RETURN WITH HONOR

CHAPTER I

Article I- I am an American fighting in the forces that guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.

Bingo loved to fly. Soaring above the lush green Earth he felt powerful and free. The F-4 Phantom hummed beneath him and the slightest touch on the throttle enabled his jet to go where he commanded. It was an ironic position for a man whom for so long had no more control over his life than a leaf blowing on the wind has control where it goes.

There was no doubt the Navy was good for Al. The Navy didn't care where you came from or what your family did. The Navy didn't care that when you stepped off the bus at Bancroft Hall the suit you wore had holes in it or that your shoes were a size too big; you were about to take your first steps into the brotherhood of the sea.

It was a long journey even to get on that bus. The Navy recruiter spoke to the assembled group of bored looking boys. Al's eyes like most of the audience glazed over at the talk of ships and seaports far from home. The only place Al wanted to be far from at the moment was this blasted auditorium, but his ears perked up when he heard the Petty Officer talk about flying. Al sat enthralled as the man talked about jet planes and carrier take offs and landings. At the end of the assembly Al pushed his way to the front of the auditorium. He ignored the other boy's cries as he shoved everyone past. Red faced and panting he blurted out, "I want to fly! How do I get to fly?"

Machinist Mate First Class Matthew Scott sized up the small Italian boy standing in front of him. He noted the threadbare shirts, worn shoes and patched pants. Scoffing slightly to himself he thought, "Fly, this boy probably doesn't know enough to become a deckhand." Maintaining his military bearing he collected his thoughts before lowering an intense gaze at the earnest young man before him, "The Navy only allows the best to fly. You think you are the best Mr.…?"

Al stuck out his jaw, "Calavicci…Albert Calavicci but everyone calls me Al."

"Well Al, you can enlist and try for flight school. You can go to college on an ROTC scholarship or you can try for the Naval Academy."

"Which is the best?"

"Well, the Naval Academy is the hardest. They only take in a very small pool of applicants and it is very difficult to even compete. Your grades have to be among the best and you have to be of sound mind, good physical health, and good character, but if you want to fly that would be the best way." Petty Officer Scott figured the young man would get the hint and set his sights on more realistic goals like enlisting. He didn't know Al Calavicci.

Father Padric O'Brien had a reputation for being tough but fair. He believed it was his God given duty to guide the young men in his care to the best way for them. He believed in discipline and hard work and that each boy should be put on a path what would make them successful men in life. Some boys he guided towards the priesthood, some towards higher education, some vocational training, and some towards the military. Al Calavicci he had on a course to become a mechanic. The boy showed aptitude for the mechanical but with no family support to count on Father O'Brien thought it foolish to encourage thoughts of college for the young orphan.

He wasn't unfamiliar with Al. The boy landed at least once a week in his office for some fight. Al was hot tempered, quick to anger, and good with his hands. Too good as it turned out; Al's hands had landed him more than once in Juvenile Detention. When Sister Mary told him Albert was here to see him, Father O'Brien braced himself for the sight of a bruised, bloody, and wholly defiant Al. What he didn't expect was the bounding mass of energy that exploded into his office.

"Father I want to go to the Naval Academy. The recruiter said that I could go to the Academy and that the Navy would let me fly jet. I want to fly jets." The words tumbled out in a torrent before the young man even reached the edge of the priest's desk.

"Woah son, slow down, what's this about jets?"

Al collected his thoughts, "The Navy recruiter said that if I wanted to fly jets the best way to do it was to apply and go to the Naval Academy. He said the Navy would teach me to fly jets. He said it was the best way. I want to fly jets Father."

"The Naval Academy is very difficult. You need good grades, recommendations, and no misconduct."

Al felt his heart sink. He knew Father was referring to Juvie, "If I get good grades and stay out of trouble I could get a recommendation right?" Al's brown eyes bore directly into the priest's.

"Alright Albert, the term is almost over. You will need new classes, a sport and," the priest pointed his finger directly at Al, "No misconduct at all. No more stealing, no more trouble at all. The first bit of trouble and I will pull any and all support. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes Father, I promise. Thank you."

It wasn't easy. Math and science replaced shop in Al's schedule and he struggled through advanced classes in History, English, and Languages. Al was determined though; he stayed late and began to impress his teachers with his work ethic. They offered their time to coach Al in his subjects helping him through the difficult ideas and concepts. Al found he had a natural affinity for Math and Science. The formulas and numbers made sense to him. Math was like a car engine, if one part was out of order the thing didn't work. Father O'Brien also got Al started in Track and Field. Early malnutrition had stunted Al's growth slightly so football was out as a sport, but Al was fast and Track seemed like a logical fit. He excelled at the long sprints and hurdles becoming first city and then State champion in both the 110 meter and 400 meter hurdles. In his junior year Al sat the College Boards. His scores put him among the top students in the country and soon schools began to recruit him. Some offered athletic scholarship, some offered academic scholarships but Al wanted the Naval Academy. He prayed every day to Jesus and Mary and all the saints that the letter would some and when the letter arriving inviting Al into the Naval Academy Class of 66 he openly wept with pride and joy.

Al stepped off the bus and immediately knew what Dorothy felt like in Oz. Everywhere he looked midshipmen were marching or running in cadence. Al hurried along feeling not so unlike a cattle being herded. Indoc Day was just the first step. Tomorrow started Plebe Summer, a six week course in hell for the Candidates. The days bled together as Candidate Calavicci endured the rigors of Plebe Summer. It was hard, it was meant to be but Al took to the regime easily. Order and discipline were expected at the orphanage and the early training served him well now. Stand up straight, make your bed with sharp corners, tight blankets, keep your room clean, double time and sound off. Soon Plebe Summer ended and Candidate Calavicci became Plebe Calavicci.

Academically the coursework was difficult and Al struggled but he put his willpower to work once again and dug deep. The photos of jets he kept in his wall locker gave him inspiration when his spirits were down and slowly his graded improved.

It wasn't always easy for Al to find his way. The Navy as a whole might not care where a young man came from but there were those cadets who made it known they didn't think Al was of the right stock to be at the Academy. This made Al's blood boil in outrage. He had earned his place the same as any other midshipman. Some midshipmen went out of their way to make it hard for Al and one day in the Dining Hall it boiled over.

Plebe Robert Jenkins was one of those who felt Al didn't deserve the right to befoul the Academy's grounds. The son of a Congressman he was being groomed to go into the family business like his father and his grandfather before him. The product of Prep Schools, Jenkins smirked and made jokes about Al's poor background. This sort of behavior one expected from the Firsties. From the seniors you had to take it, hazing and abuse was expected but Al refused to accept crap from a fellow Plebe. One day as Al was marching to his place in the dining hall he felt his foot catch and Al fell flat on his face. He got up and saw Jenkins' smirking face looking back at him. Al knew this wasn't no accident and lit on the now shocked Plebe with the full fury of his anger and hate. It took four men to drag the screaming Italian off the other man. The midshipmen dragged Al to his room and locked him inside.

"I should throw you out," the Superintendent stared straight at Al, his eyes boring holes at the young man standing rigidly at attention before him, "but I'm not going to. Based on your academic record and the statements from your fellow classmates I am going to give you one more chance. You're on probation for the rest of the semester. You also must complete five hundred hours in the Yard and starting Monday you are to report to Coach Thompson. Seems a man with hands like yours should put them too good use. Congratulations in addition to track your now a member of Navy's boxing team. Dismissed!"

Al saluted sharply, left faced and exited the office quickly. Slumping against the wall he exhaled the breath he had been holding for the last two hours. 500 hours was an unheard of punishment. Al and his LPCs were about to become quite good friends.

It was the last incident. 500 hours under full dress was not Al's idea of a good time and besides the Captain was right. Between track, boxing and schoolwork Al had no time to get into any trouble. Boxing served Al well. Whenever he got frustrated or angry he headed to the gym and vented on the speed bag. Between sports and a late growth spurt Al began to fill out nicely. The ladies certainly took notice and Al never lacked for a date. His initial shyness went away quickly as he worked his Italian charm on the ladies. His exploits with the ladies became legendary and after one particularly successful night Al earned the nickname Bingo.

Those were good times, hard times for sure Al reflected but they had prepared him for this. Flying his F4 Phantom Fighter Jet over the lush Vietnamese canopy Al could almost forget there was a war on below. Up here Al skated above the anger, above the bombs and bullets but he never let himself forget the dangers that lurked below. He knew as all pilots did that there was a risk every time he ducked down to drop a payload of bombs or strafe the jungle with machine gun fire. It was the danger and thrill that kept Al at the top of his game. Al lived to fly but more so he lived to get back to base, smoke a cigar and corrupt the pretty USO and Red Cross volunteers. Al was a happily married man, marrying his college sweetheart Beth right after graduation but he loved to pour on the charm for the ladies.

"Alright Jay we are almost on target. Stay loose, stay sharp and the last one back buys the first round. Al touched the picture of Beth he kept taped to his console and began his descent. He heard the rhythmic sounds of the anti-aircraft fire bursting all around him. This was Al's 20th mission. A few more runs, a few more months and Al would rotate back to the States and back to Beth.

He never saw the missile as it tore through his right wing. Cursing to himself Al pulled the ejection handle and rocketed into the sky. An ejected pilot was no longer considered a combatant but the VC didn't play by the rules. The bullet tore through Al's left shattering the bone. He crashed down onto the rice paddy below. Helpless he lay tangled up in his parachute as angry villagers advanced on him with sticks and fists. His last image before succumbing to the darkness was the face of an old woman.

A/N- The Code of Conduct was amended in 1977 and adopted in its present wording in 1988. I don't have the wording used during the 1960's. I have also deduced the ages based on QL episodes though Sam's and Al's past are ever flexible. Standard Operating Rules Apply. I don't own Quantum Leap or the character of Al (Albert) Calavicci. The show and all canon characters belong to their respective owners. I do own any characters and any story line not appearing in the show. It is my intellectual propery, please don't steal. I have made a fair effort to be exacting with regards to Navy items and procedures. I apologize for any slips or non time period specific mistakes. LPCs BTW are Leather Personnel Carriers otherwise known as boots. Please read and Review. Thank You.