The Cadet (8 page)

Chapter Seven

“Mr. Sandman”

0530 July 12, 1955

United States Air Force Academy

Lowry Field, CO

Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and they will surprise you with their ingenuity.

—General George S. Patton

A nuclear explosion.

A star going nova.

It was an event so sudden, so unexpected, and so cataclysmic that Rod could never have imagined it unless he had experienced it himself.

Everything happened simultaneously:

The door was kicked in;

Lights blinked on as the door slammed against the wall;

A whistle shrilled, reverberating through the room, hurting Rod’s ears;

Yelling: “You’re late! You’re late! You’re late!”

Rod bolted up in bed. His mouth was cottony, his heart yammered from the surge of adrenaline that rocketed through his veins. He blinked his eyes from the blinding glare.

Someone shouted while standing in the doorway, but Rod couldn’t make out who it was because of the spots in his eyes.

“Out of the rack! Five minutes to first call and you’d better not be late!” The whistle shrilled again. “I said get moving, smacks! My grandmother moves faster than you.” And just as quickly as he had come, the officer was gone.

Rod jumped from his bed and scrambled for the closet. He ran into Sly and they careened off each other, colliding like a pair of billiard balls as they tumbled on the floor. They picked themselves up and struggled into their clothes.

“Four minutes, basics! Get the lead out of your butts and speed out!”

Sounds of doors being kicked in, whistles blowing, and officers screaming rolled in from the hallway. Rod pulled a long sleeved khaki shirt from a hanger and pulled it on while starting to button it at the same time.

“Oh, no!” Sly moaned.

“What’s the matter?”

Sly started unbuttoning his shirt. “I mismatched my buttons!”

Rod shoved on his shoes and ran over to the mirror. He didn’t have any hair to comb, which probably saved a few seconds. With the pressure he was under, literally every second counted. He straightened his tie, and turned to his bed.

He tried to remember what Lieutenant Ranch had taught him about making hospital corners, but his feeble attempt didn’t look nearly as good as it did last night. Pulling the sheets taut, he wished he had simply slept on top of the bed and not under the covers.

“Two minutes to first call,” the officer hollered from down the hall. “You had better not be late to my formation! Outside on the parade field! Move, move, move!”

“What do you think?” Sly said, out of breath; he jammed his shirttail into his pants. His bed was unmade, but Rod’s didn’t look much better.

“I think we’re going to die if we’re late,” Rod said. “But we’re going to die if we leave the room like this.”

“Let’s go,” Sly said as he picked up his hat. “We’re going to get in trouble no matter how good the room looks. I want to live at least past breakfast.”

“Right.” Rod followed Sly out the door, leaving his bed in a half-hearted slop.

An officer ran up as they hurried down the hall. “You, man!” He shoved his face into Rod’s as Rod slammed against the wall. “Aren’t you going to recognize me?”

“Yes, sir!” Rod stole a glance at the officer’s nametag. “Good morning, Lieutenant O’Malley!”

“What! You recognize a superior officer by singing out ‘by your leave,’ asking permission to pass.”

“Yes, sir! By your leave, sir!” Rod and Sly yelled in unison.

“Are you trying to be late for my formation?”

“No, sir!”
But we will be if you don’t let us get out of here fast!

“Don’t cut it so close. Give me ten. Next time don’t be late.” He turned to leave.

“Yes, sir!”

As they dropped to the floor O’Malley yelled. “You two!”

Rod and Sly jumped to their feet and jerked to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“What do you say when an officer leaves?”

“Uh, goodbye, sir!” Sly said.

The officer’s face turned a bright red. “What are you, a smart aleck?”

“No, sir!”

“Start knocking off squat-thrusts. You say ‘good morning, sir’.”

“Yes, sir.” Sly fell to the floor. “One, sir. Two, sir …”

The officer glared at Rod who stood rigidly at attention. “What about you, basic? Are you going to let your classmate do squat-thrusts alone?”

“No, sir.” Rod joined Sly on the floor. “Four, sir. Five, sir …”

“Keep at it until you hit fifty. Then get out of here.” He turned.

“Good morning, sir!” Rod and Sly continued to count.

They reached twenty-three when the sound of a bugle blew; a voice came through the speakers. “This is first call for the morning meal formation—”

“You two! You’re late! Get down to formation!”

“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” Rod and Sly jumped up. Running at attention, they kept close to the wall. They raced down the stairwell, taking the stairs two steps at a time. Reaching the bottom, another officer lit into them.

“What are you men doing? You’re late!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Basics use one stair at a time. Now get your butts back up there and try it again.”

“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” They executed an about face and raced back up the stairs. Reaching the top, Rod gasped for breath and nearly ran into an officer just entering the stairwell. It was the same officer who had made them late for the formation.

“You two again! What the hell are you doing, taking a blow in the stairwell?

They slammed up again the wall. “No, sir!”
I’ve found it,
Rod thought.
And some say it doesn’t exist: Hell on earth.

“Then drop and knock out ten. You’re late!”

“Yes, sir.” Once again they hit the floor.

Finally finished, they raced down the stairs—one step at a time—and bolted outdoors.

A line of basics streamed from the barracks, officers correcting them on their way to the parade field. It was as if a giant gym class ran amok: Basics ran in place; Basics yelled while doing squat-thrusts and pushups; Basics stood at attention while being blasted by ATOs. There seemed to be no order in the chaos, but as Rod pinged from officer-to-officer, like a human pinball in his quest to reach B Squadron, it hit him that no one had yet made it to the squadron assembly area.

There seemed to be at least five times as many officers as there were basics. Every single basic cadet was either being chewed out, was barking in response to some order, or was performing some sort of exercise. It was structure in randomness.

A bugle blasted across the campus. Standing at the front of the squadron Captain Justice barked, “First call. Fall in!”

As if by magic the last straggler ran into place just as the bugle stopped playing. ATOs made adjustments to the ranks, ensuring the Basics were lined up before they stepped into formation themselves.

Standing in the front of the huge formation, Colonel Stillman barked, “Officers, report!”

One by one the officers standing out in front of the squadrons saluted. “All present and accounted for, sir.” And they had a moment of respite as the flag was raised.

As the color guard marched away from the flagpole, Colonel Stillman turned to the Wing. “At the double time, harch!” The entire Wing surged off in a morning run around the cadet area. Led by the AOCs, the basics struggled to catch up.

Running behind the squadron, Lieutenant Ranch called out a cadence. Other ATOs broke out of the main formation to dart in and out of the basics, correcting them: “Arms in by your side—what are you trying to do, flap and fly away?” “Get in step, mister!” “Chin in when you run—are you trying to trip and kill yourself?”

The basic next to him started to fall behind. Rod accelerated to stay with the group, but he was accosted by an ATO.

“What are you doing, leaving your classmate alone? Get your butt back there and help him. You are all in this together. If one of your classmates falls behind, you have to help him! He fails, everyone fails.”

Rod dropped back with a group of other basics, all trying to encourage their classmate. “Come on, you can make it!” “We’re here for you.” “Only a little farther!”

All the time the ATOs circled the runners like wasps, darting in and out to make stinging corrections.

They finally slowed and started marching into Mitchell Hall, sweating and catching their breath. Once inside, they passed row after row of tables filled with basics, standing and being yelled at—“trained” as Lieutenant Ranch would say.

When they reached their table it seemed as though they stood for hours reciting knowledge. They recited quotes from famous generals, words to patriotic songs, types of airplanes. On and on the questioning went, zeroing in on the most minute details. The sound of 300 basics yelling roared throughout the dining facility.

A low drone permeated the building. “Wing … attention!” An amplified voice echoed through Mitchell Hall and the vast room immediately fell silent. The basics remained rigidly at a brace, thankful for being saved from the yelling. Even the ATOs stood at attention.

“Gentlemen, the Chaplain.”

“Gentlemen, join me in prayer.” The Chaplain said grace while Rod mentally added his thanks for just getting some relief from the hectic pace.

“Take seats.”

Like a light being switched on, the shouting started again. Chairs scraped across the floor as basics rebounded back and forth from sitting to standing at attention.

Lieutenant Ranch was at the head of Rod’s table. He tapped a spoon against an overturned glass to get their attention.

“Listen up. You three basics at the end of the table: the one opposite me is the loadmaster. You are responsible for ensuring food is always on the table. To your right is the cold pilot, and to your left the hot pilot. You men are responsible for the cold and hot drinks. The rest of you help them out. If a plate is empty, ship it on down to the loadmaster; same goes with the drinks. Finally, be sure to thank the waiters by name. They are your only friends and your lifeline for nourishment. Any questions?”

“No, sir!”

“Good. If you didn’t catch on to the rules last night, all food is sent to the top of the table first. When it’s your turn to serve yourself, be sure to leave some for your classmates at the end of the table. If you have a question, stick out a paw and ask permission to speak.” He looked around, but all the basics sat rigidly at attention, probably glad not to be yelled at.

A Hispanic waiter dressed in white wheeled a cart up to their table. With incredible rapidity, he deposited huge plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, steaming oatmeal, toast, waffles, butter, syrup, and pitchers of milk, juice, and coffee. As he turned away, Lieutenant Ranch yelled down at a tall basic cadet at the end of the table. “You, man. Thank the waiter! What’s his name?”

Rod’s classmate flushed. “Sir, may I ask a question?”

“What!”

“Sir, may I leave the table to ask the waiter?”

“Permission granted. What’s your name?”

“Goldstein, sir. Basic Cadet Jeff Goldstein.”

“Move.”

“Yes, sir.” Like a rumbling giant, Goldstein left to track down the waiter, now at least ten tables away. Rod could see out of the corner of his eye that several other basics from other tables followed, obviously missing the waiter’s name as well.

Lieutenant Ranch tapped his spoon on his empty glass and pointed at the end of the table. “Get that food up here before it gets cold.”

“Yes, sir.” The basics scrambled to pass the breakfast to the head of the table, handing the platters one by one to Lieutenant Ranch.

One of the basics started eating his food as soon as he served himself.

Ranch tapped on his glass and said coldly, “Wait until all your classmates are served, mister. Don’t ever forget them. What if your plane crashes and you need to depend on your classmate to rescue you? You don’t want your wingman to remember that you forgot about him in basic training, do you?”

“No, sir.”

Just as it was Rod’s turn to help himself, Goldstein came back to the table. He stood at attention behind his chair for a moment, as though he had forgotten something.

Lieutenant Ranch looked up. “What’s the matter Goldstein?”

“Sir, the waiter’s name is Mr. Sanchez.”

“Outstanding, Goldstein. Now report and take a seat.”

Goldstein opened his mouth, then promptly shut it, confused.

“Well?” Lieutenant Ranch said.

A short, blonde Captain walked up and interrupted Goldstein’s reply. “I say, is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Ranch frowned as he stood; he quickly gazed around Mitchell Hall as though he were looking for someone, then turned his attention to the Captain. “Excuse me, sir … may I help you?”

The Captain lifted his chin. “I am Captain Whitney. I’m observing training. What seems to be the problem?”

Lieutenant Ranch hesitated, then said slowly, “My basics are having trouble remembering their manners, sir.”

“You have that right, Lieutenant,” Whitney sniffed. “These cretins don’t even have the courtesy to stand when a senior officer approaches the table.”

The basics immediately pushed back and bolted to attention.

“Nice try, gentlemen,” Captain Whitney said sarcastically, “But it’s obvious you need to reconsider your table manners. Get out of here, all of you. It makes me sick to think my United States Air Force is going to waste their money on you, and you don’t even have the decency to acknowledge a superior officer.”

Lieutenant Ranch stared at the Captain.

No one moved. Whitney raised his voice. “Basics! I’m talking to you! Get the hell off this table!”

“Yes, sir! Good morning, sir!” Rod and his classmates turned and marched away. With his stomach growling and unsure of what to do next, Rod followed his classmates to the door.

An announcement came over loudspeakers set high above the floor. “Attention in the area, attention in the area! Basics may now be dismissed from the morning meal. First call for PT is in ten minutes. I say again, first call for PT is in ten minutes.”

The yelling crescendoed as the basics still sitting shoved back their chairs and joined the ranks of those exiting the dining hall. One by one the basics slapped their elbows to their sides as they reached the door, then sprinted at attention in a single file for the dormitory. They followed on each other’s heels, silently urging everyone to hurry up.