The Cadet (4 page)

“Let’s go, gentlemen! Time is running out.” A thin enlisted man wearing an immaculate uniform stood in the center of the hallway. Cadet candidates scurried back and forth across the hall.

The last stop was filled with hundreds of shoeboxes. An airman glanced down at Rod’s tag, turned and yelled to the men scurrying at the back of the room, “Size 11 and a half, the works!” He said to Rod, “Put on your baseball cap and stuff your clothes as far down as you can inside that duffle bag. You’ve hit the mother lode, Mr. Candidate.”

Rod immediately dropped his already stuffed bag to the ground and dug around for the black baseball cap he had been issued four or five stations ago; he placed it on his head and pushed the rest of his newly issued clothes as far down into the bag as he could.

When he looked up, the counter was filled with two shoeboxes, a pair of slippers, shower clogs, foot powder, black and brown shoe polish, and two pairs of combat boots. Rod groaned. How on earth was he ever going to get all that inside his bag?

The airman rapidly tied the boot’s laces together in a large looping knot. He tossed the boots to Rod. “Here. Hang these around your neck. I’ll help you stuff the rest of your gear into the bag.”

With two pairs of boots dangling from his neck, baseball cap low over his eyes and his duffle bag now looking like an obese green worm, Rod staggered out the door of the supply building with his arms wrapped around his worldly possessions.

“Let’s move it, candidates! You have twenty minutes until the 1100 formation! I wouldn’t be late if I were you!” A sergeant dressed in khakis and a pith helmet stood just outside the building. He bawled at the candidates, who scurried around, unsteadily carrying their loads as if drunks staggering under a huge stack of dishes.

Holding his duffle bag with both arms, Rod couldn’t see over the top; instead, he tried to balance the load and swivel to the side. “Excuse, me, sir. Where do I take this?”

The sergeant reached behind Rod and glanced at the tag that dangled from the string around his neck. “Dorm 4, second floor, room 22. Head straight ahead and look for the fourth building on your right. Dump that stuff on your bed, get dressed, and be back here in less than twenty minutes. Understand, candidate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Okay, sergeant.”

The gaunt man slapped him on the rear. “Get moving, son. And don’t be late! You’re about to have an experience you’ll remember for the rest of your life.” He turned and started yelling at the other candidates just emerging from the building. “Come on, gentlemen, I’m not standing out here for my health. Now get moving!”

Rod staggered out across the sidewalk, trying to keep his balance. The juxtaposition of fresh air, bright sunlight, green grass, white sidewalk, the sounds of sergeants yelling out instructions, shot Rod’s adrenaline sky high. He was ready for this. He was excited. He was in the best shape of his life and was both mentally and physically prepared for embracing the Academy and excelling. He knew that he was ready for whatever they threw at him.

Another sergeant steered him to Building 4. Rod felt so full of energy that he took the stairs two steps at a time, while still holding on to his jiggling barrel-like duffle bag.

An airman in the center of the hallway chanted in a monotone, “Gentlemen, you have fifteen minutes to change into your basic uniform: long sleeve khaki shirt with tie, khaki pants, blue belt, black socks, low quarter heel black shoes, and wheel cap. Leave your duffle bag on your rack in your room.”

Rod staggered into room 4B22 and started to dump his duffle bag when he noticed that both the beds in the room were full. Two cadet candidates in various stages of undress stared at him.

“B22?” Rod said.

“Wrong room. This is 4B24. The room number is on the right side of the door.”

“Sorry.” Rod backed out hastily.

“Better hurry,” came a voice from the room he just left.

“Gentlemen, you have fourteen minutes!”

Rod stepped into the room next door, spotted an empty bed, and threw his duffle bag on top. Clothes were scattered on the other bed, so whoever was Rod’s roommate had already gotten dressed and had left his side of the room in disarray. It didn’t seem right for things to be this messy at a military academy, which set Rod to wondering if he should try to straighten things up before getting outside.

The beds were pushed against opposite walls. Two desks with chairs were centered under a large window that looked out to the next dorm building. Behind him, an empty closet stood with its doors wide open, and aside from some lint residing in a corner, the room was sterile, hollow.

Rod thought about trying to arrange his clothes in the closet, but one of the airmen stuck his face in the room. “Hurry and get dressed, candidate. You have eleven minutes. I wouldn’t be late if I were you!”

“Yes, sergeant.” Rod turned and immediately started tearing through his clothes. He shook out the wrinkled khaki Shade 84 dress uniform that he had brought from home, as instructed in his acceptance letter. From the urgency in the sergeant’s voice, Rod figured it was more important to get dressed and be outside on time than it was to be neat.

He finished tying his shoes when the voice outside the room announced sternly, “Four minutes! Let’s speed out, gentlemen!”

Grabbing the blue wheel cap, he ran from the room. Two airmen stood at the end of the hall, waving for him to hurry. They herded the last of several candidates from the floor; they pointed to the stairwell.

“Hurry up! Two minutes! Line up in the quadrangle. You are in
B
for Bravo squadron. Let’s move it!”

Someone slapped Rod on the rear as he raced down the stairs. “Put your hat on when you get outside. And good luck, candidate.”

Rod turned the corner and ran from the building. From the corner of his eye he saw candidates streaming from the next building. The scene repeated itself as far as he could see. It looked as though rivulets of ants converged onto a pile of food.

In the center of the area, lined up in rows, airmen held signs over their heads; each was painted with a giant letter of the alphabet. “
B
for Bravo over here! Line up alphabetically candidates, and let me know you’re here!”

“
A
for Alpha!”

“
D
for Delta squadron over here! Let’s go, let’s go! Get in line and stand at attention!” In a controlled confusion of blue hats, khaki uniforms, and scuffling shoes, the enlisted men simultaneously took roll and lined the candidates up in a long column behind the signs. They stood on a street in front of the barracks, overlooking a rectangular area.

Just as Rod fell in line, the sound of a bugle echoed throughout the area. For the first time, Rod noticed loudspeakers on the top of poles at the edge of the quadrangle. In addition, each of the buildings had a loudspeaker fastened to the corner, which made the sound seem to come from everywhere at once.

The sergeants fell silent as the bugle played. They stepped into line alongside the candidates and stood rigidly at attention.

When the last sound echoed away, no one stirred.

It was as if a cloud of absolute silence had descended and blanketed the dorm area. It was so still that Rod heard the flag quietly flapping in the breeze. No one spoke, and Rod wondered if someone had forgotten to show up to greet them.

Suddenly, Rod heard the sound of feet marching in unison. Faint at first, then the noise grew louder. Precise, like the increasing beat of a drum, it sounded as though a huge army approached. A murmur ran through the candidate ranks. The sergeants stationed throughout the group kept at attention, looking straight ahead and not saying a word.

The sound rumbled louder as five columns of men, dressed in long-sleeved khaki uniforms marched around the corner. Led by an officer with a silver eagle gleaming from each shoulder, the men all marched perfectly in step, white-gloved hands swinging in unison. There must have been fifty officers in all.

The men stopped directly in front of the candidates. “Left turn, harch.” Heels clicked as they faced the candidates.

Scanning the line of stern-faced men, Rod recognized the lieutenant who had first checked him in this morning. The officers stared straight ahead, and none of them looked happy. Rod felt a sudden chill.
Uh-oh.

A lone Master Sergeant stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, all candidates are present and accounted for.”

“Thank you, sergeant. Dismiss your men.”

“Yes, sir.” The Master Sergeant turned. “Sergeants, post!” The enlisted men slipped quietly away, leaving just the cadet candidates facing the group of officers.

The colonel stepped forward and surveyed the candidates. He took a long moment to look them over, then spoke in a loud voice.

“Candidates. Welcome to the United States Air Force Academy. I am Colonel Stillman, your Commandant of Cadets. You have been selected as the first class of the United States Air Force Academy. This is a great honor, and I expect you to rise to the challenge. The next four years are going to be tough, but you would not have been selected if we thought that you would fail. You gentlemen will set the standard for classes to come. If you succeed, they will succeed. But if you fail, so will they.

“There are going to be times during the coming years when you will feel like quitting. There will be times when you will be so busy, and so lonely, that you will think that this will never end. But let me assure you, that although you may think this is the toughest training anyone has endured, our nation’s two other military academies have existed for over a hundred years. Their system is just as tough, and their graduates have gone on to become world leaders. But they only did so by giving one hundred ten percent.

“I will expect nothing less from any of you. I am not overseeing a summer camp. I am not a babysitter. I am in the business of defending our nation against the meanest sons of bitches in the world. And the only way to defend against them is by training harder than they do. Over the next four years—and in particular, the next eight weeks of Basic Cadet Training—that training is going to be tougher than anything you’ve ever done in your life.

“We will turn you into cadets. We will first teach you to follow and then to lead. Then we will make you officers. In General Patton’s words, ‘If you can’t get them to salute when they should salute and wear the clothes you tell them to wear, how are you going to get them to die for their country?’”

He paused. “My first job is to teach you to march so we can conduct the dedication ceremony at 1600. And with that …” he performed a perfect about face and raised his voice to the officers standing rigidly behind him, “Officers. Make corrections!”

With a roar, the fifty men broke ranks. Like an incoming tsunami, they ran forward to consume the cadet candidates.

Rod stiffened as the hoard of red-faced, screaming officers sprinted toward them, howling like a hurricane.

***

Chapter Three

“Learnin’ the Blues”

July 11, 1955

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

On the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that on other days and other fields will bear the fruits of victory.

—General Douglas MacArthur

Alice in Wonderland.

It was as though he had fallen through a rabbit hole. His world instantly turned upside down without any hope of ever going back. That was the only way that Rod could even think about the chaotic onslaught that slammed into him, overwhelming his senses.

Two officers in white gloves and blue wheel caps stood on either side of him, yelling in each ear. Another officer, his hair cut bristle short, stood inches from his face and thrust his jaw right up to Rod’s nose.

“Stand up straight! Lock those skinny arms to your side! Don’t smile when I’m speaking to you, slime ball! Look straight ahead, eyes locked and chin in. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Rod said.

“Louder, doolie! Cram that skinny chin in, push out your chest! Now move it!”

“Yes, sir!”

“I SAID LOUDER! What’s the matter with you, smack? Are you ignoring me?”

“NO, SIR!”

“Don’t you look at me, you pathetic toad. I told you to look straight ahead, not at me. And don’t you wave your beady little eyes at me, do you understand me, mister?”

“Answer him, mister! What’s the matter, don’t you understand English? Didn’t they teach you how to speak in high school?”

“Yes, sir!” Rod shouted as loud as he could, trying to comply with the three men’s directions. But every time he moved, he moved the wrong way. Every time he opened his mouth, he was corrected. Every time he batted an eyelash, every time he grimaced, rammed his chin back as far as he could into his neck, pressed his arms into his side, screamed, balled his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms, locked his knees; every time he did anything trying to comply with the officers—their wheel caps low on their eyes, held by black leather straps under their necks, their white-gloved fingers jamming into his chin—he was instantly corrected.

Rod’s brain raced, trying to sort out the conflicting orders that came as though a jet roared past on full afterburners. The confusion around him burned as a white noise. Time seemed to drag on forever. He fell further down the rabbit hole, descending into hell, unable to comply with the three screaming officers who controlled his every movement.

“What squadron are you in?”

“B squadron, sir!”

“Now stop goofing off and double-time over to my expert demonstrator, Captain Justice. Keep your arms tight to your side when you run. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir!” Rod screamed back.

“Then speed out, mister! On the double. You’re already late! Move it! Move it!” The officer swung up a hairy arm, pointing to the center of the buildings.

Keeping his arms so tightly clasped to his ribs that his side began to ache, Rod sprinted straight ahead. He shot from the men like a bullet from a gun, not knowing where he was headed, just rocketing away from the screaming trio.

“You man!” A hoarse voice hollered at him.

Rod screeched to a halt, swaying as he snapped to attention. “Yes, sir?” He turned his head to search out the voice.

A snarling face thrust into his sight. “Eyes locked straight ahead, mister! What do you think this is, a beach party?”

Rod snapped his head forward. “No, sir!” In front of him dozens of other officers were yelling at young men just like him, all dressed in wrinkled uniforms and all bending backwards like reeds in a typhoon.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Captain Justice, sir!”

“Try it again, mister. You don’t ‘go see’ anyone, is that clear? You report! Now where are you going?”

“Sir! I am reporting to Captain Justice, sir!”

“Then why are you standing here, you dumb doolie? Speed out!”

“Yes, sir!” Rod locked his arms into his side, rammed his head back as far as he possibly could and starting running straight ahead.

Like an unlucky victim being attacked by a swarm of angry bees, Rod was stopped another five times before he found Captain Justice.

The Captain stood with his hands on his hips before a line of candidates. They quivered at attention, each with a white-gloved officer jamming their faces into the candidates’. The young men’s spines were bowed back so far it looked as though they were auditioning for a limbo contest.

Scowling in front of the two lines, Captain Justice looked upset. His face was bright red; throbbing blue veins protruded out from his head. The officer’s blond hair was cut razor close on the side.

Rod hesitated. To join his classmates would mean certain torture—he could see what they were going through. But to hesitate any longer would only attract the wrath of roving officers who were intent on playing palace guard to the elusive Captain Justice.

Making up his mind, Rod ran at attention to Captain Justice.

“Sir! Simone, Rod, reporting to Captain Justice! Sir!”

Justice blinked and clicked his eyes to gaze down at Rod. It was the only part of his body that moved. “Simone Rod? You sound French; what the hell type of name is that?”

“No sir, I’m American. My name is Rod Simone—”

The man thrust his face into Rod’s. Rod’s back bent.

“Five responses, candidate! Only five responses are allowed by basic cadets. But you’re lucky you are not a basic cadet yet, otherwise you’d be down on the dirt pushing Colorado soil to China. You’ll learn those five responses once you’re privileged enough to become a basic cadet, after you’re sworn in—if you live that long. Until then, candidate, you simply follow orders. Is that understood?”

The entire rapid fire exchange lasted no more than a few seconds.

“Yes, sir!” Rod screamed, unsure if that was one of the five allowed responses.

“Then get into line, Candidate Rod Simone! Move it! Get over there and help your classmates! You’re already late!”

“Yes, sir!” Keeping his arms rigidly to his side, his back bent, his chin in, his eyeballs locked straight ahead, his fingers and toes clinched into tiny tight balls, he sped to the end of the line. He was instantly confronted by a wild-eyed screaming officer who proceeded to find fault with every way he was standing.

Second by second, Rod thought, squinting through the verbal blast. That’s the only way he was going to survive. None of this “day-by-day” crap his dad had counseled him about.

Because at this pace he wouldn’t last more than another few minutes, much less an entire day.

O O O

It might have been ten minutes, or it just as likely could have been an hour, but the screaming suddenly stopped.

Rod’s back sprang forward, like a reed after being bent; he kept as rigid as he could. The fear of bringing attention to himself, of suddenly standing out in the long row of sweating bodies, kept him from relaxing.

As if on some hidden cue, the officers stepped back into a long line, leaving only Captain Justice standing before the candidates.

Rod would never forget the moment, when the thundering, in-your-face screaming ended; he smelled new paint emanating from the boxy World War II-era buildings, mixed with the odor of his sweat-soaked shirt and the freshly trimmed grass; he heard the distant sound of cars. But Rod gave his full concentration to the massive, blond Captain standing in front of them.

Justice put his hands on his hips. “All right, now listen up. You men have twenty days of military customs to learn in the next five hours, so you will pay attention to me and you will obey my orders. Are there any questions?”

Please, please nobody answer. He prayed that the short smart aleck from the barbershop would keep quiet, or it would surely bring a swarm of angry of officers.

Rod’s universe focused on Captain Justice. It was so quiet that Rod could hear the pounding of blood in his ears.

“Good,” Justice said. He paced up and down, keeping his chin lifted just high enough to convey his disdain for the candidates. “You gentlemen are in a position we call a brace: chin in, head back, eyes straight ahead; arms, elbows, and hands to your side; knees together, but not locked. You lock them and I guarantee you will faint in this heat. Keep your back straight, stomach in, shoulders back and down.”

Justice stopped in front of the candidate next to Rod. Frightened that Justice would turn his attention to him, Rod took small breaths and kept his chin rammed into his chest and his spine bowed back as far as he could.

Justice raised his voice. “I will now demonstrate how you turn to the right. Pay attention, and don’t let these directions overwhelm your puny little brains.” Justice executed a flawless right turn, each part of his body appearing to snap smartly into position. “Once you turn, I will give the command to ‘forward march.’ You will accomplish this by stepping out with your left foot. Are there any questions?”

A moment passed when a thin voice, three cadets down, spoke up. “Captain Justice, how do we stop marching?”

As if dam burst open, a flood of officers surrounded the candidate and started screaming at the top of their lungs. Two officers pushed past Rod from behind, causing Rod to stumble forward, but Rod quickly snapped back into a brace.

It took a good two minutes before the riot quelled. Justice’s face was bright red, as if shocked that anyone would actually ask a question.

When the officers retreated Justice looked around. “Any other questions?”

None came.

And they lived a few seconds more.

“Good, let’s give it a try. Candidates, forward, harch.” They lurched forward. “Your other left foot! Can’t you tell your left from your right? Now get in step! Left … to your left … to your left, right, left.” He trotted alongside the formation. “Concentrate, maggots! Get in step!”

Justice put his hands on his hips and shook his head, “Losers! Every one of you is a loser. How did you ever manage to be accepted to the Academy, and in the first class at that? Now keep marching and keep your eyeballs locked in place.”

Hours seemed to pass before the sound of a bugle echoed across the area. Justice immediately turned them and led the formation to a building.

When they stopped, Rod snuck a peek at the sign and saw MITCHELL HALL—

Captain Justice ran up to him and started screaming. “What do you think you’re doing? Taking a tour of Colorado? I am totally disgusted by the gross behavior of you and your classmates. I told you to keep your eyeballs locked straight ahead, and that means do not gaze! What would happen if you were in combat and your wingman started looking around?” Justice thrust his face close to Rod’s; he stood less than an inch away. “You, man. I asked you a question: what would happen?”

“Sir, I don’t know—”

“Do not use contractions in my Air Force, mister! Use complete sentences! I will not allow an uneducated cretin to enter my Air Force, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Answer me! What would you do if your wingman was following you in combat, only inches away at 500 miles an hour and you started gazing around?”

“Sir, I do not know,” Rod stammered, aware from his peripheral vision that several other officers had seen the exchange and were now running up to join the fray.

“You would die, mister candidate! That’s what you would do! You, your wingman, and two multi-million-dollar jets would go down in flames and splatter your puny little body over some foreign land. All because you gazed around. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir!” Rod braced, ready for another onslaught, though not completely convinced why his looking up at a building sign had anything to do with suddenly losing two multi-million-dollar fighter aircraft.

Shaking his head, Captain Justice stepped back and surveyed the candidates.

“You men are pathetic. You can’t stand at attention and you sure as hell can’t march. If it were up to me, I’d have you out here for the rest of the afternoon so I wouldn’t be embarrassed at the dedication ceremony. But the Commandant says you have to eat. Against my better judgment we’re going into Mitchell Hall.”

Rod felt a sudden pang of hunger in his tight stomach. He hadn’t eaten since five that morning, when he and his dad had sat alone in a corner of the Brown Palace Hotel restaurant. Hank had lectured him on what to expect:
They’ll come at you from all sides, lad, trying to break you. But remember, it will be over soon.

He’d thought at the time it couldn’t be that bad—after all, they were the first class of a major new military academy, right? This wasn’t Texas A&M where his adoptive father had attended, who continuously had to prove that were just as good as West Point or Annapolis.…

“Listen up,” Justice said, raising his voice as they marched into the dining hall. “You men have a lot to prove, to me and to the rest of the world. So no gazing, no talking. You will act just like you would when you are outside, except you’ll be sitting at attention. Keep your eyes locked on your plates, keep your mouth shut when you chew, and take no more than seven chews to swallow. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

Mitchell was already half full with cadet candidates, eight to a table, and the noise level was so high it sounded as if a thousand people were in the dining facility.

Justice stopped before a row of empty tables. “Find a seat. Move out.”

The candidates scrambled around to find a chair.

“No, no, no!” Captain Justice ran up to the short, wiry candidate who had recently been dressed in a green shirt and yellow pants; the candidate had taken a seat at the head of the table. “What are you doing? You never sit at the head of the table. That’s only for ATOs and AOCs, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The short candidate wavered. Rod recognized the young man as the smart aleck guy in the barbershop, the one who had given the barber so much grief.

“Are you going to move or what?”

“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to move—”

“No contractions!”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. It won’t happen again, sir, your highness, sir—”

Justice’s face grew so bright red it looked as if he were about to pop. “Don’t you understand English? I said NO CONTRACTIONS! What part of the word no don’t you understand?”