The Cadet (14 page)

Rod bit his tongue. The hair was three times as long as the longest hair any doolie sported. If it was anyone’s, it must have been Captain Justice’s.

Justice reached down and grabbed the railing of Fred’s bed. He flipped it over, soiling the covering and sheets. He walked across the room and flipped over Rod’s, then opened the clothes drawer and emptied their neatly folded clothes on the floor.

The last five seconds of Captain Justice’s SAMI resulted in their entire closet being dumped in the center of the room.

Fifteen seconds from perfection to chaos.

Justice looked over the mess. “Look at this mess! You men make me sick. Drop and give me fifty. Then clean up this pigsty and get it right next time.”

As he exited the room, Rod and Fred said, “Thank you, sir. Good morning, sir!”

O O O

“You’d think we were still in BCT,” Sly whispered.

Rod double-timed in place as he joined his classmates at the assembly area. He whipped out his
Contrails
from his back pocket and pretended to study. “We’re not?”

“Either that, or I’ve gotten used to this place. Yes, sir, just like home. A beautiful Colorado Sunday morning, and we’re double-timing in place before going to church.” Sly shut up as he spotted an ATO approaching.

Lieutenant Ranch placed his hands on his hips and raised his voice. “All right, listen up, doolies.” He looked over the group. “Bring your knees up higher, Delante, you’re double-timing, not going for a Sunday stroll.” He turned back to the group. “General Stillman has received complaints about the dirty jodies you men have been singing.”

Rod grimaced. Jodies were the songs the cadets sang when they marched or ran. And if there were any complaints levied … well, it was the ATOs who had taught them the jodies in the first place.

“Now cut out the filthy lyrics, especially on Sunday, and particularly when you’re running to church service. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.” He positioned himself at the front of the squadron. “Time for church, so clean up those dirty thoughts you smacks wallow in; you need more saltpeter in your food.” He paused. “At the double time, forward, harch.” The squadron surged off toward the cadet chapel.

They ran in silence. It felt weird, running and not chanting. But orders were orders, and especially when they had come from General Stillman. No telling who had been offended by their jodies, but Rod guessed that was one of the unforeseen consequences of allowing the tourists to view the cadet area.

After a few more moments of running in silence, Rod heard Sly’s voice ring out beside him. “A-ma-zing Grace, how sweet the sound—”

It seemed weird, yet it also seemed right. And it was a heck of a lot better than staying quiet. Within seconds, they were all singing the old hymn, preparing for chapel.

O O O

September 25, 1955

Fall was a blur of activity. They were ever on the go, ever busy with classes, intramurals, ethics lectures, military training, navigation training, and the ever-present marching wherever they went. But today, next to the vote establishing the Honor Code, picking the falcon as their mascot seemed to be one of the most monumental things their class could have done: the raptor was fast, intelligent, persistent, high-flying, and faithful—always returning. They were attributes that the cadets saw in themselves.

It was this and the letters from Sandy and Rod’s parents that kept him going. He saved them all, and found that on Sunday afternoons, while he was studying alone in the library, he’d pull out the last week’s letters and re-read them.

But the letters from Sandy slowed, last writing that Berkeley overwhelmed her.

Rod read about her loading up the car for the trip up US 101, and her excitement at meeting her roommate. He read of her first classes and the electric sensation of being in the Bay Area, near the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, and all the strange culture that was just a short trip across the Bay. Before Rod knew it, the letters dribbled from arriving every other day to every other week.…

***

Chapter Thirteen

“A Blossom Fell”

November 18, 1955

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce to come to an end.

—Baroness Orczy,
The Scarlet Pimpernel
, Ch. 22

The season’s first snow swept in late that year, or at least it was late according to waiter extraordinaire, Mr. Raf Garcia.

Rod put down his head and trudged against the driving blizzard. It was a week before Thanksgiving and the wind whipped around his face, stinging his mouth and eyes. He was wet and freezing. He’d left Mitchell Hall after dinner and fought against the cold blast, but he was pushed back with every step he took. It had taken one of the football players slipping and nearly breaking an ankle before the AOCs ordered the doolies not to run in the inclement weather.

In a way, there was a certain satisfaction, a touch of serenity with the snow. It was as if a giant, howling white blanket had enveloped the Academy, and for the shortest period, it enveloped the doolies and insulated them from the hellish environment of the Fourth class system.

Rod looked up, startled as someone passed the other way. He couldn’t tell if it had been one of his classmates or an officer. If the weather was so bad that an ATO wouldn’t stop to correct him for not saluting, then this truly was salvation.

Rod turned into the mailroom and stepped out of the blizzard. He removed his gloves, pushed his way past his classmates, and found his mailbox. Guarded whispers drifted from a group of doolies, their parkas masking who was speaking. The strong smell of disinfectant wafted from a bucket in the corner left by a janitor.

The mailroom seemed to be constantly in motion, a fluid gathering of classmates who lived from day-to-day to check the mail, sometimes every few hours, yearning for news from home. With shaking hands, Rod opened the lock and reached inside.

A letter from Sandy. He felt a deep aching that made him weak at the knees.

It had been two weeks since her last letter. She had forlornly reminisced about how she missed Southern California, yet wrote how much fun she was having in college.…

Stuffing her letter deep in his pocket, he stepped from the mailroom. He debated heading for the library, but remembered that Fred should be scrimmaging indoors with the football team, so he’d have the dorm room to himself.

It wasn’t that he minded Fred’s company; they had passed that hurdle long ago. Rather, reading a letter from Sandy was something he preferred to do alone.

He arrived back in his room and carefully opened the letter.

Sometimes it was almost as if she were there, next to him. The fantasy of them being alone was made more real, more intimate, when no one else was in the room.

He drew in a breath and inspected the letter; it smelled of perfume, and the memory of her rolled over him.

Her handwriting was incredibly beautiful. It looked as though she had studied calligraphy and had spent hours patiently crafting each letter. Sometimes, as he searched the text for subtle shades of meaning, he wondered if she studied his letters as intently as he.

He wondered if she knew that her letters were far more than just simple sheets of paper with her thoughts written on them.

It was especially true on Sunday afternoons, when he would soon start another week of eating crap and putting up with the yelling and the hazing. It was then that her letters served a far deeper purpose than just passing along bits of information. As he re-read them they were lifelines, an anchor to an idealized relationship, which were not only more important than she’d ever know, but were absolutely necessary for his survival.…

My dearest Rod, I don’t know how to tell you this—

His world collapsed as he focused on every word. The blood pounded in his ears, making the noise of his classmates walking in the hallway seem as if they echoed in a cavernous chamber.

The moment was seared in his mind: the open door to his room; the snow beating against the window; the sound of someone being chewed out down the hall; the smell of floor wax intermingled with the scent of freshly pressed shirts hanging in the closest—the time, the place, and the memory of these senses were burned into him as he read with shaking hands …

… Not that there is someone else, it’s just that I’ve changed; we’ve both changed, and it’s really for the best.…

His breathing quickened as he re-read the letter, more rapidly this time, looking for a note at the bottom, a loophole, something he may have missed: only fooling, it’s just a joke!

He trolled for a hint of something he’d done, something he hadn’t done, so that he could turn back the clock, try again, and make it right.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

Everything he’d put up with throughout BCT, changing roommates and having to pull the weight of two people in addition to himself—why did this have to happen? And why now? It was just before Thanksgiving, and for what did he have to be thankful?

How could he make it through another week without something to look forward to? Without her letters, her encouragement, and most of all to not hold the same paper that she had held, not smell the perfume that only days before had been sprinkled by her hand, and worst of all, not to dream that someday she’d be in his arms again.

She said she’d wait forever.

Why did it have to happen now? It just wasn’t fair!

“Simone! Are you
deaf
?”

Clutching the letter to his side, Rod sprung to his feet. His lip quivered as he stared straight ahead.

Lieutenant Ranch walked into his view. “Simone, were you ignoring me?”

“No, sir!” His voice cracked.

Lieutenant Ranch opened his mouth, then glanced down to see Rod’s letter. “Simone, are you all right?”

The room wavered as he stood.
What’s wrong with me?

“Is anything wrong, Simone?”

Rod remained mute.

Lieutenant Ranch folded his arms and studied Rod for a moment.

Rod felt warm, dizzy, as if the heat in the room had kicked into overdrive.

Lieutenant Ranch leaned back against Fred’s desk. “Stand at ease, Simone.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod slipped into parade rest.

“How are things going with you and Mr. Delante?”

“Sir, things are going well.”

“Good. I’ve noticed he’s starting to spend less time doing push-ups in the hallway. If Delante had a good voice, it wouldn’t be so bad when he’s being disciplined, but hearing him sing out of tune night after night is wearing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are academics?”

“Sir, academics are going well.” Rod felt more confident as his voice stopped trembling.

“Intramurals? I watched your last wrestling match and you seemed pretty tired.”

“Sir, intramurders are going well.”

“How about military studies.”

“Sir, military studies are going well.”

“What about things at home?”

Rod hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Sir, things are going … going well.”

“I see.” Lieutenant Ranch paused for a moment. “So everything in Cadet Fourth class Simone’s life is going well.” He shook his head. “Everything is peachy keen, and I walk into your room and I get ignored. Simone, either you are getting cute with your honor code and are starting to quibble, or my assessment about you is all wrong, and you are the dumbest smack at the Academy. So what is it?”

Rod drew in a breath, “Sir, may I make a statement?”

“Go on.”

“Sir, things are going well at my home. Things are not going well in Berkeley, California, with my … my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend. I see.” He was quiet for a moment. “I took you for a Rock, Simone. Do you know what a Rock is?”

Rod decided not to be cute. “No, sir.”

“Figures. That’s not in your
Contrails
—yet—and is probably the biggest omission ever. A Rock is what all you cadets should be. At West Point a Rock was ‘a superhuman untouched with emotional feelings and unfettered by relations with the opposite sex.’”

He nodded. “I think you have the distinction of receiving the Academy’s first Dear John letter, Simone. Congratulations. This will be news to everyone, who I suspect probably thinks that with all the publicity and prestige surrounding this place, this could never happen.”

Rod remained absolutely still. He wasn’t sure where Lieutenant Ranch was going.

“It’s my duty as an ATO to look after the flight’s health and welfare, and this is something that definitely needs to be looked after. I tell you what. Do you want to keep this letter?”

“No, sir.” But Rod still clutched it tightly.

“Then hand it over. You need to start a tradition here, something that will both make you feel better and force your classmates to support you. And remember, that’s the name of the game—no one can make it through this place alone. We’ve drilled that into your skulls militarily and academically, but you will have to carry it over to the rest of your life, emotionally as well. Give me the letter.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod slowly handed it over.

Lieutenant Ranch leaned forward and picked up a pen from Rod’s desk, then wrote on another sheet of paper. He gave both the letter and the sheet to Rod. “Post these outside your door. I’ll make it a flight policy that a ‘Dear John’ letter and a place for your classmate’s comments may be posted underneath your nameplate. And I’ll encourage your classmates to drive by, read it, and comment on it. Believe me, they’ll be able to think up some appropriate remarks that will make you feel better. And if you ever have the chance to repeat them to this young lady, I guarantee you’ll get her attention.

“You shouldn’t go through this alone, and you won’t. Your classmates are there to help you, and they need to commiserate with you. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s for the best. And one more thing. This young woman doesn’t know what she’s going to miss by dumping you, will she?”

“No, sir.”

“Then carry on, Rock.”

“Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon.”

O O O

Fred tuned smartly into the room and instantly relaxed from walking at attention. “Hey Rod! There’s some more comments written on your letter.”

“There are?”

“Yeah. So many you’ll have to put up another sheet. Did you see the one telling her to take a flying leap at a doorknob?”

Ouch.
“Not yet.” Although the letter had been up for a little over a day, his classmates had rallied around him. And it helped; although he still had feelings for her, he was starting to get over it.

Lieutenant Ranch had jumped all over him at the noon meal, as if to see if he’d rebounded; but he’d fended off the officer’s attacks with his recall of Air Force knowledge, and had even managed to eat enough to stop his stomach from growling, so he knew he was clawing back.

Rod turned to Fred. “Thanks. You know, about the only other time I felt this bad was when … when …” he hesitated, then turned back to his homework.

“When what?” Fred said.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Fred scooted his chair close. “What could be worse than having your girlfriend dump you?”

“Plenty.”

“Such as—”

“I said, plenty!”

“Oh, come on. What’s bugging you?” Fred punched Rod on the arm.

“Stop it.”

“Out with it, Simone! What is it?”

Rod pushed him away. “Okay! Catching my dad with a prostitute in Washington, D.C., that’s what.”

“Wow.” Fred grinned. “What did he say when you caught him? Did he have an excuse?”

“He doesn’t know I saw him.”

Fred started laughing. He picked up his chair and moved it back to his desk. “Then get over it, classmate; he’s a guy, and guys do that all the time.”

Rod turned red. “I don’t believe it. And I certainly didn’t expect it from my father.”
Or that reaction from you.
“It’s just that I can’t trust him anymore.”

Fred shrugged. “Whatever. But you should hear some of my dad’s stories about the women he meets.” He selected two books from the bookcase. “Come on. Sixth period is in ten minutes. Better get a move on.”

“Right.” Feeling bad about confiding in Fred, Rod pushed back his chair and shrugged on his parka. He grabbed his math book and straightened his desk area before heading for the door. “I think we’re going to have another quiz today in calculus. That Captain Whitney never lets up.”

“Part of the plan, young man. Part of the plan. Beat them into submission, open up their heads, then pour the knowledge in.”

Deep in thought, Rod made his way across campus without being stopped by an ATO. There definitely was an advantage to this bad weather; the officers couldn’t zero in on them as efficiently when there was ice on the ground. As he trudged through the snow he pondered what Fred had said and tried to dismiss it as part of his bravado.

Ground crews, bundled up in jackets and thick gloves, shoveled paths through the slush. A snowplow cleared the assembly area even though the wind covered it just as soon as the plow passed. It seemed as if General Stillman had dictated that just like the Post Office, neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail, nor dark of night shall keep cadets from their appointed duties.

Entering the academic building, Rod stomped snow from his feet. He leaned against the wall as he removed his rubber covers to his shoes. The mirror-like finish on his shoe was slightly marred from the coverings. He hung up his coat and entered the classroom, mentally preparing for a quiz even as he tried to push the recent exchange with Fred out of his mind.

Captain Whitney entered and returned Fred’s salute as the class stood at attention. “We’ll wait until after the quiz to hear our next cadet story. Put up your books and get out a pencil.” He passed out a sheaf of dirty purples—mimeographed sheets of paper written in sharp-smelling purple ink. The stink permeated the room.

As Rod’s sheet hit his desk, Captain Whitney lifted his chin, “I say, Mr. Simone. Did your father work on General Fairchild’s Academy Commission at Air University?”

Rod looked up, startled. “Yes, sir, he did.”