
Early on in my life, I noticed that accomplished people on TV, especially newscasters such as NBC veterans Chet Huntley and David Brinkley, enunciated perfectly and seemed to have no real accents. I tried to sound more like them, and less like some of the people in my town, who had thick Texas accents. So when it was my job to count off in cadence, I don’t think the other cadets could hear Texas in my voice.
But there was one fellow doolie, Dave, who came from West Texas—and you knew it every time he opened his mouth. Whenever he led us, he would count off in cadence: “Lay-uff, lay-uff…lay-uff, raah-yut, lay-uff…”
I’d chuckle inside, but my face remained expressionless as we marched around. “Lay-uff, lay-uff…lay-uff, raah-yut, lay-uff…”
We were truly a melting pot at the academy, and sometimes it felt like the clichéd casting in a World War II movie. We had the guy with a Polish name from Chicago, the Texan, the Jewish kid from one of the boroughs in New York, a guy from Portland, Oregon.
It’s funny, the things you remember.
When my daughter Kate entered high school in the fall of 2007, Lorrie and I went to back-to-school night, and her math teacher looked familiar to me. As he spoke, it hit me: He was two years ahead of me at the Air Force Academy. He had been one of the upperclassmen asking me mealtime questions my freshman year. So after his presentation, I walked up to him and said: “Fast, neat, average, friendly, good, good.” He looked at my face and he had a flash of recognition, too. He knew exactly what I was saying.
At the conclusion of every meal, freshmen at the end of each table had the additional duty of filling out Air Force Academy Form 0–96—the critique of the meal. It was another useless ritual. By tradition, we always filled out the form the same way. How was the service? “Fast.” What was the appearance of the waiter? “Neat.” How was the portion size? “Average.” What was the attitude of dining-room personnel? “Friendly.” How was the beverage? “Good.” And the meal? “Good.”
Kate’s math teacher and I shook hands and smiled, two older men recalling the rhythmic, long-ago language of our youth.
IN MAY of 1970, near the end of the freshman academic year, the hazing stopped, and we had what was called “The Recognition Ceremony,” formally acknowledging our new status as upperclassmen. That was the day we no longer had to address the older cadets as “sir.” We could eat in relative peace. Eventually, when it was my turn to quiz freshmen during meals, I asked questions about flying, as opposed to barking out demands for mindless memorization. I was more comfortable making it educational for the younger guys.
Despite all the regimentation, there was also a sense that your superiors and professors tacitly condoned unauthorized schemes that showed spirit or initiative. Every year, tradition dictated that the freshman class had to assert itself in some way, to prove itself worthy by coming up with antics that equaled or surpassed the stunts tried by previous freshman classes.
Our class seized on the idea of redecorating the outside of the planetarium, where cadets gathered to study astronomy. The large domed building was white like an igloo, but one day well after taps, my classmates sneaked out in the dark of night and covered the building in black plastic, sticking a number eight on the center of the dome. When the entire academy gathered for the march to breakfast, it looked like a huge eight ball. I wasn’t involved in the stunt, but I felt a nice charge that day. That and a few other