The Cadet Chapter 5, a ncis fanfic

Chapter 5

It was damned cold outside; Tony could tell before his feet even hit the floor as Reveille sounded. Man, what was it with this place? Was all that money the parents were paying not enough to heat the frigging barracks? Of course, the barracks of every military academy seemed to be required by law to be built around 1901, and no building that old was gonna be any good at keeping itself the temperature you wanted. They were, however, excellent at doing the opposite.

Tony was relieved to find there was no HC painted on his door this morning. He hated those creeps, but he was also concerned about them, even if he wasn't gonna admit that. None of the boarding schools, even the military ones, that Tony had been to before had featured any kind of eerie group of boys hell-bent on running the school their way. Honor Corps was orderly, efficient, cold. Obsessed with control and indifferent to bullying, if not supportive of it. They had a lot of power at this school.

Tony had seen some demonstrations of it, some indications of how they could mark you and let the whole Corps know you were in their sights. Many boys shied away from Tony, didn't want to speak to him. More than a few boys would refuse to discuss the subject of Honor Corps entirely, or quickly dismiss it when it came up. There were numerous cadets who also insisted it was all rubbish, that no such thing existed, that there was no proof.

After all, anybody could hear the stories and decide to spook some people. A group like that didn't have to actually exist for you to commit a few acts of vandalism on doors and uniforms in order to scare somebody.

Privately, Tony was on the side of the believers. He just had a gut feeling that this bunch was for real. But even if they weren't, he'd sure made some enemies. Some of them Tony was proud to have made- he hated guys like Golan, St. Esprit, and D'Arbanville right back- but he did have a sense he had maybe pushed too hard, too fast.

Tony was not gonna admit it, but Dad was probably right for once. He'd made himself right. The way he'd sounded over the phone wasn't encouraging. Sure, the boneheaded 'businessman' would surely arrange yet another favor with a private school admissions officer if Tony got run out of here. But maybe not. People had limits and it seemed like Dad might finally be paying attention enough that he was reaching his.

Next year, Tony was supposed to be going to some college somewhere, or whatever. He had rarely given that a moment's thought over the past few years, but now it had crept up on him and stood close at hand. Either Tony graduated and went on to the next thing, whatever that was, or he would become that old guy in some classroom somewhere, still in high school at 19 or 20.

What was gonna happen, anyway? Tony didn't like thinking about those things. He just wanted to have fun and irritate people. But high school didn't actually last forever; it just felt like it did. The end was coming and Tony was probably going to need a diploma. As much as he despised this place, Coach Tanner and Marshall were probably right. Tony needed to graduate somewhere, and he'd wound up at Remington just as time began to run out. This dump was as good a place to graduate as any.

Fuck. That meant staying. A whole year of military school. God-damn it.

At least the basketball team seemed decent enough. They were all right guys. Marshall was a real military dick, but this school loved him and he was a nice counterbalance to the rest of the jerks who occupied the top of the school's rank slots. As they got the room ready for inspection, Tony asked Travis about who did what and all, making sure his previous knowledge of cadet ranks and positions held true here.

Sure enough, Marshall was the senior enlisted cadet, advisor to the brigade commander about the needs, condition, and so on of the Corps of Cadets. Here, with a brigade of around five hundred boys, that meant keeping track of a lot of people.

The rest of the pricks up at Brigade had the same kind of jobs Tony knew they did normally. Most everybody had an assistant or two, given the scale of responsibility that the brigade staff had.

Tony decided to play it safe during the inspection. He startled Long by speaking to the cadet captain politely, and he set his side of the room up exactly as Travis showed him. The kid may have been overweight, but he wasn't a slob. He knew plenty about keeping the room straight, and didn't have a problem with giving Tony pointers on anything he wasn't sure about.

Long was strict and businesslike, but he was largely indifferent toward the occupants of Room 353. When he noticed Tony wasn't mouthing off and just responded neutrally to questions or comments, Long reacted in kind. He didn't seem especially fond of Tony, but he held no particular grudge, either. And he didn't seem as interested in bullying Travis Phelps as some of the other boys were.

At Mess I, Tony impulsively steered away from his company's tables and headed on over toward the brigade staff table, the second-most-exalted table in the mess hall short of the High Table itself. The school's senior cadet, Jesus Christ Himself IV, held court amidst some eleven other boys. Some of them were noticeably younger sophomores and even a freshman, serving as lieutenants as assistants to some of the staff officers.

D'Arbanville was talking with a pale-faced boy who had the same pointy chin, and a similar type of short, neat blond hair. That boy's nametag read HOLT.

Golan was arguing something to do with the World Cup with St. Esprit, while a couple of those lieutenants leaned in, eager to hear every word. St. Esprit and Golan noticed someone approaching, looked up, and simultaneously asked "What the hell do you want?"

"Jinx, you owe me a beer," Tony said.

"Get outta my face, DiNozzo," St. Esprit ordered.

"I wanna talk to Marshall," Tony said honestly.

"Looking for me?" a familiar voice said, right behind Tony.

"Jesus!" Tony exclaimed, jumping and tossing his food around on his tray. The boys at the brigade staff all laughed.

"DiNozzo, how about we take that spare table over there and talk, huh?" Marshall offered, already steering Tony towards an unoccupied table a few feet away.

"Yeah, that'll give my heart a chance to recover," Tony said.

"And our nerves!" St. Esprit jeered at him. "Go on, Marshall, go. We'll figure out the fucking Color Guard situation later."

The two boys moved over to the empty table and sat down. Tony laughed, shaking his head. "You gotta stop doing that, Marshall."

"Doing what?" the redhead asked, liberally salting his scrambled eggs.

"Scaring me. You just about killed me when you got in Coach's car like that. And did you really have to walk up behind me and not say a word just now?"

"Aw, hell, DiNozzo," Marshall said, "announcing myself would take all the fun out of it."

"For you," Tony said. "not for me."

"Who said I was talking about fun for you?" Marshall shot back. "I was talking about fun for me!"

They both had a good laugh over that. Tony started on his own food and was surprised to find it wasn't as bad as before. It was that, or he was getting used to it.

"So what was that about the Color Guard?" Tony asked after a couple minutes.

"Oh, that dumbass LeBlanc got himself kicked out and we didn't exactly have a bunch of replacement flag bearers standing around to take his place." Marshall gave Tony a glance. "You're lucky you didn't go with him. Marshall and Golan sure wanted you to."

"So why didn't they use their creepy little club to do it?" Tony asked, snorting derisively.

"Oh, that. Let's say they… stayed their hand, Tony."

"Honor Corps did?"

"Yeah. Or they will, anyway. Coach said things are gonna change at this school. He means it. You didn't hear this from me, but I want that to happen. I'm backing him on that. So they know better than to go charging in when there's people like me and Coach around."

"So how are you friends with them, anyway?" Tony asked curiously, glancing at the brigade staff table. D'Arbanville half-turned to look at Tony while combing his blond hair a moment. He gave Tony a dirty look and returned to talking to Holt.

"Who says I am?" Marshall replied calmly, picking up his glass of orange juice.

"You live with them. You're on Brigade staff with them. They like you even if they hate me."

"Everybody here likes me. Even you, DiNozzo. And you've been trying really hard to not like anybody."

"Who says I was doing that?"

"Come on, DiNozzo. The whole big tough-guy, I-don't-need-anybody act. I see it all the time. You're not the first guy with crappy parents to walk in here and start acting like that."

"One crappy parent," Tony corrected him.

"What?" Marshall said, setting the glass down.

"I said I have one crappy parent. My Mom's not like that."

"Oh, you gonna see her over Thanksgiving Break or whatever?"

"No," Tony said. He hesitated, then added, "She's dead."

Marshall looked up, startled. "Oh. I'm sorry. Why are you telling me this? This is actually kind of awkward."

"Well, my Dad's an idiot, but my Mom was fine. I don't want you talking about her like she's as bad as my Dad is."

"Makes sense." Marshall paused, then cleared his throat. "Uh, so you wanna graduate from this dump or what?"

"I can't believe you called it that," Tony said, grinning.

"You know I don't mean it the same way you do," Marshall said. Then he paused dramatically. "Or do I?"

Tony laughed. "So what's the deal, then?"

"No deal," Marshall said. "You keep your fucking head down and your nose clean. Shine your shoes and brass, keep out of trouble. Well, as much as possible."

"Even girl trouble?"

"That you go looking for."

Tony laughed again, feeling better than he had since he'd arrived here. He found Marshall easy to like. He was even starting to trust him, going out on a limb and telling him the deal with his mother and all. And it seemed like both of them had a thing for the ladies, which was definitely good common ground to have.

"I don't wanna just turn into some military dick, Marshall," Tony said. "That's not me."

"Who said you had to do that?" Marshall asked rhetorically. "I don't mean you gotta be a fanatic. Just do what Fussy expects any cadet to do. It's not that hard, man. I promise."

Tony thought about that. He loathed all this bullshit military school crap. The early wakeups, the lousy food, the twelve different uniforms, the strict rules on damn near everything you did or could possibly do. Marshall seemed to love it, but he also wasn't a colossal prick like a lot of his buddies on Brigade Staff were.

"So how do I know you're not one of them?" Tony asked suddenly.

"I was in the bottom five-percent of my class freshman year," Marshall answered.

"So what?"

"It means I'm stupid, or I was. And the Corps won't take anyone stupid."

"Really? You get some bad grades three years ago and they won't pick Muscles Marshall just for that?"

The redhead laughed. "Yeah, well, I'm also an enlisted cadet, and I'm adopted."

"Huh?" Tony replied. "What's that got to do with it?"

"You notice how the rest of the guys you can think of who'd be in Honor Corps all have families? Like, actual families? Josh and I got no family. The Corps don't like to take homeless losers. And they only take kids who're commissioned officer cadets, and I've stayed an NCO for six years."

"What's an NCO again?"

"Non-commissioned officer. Sergeants. I'm the big dog, Brigade Sergeant Major."

Tony shrugged. "So, do I gotta salute you, and stuff?"

"Don't you ever," Marshall said, shaking his head. "Never salute a sergeant. The cadets around here will sometimes think that's funny, but if Gunny Ellison or Sergeant Major Ambrose sees you, they'll have a talk with you about it and you aren't gonna like it."

"I don't like a lot of things around here."

"Yeah, but just be more subtle about it, hey?" Marshall shrugged. "It's November and you gotta get through to May. Six months. Piece of cake."

Tony finished eating the sausage some poor pig had died to make, then said, "Do you have a piece of cake?"

"Nah. I got some great porn mags if you want one, though."

Tony laughed. "How's that helpful? I wanted some fuckin' cake, here."

"Those mags are food for your eyes, boy. For your eyes."

"Just like the cheerleaders."

"Yeah, exactly."

Block I turned out to be Rhode Island & US government with Major Scott Kirkland, a slightly overweight man who had been at the school since 1965. Then came Leadership & Ethics with Sergeant Major Ambrose, who scared the living daylights out of everyone by dropping a large textbook on the floor as the class got chatty at one point. Tony had expected to be bored out of his mind when he realized he was in this silly leadership class, but Sergeant Major Ambrose patrolled the room constantly and generally made it impossible to even get bored. But more than that, the class was rather interesting. Ambrose was clearly drawing on his own knowledge as he told them all how leadership worked, and how it did not, and he did not play favorites with anyone in the class.

Block III was Algebra 2 with Colonel Kazuo Mimura, a former Japanese citizen who had moved to the United States in the 1950's. Tony found he had to do just as much to keep alert in Colonel Mimura's class as he did in Sergeant Major Ambrose's- both men were able to keep a class silent with little to no effort, and moved and watched the class constantly.

Block IV was Chemistry with Captain McConville, and Tony was pleased to find he shared that class with Marshall. He was less pleased to realize he also shared it with D'Arbanville.

During lunch, Marshall irritated the other boys on Brigade Staff by moving to sit with Tony in Alpha Company. The Alpha Company boys were delighted and crowded around to greet him before reluctantly returning to their seats. Marshall explained the general workings of the structure around here- how there were three battalions and some twelve companies, who oversaw the various units- and the essentials of cadet life. There was a lot to know, but Marshall made it sound like it wasn't so bad.

After classes ended for the day, Tony reluctantly reported to the TAC Office on the bottom floor of Aubrey Hall and drew a rifle to start marching tours on the big white-outlined square behind the building. Known simply as The Quad, it was the place all cadets who had messed up went to pay their dues to the system. Tony resented the hell out of it, but Marshall had warned him he had to start paying up or he'd be run out of here quick.

"They'll be watching you," Marshall had said quietly. "They'll be looking for any excuse. Don't give them one. Get that fucking diploma."

It was sound advice. And Marshall had brought up something else, too, when they talked alone briefly before Tony went and got his rifle. Honor Corps wanted Tony to leave RMA. They had made that clear. They had wanted him running scared, and for a few minutes last night, Tony had given them what they wanted. Well, to hell with them. Tony's resolve grew as he marched fifty feet, executed a right-face, then repeated as he marched his way along the white borderline of The Quad. The wood-and-steel rifle on his right shoulder began to weigh more heavily on his shoulder, but Tony wasn't about to let that show while that smug prick D'Arbanville was watching.

"Hey, DiNozzo! You're eye-talian, right? How 'bout you come shine my shoes with that greasy hair of yours?"

Tony ignored him. D'Arbanville shouted similar things as he lazed about the edge of the quadrangle, wearing the same gray overcoat and black leather gloves as Tony, but with a scarf around his neck as well. He held a clipboard, and occasionally as the time passed, he would call someone off and someone else on. Only for some of it did he get to taunt Tony, though. Master Chief Petty Officer Parens , or "Petty Parens", "Chief Parents," or "Not-My-Parents" as the boys called him where he couldn't hear, was the TAC officer watching the boys marching tours this afternoon, and he didn't have much tolerance for D'Arbanville's mockery of Tony.

It wasn't a defense of Tony personally, Tony quickly saw. Chief Parens just got annoyed anytime anybody wasn't doing things the official way, and verbally taunting the marchers was not an officially-sanctioned part of the system.

Tony had racked up quite a few demerits during his first days here. He would be marching for a little while yet. His right arm was distinctly sore after he finally turned in the rifle. Carroll and Heisler were there, talking with Gunny Ellison and that master gunnery sergeant. They just glanced at Tony, then lost interest again. When Tony told them he was there to return the rifle, Ellison said, "Rack it and get out."

Gladly. Tony had barely any time before basketball practice as it was.

The guys all gave Tony a lot of grief for having a sore right arm, suggesting it was due to something besides marching tours. Tony put up with the ribbing, having gotten it before from teammates at schools he'd gone to here and there. Marshall teased him, too, but he did that to everybody.

By Friday, the basketball boys had taken to calling Tony "Dino", short for "dinosaur," and "Zero" or "Null" since he wore a blank jersey with no number.

After running all over the indoor court for an hour, Coach Tanner finally called an end to the practice, gathered everyone, and unceremoniously threw Tony a silver-lined blue jersey. It had the number 0 on the back, and above that, printed in bold silver-gray letters, DINOZZO.

"Coach?" Tony asked.

"That's yours," Tanner rumbled. "You're a starter on my varsity roster. Don't mess this up, DiNozzo."

"Yes, I mean- no, I won't, Coach," Tony said, grinning.

"I'll see you bums on Monday," Tanner said. "Everyone go hit the showers. I'm tired of looking at you."

The minute they got into the locker room, Marshall pounced on Tony, followed by the other dozen-plus boys on the varsity, JV, and middle school teams. They were all slapping him on the back, yelling in his ears. Tony quickly stripped and joined the others in heading for the showers, where the focus quickly became trying to cover his ass. Every single kid who saw him seemed set on slapping him on the ass five or six times, and Marshall was doing nothing but encouraging them.

Tony resisted and hit back whenever he could, but he couldn't quite keep a grin off his face. The basketball team was really a team, one that seemed glad to have Tony around. Marshall, the varsity captain, was allied with Coach Tanner. They were his best prospect for standing up to Honor Corps, and Tony appreciated the trust they were showing him.

Best of all, by far, was the jersey bearing his name. He was on the team at last.

Once the boys were all present, St. Esprit sat down and looked at them all. "All right. What do we have on this guy?"

D'Arbanville spoke first, clearing his throat and flipping open a small notepad he used. It was in imitation of Obie Jameson, that little fink from The Chocolate War, but D'Arbanville's reputation was much more like that of Archie Costello. He was certainly nobody's errand boy.

"Anthony D. DiNozzo," D'Arbanville drawled. "Born July 8th, 1969, New York City, New York. From an Italian-American family, great-grandparents came to the US through Ellis Island. Grandfather introduced fucking Swiss Army knives or something. Mother's family is Paddington, got some greaseball uncles like Vincenzo DiNozzo on Long Island… blah, blah blah. Been kicked out of six boarding schools before coming to Remington, he's got a history of bad behavior and being ignored by his businessman father… oh. And his mother died when he was eight." D'Arbanville snapped the notebook shut with a practiced flip of his wrist. "Ain't that a bitch."

A rumble of laugher briefly filled the room, but St. Esprit quickly restored silence with a glace around his darkened room.

"You should be more sympathetic, Darby."

"Since when did you care about this guy?" D'Arbanville scoffed.

"I don't. I just think you should be more sympathetic."

"Yeah, whatever."

"No, seriously, Darby, you have, what, two hundred bedrooms in that house of yours? You could house all the homeless people of South Carolina."

"No, thanks," D'Arbanville said, turning up his nose at the idea. "Good God, we'd never get the smell out."

"Okay, okay," St. Esprit said, holding up his hands. "So maybe you wanna explain, Marshall, why we're not running this wop out of here?"

Marshall, who sat with his chair next to the door, stood up. In the light of the battery-powered flashlights placed strategically around the room, the redhead walked to the middle of the semi-circle of nine other boys and smiled.

"I was hoping you'd ask, Colonel."

"All right, so get on with it," Golan said.

"Sure. Short version is, I say we refuse to give him exactly what he wants. He wants us to let him leave, he wants us to kick him out!" Marshall laughed. "See, we can't do that. Because he wants that. See?"

"And what did your brother think about this, now that we know this is what your fucking 'big idea' was?"

"I told him we'd give DiNozzo a royal fucking one way or the other. He said that would be fine."

The boys laughed.

"We'd be fucking him pretty good if we just ran him out," Park said. "We even put the hold on things because you said. He's in trouble. We should just run him out."

"And miss out on the opportunity to make a man out of him?" Marshall said, grinning. "What is it we do here? We make men. I think there's a man, a real man in that whiny little boy. I'll teach him discipline and set him straight. Give me the chance and I'll do it."

"Man, why do you fucking care?" Heisler asked in amazement.

"DiNozzo's an idiot," Marshall replied. "But he's tougher and smarter than he acts. And he's got real talent on the basketball court. I think he mostly just acts like a moron."

"He embarrassed me in front of my father," St. Esprit said sternly. "And he's a fucking wop. My father told me Italians aren't good for anything but making fast cars and pizzas and you should never trust them when the chips are down."

"That's basically anyone who doesn't have a name like yours or mine," D'Arbanville said. "That's basically anyone who isn't rich."

"I'm not rich," Golan said. "My family's a lot of park rangers, soldiers and coal miners."

D'Arbanville's pale face went white. "Hey, I didn't mean y-"

"Darby, you're a great guy but that fucking mouth of yours gets on my nerves sometimes," Golan went on. "You talk about blue-collar people like they're trash, like anyone who isn't from the Old Families of Charleston is trash. Well, then, I guess I'm trash."

"No!" D'Arbanville exclaimed, putting out his hands. "Golan- Mark, I'm sorry. You know I just mean the people who're- who- you know I don't mean you."

"I'm not exactly rich either," Marshall pointed out.

"Boys, boys," D'Arbanville said, holding up his hands. "Please. Please, I don't mean it like that. Forgive me."

"It isn't all the family pedigree, young prince," Marshall said, a hint of a smile on his face.

"It's actions. Deeds make a man's worth more than his blood," Golan pronounced.

"Yes. Y-yes, you're right, I'm-I'm sorry," D'Arbanville said, flushing and looking at the floor.

"It's all right," Golan said stiffly.

"We don't mind," Marshall said. "Just mind how you talk. It sends the wrong message sometimes."

"All right," D'Arbanville said. "You got it, boys. You got my word."

"Gentlemen," St. Esprit said. "I'd like to get back to business. Darby, I think Golan and Marshall have a point, but we all know you're an elitist prick anyway."

The boys laughed, and D'Arbanville flushed, smiled sheepishly, and made a rude gesture at the brigade commander.

"So Marshall, for some fucking reason, says we keep DiNozzo here and try to make a man out of him. But Marshall, my man, I hope somebody else is for this because I don't know if I am."

"I am."

Every other pair of eyes in the room looked at Golan. He sat against the wall, arms crossed, and he shrugged. "I think Marshall's idea might work. I say we see if we can't set this asshole straight. If anyplace can, it's Remington."

St. Esprit looked like he'd just heard NATO might surrender to the Soviet Bloc tomorrow. "You really wanna let this wop stay, Mark? You like him, too?" he asked.

"I don't like him at all," Golan spat. "I can't fucking stand him. But I trust Marshall and I think there's a man somewhere under all that bullshit."

"Yeah, maybe," Park said. "But I'm not rolling over and letting him fuck up my battalion."

"1st Battalion is pretty fucked up as-is," Carroll and Heisler said together. Everyone chuckled, and the two boys exchanged a high-five.

"Nobody's asking you to roll over," St. Esprit said. "Marshall? Anything else you wanna tell us? This is your show."

"How 'bout we put him and his fatass roommate on Brigade Color Guard?"

That set off a whole new argument. St. Esprit was absolutely against it, saying he was not gonna have either of them near the United States flag, or the RMA flag, or even the Rhode Island flag. Park and D'Arbanville were also completely opposed. Golan was against it too. But once everyone quieted down, Marshall made an offer.

"Tell you what, boys. Let's put 'em up for it this coming week. If they say no, or if they can't do it, I'll go with our fearless commander and we'll run DiNozzo out."

"And if they can do it, or whatever?" Park asked.

"Then I guess he stays," Golan answered.

"He's not gonna expect us all to just be for this all of a sudden," D'Arbanville pointed out. "It'll look weird to a lotta people."

"I don't want that," Marshall replied. "Actually, I think St. Esprit and Golan should argue against it officially when it comes up. It'll help."

"With what?" St. Esprit asked. "You're thinking too much. Can't you just fuck some new girl already?"

"Oh, I'm gonna get to that. Don't you worry."

"Yeah, I know," St. Esprit said. "Fine, whatever. Fill me and Golan in and we'll do our part. Does Coach really think he's gonna get rid of us this year?"

"Yes," Marshall replied. "And that's just what we want him to think. It'll keep him and DiNozzo busy. Keep 'em chasing that carrot. Then the year ends, DiNozzo graduates and he's outta here and he won't care anymore. And reality will hit for Coach Tanner."

"It will," St. Esprit said, nodding solemnly. "My father will see to that."

"What, is he gonna fucking kill Coach Tanner or something?" Carroll asked.

"No. But he is gonna set that motherfucker straight. He'll be the one who makes sure reality hits. Tanner has… no idea who he's fucking with. He'll learn. And so will DiNozzo. Especially if you can't keep him in line, Marshall. He's your responsibility."

"Not a problem, Colonel. I've got it all under control."

"Never figured you for a double agent," Park remarked.

"I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?"

On Monday morning, Tony almost felt like a human being. It wasn't in the negatives outside, he'd had a look over the weekend at the magazine Marshall had 'lost' while visiting Tony's room, and he had walked off most of his tours. He had done precious little else on Saturday and Sunday, but the demerits list on him was indeed much lower. To top it off, he'd even gotten some decent sleep last night. Tony was just sitting down next to Travis Phelps when Marshall came up behind them, setting a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Hey, boys."

"Marshall," Tony said, looking up. "Hi. Good morning. Did you need something?"

"I like your good manners, even if you're being sarcastic, DiNozzo."

"Really, what the hell do you want?"

Collins, Tony's squad leader, showed up with his tray and pulled out a chair opposite Tony and Travis. "Have a seat, Marshall."

"Thanks, Sarge," Marshall said, quickly moving around and sitting down. "Okay, boys. I need you to do something for me."

"What?" Tony and Phelps asked together.

"I need you to do something that is normally a really bad idea around here, but this time it is."

"And what's that?" Tony asked.

"We have two slots open on Color Guard for flag bearers. We need those filled in time for the parade this Friday before we all get to fuck off and-"

St. Esprit showed up then, staring angrily down at Marshall. "Marshall," he said, "are you fucking still talking about this? I told you to forget it! I am not gonna have either of them carrying any flags!"

"Hey, look, Colonel, you said-"

"I said to forget it!"

"Not arguing, I hope, boys?" General Blake asked. Tony only just managed to avoid jumping two feet in the air. He had no idea when the General had gotten here. He hadn't so much walked over as just shown up. How did he even do that?

The boys at the table all started to jump up and stand at attention, but the General waved them down. "No, no, boys, just eat your breakfast." He looked at St. Esprit and Marshall. "Anything I ought to know?"

"Sir," St. Esprit said, controlling his temper, "Marshall is trying to recruit DiNozzo and Phelps to fill our open slots on the brigade Color Guard."

"I don't see why not," General Blake said, looking at Tony and Phelps. "They look like they could do the job."

"Sir, respectfully, Golan and I have spoken with Marshall about this. We don't think that-"

"Then you and Mr. Golan drive by my office after Mess II this afternoon. Mr. DiNozzo, can you spare some time for us?"

"Yes, sir," Tony said, catching a slight nod from Marshall.

"And Mr. Phelps?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Excellent," General Blake said. "I will see you all then. Good morning, gentlemen."

St. Esprit looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't dare argue with a brigadier general. He stared at Tony for a moment, then stalked off.

"I think you pissed him off," Marshall said, chuckling.

"Good," Tony said.

At Mess II, Tony ate in a hurry and got permission to go with Marshall to get ready to report to General Blake's office at 1300. The red-haired boy led him to the top floor of the Hull barracks, then got out two cans of shoe polish.

"Better do this quick," he said, taking out a pair of white rags, stained with black shoe polish.

"So how's this gonna work?" Tony asked, quickly opening up one of the cans and taking the little applicator sponge Marshall tossed him.

"Well, you're gonna shine up your shoes some more. I'm gonna work on mine, make sure they're perfect. Then we make sure we're both in proper uniform and go see the General."

"I mean when we get there."

"We'll report in however he says to. He might want to speak to only a few of us at a time, or all of us at once. Depends on what he wants to do. If all goes well, we can get you and Phelps on Color Guard and we'll have some new flag bearers real soon."

"What makes you think I can carry a flag?" Tony asked. "I don't know anything about that."

"It's not that hard. You just make sure to do everything just the right way."

"Sounds like being at military school."

"Now you're getting it, DiNoodle."

"It's DiNozzo."

"Yeah, yeah."

The Class B-I uniform consisted of a long-sleeved gray shirt with black tie, dress hat without white cover, and belt according to rank. As a private, Tony wore the enlisted belt buckle, which was plain, flat brass. His was new issue and he hadn't yet bothered to polish it, but Marshall snatched the buckle from him, got out some Brasso and yet another rag, and buffed it to a high mirror shine in just a few minutes. He worked so fast and with such precision, Tony didn't know whether to be horrified that he was becoming friends with a military dick or amazed at that friend's skill in making shiny things shinier.

Marshall's belt buckle depicted the Remington shield, flanked on either side by a laurel wreath.

"Enlisted wear the flat brass buckle," Marshall explained. "NCO's wear the shield; senior NCO's wear the buckle with the shield and laurel. Cadet officers wear a silver buckle with gold shield and laurel."

"Good to know somebody's keeping track," Tony cracked.

"I gotta know all of this," Marshall said. "I gotta keep all the wise guys in line."

"Like me?" Tony joked.

"Yeah, DiNozzo. Exactly like you."

After a few more minutes of prepping, Marshall stood DiNozzo up and proceeded to turn him this way and that, snapping out orders and instructions as he guided Tony in reassembling his uniform. Tony attempted to reciprocate, but other than a few small things Marshall just brushed him off. "You don't know shit about these uniforms," he said. "No offense, but you'd hurt more than help. Just trust me."

"Gosh, do I even have a choice?"

"Not really. You're stuck with me."

"Oh, great," Tony said, groaning. "You think I could hang myself with this necktie, here?"

"Speaking of, tighten yours up. There you go. Can't have your collar showing right above it."

Marshall finally turned and headed for the door. "Off we go, DiNozzo," he said. "Time to go see the General."

Tony stepped out into the hallway. For some reason, his pulse had quickened its pace.

"You nervous?" Marshall asked.

"Why would I be nervous?"

"It's required when you go to meet with generals, I believe."

Tony and Marshall arrived on the main headquarters floor of Aubrey Hall at the same time as St. Esprit and Golan did. The two highest-ranked boys in the school looked like they'd walked off a recruiting poster, and as a matter of fact, there was one of the two of them in full dress uniform, life size, standing with their feet planted wide on the front steps of this very building, displayed inside the office of Major David Nichols, the Director of Admissions. The Major himself passed by, greeting the boys, and just then Mrs. Kelly, the President's secretary, showed up and ushered the four of them into a small waiting area next to the General's office. Any confrontation or argument was further stalled by Travis showing up. He was breathing hard, having surely just run from the barracks, but his uniform was in excellent shape.

Trying to stay calm, Tony amused himself by making faces whenever Golan or St. Esprit were looking. Golan just shook his head and picked up one of the school yearbooks from the stack on the end table next to his chair. St. Esprit noticed that and did the same thing, ending Tony's fun for the moment.

"Boys, General Blake will see you now," Mrs. Kelly said, coming back out of the General's office.

They all stood.

"By rank, gentlemen," St. Esprit said, motioning to Tony and Travis. "Go on."

Marshall followed them in, and then the two senior cadets entered the room last. A set of five chairs sat in front of the General's desk, and he turned from the window to face them as St. Esprit marched smartly to the front of the group and saluted.

"Cadets St. Esprit, Golan, Marshall, DiNozzo and Phelps reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Thank you, St. Esprit," General Blake said. "Please, gentlemen, be seated."

The five boys each took a seat in one of the formal-looking, dark-colored, polished wooden chairs. Tony had been holding his dress hat under his left arm as Marshall had told him to do, but he shifted it to his lap as he sat down. He felt ridiculous, trying to dress up smart like this, but he figured he had better get used to that, especially if he was suddenly bucking for Color Guard. Tony really wasn't so certain if that's what he wanted, but maybe it would be a way to look better, or something. If it helped him hurry things along until graduation, that would be fine.

And besides, St. Esprit and Golan were against it, and that meant Tony was for it.

"So I decided we should have this little meeting after realizing that a possible solution to our shortage of flag bearers at Brigade involves the newest member of our family," General Blake said. "I assume you all understand that."

"Yes, sir," they all said.

"Good. Now, I understand there are some disagreements about this, but I'm prepared to hear them out. You will each get a chance to speak if you would like. Mr. St. Esprit?"

"Thank you, sir," St. Esprit said. "I have no argument against DiNozzo becoming a standard bearer, except this- he has been here for not even two weeks, and in that time, he has proven himself extremely hostile to our traditions and values here. He made a profane rendition of the cadet prayer on Veteran's Day, and he attempted to embarrass myself, Golan, and my father. Sir, DiNozzo is not a model cadet. He is not even close to a model cadet. He should not be allowed to carry the school, state, or national flag under any circumstances."

"Thank you, St. Esprit. Mr. Golan?"

"His behavior up to now has been exceptionally poor, sir," Golan said immediately. "I agree entirely with St. Esprit. DiNozzo has been set on causing trouble from the minute he showed up. He should not be rewarded for his behavior in any way, shape or form. His gross insubordination and disregard for standards tells us all we need to know to settle this."

"Gee, thanks, Golan," Tony said, trying to control his temper. "I think the Corps just survive six months of me carrying a flag around."

"You would have it all counted out, wouldn't you?" Golan snapped.

"His shoes and brass were a joke even up to this morning," St. Esprit said, going in for the kill. "The only reason he looks like he does now is because Marshall helped shine him up. But he looked like a joke up to this morning- I remember that clearly. That is how I would put it, sir, after careful thought. His whole appearance was a joke."

"It could certainly have used improvement, but I don't know if I'd go quite that far," General Blake said thoughtfully. "Mr. Marshall, you've been uncharacteristically quiet. I'm sure you have some thoughts to share with us."

Marshall leaned forward, furrowing his brow. His black epaulets rested on either shoulder, and the gold fabric of the sergeant major's insignia that was sewn into each of them glinted in the sun shining in through the windows. This was as serious as Tony had ever seen him.

"Sir, DiNozzo and Phelps are only involved in this because I asked them to volunteer for Color Guard. St. Esprit and Golan told me they were against it, but I went over to Alpha Company this morning anyway. I feel personally responsible for the trouble that's been stirred up."

"Like we don't know DiNozzo has been provoking his share and then some?" Golan broke in. "General, let's cut the bu- let's get to the point, can we? Phelps is a mediocre cadet, and DiNozzo has been a troublemaker since he showed up. Neither one of them deserves to be a flag bearer."

"General, Golan and St. Esprit are not friends with me," Tony said with forced calm. "I am not friends with them."

"Simply put, gentlemen," General Blake remarked.

"You know I've been expelled from a lot of schools, sir."

"And what does that have to do with this, Mr. DiNozzo?"

"Sir, I need to graduate high school somewhere. It might as well be here. Coach Tanner has been telling me I should straighten up some, see how that works out for a change. Marshall has been telling me about the same thing. I think being a flag bearer would be another way of doing that."

"In addition to becoming a starter on the Varsity Basketball lineup, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Phelps? Any thoughts?"

Marshall nudged the fat boy, and he jumped a little. "I'm r-ready to t-try it, s-sir. I'm up for it," Phelps said.

"Mr. Marshall, have you told Mr. DiNozzo that you oversee the training of the Color Guard alongside Mr. Zamorro?"

"No, sir."

"Being in your position, your word carries a lot of weight on matters like this. All personal considerations aside, how do you feel about this? Could Phelps and DiNozzo act as guidon bearers? Say, in time for the parade this coming Friday?"

"Yes, sir," Marshall answered. "They can."

"Mr. Marshall, Mr. St. Esprit, Mr. Golan, good afternoon. Thank you for expressing your views so openly. It takes a great deal of course to be so direct man-to-man."

"Sir." The three boys stood, saluted, and walked out as the General saw them to the door. St. Esprit shot Tony a smug look as he reached the door, probably convinced he'd won. Tony grinned and shot him the bird. It was probably the first such gesture made in the august confines of that room.

"You can head on out too, Mr. Phelps," General Blake said. "I don't want to keep you any longer than I have, and I'd like to have a word with Mr. DiNozzo before he gets on his way."

"Yes, sir," Phelps said. He stood, saluted and left, looking immensely relieved to be getting out of this room.

Once they were alone, General Blake returned to his desk and sat down. He straightened his olive-green uniform unconsciously, brushing a few specks of dust off his many ribbons. Behind him on the wall were citations, diplomas, pictures of various highlights of his long career in the Marines. General Blake waited a few moments before speaking.

"How do you feel that meeting went, Mr. DiNozzo? May I ask what you think of Mr. St. Esprit and Mr. Golan?"

"I think they're assholes, sir."

"You are talking to the President of this school, Mr. DiNozzo," General Blake snapped. "You will mind your mouth and your manners."

"Uh- I apologize, sir," Tony replied. "I just don't get along with them. Some guys just don't get along."

"I do not expect you to become friends with either of them," General Blake answered. "But I believe they raise a valid point. You have a history that says you like to go looking for trouble, and you have stayed true to that history since coming here. Mr. Marshall vouches for you. Clearly you've made an impression on him. He must have spoken to Captain Tanner about this as well, because I received a written recommendation on your behalf this morning."

"You'll just have to let me try it, or not let me," Tony said with a shrug. "I can't prove anything any other way. Sir."

"Fine words, Mr. DiNozzo. I'm going to recommend that you and Mr. Phelps start reporting for Color Guard training, as of today. You will have a lot of work ahead of you. I expect to see nothing short of excellence from both of you when the parade commences on Friday."

"All right, sir."

"Make this the moment you start to turn things around. In your high school career, and at this school. Don't disappoint me. I'll expect a lot from you."

"Sounds good. Sir."

"You're dismissed, Mr. DiNozzo. Good afternoon."

The rest of the day passed smoothly enough. Tony found he had to move quite fast to make it to each class on time in the scant five minutes allowed between classes. He managed to find some time to jerk off during the lull before afternoon academic lab started, even though it was damn awkward since Trask Hall's bathrooms had no fucking stall doors. Needs were needs, though, and Tony couldn't always wait until late in the day. With classes and formations already taking up most of his time, Tony wasn't sure if he really liked what he was evidently now signed up for- playing varsity basketball and marching with Color Guard.

Free time, especially if you were signed up for anything, was scarce around here.

Tony wasn't exactly looking forward to having to be near the pricks on Brigade Staff so much. Inevitably, training with the Brigade Color Guard would involve training with the Brigade Staff, which was composed exclusively, it seemed, of fucking pricks.

Well, a bunch of fucking pricks and Marshall. Tony could not, for the life of him, understand how a decent guy (mostly) like that could have wound up surrounded by so many jackasses. It was just one of life's little mysteries, probably, but maybe Tony would have some time to figure it out while he was here.

St. Esprit looked like he wanted to blow a gasket when Tony reported for Color Guard practice that evening, but he had evidently heard about Brigadier General Blake's decision because he didn't say anything. When the colors were brought out, Marshall and a sharp, businesslike cadet captain called Zamorro- evidently the Color Guard commander for the entire school- started trying to work out who was going to carry what.

"Okay, so we have Sutherland there to carry the school flag, yeah- how about if- no, no no, that won't work." Marshall shook his head. "Okay, how about- DiNozzo carries the U.S. flag and Piggy, Phelps, whatever, carries the Rhode Island flag?"

"Better get those damn white belts on 'em and figure this out," Zamorro said. "Okay, DiNozzo. Here's what you gotta do…"

It took a couple minutes, but they managed to properly fit Tony and Phelps each with one of the white belts. It ran around his waist, crossed in a big white X over his front and back, and there was a slot to put the last couple inches of the flagpole. Tony had imagined you were supposed to carry it entirely by hand, but he wasn't gonna complain if they gave him an out sometimes.

Tony was just taking hold of the U.S. flag, lifting and getting a feel for it, when St. Esprit halted whatever discussion he was having with the rest of his staff and came striding over, eyes flashing.

"Who said you could hold that flag, DiNozzo?"

"Aw, gimme a break, Colonel!" Tony protested. "Can't I have five minutes without-"

"None of your shit, DiNozzo, now who gave you that flag?"

"That was me and Zamorro," Marshall said. "We're trying to get them started on practicing, remember? General Blake made the call on this."

"Yeah, I know he did, but he didn't say that DiNozzo was to carry the American flag!" St. Esprit exclaimed. "Have Piggy carry it, at least he can't help being a fucking shitbag!"

"Hey-" Tony started, but St. Esprit cut him off.

"You shut up!" he ordered, pointing angrily at Tony. "You have no fucking business carrying my country's flag, DiNozzo. Hand it to Piggy or so fucking help me-"

"It's just a flag, man!"

"Don't you ever say that again," St. Esprit snarled. "Don't you-"

"Hey, hey," Marshall said, getting in between them. "Take it easy!"

"What's got into you?" St. Esprit protested. "Why're you taking his side, anyway?"

"I'm not taking sides," Marshall said evenly. "I am trying to do what General Blake said. I think DiNozzo and Piggy will do fine as flag bearers. But I need you to get off their ass for a minute and let me and Zamorro drill 'em. Even if they don't turn out to have what it takes or they fuck up, we gotta try to get 'em ready for Friday because that's what the General said to do."

"Okay," St. Esprit said. He looked at Tony. "You drop that flag, DiNozzo, it's your ass. I promise you. Piggy- you, too."

St. Esprit then strode back to the brigade staff officers and started drilling with them. They had all brought their sabers, and they drew them, sheathed them, and drew them again on St. Esprit's command. While his focus had to be primarily on marching in step with Piggy and Sutherland, Tony cast occasional glances at the staff officers, practicing with their sabers. They sure looked a sight, every motion fluid and yet precise, exactly in unison with the others. They too wore special belts, black instead of white leather, with silver scabbards attached to them. Marshall wore a different blade, a straight sword instead of a curved saber, and a brass hilt instead of the black handgrip and overall silver appearance of the sword, like the one that Zamorro wore.

Zamorro and Marshall proved to be a real pain in the ass. The entire time Tony and Piggy marched with Sutherland, they were watched like hawks, and every mistake was quickly caught and addressed. The brigade flag bearers were joined by two other boys Tony didn't know, younger cadets who had drawn rifles from the armory and marched on the outer edge of the three flag bearers, one on each side. They started over again and again, as Marshall and Zamorro worked to get them marching in step, to make every command obeyed instantly and with just the right action in response to it. Tony began to reconsider his liking for Marshall for a while. He was nicer than those jackasses he shared a barracks floor with, but he was no less zealous about military drill and ceremony.

Somehow, in the midst of all this, the Color Guard from all three battalions was also marching and drilling, and Marshall and Zamorro actually found time to critique them as well. They would dart off anytime they allowed the Brigade Color Guard a break and spend almost the whole time watching and practicing drill with some other group.

The gymnasium was filled with noise as Band Company banged away on its drums, providing an easy cadence to march to, and guidon bearers from every platoon seemed to be here, drilling in groups. Eventually, things began to quiet down as Gunnery Sergeant Ellison dismissed groups here and there.

During the last pause before drill ended, Marshall touched Tony on the shoulder as he passed by. Grinning mischievously, Marshall put a finger to his lips and mouthed "Watch me".

Then he crossed the polished floor of the basketball gym, walked up behind St. Esprit, who was busy giving a talk on something to a bunch of cadet officers. He took something out of his pocket and reached for St. Esprit's saber, which rested in its finely-polished scabbard at the brigade commander's left hip.

It took a moment, but Tony wanted to howl with delight when he realized it was a plastic zip-tie, and Marshall was fastening it to lock St. Esprit's saber in place. The boys on the Color Guard near Tony started sniggering, and even Piggy gave a few laughs. He laughed awkwardly, giving a few unintended snorts like a pig.

The prank looked like it would go off perfectly, but then suddenly St. Esprit stopped talking and turned to his left, looking down. He suddenly snapped his head down to his saber, yanked at it and realized it was stuck, and then went for Marshall. The redhead had anticipated this, though, and he took off running out the gym doors, laughing hysterically.

"We'll go save 'im, Gunny!" Heisler shouted to Gunny Ellison as he and Carroll sprinted for the doors after them, scabbards slapping against their thighs as they ran.

"What in the hell is goin' on over here?" Ellison demanded, storming up to the Brigade Color Guard, who were laughing so hard they could barely stand. "You misters talk and talk fast!"

"A prank, Gunny," Tony answered. "A successful one."

"You cool your mouth there, mister, or I've got another date to arrange between you and The Quad."

"I think one of those cheerleaders would be better, Gunny."

Ellison moved so he was inches from Tony's face. He grinned. "You mockin' me?"

"Nah, Gunny. You're cool."

"You gots to 0600 tomorry to unfuck yourself, get squared up here," Ellison said. Then he screamed in a voice that echoed around the gym, "YOU READS ME? PRIVATE DINOZZO?"

"Yes, Gunny!" Tony shouted, straightening up and holding the flag more tightly.

"You better," Ellison vowed, then stalked away.

Tony glared daggers at the noncom's back. That son of a bitch. Who did he even think he was? Now the whole gym was staring at Tony and he felt like an ass. That hadn't even been his prank!

Marshall returned with a still-glowering St. Esprit and a chuckling Carroll and Heisler in time to see the last of that little encounter. He walked up to Tony, who was still angry, and Piggy, who was still shaking just from having been nearby.

"Don't worry about it," Marshall said. "Ellison's always been a son of a bitch."

The week went by faster than Tony had expected. He did his best to avoid any more confrontations with St. Esprit, Golan, Park or D'Arbanville, something Marshall had encouraged him to do during this final week before break. The harassment had dropped off for now, but there were still boys who avoided Tony like he'd caught the plague. The basketball team were the friendliest to him by far. They followed their captain's example and treated Tony like a new friend.

One of the great pleasures of the week was getting to hit the weight room or the basketball court- or both- during the brief period of free time before "Taps" was sounded. Tony had been to both places before, but Marshall specifically went out of his way to encourage Tony to join him whenever he went. Usually some of the guys Tony hated were there, too, since they were all big fitness nuts, of course. But at least it wasn't all of them. Tony learned to thank God for small favors when it came to that.

Marshall was as much fun to work out with as he was to play basketball with. He was an energetic and affable person, who went after anything he did with the same zealousness he applied to polishing his shoes and brass. That helped Tony's impression of him, knowing that he was at least equally nuts about anything he liked, and it wasn't just this military crap.

It was hard admitting it, but Tony started feeling glad he'd told Marshall a little about his parents. He did not like sharing, given that most of that never led anywhere pleasant for him, but Marshall seemed to almost make Tony want to talk about it. He had an energy about him, a pleasant way of talking to people. He would bounce between the friends he had who hated Tony and Tony himself during weight-lifting sessions, spending some time with both, and somehow kept them away from each other.

Tony and Marshall became a regular sight in the school's weight room, and they even found time to go a few rounds in the boxing ring at Marshall's suggestion on Thursday. Golan was there, and he and a few others stopped to watch while the two basketball jocks went at it. He didn't say anything, but Golan seemed almost impressed at the things Tony had picked up from Marshall, who focused more on training Tony in boxing and less on beating him up.

Before long, it was Thursday night, and Tony was excited to realize he was just one night away from getting the hell out of this place for a whole week. Soon enough, he'd be going on Christmas break as well, and then out of this dump for good. It couldn't happen fast enough.

Mark Golan loved parades. He loved the flags, the crowds, the noise. He loved the uniforms, the hundreds of boys marching in unison, the flawless precision of military dress, of military drill and ceremony. The school fight song, "Waltzing Matilda," and its march, the "Black Jack March," were always heard at parades, blaring out of Band Company's brass instruments.

Marching in step with the rest of the top brigade staff- the assistants were in the ranks of Band Company- Golan thought proudly of Dad's days at the Greenbrier Military School back in the 1950's, and what a time he must have had there. The place had closed in 1972, denying Mark the chance to attend his father's school the way St. Esprit was getting to do. But it was better than going to some civilian high school, where there was no emphasis on discipline, tradition and pride at all.

"All right, you motherfuckers," St. Esprit said in a low voice as the brigade staff marched along the Ryland Field to pass by the reviewing stand, "let's look sharp!"

Mark was already standing straight as he could, but he felt himself try to go straighter still, to assume an absolutely flawless posture as the "Black Jack March" blared across the parade ground, and St. Esprit barked "Eyes-RIGHT!" and raised his sword to present arms.

The blond cadet colonel turned his head 45-degrees to the right, as did all of the brigade staff apart from Edwin, the S-4, who kept his head straight. Marching in a direction you were no longer looking probably seemed impossible to civilians, but Mark had practiced it for years. He'd come to Remington already knowing the basics of military drill- one of many gifts Dad had left behind.

Mark spotted his mother in the reviewing stands, standing beside Charlie and Betty Golan. Grandpa Golan had adopted RMA as his school after Greenbrier had closed, and treated Mark as if he was every bit the man he would have been had he gone to GMA. All Mark wished was that Dad could have been here too, to see the young man his son had become.

The bleachers behind the reviewing stand were filled with parents, alumni, school staff, people from the town of Tiverton. They'd marched clear through town for the Thanksgiving parade, which was held early each year so the cadets could be included. Much to Mark's disbelief, that slob Phelps and that bum DiNozzo had straightened up and looked damn sharp carrying those flags. Would wonders never cease? Maybe Marshall had found some grain of worth in those two, after all. Mark was willing to hear the redhead out. He intended to aid Marshall, to try and make a man out of DiNozzo.

On the reviewing stand itself, Brigadier General Blake and Lieutenant General St. Esprit stood proud and tall, saluting the cadets as they marched past. The two men had a wonderful friendship. They were like brothers. One came from old money and a long line of distinguished Army officers, practically destined from boyhood to wear the stars. The other came from a Midwest blue-collar family and had begun his career in the Marines as a private. One wore the Medal of Honor; the other had a Navy Cross, two Silver Stars, and four Bronze Stars, all for valor. General St. Esprit had even met Dad once, had rescued him and his crew after their damaged B-52 crashed in the jungle close to Hue in 1965. Then-Captain Mark D. Golan and his crew had bailed out, parachuted down, and almost immediately been attacked by a Vietcong patrol.

Then-Captain St. Esprit's company of Screaming Eagles had heard the call go out and swooped down in their Hueys before even the PJ's could get on it. In the brief but extremely intense firefight that ensued, Captains Golan and St. Esprit linked up, coordinated their men, and fought the enemy until they took enough losses that they broke contact. A Distinguished Service Cross was awarded to St. Esprit, and an Air Force Cross to Golan, for their heroic leadership, in a battle estimated to have involved an enemy force around twice their size.

Four years before Mark was even born, and Dad had been kicking ass in the air and on the ground in Vietnam. What extraordinary courage that must have involved. What nerve. What resolve. It awed Mark every time he looked at Dad's medals, at the citations.

Those events had also created a bond between the St. Esprit and Golan families. Though the two men in that battle seldom saw each other afterward, they kept in contact, and when it was discovered that kin of both clans had fought for the Union at Gettysburg, the bond had become permanent.

"Ready-FRONT!" St. Esprit barked, and he and the other boys in the brigade staff all returned to looking straight ahead.

D'Arbanville, whose father, the Governor-Elect of South Carolina, stood in a subtle yet superbly-made suit and overcoat among the watching parents. However he acted or talked at times, D'Arbanville was extremely proud of his name and his family, especially his two kid brothers.

And St. Esprit- he was under enormous pressure every time the Corps went on parade, but especially when his father and mother were watching. They were everything to St. Esprit. Making them proud was what St. Esprit lived for. Following the family tradition, fighting America's wars as the best kind of Army officer possible, was all St. Esprit had ever wanted to do.

Each and every one of the members of Honor Corps had incredible pride in their family, their name. All of them were patriots, committed to preparing themselves every day for going into military service as commissioned officers. Some of them would go career. Others would put in some time, and then go on to other professions. No matter what they did with their lives, the ideals and standards the Corps had taught them would be with them forever.

As the Brigade Staff led the rest of the Corps back up Lansing road, the Color Guard right behind them, Marshall whispered, "Holy shit, DiNozzo and Piggy actually did it."

"Yeah, fucking amazing, right?" Heisler laughed.

"You people shut up," St. Esprit warned. "We're still on parade."

"I love you, too, sir," Golan whispered.

"I'll kill you, Golan," St. Esprit whispered.

"I'm terrified, boy. Terrified."

After the Corps turned in their rifles at the armory, the cadets were formally dismissed, and hundreds of boys were sprinting here and there, embracing family members or guardians of every stripe. Middle school cadets and freshman boys carrying suitcases almost as big as themselves were sprinting across Lansing Street to waiting cars, trying to break the land speed record while their parents checked them out of school.

Among those dozens of cars lining Lansing Road was a big black Cadillac limousine with two red flags flying from the fenders, each one bearing three white stars. Behind it was another Cadillac, equally imposing, with the Governor-Elect of South Carolina's personal driver waiting near it.

Two Senators- one from Wisconsin, one from Maine- had their sons attending here, and official-looking aides hustled their charges along while trying to look natural about it, which was hard to do, even in this mob scene. Several state legislators and officials, as well as corporate executives, had their sons attending RMA. There were officers and NCO's from every service, including a few generals and admirals, though none as high-ranking as General St. Esprit.

The result of all this was that boys whose parents had barely managed to afford the yearly price were leaving alongside boys whose parents owned mansions, commanded warships, airbases, and Army divisions, ran banks and served in political office. The sons of carpenters and grocery store managers were heading to their cars alongside boys whose parents owned farms in New Hampshire and New York state.

Mark watched all of it with no small amount of pride. Yes, Remington was elite and proud of it. They had produced nothing short of the finest young men for more than sixty years. But that didn't mean that boys of humbler origins couldn't come here. It was hard for Mark to believe that he was here himself, sometimes.

Not bad for the son of an Air Force colonel and a bunch of West Virginia coal miners, Mark thought.

"Hey, you!" Mom said, shaking Mark's shoulder. "You awake in there?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mark answered immediately, shaking his head.

"Well, quit standing around and let's go."

"Yes, ma'am." Mark picked up his bag and headed for the airport taxi. He embraced his grandmother again, then saluted his grandfather.

"Got a little surprise waitin' for you at Newport," Charlie Golan said with a wink.

"What?" Mark asked immediately. "What's going on?"

"Be patient, Mark," Mom counseled him. "Your grandfather knows what he's doing."

"Yes, ma'am," Mark said. "Can't somebody give me a hint, though?"

"Well, it involves flying," Grandpa told him, a little smile on his face.

"What're you up to, Granddad?" Mark asked him, smiling despite his attempts to act stern and serious.

"You'll see."

"Hey! Hey, Golan!" St. Esprit said, running over and pounding him on the shoulders. "I'll see you next week, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure thing, Colonel. I'll see you. Try not to overdo it with the turkey."

"Tell that to Darby, will you? He's gonna be dining at Charleston's finest restaurants, the family mansion and the Governor's Mansion in Columbia! I don't care how much he works out and runs, he's gonna come back ten pounds heavier." He paused, then looked at the assembled elders of the Golan clan. "Hi, sir, ma'am…s."

"Smooth, Alex," Mom commented.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Playing nice, Alex?" Mrs. St. Esprit said, walking over. She was a tall, distinguished-looking woman, quite beautiful even as age was starting to set in. She had silvery-blond hair and cool gray eyes, and was one of the best-known mothers at the Academy.

"Yes, Mom."

"Christina, it was good seeing you again."

"Always a pleasure, Laura. Mark, Betty, Charlie."

"Mrs. St. Esprit," they all said.

"Get some for me," St. Esprit whispered, before heading to the Cadillac limousine.

Behind that car, D'Arbanville was just reaching his limousine. He smiled and waved, and Mark waved back. Mark managed to get a few minutes to say a last few goodbyes to some of his brothers and friends as they departed. He'd lost sight of Marshall since the parade, but the redhead was still waiting on his brother, whose flight had gotten delayed or something. He would be fine. Josh Marshall was as good as his word and then some. He wouldn't leave his brother hanging.

Finally, Mark's mother steered him back to the car, and they all got into the yellow Caprice and rode the twelve minutes to Newport State Airport. Once they got there, Mark started asking questions again- this was a local airport, with no flights from any airlines capable of reaching the local airport in Greenbrier County. But Grandpa had that look in his eye, the look of someone who was up to no good. It was the same look Marshall had when he'd stuck a zip-tie on St. Esprit's saber on Monday night.

But nobody would answer Mark's questions until they were walking out amongst the planes, and Mark was about ready to start hopping up and down. Finally, he looked around and inside the small hangar they were passing, and he spotted the olive drab dive bomber.

"Grandpa, you actually went and did it?" Mark exclaimed.

"Flew her up from Greenbrier two days ago. Your mother and grandmother rode a train up like normal people. We stayed in a hotel, saw some sights. It's amazing what you can see in a day or so with a state the size of a postage stamp."

"So what're we gonna do with this old thing?" Mark demanded, unable to keep a grin off his face.

"Fly her back to West Virginia, I imagine. But I'm old, so I'm gonna let the young buck pilot take three hours in the front seat on this run."

"That's a long time to be flying, Mark," Betty Golan said. "Be careful."

"I think I can handle it," Mark said, grinning still as he looked at the plane.

"She means be careful," Laura Golan added, emphasizing the last two words. Mark sobered up and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be careful."

"Have fun, you two," Betty Golan said, hugging her husband of forty years, then her grandson of seventeen. "I'll see you in Cass."

"How're you guys getting back?" Mark asked.

"We're going to ride a comfortable airliner," Laura Golan answered. "You boys can take the cramped, smelly, freezing tin can."

"Aw, but Mom, it's one hel-heck of a fine cramped, smelly, freezing tin can!" Mark protested good-naturedly. "And you shouldn't say that in front of a plane called the Banshee."

"It won't dare mess with me," Laura Golan answered, fixing the old dive bomber with a steely glare.

"Yeah, Mom, you tell that plane who's boss!"

"Mark…"

"Uh, I mean that real nice and respectful. Ma'am."

"That's better." Mother and son embraced, and then the two women left, leaving the two pilots to go inside the hangar and climb into the old two-seat bomber.

Charlie Golan moved a little slower now that he was sixty-four years old, but he was still in good shape, and he got into the gunner's seat without too much trouble. It was overcast today, and rain began to fall as the A-24's engine chugged into life and Mark began to taxi out of the hangar. After waiting a few minutes for some Pipers and Cessnas to get out of the way, Mark bickered casually with the air traffic controller, who knew him by name, and finally received clearance for takeoff.

The Banshee, the Army's version of the SBD Dauntless, was named "The Mountaineer", was no fighter. She was too heavy and slow for that. But she was designed to withstand g-forces that could rip the wings clear off any fighter plane from that era, and quite a few planes even today. The old Douglas dive-bomber's chugging grew into a roar as Mark fed power to the engine, pushing the throttle forward. Rain began lashing his face, and Mark reached up and jerked the sliding canopy forward and closed the cockpit.

Behind him, his granddad, the hero of World War II in the Pacific, sat comfortably facing the tail. The Banshee's cockpit was fully enclosed for the winter, its mounted twin .30-caliber machine guns- which were never allowed to be loaded anyway- removed and stored. Grandpa Golan gave no orders to his grandson as Mark took the bomber down the runway, gaining speed, and lifted them into the air. He trusted his grandson so much that he felt no need. Given how skilled a pilot Charlie Golan was, that was an indescribable honor.

Tony sat awkwardly outside the TAC office, awaiting his father's arrival. Given how many times he'd clean forgotten about his son, in so many places, he was more used than he cared to admit to the idea that Dad just wasn't going to show up. In spite of it all, as sure as he was that he couldn't get more jaded about it, Tony was shocked as the number of other cadets waiting dwindled down to almost nothing. All that remained as the sun went down were a pair of Quebecois boys who kept busy by talking rapidly in French to each other, and eventually they were gone, too.

"Everything all right, Mr. DiNozzo?" Sergeant Major Ambrose rumbled, coming out of the TAC office. "You better call your folks. Place is getting ready to close up shop for the weekend."

"He's not coming," Tony said, half to himself. "The son of a bitch isn't coming."

"I'm a little bit deaf," Ambrose said, frowning uncertainly. "I didn't catch that. Gonna have to speak up. Try it again?"

"Just talking to myself, Sergeant Major."

"You should see about talking to somebody who can get you out of here. Got somebody in mind?"

"Just my Dad."

"So? Call him, DiNozzo. Get to it. Parens got a phone in there last I checked."

Tony reluctantly got up and went inside the TAC office, where Master Chief Parens did indeed have a phone ready for him. Tony dialed the hotel in Belfast, then had to waste ten minutes getting the phone number out of the clerk for the next hotel his Dad had gone to. Of course he'd checked out and moved on without even saying anything to Tony. Of course! That would have made sense!

Finally, he got to his Dad's room at some fancypants place in London.

"Junior? What's going on?" Dad asked. "You didn't get kicked out again, did you?"

"No, Dad," Tony said, controlling his fury. "I was wondering where you are. Nobody's come to pick me up."

"What?"

"It's the start of Thanksgiving break, Dad!"

"Oh, that. Um, can't you tag along with somebody?"

"They all left! I was waiting for you!"

"Okay, lemme talk to somebody who works there, Junior. I'll get this sorted out."

Tony handed the phone to Chief Parens, who grunted a few times and then said, "Not a problem, sir."

"So?" Tony asked.

"So, he said he gives authorization for you to go home with whoever you like."

"Everybody left already!"

"Easy, I'm only a Master Chief," Parens said. "And Marshall's still here. I seem to remember hearing you and him get along."

"He's here?" Tony asked in amazement. "Where the hell is he?"

"Flight out got delayed like the flight in, so I went to show off my room to Josh," a familiar voice said from the doorway to the TAC office.

"You were showing him your fucking room all this time?" Tony asked. "How long does that take? Were you watching the paint dry?"

"Paint drying is underrated," Joshua Marshall said, coming into view in the doorway as well. He held a green, military-issue duffel bag and was dressed in jeans and a tan winter jacket. He nodded to Tony. "So, you wanna grab your gear?"

Tony stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I just got off the horn and got us a different flight," Josh said. "I'm Chris' legal guardian right now, so, if you feel lucky you can sign on with me."

"In plain English," Marshall said, "would you like to come stay at lovely Camp Lejeune, North Carolina for the next week, DiNozzo?"

Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Tony's stomach. He scoffed, though, determined to remain nonchalant. "Well, I guess I could, if you insist."

"Oh, wanna play games?" Joshua Marshall said. "I'll leave you here, my friend."

"No, no, that's okay," Tony said, grabbing his bag. "Uh, see you, Chief."

"Yeah, whatever. Have a good break, DiNozzo."

"I hope you won't miss me too much, boys," Sergeant Major Ambrose said, grinning at the three of them, speaking in that voice that sounded like a tank engine turning over.

"Uh, I'll definitely miss you a lot, Sergeant Major," Marshall said, nodding. "Yep. Plenty."

"I can feel the sincerity from here, Mr. Marshall."

"Thanks for keeping 'em in line, Sergeant Major," Josh said.

"Not a problem, sir," Ambrose replied, heading out. "Stay out of trouble, boys."

"Oh, Captain, I need you to sign for this," Parens called from the TAC office. He threw a clipboard clear through the doorway at Joshua, who caught it, filled out and signed something, then threw it right back. "Don't overdo it, Chief."

"I'll try, sir. Make sure those two knuckleheads don't."

"We'll see, Chief," Joshua answered with a laugh.

Coach Tanner had evidently heard about the minor crisis, because he was waiting outside with that odd little French car of his. The two Marshalls plus Tony got in and they got express service to T.F. Green Airport, with Coach Tanner narrating the last two weeks while Joshua listened appreciatively. The younger Marshall laughed occasionally, adding his own commentary, seeming to relish the whole thing. As rough as his first days at Remington had been, Tony felt better with those days behind him, and his foothold at this dump much more clearly in place. He had an ally in his coach and in the younger Marshall, and maybe in the older Marshall, too.

So Tony relaxed and participated in the conversation on the way to the airport in the same easygoing way that the senior enlisted cadet did, making no big deal of any of it. The two Marshalls and Coach Tanner all needled Tony about this and that, gave him grief about being a troublemaker, but they didn't seem to really mean anything by it.

Tony still didn't quite believe what was happening until they were at the airport checking in, and Christian Marshall got on a payphone to inform his dad that he and Josh had picked up a guest. Marshall turned around and saw Tony sitting there, looking at him with some telling expression on his face, and smiled reassuringly. "It's all good, Tony. You're going home with me and Josh. It's really happening."

"Just a little hard to believe," Tony admitted. He was all-too-used to either being forgotten, or to being picked up from school and then ignored- or forgotten, in other words. Already, this felt different from that. It felt like somebody gave a shit, and that was not exactly the norm with DiNozzo Senior.

"Believe it," Christian Marshall said. "Hey. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure, I do," Tony replied.

Marshall smiled. "Good."

A/N: 1-28-2018.

Chapter Five is completed. It may be a while between chapters, given how much else exists to keep me busy. But I will get to this as often as I can. Hopefully, it will be completed in 2018. Otherwise, 2019 for sure. We'll see.

"Guidon" is a small pennant flag used as the banner of individual military units. The colors carried by the Color Guard- the school flag, the Rhode Island state flag, the United States flag- are not guidons, just flags.

It is tough striking the right balance between telling things from Tony's perspective and the perspective of Mark Golan and the others in Honor Corps. And it's necessary to have mention of and appearances by numerous other supporting characters. But so far, I've alternated back and forth in a pattern that seems to work. Hopefully I can continue to do so effectively.

Something to remember: I have made virtually all of this up. "Cadence" or S12E14, depicted very little of Anthony DiNozzo Jr. back when he was attending RMA in the 1980s, what I estimated to be 1986-1987. We know that Mark Golan existed, but my depiction of the character is completely made up. Other than that he's a member of Honor Corps and is about as bullheaded as Tony, we know nothing about him. Since I was aiming to write a feature-length story, I obviously had to do more than what the story gave me, so I made a ton of things up. My backstory on Golan is based off my modern-day depictions of him as a rising senior officer in the U.S. Air Force.

I would have liked to have based my story more directly on the NCIS episode itself, but as I said, they gave me so little to work with, I had to just make up my own story and integrate the few canon details as best I could, which was and is my aim.

Reviews are always welcome. One sentence, a paragraph, whatever you like. I welcome all feedback. I only ask that it be polite and constructive, but that is still a request and not an order.

If you spot any errors, inconsistencies, typos or plot issues, feel free to point them out. A personal message is just as good as a review for that, but it's up to any readers which means to use.