Faith arrived at work early the next morning, a little less sure of himself than he had felt the day before. He was in a bit of a dilemma; he couldn’t get into grad school, so he couldn’t get out of the Army. He no longer wanted to be on active duty, but there didn’t seem to be a good way around the stoploss. He didn’t mind going back to Iraq, or even over to Afghanistan, but he definitely did not want to go as part of some training team or as an augmentee to round out a National Guard unit. Maybe he could call in some favors, if he had any left with anyone of any importance, and at least get into a major combat arms unit as either a battalion S2 or a brigade S2’s assistant. He knew he would be good at those jobs.
Faith spent most of the morning poring over and sorting out the paperwork related to the shutdown of the 116th Trans. This wasn’t really his job, but he knew he was good at it and it would help out the unit. Besides, what else was he going to do? It’s not like he had to prep for grad school or anything. Around lunchtime, Simon Criss dropped in. Faith was pleased to see his friend.
“So, I heard that things didn’t go so well with grad school admissions,” Criss said without preamble. Faith didn’t even bother to ask how he knew. “So… are you doing OK?” Criss inquired.
“I guess so. I’m not surprised that I didn’t get in everywhere, but I’m surprised I didn’t get in at least somewhere. What pisses me off is that all these kids who have been nowhere, and done nothing except sit in a classroom for all whopping 22 years that they’ve been alive, got into these schools ahead of me,” Faith ranted. “I mean, what does a guy have to do to get into grad school these days?”
Criss looked at his friend. “OK bro,” he said, “let’s look at the numbers. Dude, you graduated from a podunk college no one ever heard of, a year late, with a 2.7 GPA. Your GRE scores are in the bottom half of all applicants. The people you’re competing against come from major-league undergrad programs, and they’re putting up 3.8+ GPAs and top-10% GRE scores,” Criss reminded him. “The applicant pool includes large numbers of veterans who are bailing out of all of the armed services at record rates. So the one thing that makes you special, the fact that you’re a vet, isn’t so special anymore. You need some expectation management, brother.”
Faith knew Criss was right. But it didn’t make him feel any better.
“Looks like the doors to grad school are firmly shut,” Faith said morosely.
“Whenever one door closes, another opens,” Criss reminded him.
“I suppose,” Faith said, noncommittally.
“Well, what are you going to do now?” Criss inquired. “You can’t get out, an even if you wanted to, and even if you did, no grad school is going to take you.”
“Not one that I’d want to go to, anyway,” Faith admitted.
“Should have applied to Yale,” Criss said teasingly.
“Fuck those hippies,” Faith retorted.
“So, you feel up to a challenge of a different type?” Criss inquired.
“Sure. Wait, what is it?” Faith said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “If it involves strippers, farm animals, binge drinking, and/or the commission of any kind of felony, count me out.”
“Moi?” Criss said in mock hurt. “I would never think of such. You, sir, insult me.”
“OK then, what?”
“How are you doing on PT these days?” Criss asked innocently.
“Are you kidding, bro? It’s pretty much all I do around here these days,” Faith answered.
“Good, because your assessment and selection for the 16th SAVE begins tomorrow at 0430.” Criss said, beaming.
