Waldo F. Dumbsquat

October 1973

Waldo F. Dumbsquat sighed. It had been a bad day. Very, very, bad. He had been ten minutes late calling for reveille, and there had been some kind of trouble with Security Flight not getting a report. “Dumbsquat,” his element leader had shouted, “you’re on SI’s for ten years!” Then with one minute till first call for classes his shoelace broke. His instructor had made him do board work all period for not having done his homework. At lunch the waiter had spilled ravioli all over his sleeve. Then coming back from lunch he had stumbled on a crack in the terrazzo, wiping out both shoes. After dinner he had gotten trapped into holding the door open for all the upperclassmen. Then he had a class meeting, organizational meeting, a meeting to decide when to meet again, a ring meeting, a meeting for all fourth classmen who did not have a meeting at the time, an honor meeting, a meeting to decide how to sort laundry, a meeting for minute callers, a tattoo meeting, a flight meeting, an element meeting, a squadron meeting, and a group meeting. It had been a very bad day indeed. 

But Waldo F. Dumbsquat did not despair. He did not cry or become hysterical. He stood up bravely in spite of his life as a fourth classman. “Ho Hummm,” he sighed as he climbed into bed. “I’ll make up for it tonight.” 

The alarm rang. Waldo F. Dumbsquat peered at the time. 2400 hours. Yawning, he climbed out of his bed. But now his appearance was changing. Proud, haughty, and with a look of independence, he walked down the hall to the elevator. He pushed the button that said basement. Switching on the lights for the tunnels, he strode down the cobweb way. He stepped into a room. Minutes passed, then from the door strode not C/4C Dumbsquat, but Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat. Pushing the button for the third floor, he fitted a cigarette into his silver-plated holder. He strode into Security Flight. 

“Room attention!” the SOD shouted.

“I want a car immediately, mister!” Colonel Dumbsquat demanded.

“Yes, Sir!” The SOD promptly replied. He dialed for the motor pool, and got the car.

“I want this room straight when I come back at 0400. These windows had best be polished, the floor waxed and everyone’s shoes shined! Are there any questions?” Colonel Dumbsquat strode out the door.

“Gee,” The SOD remarked, “he sure looked very young!”

“Probably flew out of England and got rank fast.” The NCOD replied.

“Yea, but I would swear that he was about 19.” The SOD said while polishing the windows.

“Oh, Waldo!” Bell Air cried, melting into his arms. “It seems an eternity since last night!”

“Now, now, now, dear,” Waldo cooed. “You’ll wrinkle my uniform – Driver! To the Broadmoor for dinner!” He then shouted.

“Good evening, Colonel,” The head waiter syruped, showing them to the best table.

“We will have the same as last night, Charles, charge it to the BOQ at the AFA.”

“Fine, sir, anything else?”

“Ah, Yes, have the orchestra brought back.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“And Charles, give each man a ten dollar tip and twenty for yourself.”

“YES, SIR!”

The evening slipped on into the morning. Waldo left the Broadmoor and headed for home.

“Good night, dear.” He said to Bell Air.

“Good night, Waldo.” She murmured with tears.

The car headed for the Academy.

“That will be all for tonight, Driver.” Waldo said.

“Room Attention!” The SOD cried tiredly.

“Much better, Mister, but those windows could do with some more work.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh, yes I want you to wake up all of 17th squadron and take them for a run immediately!”

“Yes, sir…” They were crying now.

“Good evening men.”

Back to the tunnels Waldo went, into the little room. A few minutes later once again C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat stumbled out, haggard.

It had all the making of a glorious day. He called minutes on time and made it back to his room without being caught for not wearing pajamas.

“Gee, Waldo, what a night,” his roommate remarked. “I couldn’t sleep a wink. Some squadron was running all night.”

“That’s funny, I didn’t hear a thing,” Waldo replied.

 

November 1973

It had been a bad week and because of certain gravitational effects, Waldo F. Dumbsquat was once again bearing the brunt of it all. He couldn’t win. Even though his shoes were so shiny that they glowed in the dark, he still lost 13 SAMI beds to upperclassmen in shoe matching contests. While on Monday he only had a 250 million word English theme due, on Tuesday he had a graded review in Math, Chemistry, and History and a quiz in Military Training and Geography.

By the end of the week Waldo was wiped out. After sleeping through breakfast and his first two classes on Friday, Waldo sat in Mech class fighting the “Z” monster with toothpicks under his eyelids. But it was no use, as the time passed he slipped lower and lower behind his desk until a point where he was out of sight from his instructor; this is when a brilliant idea struck him.

On hands and knees he crawled down the endless rows of desks and stools and out the door to the safety of the hall. With a small chuckle of satisfaction Waldo sauntered down the hall to the nearest empty room. Within a matter of milliseconds a great transformation took place. Bursting out of the room with renewed vigor and energy once again stood Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat.

The Mech classroom was called to attention a Colonel Dumbsquat entered the room with his usual reply, “Take seats me. You’re doing a great job here.” Capt Take-boards was confused by Dumbsquat’s appearance until he was informed by Waldo, “I head the Dean’s Special Investigating Appraisal and Approval Group for Mechanics Instructors, or the TDSIAGG.” Although Captain Take-boards still did not understand this, for the next twenty minutes he flashed back and forth across the front of the room, blazing with his chalk, deriving the universe from F=ma, talking faster and faster with each grunt and groan emitted by Waldo. As Waldo finally retired from the room he left the students with some words of wisdom. “Remember, if it is cold enough, you can push on a rope.”

Waldo silently changed back into his other life style, the Doolie. As he crept back into his seat in his Mech class he was relishing all of his past fleeting moments only to be greeted by the all too familiar “Okay, Gents, Take Boards.” It had indeed been a bad week.

 

December 1973

It had been an average day for Waldo F. Dumbsquat. On his way to breakfast a wind of hurricane force nearly threw him off the terrazzo. After fighting his way through the gale, Waldo finally reached the dining hall. With the familiar smell of greasy bacon, greasy eggs and greasy toast greeting him as he walked in the door, all Waldo could picture was the head cook standing over his newest concoction uttering the familiar, “Double Double Toil and Trouble, Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble.” Although Waldo got his fill at the meal he could only think that the friendly atmosphere which permeated the hall was not conducive to eating.

By the time Waldo was able to check mail, a time he waited for each day with enthusiasm, he was very tired. It was in this weakened mood which he was in that the final blow of the day came. Reading over and over again those few, short hurriedly-jotted-down words by his mother could not change their horrid meaning. She was definitely coming out to the Academy to complain personally about her son’s treatment.

Like most 4th classmen, Waldo had sought literary pleasure in spinning fantastic tales to his parents in his letters expanding the acts of upperclassmen into treacherous deeds. Running through Waldo’s mind at this moment were only pictures of what would happen to him when his mother came out to protect her precious doolie.

On the afternoon on which Waldo’s mother was to arrive, Waldo was walking by the library listening room. With the quickness of a lightening bolt he ducked into one of the dark rooms and in an instant the cool, calm, and experienced Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat emerged from what appeared to be an afternoon of quiet listening.

It only took Colonel Dumbsquat a few miniutes to convince the motor pool that they should lend him a vehicle. Within an hour Mrs. Dumbsquat was picked up at the airport by a high-ranking officer who she thought bore a striking resemblance to her son.

Once at the Academy, Colonel Dumbsquat showed Mrs. Dumbsquat all the points of the institution culminated by a short talk with Mrs Mac, Ben Martin, and finally Waldo’s AOC. Although Waldo’s AOC, Capt. Formten, was about as familiar with Waldo and other training programs in the squadron as he was with the mating process of the Alaskan potato, he assured Mrs. Dumbsquat that no such activities as she described went on in his squadron, in fact, he assured Mrs. Dumbsquat that cadet heads would roll if there was any truth to her statements.

As Waldo and Mrs. Dumbsquat left, Waldo reminded the good Captain that if any of the last conversation left the room that his next command would be of penguins in Thule, Greenland. Colonel Dumbsquat escorted his mother around the Academy while his quick-thinking mind tried to think of a way of getting her out of the state before she caused any more trouble for him. In the nick of time Waldo thought of the tunnels. Before Mrs. Dumbsquat knew what was happening she was whisked away into the endless corridors under USAFA. It has been said that the cries of a worried mother can be heard emanating from the tunnels every time a doolie is unjustly punished.

While Waldo was changing back into his 4th class clothes he wondered about his adventures of the day. As he ran back to his room a smile of satisfaction overcame him for he knew that today was the day a letter was normally waiting from his mom.

 

January 1974

Waldo F. Dumbsquat fell into his bed with a sigh of relief. For two days he had been searching through the fair city of Colorado Springs for Colleen, the November girl of the month. Before the sun set on the Rampart Range on the second day Waldo had checked no less than three hundred and sixty-two dry cleaning establishments. Not wanting to be embarrassed by his escapade Waldo had a new piece of wardrobe cleaned and starched at each laundry way station. Waldo could only think that some of his discomfort came from the fact that all his underwear and socks ended up stiff. 

When the alarm bell rang at 0300 in the morning he was surprised. Waldo pulled on his sandpaper socks and stalked down the hall steadily until he reached the elevator where he stepped in and punched 4. By the time the “vator” reached the terrazzo level, out stepped not the low form of life which had entered, but the omnipowerful Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat.

Determined to help the energy crisis Colonel Dumbsquat strode into command post. After having the O.I.C. woken up Waldo knew what he had to do, a simple call to the motor pool had ten busses gassed up. And ready for his disposal.

“Capt. Marander,” Colonel Dumbsquat demanded, “Get the lead out and find me a listing of all Academy personnel.”

“Yes Sir, right away Sir,” the O.I.C. exclaimed as he scampered out of the room.

“You other men,” Waldo called as he gestured to the S.O.D., “Start acting like a phone and call all forty squadrons and tell them I might come through inspecting this morning. It’ll do them good.”

“Yes, Sir.” Replied the S.O.D. He gladly woke up all the CQs of the wing. 

By then Capt. Marander returned carrying the listings.

“Call every person on those lists and inform them a bus will pick them up for work in the morning,” Colonel Dumbsquat ordered. 

“All of them?” pleaded the O.I.C.

“Yes, all of them, and make sure you sound convincing.”

“Is there anything else I should do?”

“Only one more thing,” Waldo said tiredly, “Take those trousers of yours to the tailor shop and have them condemned. They wont keep you warm as short as they hang.

As Colonel Dumbsquat returned to the tunnels and transformed into Waldo one again, he felt pleased but at the same time apprehensive. He knew that tomorrow he would have to attend mandatory dance lessons in A-Hall. If he was lucky this time he might not have to dance with his roommate all of the time.

 

February 1974

When Waldo had been selected for his squadron boxing team he had felt it to be an ominous sign. One look at himself in the mirror told him that he was not a born boxer. His bony knees, his limp arms, and his sagging jaw were just no conducive to the manly art of self-defense. Weighing in at 147 pounds, Waldo looked more like a flagpole than a boxer when he donned his equipment.

No matter how many times he tried to explain to his coach that his two wins were flukes, one a forfeit and the other a freak of nature, the boxing schedule, strategically posted for the entire squadron to see, still stared him in the face. If his eyes didn’t deceive him, he had been placed two weight classes above what he normally boxed. Waldo was to box Killer Kelly of the 4th Group.

As Waldo brushed his teeth the night before the fight, he had only one thought, that he may never be able to brush his teeth again. Waldo solemnly climbed into his bed at taps. He promised his roommate that he could have his winter parades if he didn’t return from the match in one piece.

As 0100 rolled around a very scared Waldo F. Dumbsquat trotted down the hall until he ducked into the latrine. In a few minutes out of the third stall on the left, like a butterfly escaping its cocoon, Colonel Dumbsquat emerged.

Only pure desperation made Waldo think of such a dastardly deed as he did. On short notice all the civil engineering employees on the base had reported to the base of the ramp. Colonel Dumbsquat’s orders to move all the snow from one side of the terrazzo to the other seemed rather natural to them. Only one question was asked, why did they have to make a detour under the dorms on the terrazzo level. Waldo quickly suppressed this by saying it was to save wear and tear on the marching surface.

Throughout the night workmen methodically moved the snow from one good spot to another pausing only to make their curious little trips over 4th Group. Satisfied with his plan, Colonel Dumbsquat headed back to his squadron where he transformed into his previous self.

It was a strange period in the cadet boxing arena. Today people still talk about the time when the meek looking doolie with lightning fast reflexes demolished Killer Kelly. No one mentions how bloodshot Kelly’s eyes were from lack of sleep, or the ringing of snowplows in his ears. No, only the things you want to remember are thought of, the come from behind victory of Waldo, or the week he sat at rest for his win. Only Kelly can remember how tired he was when he started the fight and how he collapsed from exhaustion after 2 ½ round of chasing that scared rabbit around the ring. Yes, only Kelly remembers that.

 

March 1974

As day was breaking, Waldo F. Dumbsquat rubbed the sleep from his eyes and crawled from out of his overhead. He jumped down and inadvertently landed on his roommate, who was snoozing in the sink. Waldo shuffled over to his unused AMI bed and tested its tightness…yes, he could still bounce his CRC off it. Then it struck Waldo (a thought, not the CRC) that today was T.H.E. day – the day he was going to buy his airline ticket for spring break. Soon he would meet the girl-back-home who was sending him cotton candy in the mail. In his excitement, Waldo neglected to put on his shoulder boards, tie, and belt buckle.

Breakfast was agony. Waldo knew he had to hurry if he wanted to be first in line.

Waldo found himself at the end of the waiting line. It was cold outside by the double-E lab. Realizing that it would be a long wait, he decided to do something constructive – he began to sew buttons back on his deteriorating class shirt. Two hours and three buttons later Waldo was only thirty cadets away from the entrance to the ticket office. He was amused by the game of musical chairs played in front of the office. As a cadet stepped to the ticket counter, everyone shifted up one chair along the line. A shudder ran through Waldo as he watched one cadet lose his footing and become trampled by the movement of the line. Without warning, the period ended and masses of cadets poured out of classes and down the stairwell towards the ticket office. To Waldo’s demise, he found himself standing at the end of a line which stretched to the gym.

There existed only one thing for Waldo to do. He ducked into a nearby latrine and emerged as dynamic, vibrant Waldo F. Dumbsquat. His body frame was so broad that he wore real birds on his shoulders. He stood out against the landscape like a blue Washington Monument. With swift strides he made his way to the ticket office.

“Good morning, sir,” chorused the cadets.

“Good morning, cadets,” thundered Colonel Dumbsquat, “and you men with low-water trou get them fixed.

As the cadets glanced at their pants, the colonel stepped to the front of the line.

“May I help you?” asked the girl at the counter. 

“Yes, I’ve come to pick up my ticket,” Colonel Dumbsquat announced cleverly. 

The girl rifled through all the papers in front of her. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but your ticket doesn’t seem to be here.”

“Poppycock!” bellowed Colonel Dumbsquat.

“What was your destination, sir?”

“Home, of course.”

“Ah, here it is. One ticket for home.”

Colonel Dumbsquat calmly wrote out a check for three months pay and two travel allowances.

“That should cover it, my good woman,” he said as he prepared to leave, “and have these travel posters taken down and replace them with copies of AFCR 35-6. Remember to take the staples out.”

With that Colonel Dumbsquat strode out of the office and in a nearby latrine. There he degenerated into Waldo F. Dumbsquat, fourth classman. But in his hands he held his precious ticket. Waldo laughed. 

A button jumped off his shirt.

 

April 1974

Waldo F. Dumbsquat wasn’t sure how he was going to get along with his new roommates. Mercifully, the winter make-list had terminated and Waldo found himself rooming with C/4C “Regs” Buch, C/4C “Wags” Hisazov, and the dormitory mouse (affectionately named Mickey) who was notoriously known for messing up AMI rooms with his personal distribution.

The three doolies had their new room in AMI order except for their security boxes. 

“Our boxes won’t fit the holes in these drawers,” announced Wags, who was always quick with an obvious observation.

Waldo examined the situation. “We’ll just have to get our old drawers.”

“It’s unauthorized to move drawers from room to room,” stated Regs.

“Well, we have to fasten them down with masking tape,” decided Waldo, “That’ll do the job.”

Later that night, under the glow of late lights, Waldo munched on some cotton candy his girlfriend had sent him in the mail. He was trying to study History and, typically, he had kissed off the assignment until the last night. Now Waldo prepared himself to read The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, write a twenty page book review, and prepare a thirty minute (plus or minus five minutes) oral briefing complete with two flip charts, three viewgraphs, slides, and a series of excerpts from the movie “Cleopatra.” It looked like it would be another all-nighter. Waldo wished he had started this project the day before, when it was assigned.

He finally fell asleep at his desk twenty minutes before reveille. The blare of bugles aroused Waldo F. Dumbsquat from his slumber.

“Quick, get dressed, Waldo,” urged Regs, “We’re on Laundry Detail today.”

Wags burst into the room, “I can’s find any laundry racks! I’ve looked everywhere…the laundry room, mail room, foosball room, and the Supt’s office.”

“We’ve got to get that laundry out of here before the CQ wakes up or we’ll be in real trouble,” said Regs in small print.

Waldo racked his brains for a solution to the laundry crisis. An All-right Inspection for laundry racks was out of the question – he didn’t know how to write a subject-to letter. Then the answer came to him like a flash.

“The answer has come to me like a flash, guys,” exclaimed Waldo. “We’ll drop the laundry bags down the trash chute and pick them up at the bottom. That way we won’t have to lug all of them down the stairs by hand.”

Regs and Wags praised him for his brilliant idea and promised to write optionals on him the next time MOMs came out. It took only a few moments of labor to stuff the five tons of laundry down the trash chute.

Unfortunately, Waldo had forgotten that today was the day that garbage was picked up. Regs ran to the window just in time to see a beat-up truck loading aboard the garbage, laundry bags and all.

For once, Wags was speechless. Regs managed to choke out: “Destruction of government property, especially laundry bags, is punishable by death by tours!”

Waldo knew something had to be done ASAP if not sooner. He ducked into a nearby latrine. There was a loud explosion and he emerged as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man for all reasons. His massive frame shook pieces of plaster from the wall as he scraped through the door of the latrine.

Regs called the squadron to attention.

“Carry on,” roared the Colonel.

Colonel Dumbsquat found the squadron commander’s room and banged on the door, nearly ripping it from its hinges.

The squadron commander bolted from his bed and snapped into a brace. The colonel indicated that he wished to see more than seven chins. Thirteen was all the cadet could muster.

“Mister, I’ve just condemned your laundry and had it thrown away,” Colonel Dumbsquat informed the cadet lieutenant colonel.

“All of it, sir?”

“Every last bag. I inspected the whole pile and found it to be totally gross.”

The colonel saluted and turned to leave. As he exited the room he said: “And fix your bulletin board; it’s hanging crooked.”

He strode into the latrine and once again assumed the deformed shape of C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat. He felt a sigh of relief well up within his puny chest. The crisis was over. He had saved the day. Then he started to cry.

Waldo had sent all of his uniforms to the laundry.

 

May 1974

C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat hurried through the mailroom, saluting two secretaries and the postmaster. But he couldn’t stop to check the arthropod farm in his mailbox; typically, Waldo had been scheduled for a mandatory issue of work-gloves and snow shovel between his second and third period classes. The scrawny doolie navigated the issue-room maze of ropes, signs and arrows–getting lost only twice–and picked up his five-sizes-too-big gloves. Then he halted in front of a mountainous pile of shovels. The shovel issuer looked at Waldo and asked, “What do you want?”

The question caught the doolie off guard for a second, but he recovered quickly.

“Sir, I’m here for my government shovel, snow type, one each, steel.”

“Sorry, but we don’t have any shovels in your size, Dumbsquat.”

With a shrug of his bony shoulders, Waldo turned and started double-timing back to class. He had to slow up momentarily near Command Post to salute a passing golf cart.

As Waldo F. Dumbsquat stood in the alcove of his Geography class, his knees began to shake. He dreaded reporting late to his instructor, Major Claire Chinook, who was affectionately known as “Old Wind Bag.” Waldo hoped that he had already missed the class IRI. Wiping his shoes on the back of his trouser legs, C/4C Dumbsquat walked through the door and reported.

“Please take a seat Mister Dumbsquat. You’re just in time to start the second half of today’s pop final exam. Please code your answers on the side of the digitek marked ‘Do not use this side’.” The Major inspected the soggy Cheerio that had been clinging to Waldo’s shirt button since breakfast.

Mumbling something about R-flight to himself, Waldo took the test: “…analyze each of the following fifty soil samples and name from which county in the United States it is derived and write an essay on the effect of Henry Kissinger’s diplomacy on the crop cycle in Bermuda; equation sheets and calculators may be used on this portion of the examination.” Waldo knew nothing about Bermuda, so he created a brilliant article on Henry Kissinger’s marriage and hoped he could get a partial credit or CFD.

Double-timing back to the dorm, Waldo marveled at the beautiful spring day. A mere eight feet of snow covered the terrazzo like a USAF T-shirt. Ah, yes, the wing would march to the noon meal today. Then Waldo recalled that he hadn’t spit-shined his low quarter overshoes yet and he was already late for calling minutes. Panic seized him by the hand and led him to a nearby latrine (Waldo is always lucky to be near a latrine when he needs one) where he made another transformation into dynamic Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, religious reader of Morris Janowitz. Proudly the colonel strode into Command Post and confiscated the microphone from the startled Senior Officer of the Day.

“Attention you cadets out there and listen up. This is Colonel Dumbsquat talking now. All cadets will proceed individually to the meal after reading their decorum manuals. Minute Callers are excused from their duty to comply with this order. I never give an order twice. Dumbsquat out.”

Calmly, the Colonel spun on his regulation heel and departed Command Post without another word. Instantly his transmutation into C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat took place. Waldo sighed happily. He had gained another victory, but it would be a long time before the wing ate lunch.

Waldo popped the Cheerio into his mouth.

 

June 1974

C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat looked up from his work. Blurry-eyed, he stared at his desk clock and immediately deduced that the time was 4 o’clock in the morning. Waldo stretched sleepily; he was pulling his fifty-third all-nighter in a row. But he knew he had to keep studying if he wanted to stay above the men on his dental exam and the GAO test. With a yawn, Waldo turned to his typewriter and began rewriting his 200,000 word research paper; his instructor had rejected the theme because it lacked specific examples and a concluding paragraph. He knew that the clatter of his typing wouldn’t bother his three roommates–they had already slept through three fire drills that night.

Waldo enjoyed going to breakfast since it gave him a terrific chance to eat something. But today he just couldn’t stay awake and he fell asleep at the table three times; once he almost drowned in the sausage pan.

Waldo squared the corner outside Mitchell Hall and began double-timing along the Air Gardens. He enjoyed viewing the trees, hedges, grass, and men filling in the fountains with dirt and gravel. Suddenly and without warning a Mack truck zoomed at about 5 miles per hour out of the Air Gardens and ran over the doolie. The driver didn’t stop; instead he roared across the terrazzo, down the ramp, and out the South Gate.

Waldo picked himself up and examined his puny body; every part seemed to be in working order. He was thankful that the truck had been empty–a full load might have injured him. Being a conscientious cadet, Waldo F. Dumbsquat decided to report to the dispensary for a full check up.

“Sir, C/4C Dumbsquat, Waldo F. reports to ask a question,” sounded off the doolie to the clerk at the dispensary window.

“What’s your problem, Dumbsquat?’

“Sir, I’d like to make an appointment for a medical check up.”

“Why”

Waldo displayed his shredded and torn uniform to the clerk and said, “I was involved in a hit-and-run accident on the terrazzo.”

“Sure you were, dude,” replied the man in the window, “now fill out one of those pink slips and bring it back.”

It only took Waldo about ten minutes to comply with the order. Stepping up to the window, he presented the slip to the clerk.

“Okay, Dumbsquat, report to station 29,” the man said.

“Sir, C/4C Dumbsquat, Waldo F. reports as ordered,” he announced at station 29.

Immediately, the sergeant at the station table jabbed a thermometer into Waldo’s tongue and snapped: “Don’t let that move and don’t bite it! Now, what seems to be ailing you?”

“Sir, I was – ”

“I said don’t move the thermometer!” interrupted the sergeant.

Using sign language, Waldo was able to get his message across without upsetting the sergeant.

“Well, you’ll have to get your records from the man at the window.”

With the thermometer still in his mouth, Waldo persuaded the clerk at the window to hand over the medical records, but he had to leave his wallet as collateral. When Waldo arrived at station 29 again, he confronted a sign which stated that station 29 was out to lunch. The doolie decided to try and make an appointment for some other time.

“I’m sorry Dumbsquat, but we’re all booked up for the next two months. I’d send you to the Emergency Room, but today’s their day to shovel dirt in the Air Gardens. Try getting hurt when we’re not busy.” The clerk shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

Waldo could not believe that the victim of a hit-and-run accident would be unable to receive treatment. (Obviously, this was Waldo’s first visit to the dispensary). A determined look crossed his face and Waldo disappeared into a latrine used for taking samples. Within nano-seconds he emerged as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, pursuer of justice, happiness and blondes.

“Dispensary, atten-hut!” shouted the clerk at the window.

“Mister, I want you to report to the tour pad with a shovel and start filling it in; the job should take you quite a while, so before you go, why don’t you find a doctor for that doolie who was just in here!” growled the colonel.

“But, Sir, there are no doctors here; this is their golf day. Three Life Science majors are sitting in for them.”

Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat became so angry that the scrambled eggs on his hat began to burn. He whipped out a piece of paper.

“I’m leaving orders for every doctor to give himself two flu shots. Have them initial this alpha roster when they have done so.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the clerk as he picked up his shovel.

With a snort as his only reply, Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat stepped into the latrine. Nobody noticed a deformed doolie slip back out. Waldo grinned to himself; those shots would fix the doctors just like they did the wing. But suddenly a pained expression crossed his face. He discovered that in his rush to become the colonel, he had forgotten one important detail.

Waldo had swallowed the thermometer.

 

October 1974

C/4C Cadet Waldo F. Dumbsquat put the finishing touches on his AMI bed. Momentarily, he wondered is there was such a thing as “dispensary-corner” on a bed. The thought slipped his mind as did his name when the sound of upper class shoes approached his room.  Waldo’s puny chest heaved with relief as he footsteps receded down the hall. Despite his fear, he was glad he had finally moved into his permanent squadron. The rigors of Basic Cadet Training were fading, and Waldo welcomed the challenge of academics.

“I sure welcome the challenge of academics,” commented Waldo as he tested the tightness of his bed by jumping on it.

“Yea, especially after the rigors of BCT,” added his roommate, C/4C “Wags” Hisazov, “I wonder why they call it ‘Transition Week’? Is this when we become upper classmen?”

Waldo rebounded off the ceiling and replied, “That’s wrong! ‘Transition Week’ is when we get issued our Corvettes.”

“Hey guys, remember to roll your socks counterclockwise,” stated C/4C “Regs” Buch, Waldo’s other roommate.

“How come you know all the rules?” Wags asked Regs.

Regs put his finger to his lips, “Sh-h-h-h, don’t tell anybody, but I’ve been reading the regulations at night under the covers with a flashlight.”

“I’m not too sure about the laundry service here.” C/4C Dumbsquat held up and Echo Shirt that had been stamped unmercifully with his control number.

“That’s not as bad as this!” Wags displayed his laundry, “The bag has been cleaned and pressed, but my clothes are still dirty.”

Before Waldo could even say ‘low quarter overshoes,’ Command Post interrupted with an announcement.

“Attention in the area, attention in the area. All cadets who are interested have a meeting immediately, I say again, CCQs please post. Command Post, out.”

Waldo and Wags shrugged their shoulders. Command Post was still a strange entity which moved in mysterious ways.

Regs smiled knowingly, however. “Don’t worry. The announcement will be amended – as usual.”

As if by command, the public address system hissed to life.

Attention in the area, attention in the area. Correction to a previous announcement. Command Post, out.”

Waldo F. Dumbsquat listened as reveille sounded through the halls – even though it was late afternoon.

“I’m going to try and make it to the latrine,” announced Wags; it was quite an undertaking for a doolie and worthy of acknowledgement.

C/4C Hisazov squared a corner and walked along the wall. He slipped by the squadron commander’s room and made it to a friendly alcove. Only two more upper classmen rooms remained between Wags and his destination. It looked like his luck was going to hold.

“Hey, you man, gazing!”

At the sound of the voice Wags became one giant knotted muscle. He spun around and said, “Sir, my name is not Gazing.”

“Why were you looking around – Were you thinking of buying the place?”

“No, Sir,” replied Wags through twenty chins, “I don’t think I could afford the payments.”

The upper classmen began appearing out of the woodwork. Two hours and 5000 squat-thrusts later, Wags finally made it back to his room.

“Boy, did we tie it up,” puffed Wags.

“What do you mean ‘we’,” chorused Waldo and Regs.

“We are in the wrong squadron. I saw the room assignments, and we’re one floor too high! Let’s move before we get caught up here!”

Immediately Waldo F. Dumbsquat knew that there was only one logical thing to do in this situation – panic. He jumped into his laundry bin and reappeared in a whirlwind of socks and underwear as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always puts sheets on his bed. The Colonel headed straight for the squadron AOC’s office and entered without knocking. 

“Can I do something for you, Colonel?” asked the Captain.

“Yes, Captain, listen up and listen hard,” said Colonel Dumbsquat as he checked for dust in the window runner. “This is the impromptu, wing-wide ORI. You have fifteen minutes to mobilize your squadron and switch rooms with the squadron below you. I want to see your squadron moved-in and operational downstairs at 1730. Now move!”

The AOC ran out of the office, and a triumphant smile turned Colonel Dumbsquat’s lips. But as he took another look at the billeting schedule, he was struck dumbfounded. Not only were the three basics on the wrong floor, they were in the wrong dorm!

Thinking quickly, Colonel Dumbsquat calmly picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

“Dumbsquat here. This is the impromptu, wing-wide ORI. You have fifteen minutes to mobilize your groups and switch dorms…

 

November 1974

The Fairchild diggers and fillers were at it again. C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat watched from a fifth floor window. 

“I wish they hadn’t closed all of the stairwells and bridges,” mused Waldo as he watched a recently-dug hole being filled.

“Yea,” said C/4C “Wags” Hisazov matter-of-factly, “it’s pretty tough to get to class on time now.”

Waldo turned his shaven head from the window and sighed, “I hate to go back to the squadron.”

“Why’s that?” asked Wags with disinterest.

“I think I’m going to get a S.I.,” answered Waldo.

Wags slapped his friend on the back. “Heck, that’s nothing to worry about. I was going to get an S.I. last night, but instead, my element leader made me listen to The Dave and Duane Show!”

“A fate worse than death by tours!” Waldo F. Dumbsquat could not believe such cruelty.

Wags pressed his pudgy face against the window as an instructor, holding his nose, hurried by the two fourthclassmen.

“Must be time for a shower,” decided Waldo.

The two fourthclassmen observed a digger being buried by a careless filler.

“What we need, Waldo, are some great spirit pranks for our class to do during football season. You know, like digging up the Air Gardens and filling them with water. Or we could put the Flat-iron on a sheet.”

“Couldn’t we just plant trees on the parade field, Wags?” Waldo’s stomach growled.

Wags almost fell through the window. “I’ve got it! The whole class will go on a hunger strike!”

Wags’ friend shook his head. “I don’t think that type of spirit would be in good taste. In fact, I don’t think it’s within the regs either.”

“Speaking of food, I sure hope you get some more boodle from your girl back home. I just love the way she makes cotton candy. By the way, Waldo, what’s her name?”

“Purina Dogget. She works for the local S.P.C.A back home,” explained Waldo.

Looking at his Steve Canyon watch, Wags moaned loudly, “Steve’s sidewinder is almost on the twelve. That means there’s only thirty seconds until class starts! We’ll never make it on time!”

Instantly, Form 10 hysteria gripped Waldo. He plunged his puny body into a nearby latrine and emerged faster than a speeding fussball as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always marked his clothes. Sounding off, the colonel projected his thunderous voice to every classroom in Fairchild Hall.

“Attention in Fairchild Hall, attention in Fairchild Hall. This is Colonel Dumbsquat talking now. All fourthclassmen are to report immediately to their squadrons for a mandatory academic shower formation. That is all. Dumbsquat out”

The hallway came alive with moving bodies…all trying to find a way out of the building. Almost immediately, the colonel’s mountainous body telescoped downward to take the pathetic shape of C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat. Waldo grinned to himself about how he had saved the CAS clerk and OPS sergeant a lot of work. His skin itched with anticipation. It would be the first time he had ever taken two showers in one week.

 

December 1974

The jostling of the ski bus woke C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat from is early morning slumber. Snowflakes drifted aimlessly through the cold winter air. Anticipation of his first ski trip would not allow Waldo to return to his sleep. Clutching his box lunch, Waldo glanced around the bus; everyone else was asleep–including the bus driver. Waldo shook his friend, C/4C “Regs” Buch, awake. (Waldo hated to be the only one awake).

“Pssst, Regs!”

The other fourth classman rolled over in the bus seat onto his stomach. “Yea, are we there already?”

“Gosh, no, we haven’t even made it out the gate yet. I just wanted you to tell me again how much fun I’m going to have learning to ski.”

“Lots of fun, Waldo…I’ll show you everything I know,” snored Regs. “It’s easier than breaking a leg.”

The driver awoke long enough to grind the gears into third. The bus rumbled on.

The doolies decided that it was time to check their box lunches. Waldo deftly tore his open first. Inside he discovered a can opener, a cellophane bag full of shepard’s pie, and a piece of Mitch’s Mountain. Waldo also noticed that his milk was on turn-around.

“Well, I’d share mine with you,” sympathized Regs, “but mine says it should be consumed before 0530 and it’s already 0531.”

Wide-eyed, the two freshmen watched as the lunch began to self-destruct in Regs’ lap. In a few minutes, disintegration had claimed everything down to the very last chicken bone.

Mercifully, the bus jerked to a stop. Sleepy cadets stumbled out the door and started toward the slopes with their equipment. Snowy peaks jutted into the blue sky. Skiers of every description roamed the ski runs.

“So, this is Breckenribs–where tree tops glisten and children listen for sleigh bells in the snow,” an eager Dumbsquat commented. His happy expression changed, however, as he looked into the sky.

“What’s that?” pointed out Waldo.

“Oh,” shrugged Regs, “that’s just a flock of buzzards…don’t look so upset, Waldo, skiing has its hazards, too. Besides, those birds save the Ski Patrol a lot of trouble.”

Waldo put on his skis and began to snowplow down the bunny hill. Shaking his head, Regs pushed his friend over to the left. “You’re a natural, so we’re going to get to the ski trail up on the mountain and do some real skiing!”

“What’s a sign with a diamond on it mean?” questioned Waldo as he dropped off the lift.

“I don’t really know,” answered Regs honestly, “I think that it means this is a run used by Group Staff. Anyhow, let’s ski!” With that, he zoomed down the slope.

Waldo shuffled over to the edge of the hill and inspected the steepness; the angle appeared to be 90 degrees to his skis.

“If the Commandant can do it, so can I!” Waldo bravely told himself. He launched himself after his buddy.

Almost instantly panic gripped Waldo. A red streak, resembling a cadet obviously skiing out of control madly careened down at Mach 3 toward Waldo. The impending collision was averted as Waldo caught an edge of his ski and tumbled headfirst into a snow bank. He struggled vainly to free himself. Luckily, a St. Bernard, carrying a wooden keg of “Boonesfarm Zapple”, saw his predicament and came to his aid. The hound sank his teeth into the seat of Waldo’s pants and yanked him out of the snow. The dog didn’t wait for thanks; he merely loped into a nearby forest. Waldo inspected the back of his pants for tears and noticed that his wallet had been lifted along with a good portion of his trou. He also wished that he didn’t have to ski in uniform; he could hardly wait for civilian clothes privileges.

Squatting on the back of his skis, Waldo continued his trek. Mogul after mogul threatened his balance, but miraculously he managed to plunge on. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the ski jump looming in his path. Without warning, his momentum lofted him into space. Two somersaults and a half-gainer later Waldo landed–in the side of a bus. The buzzards began to circle.

As he lay dazed on the ground, the doolie heard an upper class voice. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but only upper classmen can ride the first ski convoy home.

Indignant and in some pain, Waldo jumped into a nearby igloo and emerged as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always marked his coat hangers. The Colonel approached the upper class cadet, looked down at him, and said: “Attention, you man. All fourth classmen will ride the first convoy. That is all, men. Carry on." Then Dumbsquat walked onto the bus. As he sat down, his massive Charles Atlas body assumed its normal puny shape. Regs took up the seat next to Waldo.

“Gosh, this is great. If the colonel hadn’t come along, we’d have to be out in the snow for another three hours. Well, how’d you like your first day of skiing?”

“It was Okay,” said Waldo while munching on some frozen shepard’s pie, “but next time I think I’ll try it with ski poles.”

 

January 1975

C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat and C/4C “Regs” Buch found themselves enjoying the entertaining environment of Arnold Hall. It was Saturday, of course, and the fun center was alive with action. The two fourth classmen sat down at a table in the lounge. Waldo picked up a copy of the Talon and began to read his favorite article “The Secret Life of Don Hall.”

“I like the part where he turns into a civilian,” chortled the doolie as he turned to the Girl of the Month.

Regs and Waldo saw a friend across the room. “Hey, Joe!” they shouted together.

The cadet moved to their table and sat down. C/4C Joe Jock was a strapping young youth from the French Quarter of Elkton, Nevada. Joe was the only cadet in the wing who could participate on three varsity teams, the Rugby Club, and the Bluebards all at the same time. He could also say “two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame-seed bun” in two seconds.

“Boy, it sure was dark outside when I walked over here,” noted Joe.

“You know, that’s due to the fact that the Dark Ages are here,” emphasized Regs gloomily.

“It’s also 2300,” pointed out Waldo, looking at his Steve Canyon watch.

“Well, I came straight over from a fencing practice and I thought I might find you here in the Smack Bar.”

“That’s Mister Bar, Joe,” Regs chided.

Waldo blew the head off of his root beer and took a swig. He wondered if the movie was worth seeing.

“I wonder if the movie is worth seeing?” pondered Waldo.

“What is it tonight?” asked Regs.

“Gidget Goes to the Academy,” Waldo informed him.

“Sounds like an epic,” interjected Joe, “But let’s just sit here and eat a pizza instead.”

“OK,” said Waldo reluctantly, “but we’re going to flip for it. The winner gets the cardboard and the losers have to eat the pizza.”

Regs nodded his head in agreement. “Affirmative,” he said.

I’m entering the squadron model contest,” commented Waldo as he returned with the pseudo-sausage pizza. “I’m building an F-111, but I haven’t been able to finish it.”

“Why not?” chorused his friends.

“Some of the pieces are missing.”

“The propellers,” answered Waldo, biting into the juicy cardboard.

“I sure miss dance lessons,” said Regs wistfully.

“I had to dance with the broom,” Waldo recounted, “and it always stepped on my feet.”

Joe wiggled his fingers. “I’d sure like to play the piano tonight, but there’s a waiting list.”

Joe Jock’s roommate, C/4C Greg Granite casually E and E’d into the lounge. He suddenly appeared from under the doolies’ table.

“Hi, Greg,” greeted Joe. “Why’d you sneak up on us like that?”

“Oh, I’m just practicing for SERE,” shrugged Greg.

Waldo took a letter from his back pocket. 

“Purine is going to come out to see me!” he announced.

“When?” asked Regs.

“In the next issue. Her parents are coming out here for a vacation.

Joe Jock clapped his hands together. “Hey, guys, I forgot to tell you! I got a date with the girl behind the cash register.”

“This is the only girlfriend I’ll ever have,” said Greg Granite as he cleaned his rifle. 

Joe wiggled his fingers again. “I know what we could do. We could go bowling.”

“But my buddy, Warren Heels, told me that the lanes are always full,” Greg reminded as he performed sixteen count rifle manual. 

Smiling to himself, Waldo leaped into a nearby latrine. He emerged nano-seconds later as the imposing figure of Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always returned his library books on time. Confidently, he marched up to the Arnold Hall Command Post. 

“Attention in the Command Post area,” ordered the colonel, “Dumbsquat here.”

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the first classman on duty.

“You bet your Club membership you can. Get on the phone and call the diggers and fillers. Tell them to get over here and build another lane for the bowling alley tonight. That is all. Dumbsquat out.”

As the first classman moved to the phone, the colonel moved to the latrine. With the magic words “Beam me up Scotty,” the doolie, Waldo F. Dumbsquat once again appeared.

“Isn’t it great that the colonel is getting a lane built for us to bowl on tonight?” said Joe Jock as Waldo rejoined them. 

“Well you know the old saying – ‘Don’t; look a gift horse in the mouth’,” quoted Regs.

Waldo looked puzzled. “No, what is it?”

 

February 1975

“Thank goodness it’s Friday,” said C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat drowsily to a classmate. It was another seventh period in chemistry. Amazingly, he had survived the class IRI, and now he sleepily observed his instructor deriving the evening meal from amino acids. Four all-nighters in a row had worn Waldo out, and despite his struggles, the Z monster was overpowering the doolie’s eyelids. Though he was now in cadet sleep position twelve (eyes shut with mouth open), Waldo’s pen continued to take notes. Expertly the fourth classman awoke as the lecture ended. As he gazed down at his paper, he saw that he had written an essay on the merits of using shepard’s pie and mystery meat as construction materials.

“Well, Mr. Dumbsquat, I hope I’m not keeping you up,” commented the instructor.

Waldo said, “Oh no sir, you’re not.”

“Please stand up when you’re feeling sleepy,” instructed the instructor.

The doolie moved to the back of the room and leaned against a rack of test tubes. But as the officer resumed his work, so did the Z monster. Waldo valiantly tried to resist, but he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor asleep–taking the test tubes with him. (The Z monster got two points for the take down).

Waldo’s classmates worked to revive him. “Hydrochloric acid will bring him around,” suggested C/4C Warren Heels.

“I guess you know what this means, Mister Dumbsquat?”

“Yes, sir,” said the doomed Waldo as he began to doubletime.

“Sir, the cargo aircraft are as follows…”

As luck and the author would have it, the class and the S.I ended.

Waldo stepped out into the alcove and found his parka missing. In its place someone had hung a Budweiser sweatshirt and gloves. Happily, the doolie found that a name was stamped on the tag in the collar–“Virgin Wool.” Waldo F. Dumbsquat promised himself to call up Cadet Wool’s squadron later. As Waldo scurried past the Computer Science Lab, he thought he heard the sound track from “The Exorcist.” The chattering of the card eater, the clanking of the line smudger, and the moaning of the entire third class, all sent a shudder through Waldo. A third classman staggered out into the hallway crying “Syntax!” and crumpled in an empty coat closet.

The terrazzo was strangely still as the doolie double-timed down the marble strip towards his squadron. Out of nowhere (well, maybe it wasactually somewhere) a voice hailed Waldo.

“Hey, you-man wearing the Budweiser sweatshirt,” hailed a firstie.

“Yes, sir,” replied the doolie as snapped into a brace.

“Tuck in your gloves.”

“Yes, sir,” breathed a relieved Waldo.

Continuing across the terrazzo, the fourth classman heard the crackling of the loud-speaker system as it came to life.

“Attention in the area…attention in the area. There’s a meeting at the West Doors at the noon meal after take seats for all interested cadets. The trip to the East Doors will be discussed. Bring one dollar. All cadets leaving books in the library may pick them up in Command Post. Bring one dollar. All second classmen interested in the Winnebago deal have a meeting across from wing staff. Bring one dollar. All Seventy-six ring reps have a meeting tonight.”

Waldo wondered why there were so many ring reps. But there were no time for answers. The announcements continued.

“CQs please post silently. CQs are to personally notify. Forty-first squadron please clear your orderly room phone…What do you mean this isn’t Forty-first squadron…Now wait a minute dude–I heard that comment…Oh Yea?!! So’s your old man! If the OPIC is in the area, will he please report to Forth-first squadron. I say again. Command Post out.”

Command Post never ceased to amaze Waldo.

When Waldo finally got to his room, he found his roommate, C/4C “Regs” Buch reading 35-6.

“Hi, Regs. Doing some recreational reading again, I see.”

“Yea. Say, buddy, how about going to the tour formation for me? I’ve got a meeting at the West Doors,” stated Regs.

Waldo had to think a second about the proposal. “Okay,” said Waldo. “But don’t forget to bring one dollar.”

Clad in his best uniform and toting his rifle, “ol’ Betsy”, the doolie ran to the tour formation. He jumped in line and struck a rigid pose. The inspecting official began looking the cadets over.

“Name, please.”

“C/4C Dumbsquat, Waldo F., sir.”

“You’re not on the list, Mister Dumbsquat,” intoned the inspector.

“That is affirmative, sir. I am standing in for my good friend, roommate and foosball partner, C/4C Reg Buch. He couldn’t make it because of a meeting at the West Doors.”

“You’ve got to be hosing me, Dumbsquat,” said an astonished inspector. “Who are you really? Say, aren’t you the guy who was wearing the Budweiser sweatshirt…yea, and you had your gloves untucked, too!” There was a pause. “You’re written up.”

Waldo was so shocked that he fell over the terrazzo railing. Only by assuming the superhuman form of Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who only wore one pair of shoes at a time, was he able to land in the quadrangle unhurt. Jumping back up to the tour pad, the colonel confronted the SOD.

“This is Colonel Dumbsquat talking at you, mister, so listen up. Dismiss this formation and make an announcement to the wing that there’s a leadership lecture down at the Field House ASAP. I’ll be speaking on the subject “Shepard’s Pie and Mystery Meat: The Construction Materials of the Future”.”

The first classman on duty turned to dismiss the tour formation.

“One more thing,” said the colonel, “I want you and the Command Post detail to personally check each squadron for laundry carts. That is all. Dumbsquat out.”

In a nearby latrine, the colonel rearranged his molecules and assumed the pathetic form of C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat. Adjusting his tie, Waldo headed toward the bank. He wanted to pick up a dollar so he could attend the squadron meeting next week.

 

March 1975

C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat walked into the cadet barbershop. He made it a regulation habit to visit the shop once a week; he liked to read the excellent magazines available there such as Life, Look, and The Saturday Evening Post. The doolie waded through the piles of hair on the floor, took a number off the wall, and sat down. Waldo’s service number was 587.

“Number 37, please,” Called ou the barber wearing the tomahawk in his belt.

Waldo shifted uneasily in his chair and glanced at his number again. It still said 587. He waited as the procession cadets passed solemnly through the barber chairs.

“Number 1, please,” called out the barber, patting his German Shepard with a red-tipped cane.

The number cycle had started over. Waldo looked at the card he held again and deduced that his number would not come up for a long time. (His brain was working in ‘Fox mode’ – D.H.). The fourth classman put down the copy of AFCR 514-4 he had been studying. As he stood up to leave, a barber shouted out another number.

“587.”

The astonished doolie settled himself into the chair. The barber went on his coffee break. Waldo looked imploringly around the room. The barber carrying the cane happened to notice Waldo’s plight. 

“What are you doing there?” demanded the barber.

Waldo clanked.

“Well, what do you want?”

An “A” on my chem lab and a free weekend, thought Waldo to himself. “A haircut, please, sir,” remembered Waldo out loud.

“Are you sure you don’t want a transplant; you’re almost bald!” proclaimed the barber. “Talk about nega-burns–you’ve got ingrown hair.”

The doolie felt the entire room looking at him.

“Just give me an outline, please,” said the doolie cheerfully.

“I’ll have to use a grease pencil to draw one in,” retorted the hair expert. “Now hold your head still; don’t move a muscle.” The barber picked up some clippers, which buzzed menacingly and appeared more appropriate for a hedge.

Waldo held his breath as the barber trimmed his eyebrows. He winced as a few lashes were clipped away.

“Darn it, I told you not to move. Now I’ll have to try and even them up!”

Waldo decided not to ask for a shave. When the barber finally spun Waldo around to face the mirror, the fourth classman didn’t like what he saw. But the harried Waldo nodded his approval and escaped from the chair with his life. As he initialed the clipboard, Waldo noticed that the clipped hair had absorbed magically through the protective bib and had mysteriously adhered to his uniform. Some of the more aggressive hairs ha jumped down the neck of his class shirt and were now beginning to itch. Heading for the mailroom, Waldo heard the barber shout, “Number 2, please.”

The mailroom was busy with “Not Yet” activity as cadets cursed their empty mailboxes. Waldo amazingly found a letter pinning his spider to the side of the box. Hurriedly he tore it open.

Dear Waldo F.,

            How are you? I’m fine, thanks, I’m sorry I couldn’t come out this issue, but that’s the breaks of a fourth classman’s life (especially when you’re a character in a magazine). I’m very busy, so you’re lucky I could find time to write you. I’m still working as a dietician and food taster for the S.P.C.A. I’m almost done with my correspondence course in Bacteriological Warfare. Your dog ran away from home. So did your sister, Lardo. McDonald’s arches fell yesterday in a bad windstorm–he needs to wear corrective shoes now. I got a ticket last week for “para-sailing under the influence.”

            Nothing much is happening. Be good.

                        Your girlfriend,

                        Purina Dogget

Waldo’s little heart throbbed with love for his dear Purina. He always enjoyed her letters; they lifted his spirits and gave him strength to go on. The doolie felt a warm glow in his heart that could have easily been gas from the Shepard’s pie at lunch.

Waldo stopped at the shoe shop to pick up some shoes (odd as it may sound). He presented his claim stub to the girl at the counter.

“I’m sorry, but your shoes aren’t ready yet,” announced the girl behind the counter.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but that’s what you said last semester. How long does it take to put taps on a show, anyway?”

The girl behind the counter broke into tears. “Do you think I really want to be here? I don’t really care about your shoes!” she said hysterically. Waving an arm toward the mountain of shoes behind her, she sniffed, “I’m surrounded by heels! Day-in and day-out you guys come in here and shove stinking shoes in my face. And do you know how hard it is to stamp these receipts with your library card? Why won’t one of you cadets take me away from this misery!”

Clutching his stub, Waldo carefully backed out of the shop. He didn’t really want his shoes that badly; besides, he had two more pair just like them. Still, he felt sorry for the girl behind the counter. A determine look crossed Waldo’s face (or maybe it was the Shepard’s pie again) and he leaped into a nearby latrine. Before anyone could say “Gnome”, the doolie emerged as the infamous Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always inspected Second Group. The colonel walked into Command Post and grabbed the P.A. microphone from the startled NCOD.

“Attention all you cadets out there, attention all you cadets out there. Dumbsquat here. Now listen up because I’m a man who never repeats himself. All first classmen who are not engaged are to report to the shoe shop ASAP. Rings and proposals will be carried out. Remember to take a number. That is all. Dumbsquat out.”

His authority unquestioned, Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat walked out of Command Post as the SOD prepared to report to the shoe shop. Mission accomplished, Waldo resumed his puny self, and returned to clean the fingerprints off his door.

********************

“Did you hear the good news?” exclaimed C/4C Regs Buch, spit-shining his floor with a cotton ball.”

“No, where’d you get a radio?” Waldo questioned suspiciously.

“Not that kind of news, Waldo. We did so well on the phase test that we’re going to get civvie clothes, stereos, rings and cars!”

“Who said?”

“Greg Granite found out at rifle practice and told Joe Jock at rugby practice, and Joe told Warren Heels at fencing practice and Warren told me in the south latrine.”

“You shouldn’t tell anyone until it’s official,” Waldo cautioned.

Regs frowned. “What good is a rumor if you can’t spread it?”

 

April 1975

It was a “free” afternoon for Waldo F. Dumbsquat. The doolie donned his best uniform, he swallowed hard; Waldo had to report to the toughest third classman in the squadron, Cadet Staff Sergeant Shriver, for On-Call. Forgetting only his socks, Waldo left his room to report. As he knocked on the third classman’s door, the doolie hoped that he would not klank on his control number.

Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?” came the voice from the door.

“Sir, it is I, Cadet Fourth Class Dumbsquat, Waldo F., reporting for On-Call.

“Just hold on Mister Dumbsquat, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Waldo heard the frantic turning of pages in a copy of Contrails. Then, without warning Cadet Sergeant Shriver emerged from his room.

“Sir, may I ask a question?” asked Waldo.

The three-smoke looked at the doolie puzzled. “You just did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, Dumbsquat, I ask the questions around here.”

“Yes, sir.” Waldo paused to regroup his thoughts. The he said: “Sir, may I make a statement?”

“Did I say you could ask a question?”

“No, sir.”

“Why did you just make a statement, Dumbsquat?”

“No excuse, sir.”

“I don’t want your excuses, Mister!” The third classman looked sternly at the bewildered doolie. “You’d better learn to handle yourself better in pressure situations.”

Waldo was very confused by this conversation. He decided that the upper classman had been sleeping and was not yet awake.

“Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Yes,” replied Shriver.

“Sir, may I make a statement?”

“Yes,” yawned the three-smoke.

Waldo was happy that he had made it through this far of the conversation already.

“Sir, I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“That’s okay, I had to answer the door anyway.” Cadet Sergeant Shriver began inspecting Waldo with a fine toothcomb.

“Well, well, well, Mister Dumbsquat, what’s this I’ve found in my comb?” He showed the fine toothcomb to the doolie.

“Sir, that is dandruff.”

“Not that, Dumbsquat! What’s this I just combed off of your tie?”

“Sir, that looks like Shepard’s pie.”

“And just look at the rest of your uniform; it’s a mess. Your shoes look like you polished them with a chocolate bar!” 

“Sir, may I make a statement?”

“What?”

“Sir, I polished my shoes with a chocolate bar.”

“Well, look at the build up on the toe of that shoe!”

Waldo looked down to where the upper classman was pointing.

“Sir, that is an almond.”

The cadet sergeant decided not to pursue the issue any farther. The On-Call period was almost over. 

“What is the topic of the week for On-Call, Mister?”

“Sir, the topic of the week for On-Call this week is the Space Program.”

“What was America’s best Space Program?” asked Shriver.

The doolie had to think for a moment. It was not an easy question to answer. The question was shrewdly worded and intricate (for Waldo anyway) and required some reflection.

“Sir, America’s best Space Program was Star Trek.”

The third classman looked at Waldo in disbelief. Shaking his head, the cadet said: “What about Lost in Space?”

Waldo was at a loss for words and he didn’t know what to say either.

“Obviously you have not studied your Space Programs very well,” commented Shriver, “so I want you to go to the library reference section and look up everything you can about Star Trek. Report back to me when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Waldo F. Dumbsquat as he saluted smartly, faced about, and walked into the wall.

**************

The library always made Waldo F. Dumbsquat sleepy. Drowsily, the doolie skimmed Jane’s Book of Star Trek. It was intuitively obvious to the most casual observer that Waldo was falling asleep. As he nose-dived into the book, a dream entered his sleep and the librarian heard Waldo say: “Beam me up, Scotty.”

When the rainbow of shimmering light reassembled itself, C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat found himself in the transporter room of the U.S.S. Enterprise. 

“What is it, Mister Spock?” demanded Captain Kirk.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating, Captain, I’ve never seen tricorder readings such as these.”

“Explanation, Mister Scott.”

“I canna explain it, Captain,” shrugged the engineer. “The beastie just beamed aboard.”

“Tie in the ship’s computers and have them scan it, Scotty.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The massive computer banks of the Enterprise probed poor Waldo as he tried to understand where he was.

“Scanning,” sounded the metallic voice of the computer. “Creature is an insignificant whose rank is measured in negative units. Its potential for learning is unlimited and it will graduate in some time approaching infinity.”

Kirk ran over and slapped Waldo on the back. “You’re a doolie aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” coughed out Waldo as he fought to recover his breath.

“Indeed, Captain, that would explain the disheveled uniform and chocolate on the shoes,” commented Spock.

“What could it be that brings you here, laddie?” asked Scotty.

“Sir, I’m gathering information to present during an On-Call session with Cadet Sergeant Shriver,” explained the doolie.

Kirk sighed. “Ah, yes, I remember we had On-Call at the Academy when I was there. On board my ship the yeoman have On-Call once a week. They have to know their job description and the room reg perfectly.”

The science officer moved over to the ship’s captain.

“Sir, may I suggest that you escort our ah…visitor around the ship. It may prove to be quite beneficial and enlightening.”

“Quite logical, Spock,” chuckled Kirk. “By the way, Mister, what’s your name?”

“Sir, my name is Cadet Fourth Class Dumbsquat, Waldo F.”

The starship captain turned to his head engineer. “Scotty, how about taking us on a tour of Engineering?”

“Aye, Captain, but are ya sure we’re doin’ the right thing?”

“I’ll take responsibility for Waldo,” announced Kirk as he rushed off the doolies shoulder boards.

Spock inspected the debris from Waldo’s boards.

“Interesting, Captain. It appears to be…Shepard’s pie. I must take this to the lab for analysis. It appears to contain qualities superior to our deflector shields.”

The trio of spacemen and Waldo, beaming with enthusiasm, left the Transporter Room. Spock disappeared into a nearby lab.

“Hold the vator!” shouted Kirk as he approached the elevator.

Waldo felt a bit uneasy. He had never ridden in an elevator without a laundry cart.

“Sir, could we take the stairs?”

The door to Engineering squeaked as it slid open. Waldo felt it could use a little gun oil. (Waldo always used gun oil; it took the squeak out of his shoes.) He heard a distinct hum.

“I hear a distinct hum–according to the author,” mentioned the fourth classman.

“Aye, lad, that’s the Matter-anti-matter pods,” Mister Scott motioned to the room behind them.

“What’s the matter with the Matter-anti-matter pods?” questioned Waldo as he continued to notice the hum.

A strange Scottish look crossed Scotty’s face.

“Why, nothin’s the matter with the Matter-anti-matter pods that canna be cured by tender lovin’ care and a Form 10. The Enterprise is a fine lady, she is; but you have to keep ‘er in line, laddie.” Scotty walked over and kicked a wall. The hum stopped.

“What’s that grinding, sir?” asked Waldo ad an abrasive sound filled his ears.

“Oh, that’s botherin’ you, eh? The helmsman is shiftin’ gears; the clutch is worn,” said Scotty knowledgeably. “I’m goin’ to have ‘er fixed as soon as we get to the nearest Star Base garage. I think I’ll have to put ‘er up on the rack.”

“Thanks for the tour,” said Captain Kirk as he led Waldo to Sick Bay.

Doctor McCoy was busily tending to a patient as the cadet and captain entered the ship’s hospital. The good doctor looked up and smiled his best southern grin.

“What brings you here, Jim? You aren’t due for a checkup for another three light years.

Kirk pushed Waldo in front of him. “Bones, this is Waldo F. Dumbsquat.”

“So?”

“I want you to show him Sick Bay.”

“Well, young man–and I use that word loosely, what would you like to know?”

“Sir”, why are all doctors named ‘Bones’?” asked Waldo.

“Because it sounds better than ‘Skin’. Any other brilliant questions?”

“Who are you working on now, doctor?” questioned Kirk.

Kirk watched McCoy check the life support readings on the wall above the patient’s bed.

“I asked that doggone Spock to give this man a back rub. He accidentally put a Vulcan pinch on him. Now he’s worse off than before!”

“Well, come on up to the bridge with us, Bones. Something neat might be happening.”

Moving into the nearby elevator, Kirk grabbed a handle. “Bridge,” he said.

The Bridge was a circus of activity. Uhura was sending signals to Star Fleet Command. Sulu and Chekov were watching the visual scanner from the navigation/helm station.

“What’d you get twelve and eight for?” asked Sulu as he punched in a corrective maneuver.

“I vas written up for my officer photo–my Cossack boots weren’t shined,” complained Chekov. He suddenly became quiet as he noticed the captain.

“Be careful, Mister Chekov, you’re already on aptitude probation,” Kirk reminded him.

“But Kiptin!”

“Carry on, Mister Chekov.”

“Yes, sir.” The navigator turned back to the screen.

Waldo moved over to the communications console. “Why does Uhura have that thing in her ear?” he asked. 

That’s a hearing aid; that space static makes you a little deaf.” Answered the captain. “Oh, by the way Waldo, I’ve got something for you.” He pulled out a phaser and handed it to Waldo. “Don’t worry, it’s been demilitarized.”

Waldo noticed the six-inch iron bar in the phaser’s barrel.

“Captain, sensors have picked up a Klingon war vessel approaching,” informed Sulu.

“Go to Security Alert, Mister Sulu.”

Waldo looked around for unauthorized civilians stealing calculators.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” answered Sulu.

Chekov pushed a button. “Deflector shields up.”

“Phaser banks locked on,” reported Sulu.

“Come to heading 76 point 37 mark 2 degrees. Warp factor three,” ordered Kirk. He had already begun to display the leadership qualities which had earned him the nomination as outstanding starship commander for the second makelist.

Suddenly Waldo found himself thrown across the bridge as a blinding flash of light engulfed the Enterprise.

“Captain they’ve scored a direct hit,” reported Sulu.

“Decks 31 thru 56 report damage. Damage control parties are sealing off the leaks,” announced Uhura.

Kirk flicked the intercom switch. “Scotty, I need more power!”

“I’m givin’ ya all she’s got, Captain. But she won’t hold together much longer. The energy’s drainin’ from the shields and the Matter-anti-matter pods are about to blow.” Scotty paused for a moment. “I can give ya impulse power.”

“Well, do what you can, Scotty. Kirk out.”

But the Klingons were not done yet. A few more hits sent the Enterprise into a spin. Waldo noticed that the captain was beginning to turn green.

“Excuse me Waldo,” apologized the captain, “but I have to go to the latrine. I’m getting space sick again.”

As Kirk left the bridge, Waldo looked around for someone to take command. He decided that there was only one thing for him to do. Leaping into the elevator, he emerged seconds later as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always took a thirty-inch step.

“Pull us out of this spin,” ordered Dumbsquat.

Sulu blinked for only a moment and said: “Aye, aye, sir.”

The Enterprise stabilized immediately.

“Open subspace frequencies,” the colonel told Uhura. “I want ship-to-ship communications.”

“Yes, Colonel. All hailing frequencies are open.”

“Attention in the Klingon ship, attention in the Klingon ship. This is Dumbsquat speaking. Now listen up and listen hard. I’m a man who never repeats himself. You aliens are east of I-25 and I hope you unmarked your cards before you left. I’m ordering you to break off this engagement and report yourselves as OTF. That is all Dumbsquat out.”

The enemy vessel faltered in space for a nano-monent and then disappeared into deep space at Warp nine. A cheer rose from the bridge as Colonel Dumbsquat strolled casually into the elevator. A puny Waldo reappeared moments later. So did the captain looking a bit drained. He sat in his chair and began to make an entry into the ship’s log.

“Star date 1975. I averted an intergalactic war with the aid of an unknown Air Force officer. For his courageous action I recommend that he be awarded a free weekend. Also I recommend that Mister Chekov be taken off aptitude probation. Kirk out.”

The doolie smiled to himself. He could sure use a free weekend. Then a look of horror contorted his face. Here he was trillions of light years from home and he had forgotten to sign the locator board!

***************

Waldo shook himself awake. He was in the library again. Hurriedly, he prepared to leave the library; hopefully nobody would know that he had left the academy. As he passed the reference desk, he heard the librarian struggling with her typewriter.

“I know it’s electric, but it has such a loud hum,” she wailed.

Waldo calmly walked over and gave it a good, swift kick.

The hum stopped.

 

May 1975

C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat stepped cautiously into the Dental Clinic. The doolie dreaded these dental exams; he had lived with a fear of teeth ever since he had been shocked by his electric toothbrush. Waldo marveled at the cleverly deceptive waiting room. The room was a tranquil setting – complete with deep cushion chairs and pleasant background music. But Waldo was not that easily deceived (but you could fool him a lot); he knew that for any cadet who ventured behind the heavy door, there awaited agony, torture, and dental floss. Taking note of the other cadets in the room as he gazed around, Waldo observed many of them glancing at their watches and mumbling about missing classes. The fourth classman decided that a number system like the one used in the barbershop should be initiated.

Marching up to the appointment window, Waldo saluted smartly and reported to the sergeant on duty.

“Sir, Cadet Fourth Class Dumbsquat, Waldo F. reports as ordered.”

“Who ordered you to report here, Mister?” asked the startled sergeant.

“Sir, my mother directed me to report for a checkup every six months or 108 demerits, whichever comes first.”

The sergeant returned the doolie’s salute. “Well, what can I do for you, Dumbsquat?”

Waldo pondered for a moment, but his mother’s words came back to him. “Sir, I’d like a checkup.”

“Okay, Dumbsquat, I’ll get your file. What class are you? Are you a senior?”

Waldo blushed brightly and grinned sheepishly.

“No, sir, I’m a freshman.”

“Well, you don’t have to grin sheepishly at me. Do you do everything the author tells you?”

“Sir, if I don’t do what he says,” whispered Waldo to the sergeant, “this article will become The Secret Life of Regs Buch!”

The clerk at the window shrugged. “I can’t seem to find your file here. How do you spell your name?” questioned the clerk, as he rummaged through a cabinet and his shirt pockets.

“Sir, it is spelled with a ‘D’.”

“Ah, here it is under ‘W’ for Waldo. Now fill out these forms like the examples on the tables.” The sergeant handed Waldo an armful of forms.

Filling out the forms with a pen in each hand, the doolie was done in record time – two hours thirty-seven minutes. He returned the book he had written to the man at the window.

“Now go to room ’C’ for some X-rays,” said the sergeant.

Nervously, Waldo went through the heavy door. He was suddenly confronted with a maze of rooms. The fourth classman decided to try the room labeled ‘C’. Inside the doolie met a technician who smiled sinisterly. The man, clad in a white suit with a black mask, seated Waldo in a chair and secured the doolie’s wrists and ankles with leather straps.

“They’re so you don’t squirm when I throw the switch!” the technician laughed wickedly.

Waldo began to protest, but the man stuffed film and gauze into the doolie’s mouth. With panic-stricken eyes, Waldo watched the man step behind the lead shield. Worriedly, the fourth classman realized that he didn’t get a shield. So he did the next best thing: he closed his eyes.

“Aw, c’mon!” complained the man, “You blinked, Dumbsquat. Now I’ll have to take another picture.”

The X-ray machine sounded like a snowplow scrapping the terrazzo as it took a picture of Waldo’s teeth.

“I’ll have these developed in a flash,” commented the man in the white suit as he released the doolie’s bonds. “Now report to room ‘D’.”

“Sir, I was wondering if I could get some 8x10s made of those pictures to send to my mother and my girlfriend, Purina Dogget.

“Sure, Dumbsquat,” snickered the man, “and I’ll put them in gold frames for you.”

“Thanks,” said Waldo as he looked for room ‘D’. Strangely enough, it was right next to room ‘C’. Peeking around the corner, Waldo discovered another fourth classman sitting in the dentist chair. Waldo noticed that he was being fitted for a boxing mouthpiece. But something was obviously wrong; the doolie in the chair was struggling to get his mouth open. 

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mister Dumbsquat. We have a bit of a problem here,” explained the dentist, “I left the plaster for the tooth-mold in his mouth too long; I think it’s rock hard now.”

After further examination of the problem the dentist said: “Looks like we’ll have to blast.”

As he turned to get some plastic explosives, the stricken doolie escaped out the window. It was only a short twenty feet to the ground below.

Leaning out the window the dentist called after the fleeing fourth classman, “Don’t forget to eat at the soft-foods table!”

Waldo made a break for the window, but the dentist caught him and dumped him into the chair. Immediately Waldo was blinded by a spotlight being directed into his eyes. He could feel himself developing a tan. The dentist put a suction hose into Waldo’s mouth, and it began to attack his tongue. With both hands and a mirror in his mouth, the dentist began to examine his teeth.

“How are you, Mister Dumbsquat? Where are you from? Do you like it here? Who do you want in the Oakland double-header tomorrow? The dentist didn’t bother to wait for answers. It didn’t matter – Waldo couldn’t say anything anyway. He was busy evading the hose and gagging on three fingers and a thumb.

“Just look at that plaque!” exclaimed the tooth doctor.

Waldo looked around on the wall in front of him, but he didn’t notice anything.

“I’m talking about your teeth, Dumbsquat! It’s like pulling teeth to get you cadets to brush them. Ah ha! Speaking of pulling teeth, here’s one that’s got to go.”

Waldo shuddered and accidentally bit off one of the dentist’s fingernails.

“I’m sorry, but we ran out of anesthetic, Dumbsquat. I’ll get you a bullet to bite on.”

Again the dentist turned to where he kept the explosives and bullets. Waldo saw his chance. Leaping into a nearby sink, the doolie transformed nano-seconds later into the infamous Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who always used dental floss.

“Attention in room ’D’, attention in room ‘D’. This is Colonel Dumbsquat speaking. Listen up and listen hard, because I’m a man who never repeats himself.” He pointed at the dentist, “You man – report to the hospital ASAP and personally remove all of your wisdom teeth. Here’s a bullet for you to bite on. That is all. Dumbsquat out.”

As the dentist rushed from the room, the colonel said, “Take the window, it’s faster.”

When the tooth doctor dropped out of sight, Colonel Dumbsquat stepped out of the sink and decomposed into the shape of C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat. Relieved, the fourth classman walked into the waiting room. He had escaped! But he suddenly stopped and groaned, clutching his jaw.

“What’s the matter, Dumbsquat?” asked the sergeant.

“Sir, I’ve got a toothache!”

“Here,” smiled the sergeant, “fill out these forms.”

 

June 1975

“Squadron atten-hut!”

“Aw C’mon, Dumbsquat, it’s just me, the janitor.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Clean,” replied the embarrassed C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat.

The custodian paused for a moment and leaned on his broom. “Why don’t you report around to your element sergeant and tell him you didn’t know Janitorial Staff. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir,” said the doolie as he secretly hoped that Mr. Clean didn’t have any input on his military order of merit. The janitor continued down the hallway and began inspecting rooms.

Waldo heard him say in a firstie’s room: “Look at this grossed out trash can! I won’t empty this thin until it’s spotless!”

Reflecting upon his performance so far, Waldo noted that being OJT Cadet-in-Charge of Quarters was not as easy as it appeared to be. He had already read the CG regulation – it rivaled the Guttenberg Bible in length and size. The doolie didn’t really mind the 50-page checklist he was supposed to follow, but he wished it hadn’t been written in Latin. The busiest part of his day so far had been rousing all of the upper classmen on the Wake-Up Roster; it took poor Waldo a full half hour to rouse the cadets who wanted to wake up at 0700.

Cadet Staff Sergeant Shriver arrived from his distribution run to the Group.

“They had Shepard’s Pie for breakfast at the doughnut line again,” complained the third classman.

Waldo gulped.

“Sir, should I make an appointment at the Dispensary for you?”

“No, Mister Dumbsquat, I want to get well. Has the janitor turned in his inspection discrepancy list, yet?”

“No, sir,” reported the fourth classman, “but I understand that he doesn’t think our parade trou are white enough.”

“Speaking of trou, Dumbsquat, it’s time, according to the checklist, for me to inspect your appearance.” (Shriver was a Latin major – D.H.)

Waldo snapped into a brace and only popped two buttons off his Alpha blouse. He rolled his shoulders back and down so that they touched his waist. Ramming his chin in, the doolie was able to scratch the back of his neck with his whiskers. Satisfied with his pose, Waldo waited to be inspected.

“One of these days you’re going to ‘put out’ and surprise everyone, Mister. Can’t you pop off more than two buttons?”

“Sir, if I pop off any more I’ll have to report to my honor representative.”

The three smoke appraised Waldo. “Why aren’t you wearing your National Defense?”

“Sir, may I make a statement?”

“I suppose so, but remember that any statement can and will be used against you in a CDB.”

“Sir, I thought you should know that I am wearing my ribbon.”

“Well, where is it?” asked Shriver.

“Sir, it is next to my heart which is where I was instructed to put it.”

“Dumbsquat,” droned the third classman, “you’re supposed to wear it next to your heart on your blouse, not your undershirt.”

“Sir, may I make a uniform correction?”

“Go ahead.”

It took Waldo 45 minutes to sew the buttons back on his blouse.

“Well, it’s time to inspect the squadron for fires,” informed Cadet Sergeant Shriver. “Here are the keys.”

Waldo was tired when he returned from checking all of the wastebaskets in the squadron for fires. He started to hand the keys back to the CQ. Shriver threw up his hands into the air.

“No, you keep them. It’s now time for laundry cart inspection.”

“But sir, how do you inspect a laundry cart?” questioned Waldo.

“Dumbsquat, you have to run around the squadron looking for laundry carts.”

“Yes, sir,” moaned the doolie.

It took Waldo a long time to open every room again. He only turned up one cart; a second classman was making it into a Datsun station wagon.

As Waldo arrived back at the CQ desk, the Cadet-in-Charge smiled.

“Good, you’re just in time to make a security inspection. Be sure to pull real hard on the trunk room door. Sometimes it’s not locked well.”

Trudging around the squadron once again, the doolie wished that the newspaperman was around to give him a lift. Waldo was getting to know the squadron area so well now that he could probably walk around it with one eye closed. Carefully stepping through the barbed wire and minefield in front of the trunk room, Waldo tested the door. It seemed secure, but the fourth classman remembered that he should pull harder. As he jerked violently upon the door, it suddenly unlatched and slammed Waldo into the wall. The pain didn’t bother the doolie until he regained consciousness. He hobbled back to the CQ.

Cadet Shriver looked up from his comic book. “Now to perform the most important duty a CQ has…”

“Sir, are we going to look for a sit-in?”

“No, Dumbsquat, we’re going to do something even more important than that – we have to call the Coke Man.”

Out of the corner of his ear, Waldo heard someone lurking at the far end of the squadron. The shadowy figure had entered one of the alcoves. C/4C Dumbsquat seized the phone from the startled third classman and dialed Command Post.

“Hello, is this who I am speaking to?...It is I, C/4C Dumbsquat, Waldo F. We have an intruder here in the squadron. Please sound the Security Alert!”

Hanging up, Waldo ran down the hall and grabbed the mysterious man. To his surprise, he found he was detaining the Commandant.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t recognize you without your aide!” apologized Waldo.

“Good show of security, Mr. Dumbsquat,” commended the general, “but would you please call off these doolies. Their rifles are making me nervous.”

“Cancel Security Alert, Mr. Dumbsquat,” ordered Cadet Sergeant Shriver as he joined Waldo.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can we help you, General?”

“You sure can, Mister Shriver. I got a call from your janitor concerning parade trou and I thought I should follow up. Please prepare your squadron for inspection. If you have any questions, call Comm-line.”

As the CQ began to unlock doors, Waldo leaped into a nearby latrine. Nano-seconds later the doolie entered the hallway as Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat, a man who never took food out of Mitchell Hall – no matter how well packaged it was. This would be a delicate situation for the Colonel; he had never confronted someone who outranked him before.

“Good morning, General,” greeted Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat.

“Ah, Colonel Dumbsquat. So we finally meet at last. I’ve read so much about you; I was afraid that the author wasn’t going to let us meet this year,” the Commandant said.

“We should get together and talk over old times at the Point, sir,” offered the colonel.

“When were you at the Military Academy, Colonel?”

“I think it was last year, sir,” commented the junior officer, “I was on my way to Allentown, Pennsylvania and I stopped in at the Point to take the tour.”

“Oh,” replied the senior officer.

“Let me assure you, sir, that I am on top of the problem here in the squadron and I will have the cadets leaping and pinging off the walls in no time at all.”

“Very good, Colonel,” said the satisfied general. “In that case, I’ll be going back to the shop. I have some very important business to attend to.” 

“What’s that?” questioned the colonel.

“I have to call the Coke Man/”

***************

Colonel Waldo F. Dumbsquat paused only for a moment after the general had left.

“Attention in the area, attention in the area. Now listen up and listen hard, because I’m a man who never repeats himself – ah, repeats himself. Everyone is to stop letting the janitors inspect the rooms. That is all. Dumbsquat out.”

“Sir, do you have any special instructions?” asked Cadet Sergeant Shriver.

“I want you to stop using abbreviations ASAP, Mister Shriver,” the colonel told him, “especially when you’re training an OJT CCQ.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Now I must inspect the latrine.” Announced Dumbsquat as he flung the nearby door against the wall. The simply amazing transformation took place once again and the puny form of C/4C Waldo F. Dumbsquat appeared in the squadron. Five telephones began to ring at various places around the area.

“Answer those phones, Dumbsquat,” directed the CQ. “Remember: if it’s for a cadet, check the foosball room, the weight room, the SAR, the ping pong room, the Field House, and the South Gate. If you still can’t find him, look in his room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, Dumbsquat, when you get back, I want you to call the Coke Man.”

“Sir, may I make a statement?”

“What is it?” asked Shriver.

“The Commandant is going to make that call, sir.”

 

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