A Matter of Destiny: A Story of Conflict in Love and War

By Gene Baldwin

This is the story of a man who falls in love three weeks before leaving for flight training, tells of the different backgrounds of two people, the struggles of separation, and the Korean War · all of which seem insurmountable odds for this young couple. Written fresh and vibrant by a man whose been there, this novel puts you right in the cockpit right in the rice paddy, right in the lovers arms. Not only is this a love story but it is a study in human behavior, revealing the conflict between a mother and a son, a tumultuous new relationship, and the realism of a fighter pilot’s war. These are the forces that ultimately affect the destiny of two people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664183964

Gene Baldwin

A Montevallo, Alabama native, Gene Baldwin graduated from Mississippi State University and the University of Alabama. As an Air Force fighter pilot, he flew combat missions during the Korean War and in Viet-Nam. Now retired, he lives in Athens, Georgia with his wife Martha and his German Shepherd Nikko.

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Copyright © 2021 by Gene Baldwin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/14/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

The real test of a man is not how well he plays the role he has invented for himself, but how well he plays the role that destiny assigned him.

Jan Patocka (1907-1977) Czech philosopher

This book is dedicated to Pilot Training Class 52-A and to all fighter pilots who, everyday, push the envelope in meeting the challenges of their aircraft and mission. It’s their camaraderie I tried to capture in this book.

CHAPTER ONE

T HE LOUDEST WHISTLE Brian ever heard, pierced the air six feet from his head, shattering his turbid dreamlike state. Okay, you Gooney Birds, off your butts and hit the deck runnin’. You’ve got ten minutes to impact with the asphalt in front of this building.

Brian rolled over, amid coughing, yawning, mumbling, and vocal sounds of muscles being stretched into action. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to get his bearings, and focus on a figure at the side of his bed. He could only see two legs and a belt. Easing his head out from under the upper bunk, slowly the body emerged into a tall Sergeant, standing there, his hands on his hips, a Boy Scout type hat centered one inch above his eyebrows. His eyes were penetrating, glancing side-to-side, scanning the room. The eyes stopped their search pattern and centered on the fellow in the bunk above Brian, who had made no effort to change his prone position. What’re you waiting for, Mister, a personal invitation?

Groggily, a reddish face rose from the top bunk, looking at the face in the funny hat. You must not have had a very good night, Sergeant. You seem a little cross this morning. He peered at him, almost eye-level from the upper bunk, a sheepish grin extended across his face.

Let me tell you something right now, Mister. The Sergeant moved to within three inches of Joe’s face. You aren’t funny and this program’s no place for a goddamn comedian. Get your act together quick or you’ll be on the next bus outta’ here. You read me loud and clear?

Yeah! The voice in the upper bunk responded with only slightly more humility than before.

Yes Sir, Sergeant. Not ‘yeah’. You ... He abruptly halted the remark, shaking his head as he spun in place and moved toward the door.

A large red glob of hair, with a face attached, suddenly leaned over the edge of the top bunk. Hi there, I’m Joe Tanner. Welcome to Dog Patch Airport.

Brian Brannon. He was startled by the encroachment while he was contemplating his new environment. You don’t sound too happy with this place, he responded, as he swiftly assessed the owner of the booming voice, who had now dropped down and was standing beside him. Joe Tanner was a commanding presence; standing six feet four, square -shouldered, topped with flaming red hair that hung loosely over a forehead dotted with more than a few indistinct freckles. His probing green eyes were mesmerizing.

A ready smile quickly disarmed any thoughts Brian had regarding the impertinent intrusion. I’ve been here about ten hours and I’m already wondering what the hell I’ve done to myself. Joe was overemphasizing his disgust in his inflection. Where’re you from?

Ruston, Alabama. How ‘bout you?

As Joe explained details about beginning life somewhere in Sumpter, South Carolina, and a brief family history, Brian half listened as his thoughts skipped away to Ruston.

Ruston, Alabama was typical of most small towns, composed of two drug stores, three grocery stores, one bank, one theater, and three traffic lights. There were few diversions in a town of 2,230 people, where folks preferred front porch rocking to the more cosmopolitan goings-on in nearby Birmingham. There was nothing geographically to distinguish Ruston from any other small town. Its most distinctive characteristic was in its eclectic inhabitants and their imaginative array of personalities. A harmonic blending of unusual backgrounds and ideologies turned potential discord into a pleasing melody. Some of the more eccentric, found on the faculty of Agnes-Baines State College for Women, provided the counterbalance to the ordinary. The subtle merging of these complex personalities, surprisingly, afforded a bonding and cohesive loyalty to each other and their town. It was this viscose blending of its inhabitants that provided Ruston its unique quality. It was comfortable growing up in a town where he always felt in control of his environment. It was home.

Alabama, huh? Another good ‘ole Southern boy. Just talked with some ‘I know everything type’ from New Jersey. He laughed so hard the shock of red hair in front danced on his forehead. That Yankee know-it-all was just as overcome with a terminal case of the gloomies as me. That made me feel a whole lot better. He chuckled at the thought.

Things’ll settle today when we process. Maybe everything’ll fall in place. Brian emphasized by rolling up on one elbow and looking straight at Joe.

I’d be damn happy if you’re right, but I doubt it. My basic gut feelings don’t usually lie to me. In fact, this is the same bad feeling I got the day I walked through those big ‘ole castle gates at the Citadel. Brian raised straight up.

If you went to Citadel, this’ll seem like the Boy Scouts.

Joe broke out in another big laugh. "I went to the Citadel, but I didn’t stay there. One semester was a damn grateful plenty of that military crap. I transferred to The University of South Carolina, and never ventured closer than three blocks to the ROTC building ‘till graduation."

Well, Brian tried to choose his words carefully, I reckon’ you’re about to come across a lot of military crap startin’ right about now.

Damn if you don’t have a marvelous grasp of the obvious. Exactly why I’m concerned. Joe shook his head. If I hadn’t been stupid, I’d have taken ROTC and be sacked out over in the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters instead of in this place that has all ambience of a cow barn. He waved his arm around at the raw, sterile surroundings of the barracks.

Another good rendition of hindsight. Brian terminated the conversation by rolling out of his bunk, standing beside Joe Tanner. Better get with it – we’ve just got eight more minutes according to the Sergeant.

The Sergeant stood at parade rest, rigid as a statue, waiting for the new group of sixty Aviation Cadets to line up in front of the barracks as best that they could. The group wasn’t a very military looking array of humanity. Most were still in civilian clothes, of every different type, and modicum of style. They stood there nervously waiting for the next instructions from the Sergeant. One or two straggled out late to the formation and Joe, of course, brought up the rear.

The Sergeant snapped to attention, his boots making a large thud as the heels hit together. He plodded back and forth in front of the cadets, his eyes taking in each face. Listen up, Gooney Birds, I’m Staff Sergeant Hacker. I’ll be one of your drill instructors during pre-flight, and if you’re wondering, yes, this will probably be the worst three weeks of your life. I’m going to attempt to make you look like a Cadet in the United States Air Force, and by looking at this ungodly group of humanity, that might be a little too ambitious, even for me. He paused to let the statement soak in. This morning, you’re gonna’ march -- and believe me, I use that term loosely -- to chow. Later, you gooney birds will draw your uniforms, get a checkup physical, get your immunizations, put on those beautiful fatigues you’ll be issued, and then we will go to the Base Theater to get a welcome from the Base C.O. Any questions? Two hands shot up. Good, I didn’t think you had any.

By 1030 hours, everyone had survived the intense physical, eight shots, and was dressed in very new-looking, olive drab, fatigue uniforms. Aviation Cadet Class 51-G marched, or something closely akin to marching, to the Base Theater. It was only a slightly more military looking formation than the previous one, the main difference being they were now dressed alike and moving in the same general direction. They filed into the theater, taking their seats quickly.

"Ten hut," boomed Sergeant Hacker, and all rose from their seats.

Brian eased his head and eyes slightly to the left to see the processional of officers that were walking briskly down the isle.

Straight ahead, Mister! The words blared into his left ear as a blurred vision of the Sergeant moved into Brian’s peripheral view. He quickly snapped his head forward.

Take your seats, gentlemen. As the sound of shuffling into their seats subsided, he continued. "I’m Colonel Zwiecker, Commanding Officer of the thirty-five, fifty-fifth Flying Training Wing. This is Lieutenant Colonel Flynn, who is the Tactical Officer in charge of Class fifty-one-G. The other officers here on the stage with me, you’ll get to know, in a very personal way, very soon. I want to welcome you to Perrin Air Force base and the United States Air Force. You are about to embark upon an adventure that you’ll remember the rest of your lives. Our job is to make you officers and pilots in the finest military service on earth. During Basic flight training, you’ll be tested in every conceivable way as you begin to accomplish that goal. You’ll complete basic flight training knowing that you’ve taken the first step in becoming one of the few who are privileged to wear the silver wings of an Air Force pilot. You’ll join an elite fraternity of those who have been right where you are today, men who met the demands, the challenges, and self-discipline to become pilots in The United States Air Force.

Some of you will go on to multi-engine training, and some will be chosen to fly fighters in advanced training. In either case, you’ll leave here fully prepared to enter that phase of the flight program. Look to either side of you. The cadet sitting on your left or right probably won’t complete basic flight training, and some of you’ll request elimination. A request for elimination will, in no way, be held against you. This program demands every ounce of you emotionally, mentally and physically. You’ll be called upon to reach deep into your resolve for the very best you have to give. Sometimes more than you have to give. Some of you will not be able to adjust to these demands. Unfortunately, statistics tell us that approximately fifty percent of you won’t complete this program. Those who do will feel a sense of pride and accomplishment unlike any other feelings in your life. Good luck to each of you!"

"Ten- hut!"

The officers filed out in the same order that they entered. A sense of doubt overwhelmed Brian for a split second, then slowly he felt a resolve take over his thought process. Colonel Zwiecker’s speech instilled in him the idea that nothing; nothing was going to stop him from completing the program. At that instant, a visceral feeling of obstinate determination seized his entire being, replacing the apprehension that plagued him from yesterday. He had to make it.

He remembered his mother’s opposition to his entering the Air Force’s flight program. He could hear the subtle, but cutting, voice that offered her reasons for him not to apply. She skillfully created just the right space in her arguments for Brian to work in a solid case of guilt. He hated the feeling. Their conversations on the subject had been quite contentious and he never could make his views clear. He remembered the cross-examination waiting for him at breakfast each morning, complete with well-placed innuendo of indictments.

Brian pulled himself up to a plate of eggs and bacon, sharing space on the plate with a generous helping of grits. His mother pulled up a chair opposite him, positioning herself directly in front of his view. You haven’t told me how things went at Maxwell Field she said softly. When you came in last night, I was asleep and now this morning you’ve completely avoided the subject. Tell me all about it.

He looked up from breakfast. I guess it went pretty well, but who knows? He wiped his mouth with the napkin, pacing himself. There’re too many ways not to get accepted. They accept so few, just one out of four, you never really know until you get the results.

Obviously, you still hope it went well. She fingered her coffee cup handle as she carefully phrased her thoughts. "We’ve been over this subject and agreed to let it drop, but I need to mention one other point because it’s important to me..."

Please! I’ve heard it all. Brian interrupted. Let’s not get into the subject of me going back to Auburn again. His stomach churned. By now, I reckon I know all your reasons. I know how strongly you feel about me flying, how disappointed you are that I’m doing this. There was an abrupt gap in the conversation. He looked down, staring at his unfinished breakfast. Besides, if I’m not accepted, this conversation’s taking place for no reason.

I admit it’s been hard for me to understand. She picked up her plate. But I won’t say another word. She shoved her chair back and walked to the sink. She stood there, arms braced on the edge of the counter top, her head lowered, looking down blankly at the dishes piled there.

He wanted to say something. The words almost came but he yanked them back. He couldn’t breach the lack of closeness built up through the years. It was too late.

Following her divorce from Brian’s father, the depression and shortage of teacher jobs forced his mother to take a teaching position in another town. He was left with his grandparents at the age of five. She and Brian were both satisfied with this living arrangement. That decision, which he had no part in, was the best thing that happened in his life.

The stabilizing influence on his early life had clearly been his grandmother. She stood between him and those forces he perceived as harsh or unfair. The balance between his grandfather’s discipline and the gentleness of his grandmother were the security he came to regard as his sanctuary. He loved his grandmother’s patience and sensitiveness. He knew, beyond a doubt, she was the best woman God ever created. The death of his grandfather was a solemn loss, but the death of Molly Cartwright DeShaso surpassed any trauma he had ever felt. His mother returned to Ruston, to take a teaching position she loathed, in a town she thought she had escaped. Now, it was just the two of them in the large house that, at one time, seemed so full of people and life. They struggled to correlate their relationship, thrust upon them with so little preparation.

He remembered clearly the day he got the letter from the Air Force. He stood there in the Post Office and eased the words into view a little at a time, pacing himself in the reading. His heartbeat increased as he scanned past the salutation, getting to the critical paragraph on the first page:

...This is to inform you of your acceptance to the United States Air Force Aviation Cadet Program, Class 51G. You will report to the Aviation Training Detachment Perrin AFB, Texas not later than midnight, 22 Oct. 1950. . . .

He felt the blood pulsate in his temples. The chances had been one in four, and he’d made it.

The day came for him to leave. Brian and his mother were having their usual breakfast discussion he had come to dread. He sat, looking at his plate, wondering if the morning inquest would be served shortly. He didn’t have to wait long for the next course to be served with his fresh toast.

Brian, tell me what happens if you don’t complete the flight training. Do you have to stay in the Air Force? She asked. It seems you’re taking quite a gamble on your future.

He dropped the fork into his plate, both hands raised in surrender. Is this the only subject we can discuss at breakfast these days? I’ll tell you right now. I don’t want to hear any more about the Air Force, school --. He didn’t finish the sentence. His body tensed.

She straightened in her chair. Tell me something. Why can’t we talk anymore? I’ve always wondered why we’ve never been able to communicate like most mothers and sons do. There’s a barrier between us we just can’t seem to cross. She made eye contact, as he looked up. I’ve always had a feeling you blamed me for getting a divorce? She looked penetratingly, her eyes narrowed as she continued. You’ve built this idealistic picture of your father over the years. She leaned forward, pushing the cup and saucer aside. There’re so many things you don’t know.

Brian straightened, his face burning with the rush of blood. His mouth became dry as he swallowed back the words that almost flew out.

She recognized the change in his expression. Do you think I’m somehow responsible for your father’s death? Is that the ghost that’s between us? Brian made no reply. She stood silently looking at him for a response. He slid his chair back and walked quickly toward the door. My God. she exclaimed

Later that night, Brian put the last few items in an overnight bag. The last was a small picture of his father he kept on the dresser. He slept fitfully through the night. Thoughts were churning in his brain in a montage of scenes, past, present, and future. Dawn took its time arriving. He dressed quickly and zipped the bag shut. He took one last look around his room, grabbed the small bag, and walked down the long hall. Dropping the car keys on the oak hat rack in the long entry, he hugged his mother goodbye. She started to say something but stopped short of expressing her feelings. There was an unspoken reconciliation of the inevitable.

Brian walked through the stained glass and oak door, stopped at the bottom of the steps, and glanced back for one last look at the white frame house. It had been his home as long as he could remember, but he was seeing features he’d never noticed before. He looked up at the high gables, then the long porch with the swing, and the shutters that needed painting, framing each window. The old house, passed down to his mother from her father, took on a different look this October morning. Its stately warmth held him fast to the spot, imposing its grip on his past, and showing him the security that was his youth. He knew his life was about to take a different direction. His boyhood had just ended.

Movement toward the theater exits by sixty cadets snapped his attention back to Perrin Air Force Base. The rest of the day disappeared in a haze of running, pushup, and instructions on everything from rolling socks to making square corners on a bed. Sixty totally spent cadets were finally dismissed. Even though exhausted, Brian took time to scribble a note to Anne on one of the several post cards he’d bought on the trip to Texas. He wrote a few innocuous words, jotted his address at the bottom of the card, and said he’d write later. He wrote a quick note to his mother, then scribbled a humorous note to Tyler on another card, and placed them beside his bunk for mailing.

It seemed the filament in the lights had just dimmed to black when Sergeant Hacker’s whistle was an obscene invasion into the realm of dream-like sleep. Brian woke suddenly and swung out of bed, grabbing at his fatigue uniform, carefully positioned the previous night to save time. A buzz of activity took place in every direction as the thirty cadets on the first floor were obtaining their bearings, trying to organize their efforts to shave, dress in their fatigue uniforms, make their bunks, and be outside in formation in all of ten minutes. Brian shaved hurriedly and combed at his brown hair that had vanished into a flattop. He moved his face up and down, gawking at the image looking back. He wished he looked older. The newly acquired crew cut gave him a boyish look he didn’t like.

There’s no way in hell that I’m ever gonna’ get used to this kind of crap at oh-dark-thirty, blared Joe, standing at the next lavatory.

I’d suggest you stop wasting time moanin’. You’d better get your butt moving.

"I am moving. Joe laughed. You just can’t tell it yet."

The day began with breakfast, then P.T. followed by a three-mile run, and capped with some classes on military custom and courtesies, and various other military topics. Brian spent most of the evening polishing brass until he removed all the lacquer down to base metal, allowing the brass to take on a high luster shine. Shoes required several hours of effort to put on a base shine so that the spit shine, meticulously done with small concentric circles of water and polish, would be virtually as smooth as glass. He was exhausted enough that sleep was instantaneous.

The days passed rapidly during pre-flight due to the closely scheduled events. Letters from home were blessed respites from the rigors of training. Letters from his mother kept him informed of all the happenings in Ruston, and her latest reports from Dr. Goldstein. She left out no details of her latest bout with bronchitis, which according to her was almost pneumonia. Brian clutched the blue envelope he had read three times, rolled back on his bunk and thought back on his last three weeks in Ruston

Those last three weeks in Ruston with the kaleidoscopic Anne had given little enough time to know each other. In spite of the urgency, at the end of those rapidly moving three weeks they were still fumbling through the camouflage that goes with getting to understand a person. They delved deep in the short relationship to get down under those personality facades that give way only to trust.

Brian found contentment in remembering the first time he had seen Anne. He wrapped the feelings around him until he was sitting there in The Grill, with his best friend Tyler Dugan, watching people come and go.

Tyler Dugan and Brian had been inseparable since their first day in Mrs. Hood’s kindergarten class. Their mercurial personalities blended with nonchalant loyalty. Tyler was easygoing, liked by everyone, and completely at ease with anyone. He was the catalyst that fused a group together for any venture. His voice wasn’t animated with infective enthusiasm. It was deliberate, impassive, sounding about one octave lower than his slim frame denoted. He always assumed his role of informal leader modestly. Whatever Tyler decided to do, or wherever he decided to go, others automatically followed without the slightest encouragement from him.

Suddenly, the door opened. With no warning, he was staring at a radiance he’d never seen before. His eyes darted to the other girls standing beside her, hoping he knew them. One was vaguely familiar, but the name, the name was not attached to his memory. Every part of him was snatched back to the girl in the middle and Brian couldn’t avert his stare.

Her chiseled features had a certain softness, accentuated by her smile. Shoulder-length dark brown hair was parted on the right side pulled back to the left, and held loosely with a barrette so it framed her face. With each movement of her head there was a discernable glow as the light reflected from her mahogany eyes.

Risking a glance at the rest of her, he locked onto the way she filled out the blouse and skirt in just the right places. He took in a deep breath and deliberately absorbed the entire picture of her. His feelings rose like the inevitable toss of the tide that shoved him toward her. There was no choice, knew he had to meet her. He moved quickly to the girl he thought he knew. Hi. I’m Brian Brannon, uh...I think we met at a party at Auburn last year.

Her questioning look indicated she didn’t remember, yet didn’t want to state it too bluntly. I’m a little fuzzy...I guess we did. She said. Was it at the K A house?

Nope. It was at the Delta Tau Delta house.

Sure. I should have remembered. I’m Carol, this is... He completely tuned out the voice, staring at the brunette, waiting impatiently to hear her name. ...and this is my cousin Anne Merrill. The words rang in his head as he mentally repeated it. Anne. Anne Merrill.

The next afternoon he slowly dialed the number for Main Dormitory as his fingers deliberately found each hole. He leaned back and waited to hear her voice on the other end. Hello.

Hi, this is Brian Brannon. We met last night at the Grill – remember – with your cousin Carol?

Sure. You knew each other.

Well we met briefly at Auburn. We really didn’t get to know each other. He cleared his throat. I wondered if you’d like to go have a burger and take in a movie tonight?

I can’t. She protested. I’m going with someone from back home in Collinwood and I don’t think it would be such a good idea."

That’s okay. Maybe we’ll see each other again – accidentally.

Two days later, he hesitated, mentally arguing with himself, but knowing he really had no choice. He called again. The only encouragement this time was the length of conversation following that first unsuccessful encounter. They talked for several minutes, getting past the coldness he felt the first time. He seemed to break through the friendly but distant rationale that she was going with someone, only to be told no yet again.

When a girl said no, even once, Brian usually shrugged it off and forgot about it. But that radiance, burned indelibly in his memory of her face kept encouraging him to make that next call. He couldn’t understand the constant awareness he had about this girl he’d seen only once. She leaped into his thoughts when least expected. He found her there in his head, a vision he couldn’t shake. He was powerless to obliterate the image and yet had no desire to erase the pleasure of seeing her in his every waking thought. After three phone calls he made himself realize his efforts to get a date with Anne Merrill were not going to pay off. He reluctantly admitted defeat.

Hey. Joe was shaking him, Hey, put those letters away and get your butt up. You’ve got to get ready for inspection, and you’re laying there daydreaming about Alabama or something worse – naw, there’s nothing worse than that.

Bite me. Brian stated as he rolled out of the bunk. He quickly placed the letters in his footlocker and took out the shoe polish. He picked up one shoe and began making small concentric circles with the cloth. He continued dipping the cloth into the polish and making circles until the shoe took on a high luster. He reached down for the other shoe.

The makeup of Aviation Cadet Class 51-G was a complete cross-section of America. This blend of Americanism, merged into a common purpose, placed little emphasis on cultural differences. They were bonded together to outwit the system, Sergeant Hacker and the other TAC NCOs. Each of them was fighting to survive the rigors of pre-flight. Four cadets left the program by the end of the second week, unable or unwilling to adapt to the demands placed on their mind and body. Pre-flight tested their mental and physical being to the limits of endurance. It became the catalyst that bound the survivors together.

Joe’s acidic wit played well off of Brian’s tenaciousness. A clique began to emerge of those who grasped the intricacies of the training and felt superior in the way they achieved the myriad of requirements. Scott Jeter, from Thomasville, Georgia, was exceedingly lank, narrow shoulders, long arms and legs. His hands dangled loosely at his sides. He had a well-honed sense of humor that offset the occasional cynicism of Joe Tanner. Scott inadvertently became the third member of this informal group when he and Joe were comparing notes on Sherman’s March to the Sea. Scott was Southern from his slow drawl to his favorite expression: That’s worse than a suck-face mule. He graduated from the University of Georgia and completed one year of law school. Scott told the story with animation about being expected to join the rather stifling family law firm, in Thomasville, after graduation. The frustration of his announcing he was leaving for the Aviation Cadet program, by Scott’s account, left his father with his greatest disappointment in life.

I was bound to disappoint my father sooner or later, so I figured I may as well get it over with.

Then there was Ellis Siegal, who was always around. Anytime there was a gathering of the other three, he appeared as if by magic, becoming a member of the group by default. Quickly, and rather naturally, he took on his nickname of Bugsy. His Ohio accent was strenuous on the ears of Southerners and it took a fair amount of time to decode some of his thoughts. Bugsy didn’t exude confidence. He was downright cocky. His five-eight frame pushed the lower limits of the physical qualifications for pilot training. The walking, breathing evidence of the short man syndrome, Bugsy would draw himself up to his full height when engaged in conversation. An additional half-inch seemed added by his tenacious personality. Bugsy possessed a keen sense of his environment, very adept at knowing when to mute his cockiness, especially in the presence of Sergeant Hacker or the other Tactical Non-Commissioned Officers. The others knew his outward humility was only an adept display for his tormentors. It was a game he played masterfully.

The group was rounded out by Boyce Hollinger, the epitome of an Ivy Leaguer, and obviously well versed in all phases of proper etiquette and charm that comes from an old money background. His chiseled features and incomparable grooming made him stand out among the other cadets. Boyce reported to the base wearing a camel hair top coat, grey pin-striped suit, silk tie, and black wingtip shoes. When they lined up the first morning to draw their uniforms, he stood out extremely well in the formation. Sergeant Hacker walked back and forth, slowly contemplating the figure in front of him, as if forming words to go with his thoughts. Finally, shaking his head without comment, he moved on down the line. Boyce was the most likeable, easy-going of the group. He rolled with the punches, radiating undeviating optimism as the others groused constantly about assaults on their dignity. He was the placating