The Cadet (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

“Autumn Leaves”

August, 1955

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

DOOLIE (n.)—That insignificant whose rank is measured in negative units; one whose potential for learning is unlimited; one who will graduate in some time approaching infinity.

—Contrails

“B-Squadron, present, arms!”

Rod slapped his hand against his rifle stock as he looked over the parade field.

It had been six weeks, or it could have been six hundred years—and for all he knew it had been six hundred years, because time before BCT was just a hazy, unreal memory. Once again they were standing in front of a reviewing stand filled with cheering people. The crowd was the same as the other Saturday parades, except this was the last parade he would march in as a Basic Cadet. Of course it was only a rumor, since they had been born Basics, and they were destined to be Basics forever.

“B-Squadron, parade rest.”

General Stillman walked up to a microphone, his new general’s stars gleaming in the sun. A screech of feedback came from the speakers. Enlisted technicians scurried around, trailing wires and twirling knobs on amplifiers.

Stillman waited a moment, then looked up and down the ranks of basic cadets. “Gentlemen, congratulations on a job well done. You have completed the first phase of your training. With the Academy’s first Basic Cadet Training now behind you, you should be proud of your accomplishment. This parade signifies two events: completion of BCT, and acceptance into the Wing of Cadets.

“The next phase, your Fourth class year, will move its emphasis away from physical and military training and will concentrate on the most important part of your education: the ability to think. We need officers who will be able to respond to new threats and situations. Your class will be the first in this grand institution to accomplish this task, and with that, I greet you not as Basics but as Cadet Fourth classmen.”

Rod heard a rustle off to his side. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone waver, then crumple to the ground.

Rod hesitated, at first remembering the strict orders of Captain Justice: “If anyone falls in a parade, leave them be.” But this was his classmate. And he’d been drilled the entire summer they had to look after themselves.

No one moved, and a slight murmur rippled through the Wing.

Rod fidgeted. His classmate might be hurt, he might even be dying of heat exhaustion, but no one made an effort to help. He couldn’t just stand there; he had to do something. He decided it was more important to help than to remain in formation.

Moving his rifle to port arms, he strode over to the fallen cadet, placed his rifle on the ground, and knelt; his classmate’s wheel hat was smashed against the ground. Rod could feel Stillman’s gaze on him, but he didn’t care, this was his classmate.

He rolled the basic cadet over. He was shocked when he saw that it was Fred Delante. Two corpsmen ran out to the parade field as Rod helped him sit up.

Someone hissed for Rod to join the ranks as the cadets started to march away.

Sitting on the ground with his arms over his legs, Fred Delante looked dazed. The corpsmen waved a small capsule under his nose. Rod stood and caught a whiff of the foul smelling stuff as he rejoined the formation.

“Good job, Simone,” someone behind him whispered.

Yeah, good job,
Rod thought. It really didn’t matter that they were no longer basic cadets. The whole squadron would probably be doing squat-thrusts the rest of the night, increasing their endurance for the next parade, so they wouldn’t embarrass the ATOs again as he and Delante did today.

O O O

Rod rapped twice on the ATO’s door. He started to report when a voice came from inside the room: “Drive on in here, Simone.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod tried not to show nervousness as he entered Lieutenant Ranch’s room. During BCT, the only time basics entered the holiest of holies was to do continuous squat-thrusts. It was usually because of committing some heinous crime, such as gazing around, instead of keeping his eyes locked straight.

Rod stepped into the room and saluted. “Sir, Cadet Fourth class Simone, reporting as ordered.”

Lieutenant Ranch returned his salute. “Stand at ease.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod clicked his hands behind him to parade rest, but kept rigid. His heart yammered, but he didn’t dare breathe too deep, in fear that Lieutenant Ranch might somehow find it offensive.

As Ranch pulled up a chair, Rod took the opportunity to glance around the room. He’d never had that chance the times that he was being disciplined.

The room was twice as large as the one that Rod had shared with Sly, but compared to their sparsely decorated, sterile cubicle, this looked like a mansion featured in the
Saturday Evening Post
. Patterned rugs covered the floor. Wicker chairs and twin ivory elephants sat next to a night stand. A painting of the Golden Gate Bridge hung over the bed, and pictures of different girls—no, women, all of them knockouts, 2000 on a scale from 1 to 10—sat on his chest of drawers.

It was a milieu that existed outside of Rod’s experience.

“At ease means parade rest, Mr. Simone, and not gape around.”

Rod clicked his eyeballs straight ahead. “Yes, sir.” He felt his face grow warm.

Ranch scooted his chair forward. “Mr. Simone, I wanted to talk to you about your new roommate. It’s going to be Mr. Delante.”

“Fred, sir?”

“That’s right. I’m moving Mr. Delante in with you. One reason for changing roommates is to force your class to bond.” He stopped for a moment. “Another reason is to help your classmate when one cadet has a strength where the other cadet has a weakness.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How well do you know Mr. Delante, Simone?”

Rod hesitated. “Sir, he’s my classmate.”

“I know that. What I mean is, how well do you know him as a person?”

“Sir … I do not know.”

Ranch muttered, “That’s what I thought.” He straightened in his chair and sat at the edge of his seat. “Mr. Simone, your class has the highest combination of intellect, athletic ability, and leadership skills ever assembled in the history of this country. I didn’t say the most common sense, that’s for sure. But it’s true for the combination of those traits. We went to incredible lengths to insure everyone was superior in every category. We went for the best, and we got the best.” He paused. “But sometimes what’s on paper does not correspond to reality.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod was confused about Lieutenant Ranch’s point.

“The BCT cadre has observed you over the past six weeks. We’ve noted that you are self-motivated and a self-starter. A potential leader. Which is why we’re putting you with Mr. Delante.” Lieutenant Ranch hesitated. “What I say next is not to leave this room, got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Mr. Delante needs you to help him get through this next year. It’s going to be tough. We’ve designed the Fourth class system to stretch you cadets to the limit, and everyone has to excel. In addition, everyone is going to have to show leadership skills. But right now, Delante can’t even lead his own dick out of a latrine. Not only does he tie up under pressure, but he only seems to care about himself.”

Ranch paused and looked Rod in the eye. “It’s important you understand that everyone in your class is going to have to pull together to graduate. Right now, Delante needs help. He needs help not from me, but from your class. And from you. Do you have any questions?”

Great,
thought Rod.
Not only do I have to survive this next crazy year, but now I have to carry Delante on my back as well.
He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“I don’t want you to think that you’re the only one who is going to have to help Mr. Delante,” Ranch continued, “or that you’ve got to carry him on your back. Your whole class will have to pitch in. You’ve just been picked to room with him.” Ranch shifted his weight. “I’ll talk with Mr. Delante after he gets out of the hospital. You and the rest of your class are going to have to not shirk your side of the deal.

“And one more thing. This doesn’t have to do with just Mr. Delante. This is true of everyone in your class. If there’s someone who needs help, your class has to rise to the occasion and help him out. If any of your classmates fail, you all fail. Understand? And by the way, General Stillman was hoping something like this would happen; he wanted to see if your class would either leave him or look out for him. So good job today.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod stared straight ahead, unblinking. No one was going to get through this next year alone. Either they all pulled together, or life was going to be miserable. He understood completely.

He just wondered if the rest of his class did as well.

O O O

As he sat at his desk, every few minutes Rod would peek over his shoulder, unsure if an ATO would appear out of nowhere and start bawling him out for taking a blow. His class books were neatly shelved in the bookcase over his desk, arranged not by subject order—which would have made sense to Rod—but instead were arranged by height, so that the tops descended in a visibly pleasing manner.

It was Saturday morning, forty-five minutes before First Call, and for the first time in six weeks Rod had time on his hands. Fourth classmen were still not allowed to lie on their racks during the day, but a desk served nearly as good as a bed.

Rod looked down at the list of reading material required for his classes on Monday: Chemistry, History, English, Calculus, Engineering Mechanics, Navigation, and Military Studies.

Rod looked at the list of reading material, then over to his rack, then back to his desk. It was all a matter of priority.

The choice wasn’t hard.

Laying his head on his desk he fell instantly asleep, the best way he knew to prepare for his first academic class.

O O O

“Room, atten’hut.” Chairs pushed back, pens clattered against desks as the doolies bolted to attention.

A short, blonde officer walked into the room, resplendent in his dress blouse. Two ribbons were pinned on his khaki fabric, and unlike the majority of other officers, he had no silver wings denoting that he was a pilot. The man stopped in the center of the room and turned to face the cadets who were waiting in a brace.

Rod saluted. “Sir, Calculus 101 all present and accounted for.” He locked eyes with the officer; a chill ran down his spine as he recognized the Captain who’d thrown him off breakfast tables at the beginning of BCT.

The Captain whipped a salute in reply. “Thank you. Gentlemen, take your seats.”

Once settled, the officer turned and wrote his name on the blackboard: Captain Whitney.

Chalk dust wafted throughout the small wooden classroom. Twelve of Rod’s classmates were in the room, Sly and three others from his squadron, and two that he knew from BCT. The other half dozen were from throughout the Wing.

Captain Whitney turned and faced the cadets. He lifted his chin. “I say, good morning. I am Captain Whitney. I was largely responsible for establishing this Academy. As a West Pointer, I do not agree with the direction this institution has taken, but as a military officer, I follow orders—just as I expect you to do.” He pulled out a sheet. The doolies sat ramrod straight in their chairs. “You will sit in alphabetical order and will remain that way throughout the semester.” He scanned the sheet. “I say, Mr. Delante?”

“Here, sir.”

Whitney looked up. “Where are you from, Mr. Delante?”

“Colorado Springs, Colorado, sir.”

“Any relationship to Mr. George Delante?”

Fred straightened. “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

“Outstanding. Next time you write, give him my regards. He helped my wife pick out a lot for the house we’re building near Colorado Springs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Whitney pointed to a desk at the right front of the class. “Sit over here, Mr. Delante. You are now the class section marcher. It is your job to insure the cadets are in their seats and prepared for their lesson. That includes inspecting uniforms, closing the coat closet doors before class starts, insuring there is sufficient chalk at the black board, and that the erasers and blackboards are completely cleaned. You will also call the room to attention when I enter. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Jakes?”

“Here, sir.”

After he finished the list, he wrote on the blackboard:

Start: _____

Stop: _____

He turned back to the class. “Mr. Delante, in addition to your other duties as section marcher, you will insure your classmates’ desks are clear of all material except for your math text and a notebook.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you do not, then you will be issued a Form 10.” At the blank response, he said, “Academic instructors issue an Air Force Cadet Wing Form 10 as punishment, with appropriate demerits apportioned depending upon the severity of the infraction. Everyone should have read the assignment for today. Does anyone have any questions over the homework?” He looked around the classroom.

Rod blinked.
Wow. This is starting just as fast as BCT.
He looked down and started flipping through his math book to avoid Captain Whitney’s gaze. He’d skimmed the calculus text last night and had read the discussion on infinite limits, but the accompanying delta and epsilon proofs had mystified him. The actual homework had been straightforward—and that was what Whitney had asked about. So applying the lessons he’d learned from BCT, he decided not to ask any questions; if he did, no telling what might happen.

Whitney paused for a moment as he continued looking around the room. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the instructor’s desk. “Good. No questions. Everyone must understand the material.”

He glanced at the clock at the back of the room. Picking up a piece of chalk, he wrote 0836 after the Start he had written earlier. After Stop he wrote 0851. “Put away your books and get out a pencil.” He distributed sheets of paper, laying them face down on each desk. “When I say start, it will be 0836. You will have 15 minutes to complete this pop quiz. When you are finished, check it over, then lay down your pencil, and do not talk. If you are not finished by the time I say stop, then immediately put your pencil down. Any questions?”