The Cadet (20 page)

The music stopped and all attention moved to Mrs. McComas. “Thank you,” she said, a touch of exasperation in her voice.

This was the squadron’s third dance class, and the fourth total she had given today. Although she held her composure, she reminded Rod of the patient expression that his elementary teacher had acquired after dealing with a classroom of first graders all day.

Mrs. McComas folded her gloved hands and turned from side to side, addressing the cadets. “This Saturday, the young women will not be impressed if you turn your attention away from them and chat with your classmates. You have all week to talk with your friends. During the dance, your entire attention should be focused on the young lady with whom you are speaking. Refrain from engaging in conversation across the room, or letting your focus wander. This applies not only to your classmates, but to other young ladies as well.”

Fred leaned over and said in a stage whisper, “Watch out. She’s trying to limit us to one chick per guy.”

“Are there any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” the squadron answered as one.

“Airman Bristol,” she motioned with an outstretched arm, “The music please.” Once again Perry Como filled the gymnasium. She raised her arm in the air. “Now cadets, please pay attention to your steps. Be smooth. Allow your partner to anticipate your movements.” She fluidly waved a hand, motioning them to continue.

Rod and Sly awkwardly approached each other. As Rod slipped a hand around Sly’s ample waist, Sly growled, “Not any lower, buster. And watch the toes.”

Within seconds the gym floor was filled with cadets ballroom dancing the best they could around Mrs. McComas’ watchful eye.

In less than three days, busloads of young women, recruited by the legions of Air Force emissaries sent throughout Colorado, would descend upon the Academy. Fresh-faced, eager coeds from Colorado Women’s College, Loretto Heights, Colorado College, the University of Colorado, Colorado State, Colorado State College of Education, and Western State would be bussed to the dance as part of the Academy’s outreach program.

A dual-outcome event, the dance was publicized as a way for the public to get to know the cadets in a chaperoned environment. It also introduced the cadets to Coloradoans with the opportunity to network into the better parts of the community, instead of relying on the more traditional, unsanctioned ways to meet young women … such as in bars.

The majority of cadets viewed the upcoming dance as a great way to make arrangements for future, less-structured dating.

The more cynical cadets recalled their history lessons from World War II, when the Japanese military was also involved in ensuring their troops met local woman, but in that extreme case, during the occupation of mainland Asia, they had forced sex camps.

O O O

Returning from Friday’s evening meal the night before the dance, Rod flashed a “two” sign at a doolie. Rod had had enough training for tonight, and he had plenty to do over the next 24 hours: a Saturday morning run with the squadron doolies before breakfast, marching to the morning meal, conduct a SAMI, or Saturday Morning Inspection, attend military training classes after that, then tackle homework in EE, physics, and history, all before getting ready for the dance.

He shrugged off his jacket as he opened his dorm room door. His books from afternoon classes still sat on his desk. He was lucky that Captain Justice had not taken time during the evening meal to pop a surprise inspection on them; otherwise, he’d be marching off demerits for a month.

He took care to hang up his jacket, grabbed a dust rag—actually an old t-shirt that he now folded carefully and kept with the room’s cleaning material—and started dusting. Waxing the floor and ensuring his clothes were folded were next on the priority list. If he did this now, it would only take a quick going-over in the morning.

As he opened his clothes drawer to dust the top of the runner, the door suddenly slammed open.

In an automatic response, Rod dropped the dust rag and twirled at attention. “Room, atten’hut!”

Fred, Sly, and the rest of the thirdclassmen in the flight tumbled into the room. “Stand at ease, super smack!” Fred announced boisterously. He flopped down on his bed. Sly and Jeff Goldstein pulled up chairs and leaned back; Goldstein was so tall that it looked as though he were sitting on a toy chair. Manuel Rojo sat on the desk, looking uncomfortable as George Sanders folded his arms and stood by the door.

“There’s a SAMI tomorrow,” Rod said, looking at Fred’s bed. It looked terrible. He eyed his own bed and was ready to throw them off if they tried to sit on it.

“This is more important,” Sly said. “I got the idea from Uncle Jack. Tell him, Fred.”

Fred dug a wad of money out of his pocket and fanned the bills. “The cattle call tomorrow night; since we’re the class that starts traditions, this is an opportunity to excel.”

“Cattle call?” Rod said.

“Mooo,” said Sanders. The rest of them except for Manuel Rojo started lowing at each other until the room sounded like a barn.

Fred started laughing and punched Sly on the shoulder.

“Okay, what’s up?” Rod demanded. “What’s a cattle call?”

“The dance, Rod. The dance,” Sly said. “Remember the girls they’re bringing in from all these colleges? They’ll be shipping them in like cows to a slaughter.”

“Moo.”

Goldstein shoved him. “They won’t have a chance, especially against a woman killer like Fred. Or me, the Bronx bull.”

Rod snorted. “So what’s the tradition we’re going to start?”

Fred righted himself. “We’ve got a betting pool for the ugliest heifer.”

“Uh?”

“You know, a cattle call. The cows will be herded into the gymnasium and we’ll be expected to round them up.”

“You mean dance with them.”

“Mooo.”

“Shut up, Sanders,” Fred said. “Yeah, that’s what I said, round them up. Chances are, if these girls volunteer to get on a bus and travel half-way across the state to an all-male school to find a date, then that doesn’t say much about them having a date at their own school, does it? I mean, they’re probably all dying on the vine back home and are looking for someone who doesn’t have any better choice, right?”

Rod grunted. “I don’t like it. And you know that also shoots down the theory that we cadets are so desirable that beautiful women all over the world will be knocking down our doors.”

Sly said, “Fred came up with the neat idea that whoever ends up with the ugliest date should win a pot of money.”

Fred waved the bills in the air.

“How much money does it take to join the pool?”

“Five bucks,” Fred said.

“Five dollars!”

“Yeah.” Fred flipped through the money. “I’ve got fifty so far, and that’s just since the evening meal. If everyone joins we’ll have hundreds. What do you say?”

Rod sighed. He joined Manuel sitting on the desk. “How do you decide the winner?”

Fred said, “Easy. Whoever gets the ugliest girl.”

“Ouch,” Goldstein said. “That could be bad if she’s really ugly—”

“Okay,” Fred interrupted. “The point is that once you’ve found a heifer, corral her to the center of the dance floor. Classmates will vote with a thumbs up or thumbs down.”

“Thumbs up means she’s ugly,” Sly said. He turned to Rod. “What do you say?”

Rod grimaced. “I don’t know. This isn’t right—”

“Mooo, mooo!” The room filled with the noise of pitiful sounding cows.

“And five bucks is a lot of money to play a prank, especially a mean one.”

“Mooo!”

“Would you guys shut up?”

“Come on, Rod,” Fred said. “You don’t have to participate. At least add to the pot.” He softened his voice. “Otherwise everyone will think you’re cheap.…”

Rod shook his head. “I don’t care. If I give money I’m saying this cattle call is all right. But it’s not.”

Fred narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious?”

Manuel Rojo slid off the desk and stood. “You know, Rod’s right. We’re all being mean if we contribute to that pot. If we give you money then we’re saying we approve of what you’re doing. I agree with Rod. It’s just not right.” He hesitated. “I want my money back.” He stuck out his hand.

The room was dead quiet. All Rod could hear were his classmates breathing.

Fred spoke slowly. “A deal’s a deal, Manuel.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Fred grew red in the face. His eyes darted back and forth from Rod to Manuel. The tension in the room spiraled.

Fred yanked out a five dollar bill; it must have been the one Sly had given him because it was outlined in red and had glasses drawn on President Lincoln’s face. He threw it at Manuel’s feet. “There. We don’t need your money,” he turned to Rod, “or yours either. You guys are killjoys.” He stormed from the room.

The rest of the flight remained. Goldstein turned away, and no one spoke. The rest of the flight looked at the bill on the floor. It was as if it was covered in radioactivity.

Several moments passed, and the flight exchanged glances.

Finally, Sly bent over and picked up the money; he gave it to Manuel. “Hey look, you two have a point. But we don’t have to be mean to these girls, just dance with them. What does it matter if they’re ugly or pretty?” He looked pained. “Besides, I’m not sure if I really believed Uncle Jack’s cattle call stories anyway.” He clasped Rod’s shoulder. “Thanks for standing up for what you believe in, classmate.” He turned and left.

The rest of the flight followed. When Manuel reached the door, Rod said, “Thanks.”

Manuel turned and stopped in the doorway. He looked worried. “I wish I would have spoken up sooner. I think I’m starting to see a rift in the Wing.”

“A rift?” Rod said.

“Yeah. Some cadets think that they’re free to do anything they want as long as they don’t break the honor code. We have to change that line of reasoning. Otherwise, we’ll create a culture of jailhouse lawyers—cadets that only care about how far they can push the limits of the code, and not if what they’re doing is morally or ethically wrong.”

“You’re right,” Rod said, “and if that happens, we’ll have a Wing full of unprincipled, but seemingly honorable, cadets.”

O O O

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?”

Mitchell Hall instantly fell quiet as over 500 doolies, third classmen, ATOs, and waiters stopped what they were doing and gave their attention to the head table.

Rod swiveled in his seat so that he could look over the sea of cadets sitting in the dining hall; the doolies at the end of the table sat at rigid attention and stared at their plates, probably relieved for a moment of respite from the hectic noon meal training. Lieutenant Ranch, sitting at the head of the table frowned at the interruption.

Rod was surprised to see Manuel Rojo walk up to the microphone. Elected their squadron Honor Rep last year during doolie year, Rojo had quickly gained the respect of the Wing and had been elected Wing Honor Chairman.

Manuel tapped the microphone; the sound reverberated throughout Mitchell Hall. He moved close to the mike. “Gentlemen, it is my sad duty to inform you that this afternoon the first cadet in USAFA history has been found guilty of violating our Honor Code. The details of the case have been forwarded to the Secretary of the Air Force for legal review, so for now I cannot relay any specifics of the case. However, I can say that the cadet, referred to as Cadet X in the official Board minutes, turned himself in last week for lying to an ATO.

“An honor board was convened and unanimously found Cadet X guilty. He has resigned from the Wing, and pending official adjudication from headquarters Air Force, his name will be stricken from our rolls.” Manuel’s voice wavered. “I ask that you not discuss this with anyone outside the Academy, for we don’t want any rumors to start. An official announcement will be made in the future, and we will provide details of the case to the Wing. In the meantime, I implore you to maintain the highest degree of vigilance in honoring our code. It is our bond and sacred oath to each other and for the classes to come. Gentlemen, carry on.”

Rod turned back to his plate and glanced around the table. The Wing was silent except for a low murmuring and clinking of silverware. The doolies at the end of the table remained stiff at attention, their faces red as they stared into their plates.

Across the table from him, Sly looked stunned. He’d normally be sitting on the intercollegiate training tables with the rest of the golf team, but the word had come down from General Stillman that all cadets were to eat with their squadrons today. Now Rod knew the reason why.

“Wow,” Sly said. He slumped back in his chair. “I wonder who it was?”

Lieutenant Ranch tapped his knife on his water glass. “Continue eating, gentlemen. I hope you all understand how serious it is to follow your code.”

Rod picked up his fork. “I think we all do, sir. And to think he turned himself in.”

“That’s the point, Rod,” Lieutenant Ranch said. “This was a tough test of your code, but I hope you’ll never have a violation of the toleration clause.” He picked up his water.

“Why’s that, sir?” Sly said.

Lieutenant Ranch hesitated. He put down his glass. “You smacks at the end of the table—listen up.” He turned his attention back to Sly. “I pushed for an additional quote to be included in your Fourth class knowledge, but it was turned down. We might not be having this discussion if that quote had been put in
Contrails
.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“G. K. Chesterton wrote ‘Tolerance is the virtue of the man without convictions.’ So without convictions, where will it stop? If you’ll tolerate a cadet lying, cheating, or stealing, you’re not embracing your own code. You cadets screw this up, it will create a cancer that could permeate your Wing years down the road. Any other questions?”

No one spoke.

Ranch started eating, then said to the table, “Carry on.”

O O O

That evening, as if by magic, the gym was transformed into an exotic looking nightclub. Wives from the Officer’s Wives Club had spent the day decorating under the supervision of Mrs. McComas. Posters and construction-paper flowers covered the walls. The lights were low and a stage band from Lowry played quietly at the side, setting the mood. Against the far wall, punch bowls, hot hors d’oeuvres, and snacks were set on long tables covered with white tablecloths.