The Cadet (15 page)

Whitney’s voice grew tight. “Were … you there during the conference?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“I see.” Captain Whitney finished passing out the quiz. Standing before the class, he rubbed his hands together and looked at Rod. Ribbons ran up the side of his khaki jacket. His shoes were impeccably shined. A West Pointer. He was the model officer.

With the exception of not having any pilot wings, Captain Whitney looked as though he had stepped out of an ad for the USAF in the
Saturday Evening Post
. The cadets had heard that after receiving high-level attention as a fast-burning officer, Captain Whitney had dropped out of pilot training. No one was quite sure if it had been because of inaptitude, or if he had elected to drop out himself. But the rumor was that Whitney had been sent to teach at the Academy as a kind of a booby-prize, and he unmercifully drove the cadets, as though he were somehow making up for his shortcomings.

Rod suddenly felt uncomfortable. Staring at him, the man stood not more than five and a half feet tall. His blonde hair was slicked back in a perfect wave.

Rod shifted his weight in his chair as the rest of the class waited patiently for Captain Whitney to start the quiz.

Again, Whitney lifted his chin. “I met your father once, Simone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Air University.” He walked around the class and stood behind them. “He and a Professor Clifford Rhoades from Stanford seemed quite amused at my idea of what a real Academy should be. Quite amused indeed. In fact, they shot down all of my suggestions and made me look quite foolish in front of General Fairchild and the rest of the committee. And, yes … I do remember that you were present.” He walked to the front and looked at Rod curiously.

Rod felt his face grow red. “Yes, sir.” Being so young at the time, there were few things that Rod remembered about the trip—except his father tumbling down some stairs and nearly breaking his neck, all because of someone rushing past him and pushing Hank.

Rod frowned as the memory came back. He remembered the culprit was a young officer, blonde and brash. The exchange was tense, and Hank had been furious, the young officer aloof.

He furrowed his brow. Was it Captain Whitney who had shoved his father and caused him to fall? It had been a few years back, but there was something about the Captain’s snobbish attitude that reminded him of that incident.

As Rod studied the officer he had another, sudden feeling that they had met even earlier than that. There had been a general’s aide in England, at the Farnborough Air Show, who had taken charge and helped evacuate the crowds during a horrifying crash. Rod had accompanied his father and mother to the United Kingdom to view the airshow, and although it had been a few years earlier than Air University, could Lieutenant Whitney have been that general’s aide? At the time Rod had been enthralled by the young officer’s quick-thinking actions, which seemed to exude a brash, fighter-pilot “can do” attitude; it had even motivated him to want to go to the Academy.

Rod’s classmates squirmed in their seats. Sly looked over at Rod and winked.

Captain Whitney cleared his throat. “Your father was a major general.”

“Yes, sir,” Rod said slowly.

“That’s an extremely high rank, Mr. Simone. Our Superintendent General Briggs is also a major general. Does your father plan to visit you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure he will visit at the end of our Fourth class year.”

“Yes, that’s right. That’s the first time parents may visit. Well, I hope you are still here, Cadet Simone. It would be a shame if you flunked out before he arrived. I imagine that would be a great disappointment to him. And make you feel very foolish as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Whitney walked around to the front of the class. He held extra copies of the quiz. “I say, quite a shame.”

His heart pounding, Rod watched out of the corner of his eye, not daring to meet the instructor’s eyes.

As Whitney wrote the START and STOP times on the board, Rod noticed that his hands shook.

***

Chapter Fourteen

“It Only Hurts for a Little While”

May, 1956

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

… We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.

—Helen Keller,
Atlantic Monthly
(May 1890)

Lieutenant Ranch gathered the flight together in his room. Closing the door behind him, he put them at rest. He leaned back against his desk.

Rod felt uncomfortable, unsure of why the ATO had called them together. Although it was early May, winter still lingered, not wanting to give up its grasp.

Lieutenant Ranch looked over the flight before speaking. “In two weeks, gentlemen, you’re going to experience Hell Week. This is the last phase of your Fourth class experience, and you need to be prepared for it, both mentally and physically. BCT is nearly ten months behind you, and you’ve all matured this past academic year. But it’s not over yet. This is the coda at the end of your fourth class year, the culmination of everything you’ve learned since you arrived.”

Sly stood. “Sir, may I ask a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Sir, haven’t we been preparing for this all year?”

“You’re right, in a way. You’re in great physical shape—well, everyone but you, Jakes—and you know your knowledge. But remember how intense BCT was, and how you felt exhausted all the time? Well, Hell Week is that and much more. It’s like a marathon but ten times worse, an endurance test.” He paused for a moment. “If I were you I would study up on my quotes. I’d run and exercise a lot more. And although Fourth classmen aren’t supposed to keep food in their rooms, if I could find a way to bring back something from the meal tables, I’d start stockpiling now. Don’t take this lightly.”

He stood and the doolies followed suit. “That’s all. Good luck, gentlemen. Remember, two weeks.”

As the doolies left Rod followed his classmates down the hallway. He started to go around Sly but his pudgy classmate motioned for Rod to follow him into his room. Once inside they relaxed from walking at attention.

“What gives?” Rod said.

“Here.” Sly pulled out his wallet and handed Rod three bills. “I forgot to pay you back for that money I borrowed at the Cadet Store last week. I want to get my debts in order in case I die during Hell Week.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.” As Rod started to pocket the money he did a double take at the cash. “What in the world?” The three bills were all outlined in red, and George Washington’s face had either glasses, a goatee, or wild-Einstein hair drawn in red with the words “Go Sox” written in a cartoon balloon emanating from Washington’s mouth. He looked at Sly. “What’s this?”

Sly reddened. “Good luck charm. I vowed I’d mark up every bill I ever got until the Red Sox won the pennant. Someday the players will see one of these bills and know their fans are behind them, and hopefully motivate them to win.”

Rod pocketed the money. “Is it working?”

Sly twisted his face. “Not really. Last year they had only 69 wins and 85 losses. It doesn’t look any better this year.”

Rod shook his head. “And people think I’m quirky playing bagpipes.”

O O O

A whistle blew, shattering Rod’s dream.

“Speed out, smacks! You’re already late! If you worthless pieces of meat don’t speed out, we’ll keep you in the Fourth class system for another year! Uniform is fatigues, white gloves under arms. Move!”

Rod jumped out of his bed, groggy, his head pounding. He bumped into Fred as his roommate staggered awake. It took him seconds to remember: Hell week. His inner clock hadn’t woken him.

He scrambled to the closet and started dressing. “What time is it?”

“Three o’clock,” Fred gasped. “They started two and a half hours early.”

The whistle blew again. “First call in two minutes,” Captain Justice screamed. “You cretins better not be late!”

Rod struggled to pull on his boots. He had to pee, but there was no way he was going to be late to the first Hell Week formation; if he was, he’d be doing push-ups for the next three years.

As he left the room an ATO screamed at Rod to recite “Discipline” and start doing squat-thrusts. The ATO ran up to Rod’s classmate and shouted, “Grenade!” The doolie threw himself chest first to the floor.

Other doolies double-timed in place, holding their rifles high over their heads, yelling hoarsely. It was as if Rod had been transported 10 months back in time, all the way to BCT. The worst memories, the nightmares, the screaming, the ATOs shoving their mouths right up into his face, had all come back in a chaotic jumble.

Someone gagged, and the hallway smelled of vomit.

They never made it to First Call. They never even made it to formation, or breakfast.

Or the noon meal.

The screaming, the running up and down and up and down the stairwells holding their rifles high above their heads, didn’t stop. They were constantly in motion, and except for a swig of water and a half bite of dinner that first night, Rod didn’t get a chance to eat—even with the small stash of crackers, packets of peanut butter and jam, and the fruit he had smuggled out of Mitchell Hall two days before.

The nightmare continued, not letting up until six of his classmates fainted before the noon meal the next day.

Rod never felt so tired in his life. Throughout the past ten months he had kept up his spirits, even through the “Dear John” letter from Sandy. He had attacked each adversity knowing that it would soon be over, and that he would eventually move on to the next phase in his training.

But now, after nearly thirty-six hours straight, without any food and putting out to the max, he was ready to call it quits. Mentally he knew that this would go on for only another five days. But even that seemed infinitely long.

He was incredibly tired. After a full year of putting up with crap, Hell Week was turning out not to be the coda at the end of his training, but rather an attempt to push him out of the Academy. It had to be. It was a conspiracy, engineered by Captain Justice, to boot them all out.

Rod grew angry at the thought.

He focused his thoughts on Captain Justice when he was on the drill field. He imagined cursing the man when he was running down the hallway; in his mind he shrilled at Justice while he was doing the pushups.

Time marched on, and Rod lost track of everything. He lost his foundation, the reason why he had come to the Academy. His lost his anchor. He no longer cared as he only reacted, and fought to keep Captain Justice from winning.

O O O

“Wake up.”

Rod’s eyes flew open at the whisper. Was it reveille already? After six days his inner clock had still not adjusted to Hell Week.

He started to push up, but Lieutenant Ranch stood over him, restraining him.

The room lights were out. Backlit by the hall lights, Lieutenant Ranch put a finger to his lips and mouthed, “Quiet. Get in your PT gear. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Ranch moved over to Fred and gently woke him. Fred’s eyes widened at the sight of the ATO, but he nodded and joined Rod in dressing.

When Lieutenant Ranch left the room, Rod whispered, “What’s going on?”

“Beats me.”

Sly slipped in to join them, just as they were leaving. His eyes red, he looked around to see if anyone followed him in. “Is this nuts or what?”

“Did Ranch tell you what he wants?” Rod said.

“No. Do you think he’s going to take us out and kill us?” Sly said.

Rod shoved him toward the door. “He will if we don’t speed out. Let’s go.”

They joined the rest of their flight standing at attention in their PT gear.

Lieutenant Ranch appeared at the end of the hallway and motioned them to follow. He put a finger on his lips. “Not a word.”

Moving as stealthy as deer, they slipped down the hallway at attention, silently squaring corners until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Lieutenant Ranch gathered them around. “Keep in the shadows. If anyone spots you, scatter and run like hell. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

Rod felt a surge of excitement pulse through his body. The mystery made him feel part of a team.

Crouching down, they ran from building to building, keeping to the edge of the shadows and out of the light. Quickly running past the road, they reached the middle of the parade field. Rod felt a shiver run up his arms. The sky was clear and cool. They gathered around a dark mound in the grass. It was a blanket, covering something.

There was no moonlight, and it was difficult seeing Lieutenant Ranch’s face. But the darkness shielded them from being seen from the dorms.

Lieutenant Ranch drew them around; he spoke in a loud whisper. “Men, this has been one hell of a year. I’m proud of every one of you. You’ve handled everything we could throw at you to prepare you for combat, or God-forbid, even survive being a POW. The skills you’ve learned the past ten months will last you the rest of your life.

“Tomorrow you will officially be recognized as graduating from the Fourth class system. Over the next six months you’re going to feel as if you’re floating on air. You’re going to think the next three years will be a snap.

“But it won’t. You’ll be upperclassmen. You’re going to experience different pressures, different stresses, because the hard part comes now. You’ve learned to follow, and now you’re going to learn to lead. You’ve excelled as Fourth classmen, and I’m sure you’re going to excel as upperclassmen.”

Lieutenant Ranch looked at each cadet in the flight. “I’m recognizing you early because I think you’re the best in the Wing. Tomorrow morning you’ll have one last spirit run, one last meal under the Fourth class system. After the parade, the rest of the ATOs will recognize you. But tonight, in my eyes, you’re done. So to celebrate,” he leaned over and whipped back the blanket on the ground, revealing a case of beer, ten bottles of wine, several loaves of French bread, and an assortment of fruit and cheese, “you men deserve to have a little fun—for the first time in nearly a year.”

The flight started to whoop it up, but Lieutenant Ranch shushed them quiet. “Keep it down! If we’re caught I’ll be busted, and you men may never be recognized.”

Fred leaned over and grabbed one of the wine bottles. Lieutenant Ranch flipped him an opener. “Do you know how to use it?”

Fred grinned and deftly uncorked the bottle. “No problem, sir.” He drank directly from the bottle as the rest of the flight crowded around.

Lieutenant Ranch shook hands with every man in the flight, calling them all by their first name. Rod was last. “Congratulations, Rod.”

“Thank you, sir. This seems weird.”

“It won’t take you long to get used to it.”

Rod drank long from the wine bottle. He coughed and wiped his mouth.

Lieutenant Ranch steered him away from the group, stepping back from the stage whispers and giggling that emanated from the flight. “Stay with it, Rod. From what I’ve seen you’re a natural leader. Don’t let the next three years get you down. There will be times you’ll want to throw in the towel, but you’ve got what it takes to excel both here and in my Air Force.”

Rod thought for a moment. “You seem to know what to expect, sir.”

“Attending West Point will do that to you. Keep focused and you’ll do just fine.”

“Yes, sir. And thanks. I … I don’t know how to pay you back.”

Lieutenant Ranch smiled and clasped Rod’s shoulder. “You can’t. So find the guy you’d like to take your place and help him. Pay it forward, not backwards. That’s thanks enough.” He turned to the flight and picked up his own bottle of wine. He raised it up in a toast. “Gentlemen, to the class of ’59.”

“’59!”

O O O

The door was kicked open, the whistle blew, causing Rod’s brain to erupt in a volcano of red pain. The lights in the room flickered on. “Speed out, doolies! You’re already late!”

“Oohh.” Rod groaned as he rolled out of bed. Fred’s feet hit the floor the same moment as his. Bleary eyed, they looked at each other.

“I feel like shit,” Fred moaned.

Stiffly, Rod walked to the closet. “We’ll feel worse if we don’t make First Call.”

“Oohh.”

They dressed and barely made it out the door, half-heartedly slamming up against the wall as they passed ATOs in the hallway on their way to formation.

Captain Justice glared at them. “Your class makes me sick! What’s wrong? You men look like shit. Do I have to cancel recognition? Hell Week’s not over!”

On the morning run before breakfast, three of their classmates fell out, doubled over and vomiting red.

Mitchell Hall was worse.

Ordered by Captain Justice to expedite the food, Sly gulped as he handed over greasy sausage and Spanish omelets. When they came back down, he passed the food to Rod.

Justice yelled, “Mr. Jakes! Take some food! Aren’t you hungry?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Yes, you are. Now eat. I don’t want you fainting on me out on the parade field.”

“Yes, sir.” Sly filled his plate, but sat tight.

“Jakes!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Justice returned to his meal. Seconds later, he looked up. His fork hit his plate as he leaned over the table. “Jakes! Did you understand what I said?”

“Yes, sir. Sir, may I make a statement?” Sly wavered.

“No! Eat, dammit!” Justice glared at Sly. “Eat!”

Sly looked pale. “Yes, sir.” Hands shaking, he brought up his fork and slowly put a piece of Spanish omelet in his mouth. He started to chew, then hacked.

“Jakes, don’t you get sick on me, you maggot!”

Sly gulped.

“Look at me when I talk to you!”

Sly turned, spewing eggs and stale red wine, drenching the AOC.

***