Breakfast Roll Call

6:30 A.M. My peaceful sleep and surreal dreams are shattered by the boom of a howitzer cannon. The resounding thunder of the cannon rolls across Lake Maxinkuckee without hesitation. The Culver day has begun. A naA?ve callboy rushes to make reveille call: â€Å"Notice, sirs! Notice, sirs! Bravo Company sirs, notice! Reveille has sounded. Uniform of the day, Duty A, sirs!† I aimlessly shuffle my hands along the window ledge for my glasses; it doesn’t help being awake before sunrise. I lie in bed for a moment, half asleep, pondering the decision I made to become a Culver cadet. I guess I missed the brochure advertising reveille at 6:30. My feet slap down on the cold tile. I open my door to the hallway’s bright lights. The fortunate few who possess the talent to sleep through the cannon remain in their beds until I act as the cannon’s back up. Shuffling along the hallway, I fulfill my position as hall officer. The battered, half-broken broomstick I use every morning doesn’t miss a door—smack, wack. â€Å"Let’s go, get up!† But my words travel across the barren hallway without acknowledgment. On the way back to my room, I give an extra hard wake-up-call to any cadets still sleeping, this time using my fist and the broomstick—bang, wham. From inside the rooms, a common complaint escapes, â€Å"Ok, I’m up! Go away.† It’s too early for leadership. Once in my room, I take my clothes off, grab my towel, and retreat to the warmth of the showers. I turn on the closest knob. Cold water sprays out of the head at first. I jump and back away quickly, every time, I never remember. The callboy’s voice reaches the shower. â€Å"Notice, sirs! Notice, sirs! Bravo Company sirs, notice! First call to BRC, uniform for BRC, duty A, sirs!† My supply of warm water ends a bruptly and I abandon the lighthearted atmosphere of the shower room. In my room I put on my wool duty-pants and tight-fitting duty-A shirt. Formation in the company streets is dark and dreary. Unit Commanders shout commands. â€Å"Form up! Let’s go! Left face, right face.† First sergeants bark out names, â€Å"Carey . . . Here! Hamm . . . Here! Darnell . . . Darnell! Here!† A hundred and fifty drowsy infantry cadets march to the dining hall with the beat of a drum guiding them. Once we’re inside, food lines are long. Glasses slip from lethargic hands— Clink, clink, crshhh. I direct the new cadets to a table and remind them: Personal Inspection is at 7:20 a.m.