P Deutermann - Darkside

“Tell us about your plebe year,” Jim said.

“We were getting through it,” the plebe said. “I mean, like, there were three of us in the room at the beginning of plebe year. Frankie Browning dropped out at Christmas, so then it was just the two of us. That made it a little tougher.”

“I understand,” Jim said. “I graduated in ’93. Went Marine option and then got out. So I understand what plebe year’s all about and what you’ve been going through. What was Dell’s plebe year like?”

Antonelli shrugged. “Tough, I guess. He wasn’t very big. Kinda quiet. Kept his head down and his mouth shut, like most of us.”

“You go out for sprint ball, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir,” Antonelli said with obvious pride.

“But Dell-he wasn’t a big jock, was he?”

“No, sir. Kinda small. He had some trouble with that. I mean, with all the phys ed classes. Boxing. Wrestling. Hand to gland.” He reddened when he realized what he’d just called the self-defense course, but Branner just gave him a neutral smile. “But swimming, that he could do. Actually, he was a competition diver. He even went out for the varsity swim team. Got cut but stayed on as a manager.”

“How about academics?”

“Brian was a math geek,” Antonelli replied. “Otherwise, he kept a two-nine, three-oh QPR. He saved my ass in math.”

Jim nodded. “Did you ever get the impression that the upperclassmen were actively singling Dell out when they ran the plebes in your company? You know what I mean? Like when they really come down on a guy? Hound his ass until he puts his chit in?”

Antonelli hesitated but then nodded. “I know what you mean, sir,” he said. “Brian had to go roaming for a coupla weeks, during dark ages.”

“What’s that mean, ‘roaming,’ ‘dark ages’?” Branner asked Jim.

“Plebes are assigned to company tables in the mess hall,” he explained. “They rotate once a week to a new table, but always within the company. That way, the upperclassmen get a shot at all the plebes. When you go roaming, you report to a new table for every meal, and these are tables outside your company area.”

“So?”

“Well, every meal means hitting the wall with hostile strangers, who all know that you had to be something of a screwup to get sent around the world in the first place. That’s what it was called when I went through. Trust me, it’s very unpleasant.”

“I see. And ‘dark ages’ refers to the time right after Christmas leave?”

“Right,” Jim said. “January and February in Annapolis. Dark and dreary. When it seems like plebe year will never, ever end, right, Antonelli?”

“Seems that way still,” the plebe said, relaxing a bit when he heard Jim speaking in familiar terms.

“How many days till you climb Herndon, then?”

“Ten and a wake-up, sir!” Antonelli replied, the volume back up.

“And was there anyone in the company who was especially hard on Dell?” Branner asked.

The plebe thought about it for a moment. He shook his head.

“That mean all the upperclassmen ran him the same as everyone else?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who was his squad leader for this striper set?” Jim asked.

“Mr. Edwards,” Antonelli said.

“He and Dell get along?”

“Um. Not that good, sir.”

“You’re saying that Dell’s own squad leader disliked him?” Branner asked.

The plebe was obviously uncomfortable with the question. “Well, ma’am, Mr. Edwards, he’s kinda hard-core.”

“What did Dell do on hundredth night?” Jim asked.

“I was kinda busy on that night, sir. But I doubt Brian would have done much at all. Especially to Mr. Edwards. Like I said, Edwards is hard-core. He’s going Marines.” The expression on his face said that that explained everything.

“You going Marines, Antonelli?” Jim asked.

“Hope to, yes, sir,” the plebe said, squaring his shoulders. Jim repressed a grin.

“Did Dell ever talk about the swim team? Personalities on the team? Anyone he might be buddies with?”

“He’d tell me about the meets, especially the away meets. How they did. Who the power guys were. The best divers. I went to some of the meets here. You know, yell for Navy. Support my roomie.”

Jim looked over at Branner, who asked the next question: “Did he ever mention a Midshipman Markham?”

Antonelli nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He said they called her ‘Hot Wheels.’” He stopped, looking from Branner to Jim in sudden embarrassment. “I mean, they all did. She almost always won her event, and she-she…”

Branner sat back in her chair, crossed her legs dramatically, and then smiled at the struggling plebe’s red-faced reaction. “And she has a magnificent rack and all the guys who see her in a competition swimsuit fantasize about her? Is that about right?”

“Y-y-yes, ma’am,” Antonelli stuttered, looking even more miserable. Jim could empathize. He had done a little fantasizing himself. Markham was gorgeous.

“What we need to know,” Jim said gently, “was whether or not Dell had a thing for Midshipman Markham, or she for him, something that went beyond what any normal red-blooded American male would think about when he sees a beautiful woman?”

Antonelli looked horrified. “But she’s a firstie,” he said. “That would be serious dark-siding. No way, no day. Sir.”

They had their answer. “Did Dell get a sugar report from anyone on a steady basis?” he asked. “He have a girlfriend back home somewhere?”

Antonelli shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “He got mail once a month from his ’rents. They’d usually spot him a twenty, you know, gedunk money. But if he had a girl, I didn’t know anything about it. He kept to himself pretty much in that department. It’s not like we had a lot of free time. It’s only now slowing down a little.”

“Who was his youngster?” Jim asked.

“He didn’t have one, not since Christmas leave. Guy didn’t come back. Put his chit in and went back to CivLant.”

“Interesting. So would it be fair to say that Dell was a loner? I mean, where did he go during his free time? Who’d he hang out with?”

“Free time, sir?” Antonelli said, as if Jim had asked about Dell’s Rolls-Royce.

Jim smiled. “Point taken,” he said. Plebes didn’t get any free time, except during study hours. And even then, stuff could happen.

“Would you say that he had been depressed over the past few weeks?” Branner asked.

Antonelli hesitated again. “You’re asking if he was suicidal?”

“No, not that extreme,” she said. “But was he unusually down?”

The plebe thought about it but didn’t answer.

“Did he say anything that might lead you to believe he was in trouble?” Jim asked. “Like he was wondering if he was going to make it through the year?”

Antonelli shook his head slowly. “He was getting by,” he said. “Head down, mouth shut, counting days to Herndon. Just like the rest of us.”

“So who sent him roaming, then?” Jim asked suddenly.

“Uh, actually, I think it was Mr. Edwards, sir,” Antonelli said. He looked embarrassed again.

“Anybody outside your company running him, then?”

Antonelli frowned again. “Brian’d sneak out at night sometimes. I always thought it was to study. Guys do that, get together in somebody’s room after taps, hold a Gouge session. I’d see him go, but not come back. Sometimes, next morning, he’d be kinda down.”

Jim gave Branner a look. She raised her eyebrows, but he shook his head. Then she thanked the plebe for his help, told him they might want to talk to him again, and asked that he not discuss any part of the interview with anyone until the investigation was completed. She switched off the tape once he’d gone.