Read Online A Man Named Dave by Dave Pelzer - Free Book Online Page B

begged for God to somehow ease my father’s pain. “Please,” I whispered, “do what you can to protect my dad. And please, deliver him from all evil. Amen.” After pleading with God I discovered that a film of snow covered my fatigues, the bench I was sitting on, and the entire air base. Even though the tips of my fingers had turned purple and my ear lobes raged with pain, I somehow felt warm inside. As I stood up and walked back toward the barracks, a howling wind blew in my face. I didn’t blink an eye. “It’s up to God,” I said to myself. “Only He can save my father now.”
    Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. As much as I waited, as much as I prayed, I never heard from Father.
    After graduating from specialty training, I was transferred to my permanent base in the Florida panhandle. Just as my counselor in basic training had boasted, I expected to serve in a typical setting while overseeing civilians who ran the kitchen. But it was not meant to be. I was stationed with a combat engineering group, which entailed spending most of my time laboring under the cover of a tent rather than simply monitoring others in an air-conditioned building. I dreaded rolling out of bed in the early morning, before driving over an hour, in the middle of nowhere, to the field site, and work straight through without a break, then finish the day at eight that evening, only to repeat the cycle the next day. I detested the job, and I felt as worthless and degraded as I had when I lived with Mother.
    As always, I swallowed my pride and rose to the challenge. However, as much as I tried, it seemed that I could do nothing right for my two hard-nosed supervisors, who berated me every minute of the day. I refused to cave in. Because I had a hard time getting the field burner units, which cooked the meals, up and running in time, I had to begin my day at three a.m. rather than four-thirty. By the time others showed up to begin their shift, I had almost everything cooked and on the serving line and ready to be dished out. But that was not good enough for the sergeants. When I accomplished that feat, I only found myself being chewed out for something else. Every week, it seemed to me, the harder that I’d focus on my tasks, the more I’d screw up. I seemed to be in the middle of a never ending cycle. It never failed: I always had everything under control, right up until the moment the sergeants peeked in on my progress, only to find me fighting off my latest blunder. A short time later I discovered I was the only cook preparing all the meals, while the sergeants and other airmen seemed content to watch me sweat away.
    Then one afternoon, out of the blue, my supervisor, Technical Sergeant Campbell, a towering black man who always bellowed at me while his gleaming white teeth maintained a vise lock on one of his huge cigars, called me for what I thought was another lecture on my shortcomings. “I tell you, Airman Pelt-der, you a working fool,” he stated with a wide smile.
    My eyes dodged down at my splattered boots. “I’m trying hard, Sergeant Campbell.”
    “You need to understand, squadron’s job’s to build bases from nothin’ and fix runways in the event they’ve been damaged after an enemy attack. Runway’s not fixed, planes don’t take off. Mind can’t be on business of buildin’ and fixin’ if everyone’s hungry. It’s that simple. You get what I’m sayin’?” I nodded my head. “I get you to work hard, to see if you quit. That’s why I ride ya. Ride ya hard. Gets the job done, that’s all that matters to me. We’re in this together. You still needs to work on adjusting that attitude, though. Ain’t no shame being a cook. I know you want something else; you can do whatever you like in the future. But for now you stay with us,” Sergeant Campbell said. “You done good! No need to be ridin’ on your behind no more,” he stated with a grin as he slapped me on the back.
    It was then that I understood why I had been constantly harassed