Shit Shield

Haleakala, Maui - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

Before social advocates descended on the Air Force Academy and humanized the fourth class system, meal time was hazing time.  To the uninitiated observer, often a crusading politician with views unsympathetic to military sentiments, Mitch Hall's bedlam was a haven for sadists.  Hapless freshmen or doolies needed protection from their upper class tormentors, even though the unpleasantness helped force the recipients to bond together and forge intense life-lasting friendships.  

At the Academy all meals were served family style at a rectangular table for ten.  The table commandant, a senior or first classman, sat at the head of the table. To his left and right sat five or six other upper class cadets, usually another first classman and the rest juniors and sophomores known as second and third classmen respectively. The last three or four seats were reserved for doolies who sat on the edge of their chairs at rigid attention with their eyes riveted to their plates. They were not allowed to speak unless addressed by an upperclassman nor eat without permission.  The mechanics of eating were strictly established: a morsel of food on a plate before them was acquired by a fork or spoon then lifted vertically to mouth height, where then is was conveyed horizontally toward one's mouth. Once the food was delivered to the mouth, only three chews were permissible before swallowing.  Quick consumption was a matter of necessity, and a habit that has accompanied many of us for close to fifty years.

Meals were a fifteen or twenty minute affair, where as many calories as possible were consumed between interruptions from upperclassmen, who bombarded fourth classmen with ceaseless questions.  Any subject was fair game, from rote knowledge, air force aircraft specifications, and military speeches to current events and sports. When answering a question, the doolie was required to stop eating, look his questioner in the eye, and answer it in as loud a voice as possible. There were some important considerations:

First impressions were crucial. If one gained the reputation as a “tie up,” upperclassmen would go for the kill every meal.

Questions were answered as rapidly and accurately as possible, so one could resume eating. A failure to do so meant shouting answers to incessant questions and leaving the table hungry.

If the table commandant had a special interest, it was smart to know something about it. Perhaps he was from Minnesota and a fan of the Golden Gophers. A correct and savvy response often meant a full stomach and rested vocal cords.

The answer to any “why” question was “No excuse, sir!” There was no deviation from this mantra. For example, if an upperclassman asked, “Priskna, why are you such an idiot or why are there twelve inches in a foot?” The answer was always, “No excuse, sir!”

Every week cadets were assigned different meal tables–a whole new cast of characters. The importance of a shit shield, a doolie who knew virtually nothing about sports or rudimentary current events, became readily apparent. His performance was so routinely pathetic that even the most ambivalent upper classman set upon him like a hyena on carrion.  This left the other fourth classmen free to stuff their stomachs for a week.

In my squadron the most prized shit shield was Cadet Fourth Class Rolyat, a veritable vacuum of knowledge. Easily intimidated and clueless on how to parry each meal's predicted verbal onslaught resulted in a thin frame and a raspy voice.

One Monday morning breakfast began with a new group of cadets.  At twenty five years old the table commandant, Cadet First Class Zabonini, was about as old as a cadet could be.  After growing up in a rough working class neighborhood in New Jersey, he attended a military school prior to attending the Academy.  Rolyat, on the other hand, was seventeen years old and fresh out of high school. He was suckled in a wealthy and connected San Francisco family.  Before Rolyat delivered the first bite of food to his mouth, Zabonini barked, “Rolyat!”

“Yes, sir!”

“I can't hear you, Rolyat!”

“YES, SIR!”

“That's better. Who is the Vice President of the United States?”

“SIR, I DO NOT KNOW!”

The other fourth classmen barely could restrain themselves. To laugh at a classmate meant no meal and plenty of unwanted attention, but under what rock did Rolyat call home?

“You gotta be shitting me, Rolyat,” screamed Zabonini. “Who is the quarterback for the Green Bay Packers?”

“SIR, I DO NOT KNOW!”

“Have you lived in a cave all your life, Rolyat?”

“NO EXCUSE, SIR!”

“Rolyat, that was not a “why” question! Where were you when God gave out brains?”

“SIR, I DO NOT KNOW!”

“What kind of a tool are you, Rolyat?”

Whereupon Rolyat responded with the standard reply to this often asked question, “A WEDGE, SIR! BECAUSE A WEDGE IS THE SIMPLEST TOOL KNOW TO MANKIND!”

“Correct, Rolyat. Now pass in your plate, Smack!  Recite General MacArthur's Farewell Address to the Graduating Class at West Point, and it better be loud so they can here it in Denver.  And the rest of you wads better not crack a smile or there will be a punishment run for all of you tonight, and I guarantee you'll all puke your guts out.  In the mean time you should thank your classmate Rolyat for being such a tool, so you can eat the rest of the week.”