Mr. Simms, you are
a cover-up artist…
and you are a liar.
But not a snitch !
Excuse me ?
No, I don’t
think I will.
– Mr. Slade.
- This is such a crock of shit !
Please watch your language,
Mr. Slade.
You are in the Baird school,
not a barracks.
Mr. Simms, I will give you one
final opportunity to speak up.
Mr. Simms
doesn’t want it.
He doesn’t need
to be labeled…
"still worthy of
being a Baird man."
What the hell
is that ?
What is your motto here ?
"Boys, inform on your
classmates, save your hide;
anything short of that,
we’re gonna burn you at the stake" ?
Well, gentlemen,
when the shit hits the fan,
some guys run…
and some guys stay.
Here’s Charlie facin’ the fire,
and there’s George…
hidin’ in
big daddy’s pocket.
And what are you doin’ ?
You’re gonna
reward George…
and destroy Charlie.
-Are you finished, Mr. Slade ?
-No, I’m just gettin’ warmed up.
I don’t know who
went to this place.
William Howard Taft,
William Jennings Bryant,
William Tell, whoever.
Their spirit is dead,
if they ever had one.
It’s gone.
You’re buildin’
a rat ship here,
a vessel for
seagoin’ snitches.
And if you think you’re
preparin’ these minnows for manhood,
you better think again,
because I say you are
killin’ the very spirit…
this institution
proclaims it instills.
What a sham.
What kind of a show
are you guys puttin’ on here today ?
I mean, the only class
in this act is sittin’ next to me.
I’m here to tell you
this boy’s soul is intact.
It’s non-negotiable.
You know how I know ?
Someone here, and I’m not gonna say who,
offered to buy it.
- Only Charlie here wasn’t sellin’.
– Sir, you’re out of order.
I show you out of order.
You don’t know what
out of order is, Mr. Trask.
I’d show you,
but I’m too old,
I’m too tired,
too fuckin’ blind.
If I were the man I was
five years ago, I’d take…
a flamethrower
to this place !
Out of order ? Who the hell
you think you’re talkin’ to ?
I’ve been around,
you know ?
There was a time
I could see.
And I have seen.
Boys like these,
younger than these,
their arms torn out,
their legs ripped off.
But there is nothin’
like the sight…
of an amputated spirit.
There is
no prosthetic for that.
You think you’re merely sendin’
this splendid foot soldier…
back home to Oregon with
his tail between his legs,
but I say you are…
executin’ his soul !
And why ?
Because he’s not
a Baird man.
Baird men.
You hurt this boy,
you’re gonna be Baird bums,
the lot of you.
And, Harry, Jimmy,
Trent, wherever