The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  His mother held the baby to her cheek and ran a hand through her wispy brown hair, whispering as she rocked back and forth, watching out the upstairs bedroom window. In the starlight his mother’s silhouette reminded Jean-Claude of a thin reed of grass, gently swaying in the wind, yet never breaking as she comforted his sister.

  His father had pounded up the stairs, carrying a rifle. His eyes were wild. He whispered, “Are the children all right, Marie?”

  “Oui.” His mother nodded toward Jean-Claude’s bed, a mattress pushed into the corner of the small room. “See if he is awake.”

  Jean-Claude squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to sleep. As his father approached, he smelled the faint odor of garlic and olive. It was the smell of their small family restaurant on a warm summer day, when the wind would sweep the fragrance of cooking from the kitchen, and he would sit in the doorway watching Nanette in her crib.

  Standing over the wood-stoked stove, Father would wipe a hand across his brow and move a sauté pan rapidly over the open flame as the smell of butter, onions, mushrooms, and pepper filled the room. Neighbors would sit in chairs outside the kitchen and laugh with his father as he prepared a meal for their small sidewalk café. Those were the days before the Germans, before the bombs.

  His father had run a hand gently across his arm. Jean-Claude trembled, wanting his father to hold him, comfort him, and keep the booming giants from invading their house.

  But Jean-Claude remained still at his touch. Six years old was too old to have his father hold him like a baby. What would Jacques and François say if they discovered that he had been frightened of the Allied bombs, or of the Germans as they arrogantly patrolled the town?

  Tonight, as the rumbling grew closer, Jean-Claude kept his head buried in the blanket, waiting for his parents to come upstairs. He wished he hadn’t spurned his father’s comforting touch the night before.…

  A shrill whistling made Jean-Claude tense. The sound grew louder.

  He bent his knees up to his head. He heard a shout from downstairs. “Pa-pa?” An ear-splitting whistling—then something exploded in a terrifying roar.

  Around him the house crumbled, falling as the walls blew away.

  The floor dropped beneath him, crashing. He yelled as he fell, then bounced as his bed hit the ground.

  Someone screamed, a distant, muffled moan.

  Terrified, Jean-Claude sat up, his mouth so dry he couldn’t speak. His chest hurt. He drew the blanket around him and, through the smoke, saw a hole where the bedroom ceiling and floor had been just seconds before.

  Fire licked at the collapsed walls. Splintered wood, torn wallpaper, pots and pans lay all around. Smells of oil, smoke, and burning wood filled his nostrils. Down the cobblestone street, people yelled, horns honked, air raid sirens wailed, and more bombs exploded.

  The fire grew brighter, hotter.

  He was outside, with nothing over his head. The roof was now a blanket of stars sprawled above like tiny pinpricks of light. Raw and splintered timbers jutted up around him. Only the back wall to the house stood standing.

  In the kitchen the fireplace swayed, creaking as if about to fall. Round stones marbling its surface crumbled to the ground. In the distance a church bell clanged.

  Tears welled in his eyes. “Ma-ma, pa-pa!”

  He heard a whimpering wail. Nanette. Her tiny crib was on its side, turned over from the fall.

  The wailing changed to coughing, as if Nanette had trouble breathing.

  “Ma-ma!” There was still no answer.

  Feeling as if he were going to choke from the smoke, Jean-Claude crawled to the end of his bed. “Nanette! Nanette!” But no one came to comfort him.

  He pushed off the end of the bed and clawed through chalk and splinters. His hands hurt, and in the moonlight he saw blood, felt the wet slipperiness as he tried to push away timbers to reach Nanette.

  A creaking sound cascaded to a roar, and the back wall collapsed. “Ma-ma!” He struggled to his feet and took an unsteady step, but he fell back. Debris showered him.

  Then it was quiet, except for the growing sound of the crackling fire.

  He twisted, but couldn’t move. A log from the back wall pinned him down.

  Jean-Claude tugged frantically. “Help! Help me, pa-pa!”

  The fire grew, feeding on the house, growling as it devoured his home. And now it was searching for him. Shadows danced crazily against the towering fireplace, and light glinted off the metal pans that were half buried in the fallen debris. “Ma-ma!”

  As the fire encircled him, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear Nanette’s cries any longer, and since the explosion, he had not heard ma-ma or pa-pa at all.

  He felt the fire’s heat against his face; he coughed from the smoke and remembered the time Jacques had caught a field mouse and had coaxed it into a cardboard box. Laughing, the boy had lit fire to one side of the box, and the mouse had scampered back and forth, throwing itself up against the far wall as it tried to get away. The mouse grew more frantic as the flames roiled higher. Finally disgusted at the play, Jean-Claude threw a stone at the box, knocking it over and freeing the mouse—now, his own home had been toppled and was burning, but there was no escape.

  “Help me, please!”

  A scraping sound came from behind him. He struggled to an elbow. Through the smoke Jean-Claude saw someone stagger into the house. The man was much shorter than his father.

  His face lit by the fire, the man pulled himself over the fallen debris, favoring his leg. A bleeding gash ran across his cheek. Even in the dim light, Jean-Claude could see that the man had bright red hair. His brown leather jacket was dirty and torn at the sleeve. Oily sweat covered the man’s face in a sheen.

  They stared at each other. Jean-Claude felt as if his heart were pounding loud enough for the man to hear.

  The man spoke, but Jean-Claude couldn’t understand the words.

  “American,” the man whispered in a strange accent.

  Panting, Jean-Claude shook his head and tried to get up, but he couldn’t move.

  Fire roared behind the man, feeding on cooking oil. The man wrapped his arms around the log pinning Jean-Claude down and pulled. The wood creaked, but didn’t move. The flames grew larger as they ran up a jutting timber. Something popped from underneath the debris, as if the blaze was trying to run under the fallen log. Wisps of smoke rose from the debris scattered on the ground.

  The man shuffled around and gained purchase with his bloodied leg. Squeezing shut his eyes and with his face contorted in pain, the American grunted and lifted the log a few centimeters.

  Freed, Jean-Claude rolled out from under the wooden beam. Scrambling to a crouch, Jean-Claude stared at the man as the timber crashed back to the floor.

  The man opened his eyes and seemed to notice for the first time that flames were all around. Dragging himself up over the log, he grimaced and motioned for Jean-Claude to follow him out of the house.

  Jean-Claude turned wildly and began digging through the debris. “Ma-ma, pa-pa!” Hot embers burned his fingers as he dug deeper into the pile. “Where are you?”

  Strong hands grasped Jean-Claude around the waist and tried to pull him away.

  Jean-Claude fought against the man, pounding with his fists. Standing free in the midst of his demolished house, Jean-Claude shrieked. Flames licked at his heels. To his left, a portrait of his family sizzled as the heat turned it black around the edges.

  He couldn’t leave. Somewhere underneath this fallen rubble lay his mother, his father, and his sister, Nanette. He had to find them, help them—

  A piece of burning wood fell from the fireplace. Jean-Claude jumped back and felt intense heat, almost landing in another wall of fire that crackled up from the demolished stairs.

  The man motioned for him to follow.

  Tears streamed down Jean-Claude’s face, unstopped by pride or a need to prove to others that he was too big to cry. Sirens warbled in the night. Searchlights stabbed through the sky,
sweeping across the darkness.

  “Please, laddie!” the man said, speaking with a crude accent. “Hurry, now!”

  Down the narrow cobblestone lane three houses were on fire. Jacques’ home was completely leveled. The man limped to the center of the street and urged Jean-Claude to follow.

  Jean-Claude stepped out of the house and held a hand to his eyes, shielding his face from the heat. What if his parents were still alive? His sister … she needed him—

  Suddenly, the sound of a car honking pierced the night. Bullets fired and a motorcycle screeched around the corner. The American looked wildly around.

  A German soldier pulled up to the house and dismounted from his motorcycle, leaving the motor running. He pulled out a pistol. “Kommen Sie hier!” He leveled the pistol at the injured man.

  Jean-Claude felt his knees buckle. He had to stay quiet; he remembered his father cautioning him against ever antagonizing the Germans.

  “Schnell!” The man cocked the gun.

  Slowly raising his hands over his head, the American nodded with his head for Jean-Claude to run away.

  Still terrified, Jean-Claude’s breath quickened. His hands felt slippery. What should he do? He couldn’t just stand there. The American had saved his life. He stooped and picked up a rock in the rubble the size of his hand; without thinking he hurled the rock at the German, hitting the blond-haired man on the shoulder.

  The German whirled. Snarling, he aimed his gun at Jean-Claude.

  Skipping on his good leg, the American leaped out and tackled the German. They rolled on the ground, wrestling for the pistol.

  The American cried out in pain. Grunting, they struggled as the pistol skittered away, spinning to a stop next to Jean-Claude.

  Jean-Claude stared at the weapon. It looked hard, metallic in the flickering shadow.

  Terrified as the smoke thickened around him, Jean-Claude reached down and grasped the pistol. The handle felt cold. He had never held a gun before.

  The German rolled on top of the American and straddled him. His fingers closed around the American’s throat. The American turned his head from side to side and made sharp choking sounds. He struggled to pry off the German’s hands.

  Jean-Claude’s breath quickened; the stranger who had saved him was being strangled. He had to do something. But what? He couldn’t just let the man die. Pa-pa had said he was too young to even hold his father’s rifle, much less a pistol, but he couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.

  Holding the weapon with both hands, Jean-Claude tried to aim. The gun wavered; he took an uncertain step forward and said, “Arrêtez!” but the men ignored him.

  The German pushed down and the American gurgled; his hands fell to the ground.

  Grimacing, Jean-Claude squinted and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off, kicking his arms up. His hands stung from the recoil.

  A spray of blood shot from the German’s head and the man slumped over.

  In pain, the American rolled from underneath the dead German. His eyes wide, he stared at Jean-Claude. Flames flickered from the burning house, casting wild shadows.

  Jean-Claude dropped the gun. It clanked to the ground. Not fully comprehending what had happened, he took an unsteady step back. A sick feeling gnawed in his stomach; he leaned over and vomited. What had he done?

  The American coughed and struggled to his feet. He limped over and picked up the Luger, then waved for Jean-Claude to follow. “Come, lad!”

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jean-Claude looked around, but all he could see was the devastation of his home, and the flames growing larger. He took a step toward his house, but strong arms stopped him. “No, laddie!”

  Flames rolled over the devastation as the remaining walls collapsed onto the ground. Jean-Claude raised a hand to shield his face as the heat pushed him back.

  He had no one else to go to, and he didn’t know what to do.

  Except trust in this man who had saved his life.

  His legs shaking, he turned and followed the American.

  And left his old life behind.

  ***

  Chapter One

  “Sincerely”

  July 11, 1955

  United States Air Force Academy

  Lowry Field, Denver, CO

  The purpose of the Fourth Class System at the United States Air Force Academy is to lay the foundation early in the cadet’s career for the development of those qualities of character and discipline which will be expected of him as an officer. These qualities must be so deeply instilled in the individual that no stress or strain will erase them from his personality.

  —Contrails, The Air Force Cadet Handbook

  Eighteen year-old Rod Simone’s emotions yo-yoed from a deep, sickening knot in the pit of his stomach to uncontrollable excitement as he anticipated becoming a cadet. He’d dreamt for years of attending the Academy and being a member of the first class at an institution that would rival West Point and Annapolis.

  So why did he feel so nauseous?

  He sat in the back of the rented ’55 Chevy as they drove past brown fields of tall prairie grass on their way to Lowry Field, temporary home of the new Air Force Academy. The rolling hills were punctuated by cattle, tails whipping flies off their backs. Houses dotted the side of the road; children played in yards, unconcerned that Rod’s world was about to turn upside down. The ride seemed to take forever.

  Rod wished that he could be out on the range, not having anything more stressful to do than herding cattle. Or maybe back in Southern California with Sandy, taking her to the Disneyland Park that would soon open in Orange County. For some reason, dozens of alternatives filled his head, anything other than attending the nation’s newest military academy. But it seemed he’d wanted to go forever, ever since he’d accompanied his adoptive father on the trips to help establish the institution.

  Rod straightened in the back seat and held up a hand at the light shining through the front windshield. Sunlight glared past his mother’s long hair, strands of red flying in the wind as she drove east on Sixth Avenue. Behind them, the Rocky Mountains were still ridged with snow from a late spring storm.

  Hank McCluney twisted in the passenger’s side of the front seat. “How are you holding up, lad?”

  “Fine.” Rod turned back to the side window, not wanting to talk.

  “Nervous?”

  He hesitated. “No, sir.”

  “Aye,” Hank said, pulling his lips tight.

  For a moment Rod thought Hank would lecture him. It reminded him of the time Hank admonished him after he had stood up to Robert, the much taller and overweight bully who had taunted him for his accent, making fun of his foreign name; or when Hank had demanded that he shouldn’t try to fly fighter planes; or even when Rod had seen Hank with that … that woman in Washington, D.C.

  Why couldn’t Hank stop treating him as a kid? He still seemed to think Rod was that helpless French boy he’d rescued from a burning house. Didn’t Hank remember that he’d killed a man?

  As if sensing Rod’s apprehension, Hank said, “I used to get sick before going into combat. Every time I flew, I got the jitters, not knowing what to expect. I suppose the fumes I smelled on the flight-line yesterday made my stomach think I was flying again.”

  There were plenty of fumes yesterday at the airshow when Rod and his parents had joined the mob of 4,200 people at the Academy’s dedication ceremony. He’d stood on his tiptoes, wishing he was closer to the center of activity as CBS had covered the event on national TV; cadets from the Military and Naval Academies mixed with three- and four-star generals, government officials, and Hollywood starlets.

  Rod had watched in awe as giant bombers thundered low across the sky, featuring a massive aerial display of lumbering B-36s and new B-47 jets, along with F-84 and F-86 fighters. The sky had rumbled with gleaming metal. He ached to be in the sky, to feel the plane respond to his touch and look out over a horizon a hundred miles away, to hear the jet engines whine as he swoos
hed through the air. It had all seemed surreal.

  But today, all the pomp and circumstance and the excitement of yesterday didn’t make Rod feel any better. Now his stomach churned with uncertainty.

  His adoptive mother Mary slowed the car as they approached a guard shack. A crowd of onlookers stood next to a fence. They partly blocked a blue sign with white lettering:

  LOWRY AIR FORCE BASE

  A young guard wearing sharply pressed khakis, a tan belt, and a blue-banded helmet stepped out of the shack. A pistol was strapped at his waist.

  Light bulbs flashed. A man in a red plaid jacket and wearing a Press card stuck jauntily in the band of his hat ran in front of the car. He snapped their picture as they pulled to a stop, then leaned into the front window. “Tony Rafelli, Denver Post—”

  “Excuse me, sir. You’re obstructing traffic.” The guard pulled the reporter back. He watched the reporter saunter away, then reached into the guard shack and picked up a clipboard. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Still blinking from the flashbulb, Mary McCluney straightened, her head high. “My son is entering the Air Academy,” she said with an effort. “Jean-Claude Simone.”

  “Got it.” The airman made a check on the paper. He reached into the guard shack and pulled out a large white card with the words “GUEST, EXPIRES 11 JUL 55” on it, and placed it on the dashboard.

  “Were you at the airshow yesterday, ma’am?”

  “Aye, we were,” Mary said.

  “Good. You’ll be going to the same location.” He pointed inside the base. “Follow the signs to the cadet area and Air Policemen will direct you to parking. Watch out for pedestrians and do not exceed fifteen miles an hour. Once you’ve dropped off your son at the administration building, be sure to be back at the viewing stands by 1530 for the 1600 parade and dedication. Do you have any questions?”

  Mary shook her head. Tears formed in her eyes; she tried to pull a green kerchief from her matching purse, but it caught and she quickly dabbed her face with a white-gloved hand. She smoothed her green Coachman dress with winged black collar and straightened in her seat.