The Cadet (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Raunchy”

August, 1957

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

A sight to dream of, not to tell!

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
Christabel
, I

A week later Rod flew into Peterson Field on board a C-97 transport proudly wearing the silver parachutist badge. He’d survived the five jumps without being injured, although he was so scared during the first three jumps his eyes were squeezed tightly shut when he leaped from the plane. They called them night jumps, because he did them with his eyes closed, and in effect, in the dark of night. But he was still alive, and that was the important thing.

Although it was only the middle of August, summer was over for the cadets as academics started within days of them returning. For the first time their class had participated in different summer programs, and the war stories that accompanied the renewed acquaintances grew wilder every time they were told.

The first squadron meal back, Rod sat at the head of the table, serving as Table Commander. He looked down at the activity going on at the opposite end of the table. Doolies from the class of ’61 sat ramrod-straight as they efficiently worked with the waiters. The new Third classmen from ’60, themselves barely out of the Fourth class system, mercilessly trained the doolies, anticipating and correcting every mistake.

Mr. Raf Garcia handed platters of steaming food from his cart, then cheerfully waved at Rod. “Welcome back, Cadet Simone!”

“Same to you, Mr. Garcia. Be sure to save the biggest dessert for my table.”

Mr. Garcia hooked a thumb back at his cart. “I have, but do not tell anyone.”

Sitting at the head of the next table over, Sly leaned over and punched Rod on the shoulder. “Feels good to be back home, doesn’t it?”

Rod remembered the disastrous time at Stanford with Barbara. As hard as it was, he didn’t want to think about her again. “Compared to Army life, this is heaven.”

Someone came up behind Rod and whispered, “Permission to sit at your table, sir?”

Rod looked up and saw Jeff Goldstein; he pulled out the chair next to him. “Hey, Jeff! Have a seat. How was your summer?”

“Like crazy, man!”

“So how’s basketball treating you?”

“Practicing all the time.” Goldstein slid in the open seat next to Rod. He stretched his feet out as far as he could to keep his knees from knocking up against the table. He took a plate of food and helped himself to a steaming chicken breast. “But the team got roped into helping the Notre Dame committee. We’re getting up a group to accompany the football team to cheer them on—you know, one varsity sport helping the other. Interested in going?”

“Sure. Where’s Notre Dame?”

Goldstein cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding.” He handed Rod the platter of chicken.

Rod helped himself. “Nope. Never been a football fan.”

“So I guess Knute Rockne doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“You mean Ronald Reagan?”

Goldstein sighed and passed him a bowl of peas. “Notre Dame’s in South Bend, Indiana. We can spend the weekend in the Second City if you’re interested.”

“Second City?”

“Don’t you Frenchmen know anything? That’s what we New Yorkers call Chicago, you know—like Nowheresville. Anyway, one of our classmates on the basketball team couldn’t make it, so the offer’s open.”

“Sure. Sounds like fun.”

Goldstein turned his attention to the end of the table. “Hey, you smack wads.”

The three doolies instantly put down the food trays they were passing to the head of the table and popped their heads around. “Yes, sir!”

“Where am I from?” The doolies hesitated. “Well?” The one at the end of the table stuck out his fist. “Go ahead.”

“Sir, Cadet Roderick Jean-Claude Simone’s family is from—”

“Simone? Do I sound French to you?” Goldstein stood and bellowed.

“No, sir!”

“Then why did you think I was Cadet Simone?”

“No excuse, sir!”

“That’s right, there is no excuse. Now get off my table, you maggot! You don’t deserve to eat in my presence.”

“Yes, sir.” The doolie stood. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, gentlemen.” He executed an about face and left.

Rod leaned over to Goldstein and whispered, “It’s their first meal with us. How could they know who we are?”

“They should.” Goldstein leaned forward and yelled, “Well, where’s my hometown?”

Now that their choices had been narrowed down, the other two doolies answered in unison, “Sir, Cadet Jeffrey Goldstein’s home is in the Bronx, New York City.”

“Thank you,” Goldstein said, passing down the rest of the food. “Now listen up. Next time you sit on my table, I want you to get a famous person to request that I, Cadet Jeff Goldstein, should allow you to sit at rest. Understand?”

“Sir, may I ask question?”

“Proceed.”

“Sir, how famous must this person be?”

“A Congressman, or a movie star. Better yet, Miss America.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on.” The doolies’ eyes clicked down to their plate and they started eating.

Miss America. Rod’s thoughts drifted, thinking about Chicago and some of the famous people to whom the doolies could write.

He blinked. There were plenty of famous people in Chicago, and the Academy was still new enough that cadets were sometimes treated as celebrities. He remembered the time in San Francisco when Barbara had been mesmerized that he had been a cadet.

“Hey, Jeff,” he said. “How would you like to go on the double date of your life?”

“Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“Just wait. I’ll surprise you.” Rod called to the doolies at the end of the table. “Hey, you two—the two smacks Cadet Goldstein ordered to write to someone famous.”

Their forks clattered on their plate. “Yes, sir!”

“Drive around to my room before Ac Call. I have someone specific I want you to write to in Chicago. But first, gather up some food for your classmate who was thrown off the table; make sure he gets it right after the meal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now who has the Form O-96 tonight? I want you to compose a poem for the head waiter, Mr. Raf Garcia.”

O O O

A month later on a Saturday morning, Rod and Jeff Goldstein stepped off the bus that had taken them to downtown Chicago. Their military transport had landed at O’Hare an hour ago, and the rest of the cadet contingent had headed out for South Bend.

Wearing their Academy ties and blue cadet blazers, they strolled around the busy streets feeling as though they were on a different planet. Vendors hawked Chicago dogs and little children ran up to them, trying to sell them Chicago Cubs t-shirts.

Walking briskly up the crowded street in the growing Indian summer heat, Rod felt like taking off his jacket, but he didn’t want to be caught out of uniform.

“Okay,” Goldstein said as they stepped over a broken wine bottle, “What’s the big surprise? Can we eat first?”

“Save that for the date. This is going to be one heck of a long day.” Rod glanced at a piece of paper with directions and a map drawn on it. They passed by two more blocks before turning right, and after one more block they stopped.

Goldstein leaned back and looked up at the skyscraper. “These high rises aren’t as tall as the ones in the Bronx.”

“But taller than the ones in Denver.” Rod stepped for the entrance. “Here we are. I guarantee what’s inside will give you a rise.”

They rode the elevator up to the 52nd floor. The doors opened to an elegant lobby. Outside, the sun beat down on the city. Cars jammed the streets, and a hazy cloud hung over the Lake Michigan.

“I wish I knew what you were getting me in to.”

“Relax.” Rod pointed out the opulent sculptures, the oil paintings on the wall.

They rounded the carpeted corner, and there above the door to a suite were the words PLAYBOY ENTERPRISES.

Goldstein stopped. “Playboy?”

“Yeah.”

“Like the magazine?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean like in the foldout?”

“Yeah,” Rod said. “That’s it. Are you ready?”

Goldstein grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy? How are we going to get a date with these models? These girls are famous. They’re Playboy bunnies!”

Rod dug into his pocket and offered Goldstein a letter, smelling of thick perfume. He scanned the note and his jaw dropped. “A double date! How did you do it?”

Rod stuffed the letter back in his pocket and strode for the door. “You gave me the idea. I had our smacks write and ask Miss August for permission to sit at rest. I wrote her back, thanking her for her kind consideration. Plus, I knew Playboy headquarters was in Chicago.” He shrugged. “When she found out I was coming to Notre Dame, she offered to meet us for the game. Any other questions?”

“Man, oh, man!”

Rod reached the door and placed a hand on the doorknob. “Strap in tight, and get ready for the E-ticket ride of your life. We’re going to be the envy of every guy at the game.” He swung open the door and they walked into the adolescent male holy of holies, Playboy headquarters.

O O O

The game was closer than the final score showed, and afterwards Rod felt exhausted. The cadet contingent stood the entire game while in the stands, providing through their spirit a virtual “twelfth man” on the field.

The two Playboy bunnies sat next to the cadet cheering area, with Rod and Jeff Goldstein participating in what might have been the strangest date on record. Hugh Hefner had provided the limo from Chicago to South Bend, and the girls, complete with bunny ears, short coat, black fishnet stockings and little furry white tails, drew more attention than the entire football team.

Although envied by nearly all, the two cadets had zero time alone with the two models. With all the cameras, microphones and flash bulbs going off, Rod felt more as if he were in the middle of a press conference than on a double date.

And after the initial awe of meeting the beautiful young ladies, it took him all of about two minutes to appreciate the that this wasn’t going to be a replay of the date he’d had with Barbara last year: these girls were definitely not interested in making a difference.

O O O

The black and white TV screen in Arnold Hall could not have been more than 10 inches across. It was located in a wooden console the size of a couch, and of the sixty cadets that crowded around, not more than three had a good view at any one time.

Rod sat in the front row, his shoulders smashed by George Sanders and Jeff Goldstein who were squeezed in next to him. The intimacy reminded Rod of a gang shower.

“Hey, watch out,” Rod said, pushing away George Sanders who was still wearing his cowboy hat.

“Quiet down,” someone from the back yelled. “At least let us hear. And take off that damn hat so we can see!”

The normal background buzz in Arnold Hall grew quiet. More cadets gathered around, standing on their tiptoes to crane a look at the tiny screen.

Theme music from the Ed Sullivan show faded away as the big-eye symbol of the TV network flashed onto the screen. The crowd hushed.

“I could have been there,” Jeff Goldstein said.

“Not after Chicago,” Rod said, keeping his eyes riveted to the grainy screen. “With that Playboy publicity, the Comm doesn’t trust us as far as he could throw us.”

A deep voice rattled the tinny speakers embedded in the console’s side. “Now, live from Atlantic City, presenting the Miss USA pageant. And tonight, as very special guests escorting these fifty lovely young ladies across America, are cadets from the nation’s newest military school, the United States Air Force Academy!”

The cadets in Arnold Hall cheered, stomped their feet, and whistled.

The cameras panned a host of beautiful young women dressed in long, colorful evening gowns. One by one they strode across the stage, holding the arm of a cadet. They stepped in front of the main camera and smiled. The announcers carefully enunciated the state they represented, as well as the college they attended, their academic major, and their life’s career ambition.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up. Some of the young ladies looked flustered as they smiled for the camera then turned back to their cadet escort.

The cadets in Arnold Hall cheered as one by one their classmates came into view. “Hey, there’s Manuel Rojo! Come on, get that serious look off your face!”

“Look, it’s Baldacci! Smile Baldacci!”

“Get a load of Nino—can you believe he looks like he’s falling asleep?”

As the next couple appeared, Goldstein suddenly grabbed Rod’s arm. “Look at that.”

“Do you think they’ll notice?” Rod said, shocked at what he was seeing.

Someone from the back of the crowd laughed and howled, “Hey, cadet! Cage those eyeballs, cadet! What are you doing, going deep sea diving?”

On screen Sly escorted a dark-haired beauty who wore an extremely low-cut, revealing dress. As his date smiled widely for the TV camera, Sly’s head was canted downward, his eyes clearly riveted on the young woman’s deep cleavage. It looked as if at any instant Sly was going to jump into the incredibly inviting intermammary cleft.

“Dive, dive!” hooted the crowd in Arnold Hall. “Go for it, Sly!”

“Come on, snap out of it, Sly!” Rod said, shaking his head.

The camera pulled back as the young lady’s name was announced. She turned her head, still smiling widely, until she realized where Sly’s eyes were focused. Drawing herself up, the smile melted from her face and turned into a scowl; then, as if she realized she was still being judged, the smile instantly reappeared. She twirled off, jerking Sly nearly off his feet before the camera focused on the next contestant.

A peel of laughter ran across the crowd, then a chant started: “CDB, CDB. We’re going to have a CDB!”

Shaking his head, Rod turned to Jeff Goldstein. “I just hope no one else at the Academy saw that. Otherwise Sly’s going to be marching tours for the rest of his life.”

“And that’s if he’s lucky,” Goldstein said.

***

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Young Love”

Fall, 1957

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

Desire is the very essence of man.

—Benedict Spinoz,
The Ethics

“Another dance?” Rod said. “I don’t want to go.”

“Come on, Rod! You never know whom you’re going to meet at the cattle call,” Sly said, tossing Rod’s formal mess dress on his bed.

“Don’t use that term. You know how I feel about that.”

Sly shrugged. “Whatever.”

Rod slumped back in his chair. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that I remember meeting Wendy Shelby at that ugliest date contest, and it was demeaning. Carol Gutheinz certainly didn’t fit that criteria; she was really dynamite.”

“So why aren’t you dating Carol?”

Rod shook his head. “Don’t know; just not my type.”

“It’s like panning for gold,” Sly said. “Once in a while you’ll get a nugget. Besides, would you rather take a chance striking it rich, or try to decipher that EE homework?”

“It’s the fool’s gold that worries me,” Rod said. “And, besides I’m tired of looking for a girl.” Despite the disastrous incident last summer, Barbara had kept writing from Stanford, but the time between her letters grew farther apart. And with her priority of graduating at the top of her class, she lived too far away for them to ever build a meaningful relationship. Although his classmates were happy chasing after hot dates, Rod was after something more substantial, something deeper. Someone like Barbara. Maybe that was why he’d been so edgy with his classmates about the upcoming dance.

He slammed shut his Electrical Engineering text and stretched. Cadets called the class Black Magic 301, electronic circuits and an introduction to electromagnetic waves. It was widely rumored that the EE instructors randomly changed the answers to identical problem sets so that no one would ever understand the arcane engineering field.

“You’ll never find the right girl if you keep looking so hard,” Sly said. “Things like that just happen, and usually when you least expect it.”

Rod laughed. “Words of wisdom from a pro. How would you know?”

“I’ve read about it,” Sly said with an edge to his voice. “It’s true. Or at least that’s what Ann Landers says. Come on, go to the dance; give it a try. What else are you going to do, terrorize doolies?”

Rod debated with himself for a moment, then started dressing. “I guess I can always talk to Wendy. She’s a great girl, but we just don’t click. I want to meet someone who enjoys taking long walks, who knows about the world, and wants to make a difference—” he trailed off as he buttoned his shirt.

“Or makes out at the drop of a hat,” Sly finished for him.

Rod threw a pillow at him. “A nice girl.”

“That’s nice! At least it would be for me.”

“Would you shut up?”

Ten minutes later they entered Arnold Hall. Rod scanned the dance floor. It could have been a scene from last year: cadets escorted women through the receiving line; couples gyrated on the dance floor; a couple of cadets played “who’s got the ugliest date.” Rod turned away as the dance band swung into Tab Hunter’s “Young Love.”

Sly grabbed onto Rod’s arm. “Hey, didn’t you dance with that girl last year?”

Rod squinted through the dark. She wore a maroon dress, her hair piled up on her head, and had sharp, angular features. “Carol Gutheinz? Sure, that’s who I was talking about earlier. Wendy introduced me.”

Sly’s face fell. “You’ve got first dibs, then.”

Rod pushed his roommate forward. “Go ahead. We didn’t hit it off, remember?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, you idiot. She’s all yours.”

Sly rubbed his hands together and sped off. “See you later. If I’m not back by taps, mark me unauthorized.”

Rod laughed. “Dream on.” He watched Sly walk over and awkwardly introduce himself. After a few moments they started for the dance floor and Rod felt pleased. Sly was always complaining about being the bridesmaid and never the bride, so maybe he could at least find some company for tonight. Carol was actually a really nice girl.

That was another thing to look forward to when they were allowed to have cars next year—getting out of this place and meeting some normal girls. Normal in the sense that they hadn’t gotten on a bus and been driven to an all-male school to find a date.

Rod sauntered around, saying “hi” to some of his classmates, but in general just keeping at the edge of the activity. He really didn’t feel like trying to meet anyone tonight. He looked for Wendy and was disappointed when he didn’t spot her.

He stepped over to the punch bowl, poured a cup, and watched the Lowry stage band for a moment. They had really started to get tight the past year, each member anticipating what the other would do, emphasizing just the right notes, and drilling the right tempo. In a way it was kind of like marching with the same group of guys, each knowing to the instant when the other would turn or make a maneuver.

He stayed for another tune when they struck up “Hernando’s Hideaway.” Tapping his foot, he wondered what they’d sound like with a bagpipe wailing along.

The image stuck with him and he stifled a laugh. He turned to refill his cup when he bumped into someone—someone soft—with his elbow.

Horrified, he realized that his elbow had hit a girl’s breast. She was standing close to the punchbowl and hadn’t moved when he bumped her.

“I’m sorry,” Rod stammered. He felt his face grow warm as he took in her curvaceous figure that filled a floor-length red dress, then her thick dark eyebrows framing incredibly gorgeous, brown eyes. Her hair was so dark it was nearly perfect black, and unlike most of the other girls, she wore it long, cascading down around her shoulders.

Rod wet his lips. “I … I didn’t see you standing there.”

The girl smiled impishly. With white-gloved hands she pulled a long strand of hair from in front of her eyes. “You’re kidding, right? Is that the only move you’re going to make? Disappointing; I’d expect more from a Frenchman.”

Uh?
He felt giddy by her presence. “I’m … I’m American.”

The girl looked around, then lowered her voice. “But you are a cadet, right? You’re supposed to think fast, be quick on your feet. At least that’s what I’ve been told.” She looked him up and down. “So think fast and say something witty to impress me.”

Rod drew in a breath. “Well … if … if your heart is as soft as your breast, then surely you’ll forgive me.” He groaned inwardly.
Boy was that stupid!

Her eyes widened. “Wow. I do love that accent. So I guess if the rest of you is as hard as your elbow, then I’m one lucky girl.”

Rod’s face froze. He couldn’t believe what she’d just said. She certainly hadn’t taken offense, but instead came right back with her own repartee.

He took a deep breath, trying to stop his heart from yammering. “I’m Rod Simone.”

She stuck out her gloved hand. “Julie Phillips.” She looked around, and seeing no one looking their way, she moved closer to the punch bowl. Slipping a thin liquor bottle out of her purse, she unscrewed the cap and quickly emptied it into the large glass container. She smoothly snuck the bottle underneath the ruffled tablecloth where several decorations of model aircraft sat and smiled back at Rod in one fluid motion.

Rod felt his heart start to race.

“You never want to be caught with the evidence.” Julie moved over and slid a hand through his arm; she steered him away from the refreshment table. “Don’t look back, at least not just yet,” she said.

He tried not to walk woodenly. Half of him wanted to turn and run—get as far away as he could. Bringing liquor on the Academy grounds was an offense so incredibly harsh that no one he knew even dreamt of doing it. Besides, except for that night before doolie recognition, where the wine and beer had been tacitly allowed, the cadets were just plain too busy to get involved in anything like that.

The other half of him floated two feet in the air, as he was escorting a knockout who was obviously a free spirit. It took all he had to keep from doing cartwheels.

When they reached the middle of the dance floor, Julie pulled him to a stop and drew him close. The band started Martin’s “Memories Are Made of This,” and the dance crowd settled into the slow song.

With his arms around her, Rod realized just how soft she was … and how well-proportioned as she pressed her chest against him. She was incredibly well-endowed. In retrospect, even if he had just been close to her, rather than immediately next to her at the punch bowl, there was no way he could have missed hitting her breast.

He turned so they could both see the refreshment table.

A crowd of cadets and their dance partners drifted to the punchbowl, laughing. One by one they filled their glasses. The first cadet took a sip, did a double take, then sipped again. He motioned to the others.

One of the girls sputtered, then brought a hand up to her mouth. Her date tasted her drink and laughed. More cadets and their dates gathered around the bowl, like metal shards pulled to a magnet. One of the cadets stepped away, shaking his head in disapproval as he walked from the table. The noise grew around the punchbowl.

“That should liven up the crowd,” she said, pressing back against him.

“Was the dance that dead?”

She looked at him curiously. “How many college parties have you been to?”

“Here? I don’t know, maybe five.”

“Five?” She laughed. “No, not here. This isn’t a party, this is an over-chaperoned, choreographed society event.”

“Choreographed.” Rod was stumped. That was the term that Wendy had used to describe the very first dance. But it looked like a party to him. In fact, it looked more like what he remembered of his high school dances back at San Bernardino High in California, except for the formal receiving line. And all the generals, of course.

Julie swung him around. “See any unescorted women? Or groups going wild? There’s no spontaneity.”

“The punchbowl is getting a lot of attention.”

“Now it is. And I wonder why! But do you see what I mean? Doesn’t this all look too precise, too rehearsed?”

At this point Rod didn’t really care. It felt good enough that Julie was close. “I suppose. But why should that matter? Aren’t you having fun?”

She looked up. “Now I am.” She put her head back on his shoulder. “You cadets all look perfect—too athletic, too clean cut. But I guess it fits.”

Rod thought for a moment. “This is the first time you’ve been to the Academy.”

“How could you guess?”

“Well, you’re certainly different from the other girls here. I think I would have heard about you if you’d been here before. Word gets around fast in the Wing.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. And yes, this is my first time here.”

Rod moved around the dance floor, suddenly grateful for all those dancing lessons he had been forced to take, despite having Sly as his partner. “Where do you go to school?”

She laughed. “For now?”

“Excuse me?” Rod frowned.

“Never mind. CWC—Colorado Women’s College. But two years ago it was William and Mary. Last year it was Miss Marmsley’s School for Difficult Women. Next year—well, hopefully I’ll graduate and there won’t be a next year.”

Rod kept quiet. One thing he’d discovered was that sometimes he had to listen.

She pulled back her head and looked up at him. “Aren’t you curious?”

“I don’t want to be nosy—”

They both turned as a girl at the punchbowl whooped. Someone started chanting “USAFA pre-game,” with cadets laughing hysterically. Their dates stood by, holding hands to their mouths in amazement as the cadets jumped around, arms thrusting high in the air. Other girls looked disgusted and whispered to themselves.

Rod spotted an AOC make his way through the crowded dance floor toward the commotion. “Uh, oh,” he said. He pulled away and grabbed Julie’s hand. “Let’s go outside for a walk.”

“Good idea.”

They wove through couples and nearly reached the edge of the dance floor when Rod spotted Captain Whitney. Like a flight of fighters wheeling in for the kill, every officer in the building was zeroing in.

Rod stepped back to get out of Captain Whitney’s way when he was shoved from behind. Still holding Julie’s hand, he dragged her with him as he stumbled forward.

Captain Whitney pulled up to avoid colliding. “I say, Simone,” he scowled.

Rod stiffened. “Excuse me, sir.” He let go of Julie’s hand.

Captain Whitney was about to retort when he noticed Julie. “Why, good evening, Miss!” he said, running a hand through his blonde hair. His eyes latched on to her breasts, then clicked back to the commotion across the room.

“Sir, this is Miss Julie Phillips. Julie, Captain Whitney, one of my instructors.”

Julie stuck out her white-gloved hand, not in a handshake, but with her palm down as a southern lady would have when introduced to a gentleman. “Why, Captain! I’m pleased to finally meet a faculty member. I have heard so much about ya’ll!” Her accent dripped.

Captain Whitney stared, as if he didn’t know if she was putting him on or not. He gave her hand a delicate shake and looked oddly at Rod. “I’m pleased to meet you as well, Miss Phillips. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely and thoroughly, Captain.” She drew back her hand and grasped Rod’s arm. “I’m soooo glad to have met Cadet Simone. He’s such a dear, sweet angel.”

A smirk played at Captain Whitney’s lips. “Yes, that’s been my experience with him as well. Now if you two will excuse me, I think I’m needed across the room. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Phillips. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Oh, I intend to, Captain. I intend to very much.”

Captain Whitney sniffed at Rod. “Be prepared for class, Simone.”

“Good evening, sir.” Rod stepped back as Captain Whitney twisted past them and made a bee-line for the punch bowl. Julie still clung to his arm with both her hands.

Rod stared at her. “What was that all about?”

“What? You mean sweet little ole me?”

“If I didn’t know better …”

Julie laughed and pulled him away from the dance floor. “Come on, Rod. Your captain doesn’t know me from Eve. He’ll never know that I was pulling his leg. And besides, you were far enough away that he couldn’t smell anything on your breath—unlike your friends back there, who are probably about to get the shock of their lives when your captain arrives.”