Bad Luck Cadet (6 page)

And on it went. I knew this recitation would
probably come out at the worst time and I was doing myself more
harm than good. But saying those words got me up those fucking
hills when I didn’t think I could make it.

Sgt. Dickens was right. He had made my life
hell. But I had survived.

And I only had fifteen more weeks to
go.

Chapter 10 I Have An Egg Head

After my week in hell, courtesy of Sgt.
Dickens, I finally broke down and told my husband everything going
on at the academy. He was sympathetic and gave me a fantastic full
body massage that night. When I told him of my plan for returning
to the Policy Academy on Sunday, he helped implement it and
encouraged me through my tears.

Sgt. Dickens could point out anything he
wanted at Monday morning inspection, but he would never again be
given the chance to complain about my hair touching my collar. I
loved my hair, and so did my husband, but I was determined to
finish what I started. I took my inspiration from Demi Moore and
G.I. Jane and decided that if sacrificing my hair would help; it
was a small price to pay. My resolve only grew stronger with every
snip.

I arrived at the study session Sunday night
with a shaved head.

I just wish I was one of those women that
looked good bald. My head looked like an egg with a
nose.

Monday morning at physical training, I made it
over the six-foot wall for the first time. I was so excited I
forgot to run the twenty-five yards to complete the event. It
didn’t matter, the entire class was cheering and Sgt. Listberg gave
me a huge hug. Everyone said it was because I was ten pounds
lighter without my hair.

Sgt. Dickens never batted an eye at my shaved
head. He only found a piece of hair (not mine) on my back pocket
and gave us ten pushups. I knew I wasn’t out of the woods, but it
was nice just to have some of the pressure off. Unfortunately, my
roommate became the next target.

If we wanted to communicate with our advisors
we had to write a memo. We were given light blue paper, told to
print in all capital letters and not to scratch out or erase
anything. The blue paper showed the erasure lines. Misspelled words
were another no no. When we finished with our memo, it was given to
our squad leader and he in turn gave it to our class leader. Both
would review and correct each memo, giving back any they found had
problems.

Donna decided she was tired of Sgt. Dickens
and squad advisors coming into the classroom and monitoring us when
we needed to be concentrating on school work. If an infraction was
seen during class we were pulled outside on the next break and
given pushups. We all held our breath when one of our superiors
came into the room. Donna was right, it made it hard to
concentrate.

Donna wrote this in a memo to the academy
staff. It was first given to her squad leader and next to our class
leader, it was then turned in. The next morning was the
reprisal.

During morning inspection Donna was asked to
step front and center. She was then asked if she wrote the memo. It
had her name on it but I guess Sgt. Dickens was making a point. Her
squad leader was called up next, and asked if he read the memo, and
if he agreed with Donna’s analysis. He stated he did and yes he
agreed. Cadet Clark, the class leader was called next. He also
stated he agreed.

Sgt. Dickens asked if anyone disagreed with
Cadet Chavez. Not one person stepped forward.

“The entire group of you," said Sgt. Dickens,
"is nothing but a class of fucking babies. I’m embarrassed to be
your Sergeant. I’m embarrassed you think you can be police
officers. Not fair?" his voice screamed, "Not fair? I’ll show you
'not fair!' You will all turn in a ten page memo by tomorrow
morning on what is not fair in life. You will proceed with one
hundred pushups this morning and twenty hill runs after class to
give you a start on your memos. One of us will now be in the
classroom at all times and you will learn what 'fair' is all about.
Cadet Higgins you may lead the class in pushups.”

And so it began. If we stopped or got out of
sync, Sgt. Dickens was in our face. We all struggled through.
During class we weren’t just pulled out during break we were pulled
out during classroom time and told to do more pushups.

The Pushup Club did not exist that
day.

After our classroom torture was finished, we
headed to the hill for our twenty hill runs. Once those were
accomplished, we headed back to our dorms to begin writing our
memos. I didn’t go to bed until 0230. Donna cried for hours. She
felt horrible about the entire class being punished for her memo. I
tried to explain to her that Sgt. Dickens was psyching her out and
she had to pull through.

We turned in our memos before breakfast to our
squad leaders. Some were returned, and cadets spent breakfast
rewriting the page which had mistakes. It helped that we all
remembered our old grade school trick of writing in large print.
The memos were eventually turned into the Sergeant, but our
classroom time continued to be hell that week. I lost count of the
number of pushups we did.

Wednesday, according to our calendar, was
expandable baton training and we were told to bring them to morning
physical training. There was no inspection and we spent the day
learning the ins and outs of controlling someone with a
baton.

My biggest fear was having my baton taken away
and getting beaten with it. But we learned techniques for keeping
the bad guy from accomplishing this. I also learned why we did so
many pushups. I could barely hold the baton by the end of the day
and I’m sure I couldn’t have just three weeks before. Having
completed baton training, we were given permission to carry our
batons on our duty belts.

Donna was talking about not returning after
the weekend. I made her promise she would come back, but I had my
doubts. Sgt. Dickens was singling her out during inspection and she
could do nothing right. The psychological abuse was terrible but
for some reason I think my age played a huge factor in it not
affecting me as much as the younger cadets.

It was the physical requirements that were
overtaking me. My body was breaking down. My back was killing me,
my joints were unbearably painful and my muscles cramped
continually. My age had caught up with me.

Friday finally came and we left for the
weekend.

I called Donna several times and she said she
would return. I wouldn’t believe it until I actually saw her Sunday
night at the study session.

Chapter 11 The Red Shirts bring
Pain

I managed a quick trip to my chiropractor’s
office over the weekend for a readjustment and a water additive to
help replenish lost body fluids. But I was on pins and needles to
see if Donna would return.

I was able to have lunch with some friends
including Veronica on Saturday. She was invested in my hell and
completely understood why my head was shaved. My other friends were
another matter. I don’t think they knew what to make of me. I was a
more self-assured Suzie with a toned and muscled body to go with
the new me. Veronica gave me a big hug when our lunch was over and
told me how proud she was.

Donna arrived for Sunday night study session.
I was extremely relieved to lay eyes on her. She told me she was
okay when we walked back to our dorm room together.

I felt overwhelming relief to keep my roommate
and friend. Donna and Rocco were my rocks and I realized I was
theirs as well. Stronger more “cop like” cadets had fallen, but we
were still standing.

The start to week five was ominously easy.
Sgt. Dickens failed to show for Monday morning inspection, so there
were no pushups for improper hair, shoes, clothes, etc. Everyone
passed the Monday morning class test. We even managed to skate
through the day without a single punishment hill run.

Tuesday morning we were presented with our
Guidon. This is a flag representing our academy and class. Sgt.
Dickens made quite a production and we all took pride in the
presentation. The flag was yellow with PAFRA and class number 95 in
large black letters. A cadet was chosen to be our flag bearer and
it was quite an honor. He would carry it at all times including
physical training and defensive tactics. Our flag was to be the
symbol of our pride. Nothing was to happen to it or we would be
punished like no punishment we had yet seen. We were told we needed
a class slogan by the end of the week.

Our academy polo shirts and workout clothing
had arrived and were passed out. We were told to wear the workout
clothes and academy shirts on the following Monday morning. Class
ninety six would be starting on Sunday. They would move into
available dorms and be using the classroom beside ours. We were
told to stay away from them. We had our new polo’s and the new
cadets would be in white shirts and ties. For a change it was nice
to be us.

The day wasn’t over. It was time for OC gas
(o-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile) training better known as tear
gas. The “red shirts”, looking like SWAT commandos, came in
directly after lunch. There were three of them. Their muscles were
bulging beneath their red t-shirts and they acted like they had the
best job in the world. They were deceptively cheerful. We learned
to identify “red shirts” with pain beginning that day.

The training session started out as a lot of
fun. The “red shirts” blew things up and taught us about making
bombs. We were able to play with plastic explosive. One of the
cadets made a penis and it became a contest to see who could make
the best one (academy humor at its finest). We were also shown
videos of crowd control and actual mob scenes with police
intervention.

We were then marched outside and taken about a
mile out into the desert. We were issued side-handle batons and
learned “hands on” crowd control. We split into two groups with one
side being the “out of control” crowd, and the other being the
officers. It was a great learning experience, and the psychology
behind crowd control is fascinating. We took turns pissing off the
other side and then a turn as officers getting the trouble makers
under control.

The fun part was over. We were run in a slow
jog for a mile to open our pores (this was to make the gas burn
more on our bodies). We were then lined up in our squads, but
instead of being spread out, we were told to stand shoulder to
shoulder. It had been explained the cans of tear gas would reach
over 1400 degrees in temperature and we were not to touch them. We
were also told we had to keep formation until a whistle was blown
or we would start over.

The cans were tossed around us. We tried
holding our breath but it was impossible. Water was pouring from
our eyes, nose and mouth and breathing was unbearable. I felt
someone at my feet and I grabbed his shoulders and held on for dear
life. We were not going to break our formation and start over. It’s
hard to explain the panic that sets in when you can’t breathe.
There was fire in my chest. I didn’t think even getting out of the
tear gas would enable me to breathe again. The burning in my eyes
was so bad I couldn’t keep them open. I could hear my fellow cadets
coughing and choking. I seriously thought we would all die before
that whistle was finally blown.

The shrill noise sounded and we all ran away
from the gas. Besides coughing and choking we were also throwing
up. Everyone had tears, snot and saliva running down their faces.
I'm still amazed at the amount of mucus we expelled. It was not a
pretty site, but we had succeeded. And that is all that
mattered.

Our skin was still on fire, but after about
ten minutes our breathing returned to normal. We were marched back
to the classroom.

Sgt. Dickens came in.

“I am so fucking proud of you! This is what
I’ve been waiting for. You are a team. You are Class 95. You are my
Class and you should be proud of yourselves.”

And we were. It was a great moment. We were
all smiling and laughing and ready to take on the world. It didn't
matter that our lungs were scorched, our skin was still burning,
and our eyes and noses hadn't stopped running. On that day our
Sergeant could have led us anywhere, and told us to do anything,
and we would have followed.

This was how soldiers were made. I was
forty-five years old but entirely susceptible to the phenomenon. We
all wanted to go out and fight evil and we felt we had earned the
right. After everyone showered, we gathered outside and talked and
laughed until late in the evening. We didn’t want the day to
end.

Throughout the rest of the week we spent every
available minute trying to come up with a suitable class slogan.
Our first slogan was rejected by the Sergeant Dickens as being
inadequate. We worked late into the night on Thursday worried that
our hard work would be rejected again and our positive week would
be ruined.

Friday morning, when called to attention for
morning inspection, we belted out.

“Class ninety five is the best by
far.

We smoke all the rest like a cheap
cigar.

Ugh.”

Sgt. Dickens liked it and gave his approval.
The new class 95 slogan was officially added to our drills. We had
succeeded