The Cadet (2 page)

The Coming American

Bring me men to match my mountains,

Bring me men to match my plains.

Men to chart a starry empire,

Men to make celestial claims.…

—Samuel Walter Foss, at the base of the ramp leading to the USAFA cadet area from 1958–2003

The Cadet

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Chronology

(Entries in italics are fictional)

1947:
The National Security Act of 1947 established the United States Air Force (USAF) as a separate and equal branch to the Army and Navy.

1948:
Officers and educators meet at USAF’s Air University to discuss the creation of an Air Force Academy, but they do not recommend a location.

1949:
Air Force Secretary Symington creates an initial Site Selection Board,
appoints war-hero Major General Hank McCluney as a member.

1949:
Denver Post
article
by Tony Rafelli,
“West Point of the Air” prompts Joe Reich, owner of the Swiss Chalet Restaurant in Colorado Springs, to convince the Chamber of Commerce to establish a committee to compete for USAF Academy.

1950:
Real estate mogul George Delante procures several thousand acres in south Colorado Springs in an attempt to hold a monopoly on land proposed for a USAF Academy site.

1952:
A Farnborough Airshow DH.110 crash kills 29 spectators;
a heroic rescue effort led by recent West Point graduate Lieutenant Whitney motivates Jean-Claude Simone to attend the new Air Force Academy when it opens.

1953:
The top three sites for the USAF Academy are identified as Colorado Springs, CO; Alton, IL; Geneva, WI. The Site Committee’s report is tabled after considering 580 proposed sites in 45 different states and traveling 18,852 miles.

1954:
Air Force Secretary E. Harold Talbott appoints a new Site Selection Commission; members included Charles Lindberg
and Major General Hank McCluney.

1954:
In Alton, IL, and Geneva, WI,
George Delante and other
activists from Colorado Springs covertly participate in protests against the final Site Committee visits

1954:
In Washington, D.C., George Delante attempts to blackmail Major General McCluney to influence the Site Selection Committee to pick Colorado Springs.

1954:
The Site Commission dismisses the southern Colorado Springs site for the USAF Academy;
George Delante is bankrupted by the decision.

1954:
A last-ditch effort by the Colorado Springs Chamber of Commerce convinces the Commission to consider a far-north city site. Charles Lindberg pilots the Commission in a plane to inspect the northern Colorado Springs site.

1954:
George Delante dumps his land in south Colorado Springs and deceitfully procures 1,000 acres of prairie east of the proposed USAF Academy northern site.

25 June 1954:
Secretary Talbott announces the Academy will reside in Colorado

1954:
USAF General Order No. 1 activates the USAF Academy and designates Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, CO as the temporary USAF Academy site

1954:
Congress passes legislation to begin construction of the Air Force Academy in far northwest Colorado Springs

11 July 1955:
The first class of cadets enters the United States Air Force Academy at Lowry AFB

***

Prologue

“Comin’ in on a Wing and a Prayer”

1943

Cahors, France

And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods?

—Horatius at the Bridge

The high-pitched wail of German air raid sirens startled Jean-Claude Simone from his restless sleep, as it had woken him every night for the past week.

The boy clutched a blanket and pulled it around his head. He waited for the distant rumbling of the exploding bombs to begin, a deep, growling reverberation that sounded as if a thunderstorm were rolling across the wooded French countryside.

Two nights ago the guttural booms had grown loud enough that he had felt the ground-shock from the individual bombs. He remembered his mother running upstairs to their bedroom.

Bending over to comfort his sister’s frightened cries, his mother had picked up his baby sister, Nanette, and clutched her tightly, whispering over the terrifying explosions that grew ever louder. It sounded as though a giant strode through their small valley, randomly dropping boulders as he crashed through their peaceful existence.

His mother held the baby to her cheek and ran a hand through her wispy brown hair, whispering as she rocked back and forth, watching out the upstairs bedroom window. In the starlight his mother’s silhouette reminded Jean-Claude of a thin reed of grass, gently swaying in the wind, yet never breaking as she comforted his sister.

His father had pounded up the stairs, carrying a rifle. His eyes were wild. He whispered, “Are the children all right, Marie?”

“
Oui
.” His mother nodded toward Jean-Claude’s bed, a mattress pushed into the corner of the small room. “See if he is awake.”

Jean-Claude squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to sleep. As his father approached, he smelled the faint odor of garlic and olive. It was the smell of their small family restaurant on a warm summer day, when the wind would sweep the fragrance of cooking from the kitchen, and he would sit in the doorway watching Nanette in her crib.

Standing over the wood-stoked stove, Father would wipe a hand across his brow and move a sauté pan rapidly over the open flame as the smell of butter, onions, mushrooms, and pepper filled the room. Neighbors would sit in chairs outside the kitchen and laugh with his father as he prepared a meal for their small sidewalk café. Those were the days before the Germans, before the bombs.

His father had run a hand gently across his arm. Jean-Claude trembled, wanting his father to hold him, comfort him, and keep the booming giants from invading their house.

But Jean-Claude remained still at his touch. Six years old was too old to have his father hold him like a baby. What would Jacques and François say if they discovered that he had been frightened of the Allied bombs, or of the Germans as they arrogantly patrolled the town?

Tonight, as the rumbling grew closer, Jean-Claude kept his head buried in the blanket, waiting for his parents to come upstairs. He wished he hadn’t spurned his father’s comforting touch the night before.…

A shrill whistling made Jean-Claude tense. The sound grew louder.

He bent his knees up to his head. He heard a shout from downstairs. “
Pa-pa?
” An ear-splitting whistling—then something exploded in a terrifying roar.

Around him the house crumbled, falling as the walls blew away.

The floor dropped beneath him, crashing. He yelled as he fell, then bounced as his bed hit the ground.

Someone screamed, a distant, muffled moan.

Terrified, Jean-Claude sat up, his mouth so dry he couldn’t speak. His chest hurt. He drew the blanket around him and, through the smoke, saw a hole where the bedroom ceiling and floor had been just seconds before.

Fire licked at the collapsed walls. Splintered wood, torn wallpaper, pots and pans lay all around. Smells of oil, smoke, and burning wood filled his nostrils. Down the cobblestone street, people yelled, horns honked, air raid sirens wailed, and more bombs exploded.

The fire grew brighter, hotter.

He was outside, with nothing over his head. The roof was now a blanket of stars sprawled above like tiny pinpricks of light. Raw and splintered timbers jutted up around him. Only the back wall to the house stood standing.

In the kitchen the fireplace swayed, creaking as if about to fall. Round stones marbling its surface crumbled to the ground. In the distance a church bell clanged.

Tears welled in his eyes. “Ma-ma, pa-pa!”

He heard a whimpering wail. Nanette. Her tiny crib was on its side, turned over from the fall.

The wailing changed to coughing, as if Nanette had trouble breathing.

“Ma-ma!” There was still no answer.

Feeling as if he were going to choke from the smoke, Jean-Claude crawled to the end of his bed. “Nanette! Nanette!” But no one came to comfort him.

He pushed off the end of the bed and clawed through chalk and splinters. His hands hurt, and in the moonlight he saw blood, felt the wet slipperiness as he tried to push away timbers to reach Nanette.

A creaking sound cascaded to a roar, and the back wall collapsed. “Ma-ma!” He struggled to his feet and took an unsteady step, but he fell back. Debris showered him.

Then it was quiet, except for the growing sound of the crackling fire.

He twisted, but couldn’t move. A log from the back wall pinned him down.

Jean-Claude tugged frantically. “Help! Help me, pa-pa!”

The fire grew, feeding on the house, growling as it devoured his home. And now it was searching for him. Shadows danced crazily against the towering fireplace, and light glinted off the metal pans that were half buried in the fallen debris. “Ma-ma!”

As the fire encircled him, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear Nanette’s cries any longer, and since the explosion, he had not heard ma-ma or pa-pa at all.

He felt the fire’s heat against his face; he coughed from the smoke and remembered the time Jacques had caught a field mouse and had coaxed it into a cardboard box. Laughing, the boy had lit fire to one side of the box, and the mouse had scampered back and forth, throwing itself up against the far wall as it tried to get away. The mouse grew more frantic as the flames roiled higher. Finally disgusted at the play, Jean-Claude threw a stone at the box, knocking it over and freeing the mouse—now, his own home had been toppled and was burning, but there was no escape.

“Help me, please!”

A scraping sound came from behind him. He struggled to an elbow. Through the smoke Jean-Claude saw someone stagger into the house. The man was much shorter than his father.

His face lit by the fire, the man pulled himself over the fallen debris, favoring his leg. A bleeding gash ran across his cheek. Even in the dim light, Jean-Claude could see that the man had bright red hair. His brown leather jacket was dirty and torn at the sleeve. Oily sweat covered the man’s face in a sheen.

They stared at each other. Jean-Claude felt as if his heart were pounding loud enough for the man to hear.

The man spoke, but Jean-Claude couldn’t understand the words.

“American,” the man whispered in a strange accent.

Panting, Jean-Claude shook his head and tried to get up, but he couldn’t move.

Fire roared behind the man, feeding on cooking oil. The man wrapped his arms around the log pinning Jean-Claude down and pulled. The wood creaked, but didn’t move. The flames grew larger as they ran up a jutting timber. Something popped from underneath the debris, as if the blaze was trying to run under the fallen log. Wisps of smoke rose from the debris scattered on the ground.

The man shuffled around and gained purchase with his bloodied leg. Squeezing shut his eyes and with his face contorted in pain, the American grunted and lifted the log a few centimeters.

Freed, Jean-Claude rolled out from under the wooden beam. Scrambling to a crouch, Jean-Claude stared at the man as the timber crashed back to the floor.

The man opened his eyes and seemed to notice for the first time that flames were all around. Dragging himself up over the log, he grimaced and motioned for Jean-Claude to follow him out of the house.

Jean-Claude turned wildly and began digging through the debris. “Ma-ma, pa-pa!” Hot embers burned his fingers as he dug deeper into the pile. “Where are you?”

Strong hands grasped Jean-Claude around the waist and tried to pull him away.

Jean-Claude fought against the man, pounding with his fists. Standing free in the midst of his demolished house, Jean-Claude shrieked. Flames licked at his heels. To his left, a portrait of his family sizzled as the heat turned it black around the edges.

He couldn’t leave. Somewhere underneath this fallen rubble lay his mother, his father, and his sister, Nanette. He had to find them, help them—

A piece of burning wood fell from the fireplace. Jean-Claude jumped back and felt intense heat, almost landing in another wall of fire that crackled up from the demolished stairs.

The man motioned for him to follow.

Tears streamed down Jean-Claude’s face, unstopped by pride or a need to prove to others that he was too big to cry. Sirens warbled in the night. Searchlights stabbed through the sky, sweeping across the darkness.

“Please, laddie!” the man said, speaking with a crude accent. “Hurry, now!”

Down the narrow cobblestone lane three houses were on fire. Jacques’ home was completely leveled. The man limped to the center of the street and urged Jean-Claude to follow.

Jean-Claude stepped out of the house and held a hand to his eyes, shielding his face from the heat. What if his parents were still alive? His sister … she needed him—

Suddenly, the sound of a car honking pierced the night. Bullets fired and a motorcycle screeched around the corner. The American looked wildly around.

A German soldier pulled up to the house and dismounted from his motorcycle, leaving the motor running. He pulled out a pistol. “
Kommen Sie hier!
” He leveled the pistol at the injured man.

Jean-Claude felt his knees buckle. He had to stay quiet; he remembered his father cautioning him against ever antagonizing the Germans.

“
Schnell!
” The man cocked the gun.

Slowly raising his hands over his head, the American nodded with his head for Jean-Claude to run away.

Still terrified, Jean-Claude’s breath quickened. His hands felt slippery. What should he do? He couldn’t just stand there. The American had saved his life. He stooped and picked up a rock in the rubble the size of his hand; without thinking he hurled the rock at the German, hitting the blond-haired man on the shoulder.

The German whirled. Snarling, he aimed his gun at Jean-Claude.

Skipping on his good leg, the American leaped out and tackled the German. They rolled on the ground, wrestling for the pistol.

The American cried out in pain. Grunting, they struggled as the pistol skittered away, spinning to a stop next to Jean-Claude.

Jean-Claude stared at the weapon. It looked hard, metallic in the flickering shadow.

Terrified as the smoke thickened around him, Jean-Claude reached down and grasped the pistol. The handle felt cold. He had never held a gun before.

The German rolled on top of the American and straddled him. His fingers closed around the American’s throat. The American turned his head from side to side and made sharp choking sounds. He struggled to pry off the German’s hands.

Jean-Claude’s breath quickened; the stranger who had saved him was being strangled. He had to do something. But what? He couldn’t just let the man die. Pa-pa had said he was too young to even hold his father’s rifle, much less a pistol, but he couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.

Holding the weapon with both hands, Jean-Claude tried to aim. The gun wavered; he took an uncertain step forward and said, “
Arrêtez!
” but the men ignored him.

The German pushed down and the American gurgled; his hands fell to the ground.

Grimacing, Jean-Claude squinted and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off, kicking his arms up. His hands stung from the recoil.

A spray of blood shot from the German’s head and the man slumped over.

In pain, the American rolled from underneath the dead German. His eyes wide, he stared at Jean-Claude. Flames flickered from the burning house, casting wild shadows.

Jean-Claude dropped the gun. It clanked to the ground. Not fully comprehending what had happened, he took an unsteady step back. A sick feeling gnawed in his stomach; he leaned over and vomited. What had he done?

The American coughed and struggled to his feet. He limped over and picked up the Luger, then waved for Jean-Claude to follow. “Come, lad!”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jean-Claude looked around, but all he could see was the devastation of his home, and the flames growing larger. He took a step toward his house, but strong arms stopped him. “No, laddie!”

Flames rolled over the devastation as the remaining walls collapsed onto the ground. Jean-Claude raised a hand to shield his face as the heat pushed him back.

He had no one else to go to, and he didn’t know what to do.

Except trust in this man who had saved his life.

His legs shaking, he turned and followed the American.

And left his old life behind.

***