by Doug Beason
Rod looked at her curiously; he hadn’t suspected she’d be moved. Normally, his adoptive mother was all business, much more so than his adoptive father; he didn’t know what to think.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Hank said. He leaned forward and put an arm around his wife. “Are you all right, Mary?”
She tightly gripped the steering wheel, a thin smile on her face. “Aye, husband,” she whispered. She drove slowly into the sprawling compound, inching up to the strict fifteen mile an hour speed limit. “Just a wee dram of nerves.”
Rod heard cheering as they drove onto the base. People lined the streets. They waved signs reading GOOD LUCK! and WE LOVE OUR CADETS!
The streets were meticulously clean. The lawn was cut razor close, looking as if a team of yard workers had been down on their hands and knees ensuring every blade of grass was the same height. Windows gleamed, yellow stripes on the road glistened, white paint on the curbs shone, and even a mothballed P-51 Mustang sitting by the side of the road on display looked as if it had been specially polished.
An Air Policeman directed them to a parking lot. When they stopped, Rod heard voices hoarsely yelling from beyond a cluster of white-painted wooden buildings.
Hank opened his door and rolled out of his seat. He stood erect next to the car and leaned on his cane, his brown fedora set perfectly straight on his head.
Rod’s mother ran a hand up and down his arm as they watched a group of young men line up outside one of the buildings marked Administration. Parents stood in clumps throughout the parking lot, quietly saying goodbye to their sons. Younger brothers and sisters ringed the family groups. Girlfriends cried openly, and Rod wished that Sandy had come with them so he could have said a final goodbye.
“Do you have your belongings, lad?”
“Yes, sir.” Rod reached down and lifted his bagpipes and khaki duffle bag. The instructions from the Academy information office had been explicit: except for a shade 84 summer dress uniform sent to him two weeks ago by the Commandant of Cadets, he would be issued all the clothes and personal items that he would need, including underwear. The instructions further admonished him not only to leave his clothes at home, but the majority of his personal items as well.
Although the summer dress uniform took up most of the duffle bag, the remaining space was filled with pictures of his adoptive mother and father, and a school picture of Sandy Allison, given to him the night before they had left on the train for Denver. From the noncommittal comments she’d written in his high school yearbook last May, he hadn’t given her much thought until the month before he had left for the Academy.…
He’d stopped at the store to pick up some groceries when he spotted her on a small ladder stocking shelves. She wore an apron over a blue blouse and tight, white shorts; she stretched up on her tiptoes, exposing tan, strong thighs, and he was mesmerized. She caught him looking and without thinking, he walked boldly forward, offering to help.
Afterwards, they spent every minute they could together: at the beach, cruising San Bernardino, going to movies. Sandy hadn’t given Rod the time of day until this past month. It was as if she had suddenly realized that because of his appointment to the USAF Academy, Rod was a celebrity in their small California town.…
“Call us, Rod,” his mother whispered. She was nearly as tall as Rod, and they both towered over Hank.
“He’s not allowed to use the phone until after Basic Cadet Training,” Hank said. He turned to Rod. “Write when you can, lad. If you really want to fly as much as you say you do, then never forget why you came. It’s going to be tough, but remember the things that mean the most are the hardest to come by. You’ll have to live day-by-day. BCT is only two months long, but it will seem forever.” He hesitated, then held out his hand.
Rod averted his eyes and tried to ignore the gesture. “I grew up listening to how tough things were at A&M. Remember?” From the way they had fought the last few years it wasn’t right to shake hands as if nothing had ever happened between them.
“Aye, but this will be tougher. The Academy has to prove itself to the nation; especially with its first class of cadets.” He continued to hold out his hand.
Rod picked up the duffle bag and slung his pipe bag over his shoulder. He stood at a nexus, ready to start a new life. He drew in a deep breath.
Hugging his mother, he turned to his father. He hesitated a long moment. He still couldn’t bring himself to act as if nothing had ever happened between them; he couldn’t even believe him, much less respect him.
“I have to go.” Rod turned and made his way across the parking lot.
Young men, teenagers like himself, shuffled in a slowly moving line outside of the two-story Administration building. They spoke in low, nervous tones as if something might happen any moment; the line seemed to crawl toward the in-processing center.
As he joined the line he noticed the reporter who had taken their picture as they entered Lowry interview one of the families; the reporter scribbled furiously on a small pad of paper “—yes, sir, Mr. Delante. I understand. Yes, sir. I’ll make sure Fred’s full name is spelled correctly. You got it, Mr. Delante—”
“Speed out, candidates,” barked a sharp, irritated voice from inside the building.
As the line moved inside, Rod turned and surveyed the parking lot. His parents stood by the car, Hank with one arm around Mary. A memory of Hank standing outside of Rod’s burning home in France swept over him, an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu—the warm smell of garlic and onion, customers laughing quietly, and the security of his parents while he tried to fall asleep … and he felt weak.
Rod had a sudden deep yearning for the open California freeways, driving with Sandy, carefree, laughing. He remembered them parking at Lake Gregory the night before he left. Stars blanketed the sky and the radio played “Only You” by the Platters as she slid into his arms; her hair smelled intoxicating, like a bouquet of fresh summer flowers. They’d talked about their life after he graduated, and how they’d travel the world with him flying fighters. She said she’d wait for him forever, and when they kissed she pressed up against him and he moved his hand under her blouse.…
Torn between wishing he’d shaken Hank’s hand and ignoring him, he stepped inside the wooden Administration building.
And left his old life behind.
***
Chapter Two
“Sixteen Tons”
July 11, 1955
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
I am an American fighting man. I serve in the forces which guard my country and our way of life.…
—from The American Fighting Man’s Code of Conduct
“Next.” The lieutenant sat erect behind a desk and scowled. The creases in the officer’s khakis were impeccably ironed and looked so sharp that Rod thought it might be possible to shave with them.
When Rod didn’t immediately respond, the lieutenant raised his voice. “Speed out, candidate. We don’t have all day. You have an 1100 deadline.”
1100? Rod knew that meant 11:00 a.m. in military jargon, but he had thought the dedication ceremony was at 4:00 p.m. and not at 11:00 a.m. Maybe he should run out the door and let his mother know the time so she wouldn’t miss the ceremony.
“I said, move it, candidate. Are you deaf?”
Rod stepped up to the desk. “No, sir.”
Without looking up the lieutenant said, “State your name.”
Rod stood straight and cleared his throat. “Rod Simone.”
The lieutenant scanned the sheet and frowned. “There’s no Rod Simone here.”
“It may be listed as Jean-Claude Simone. My legal name change to Roderick came through last week.”
The lieutenant made a check mark. “Got it. Stow your stuff in the room on your right. Be sure to get a receipt, then fall in line with your classmates. Stand at attention when you are not moving and do not speak unless you’re spoken to. You have a lot to do today and we can’t afford
to play twenty questions with every candidate. Did you get a good night’s rest?”
Startled by the lieutenant’s rapid-fire question, it took Rod a moment to respond.
“Well? Answer me, candidate.”
“Uh, yes, sir, I did.” The sound of harried voices drifted in from outside.
“Good. I hope you enjoyed it. It will be the last good sleep you’ll get for four years,” the lieutenant said. He rifled through a pile of manila colored tags. “Next time, don’t stutter, and from now on speak in complete, grammatically correct sentences.” Pulling out a tag from the pile, he grabbed string and tied a knot through the red hole on the tag. He looked up before writing on the tag. “Simone, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He put the string and tag around Rod’s neck. “Don’t take this off. We don’t want you to forget who you are. Pick up your bags and get out of here.” He swung his attention to the young man behind him. “Next!”
Rod grabbed his pipes, swung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and moved out of the lieutenant’s presence. His face felt flush from the curt exchange. He’d thought there’d be more camaraderie, more encouragement for being a member of the first class. Maybe the lieutenant hadn’t gotten enough sleep himself.
The storage room across the hall was filled high with suitcases, hang-up bags of clothes, cardboard boxes, and cases of musical instruments. A tech sergeant rose from a metal chair as Rod entered the room. With his head shaved nearly bald, everything about the man looked spotless. He glanced at the tag around Rod’s neck. “Mr. Simone?”
“Yes, sir. Rod Simone.”
“Stow those bagpipes over there, but keep your duffle bag.” The sergeant scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed a carbon copy to Rod. “Here you go. Don’t lose it. You’ll need it to get them back after Basic Cadet Training.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. That’s for the officers. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant smiled and patted him on the arm. “Relax. Now get out of here, son. And good luck. You’re in for one hell of a ride, so enjoy it.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod shouldered his duffle bag and moved to the next room.
He stood at the end of a long hall that was lined with tables. Each table had a hand-painted sign hanging from the ceiling. The first sign said SHOT RECORDS, then BLOOD WORK, IMMUNIZATIONS, WEIGHT, BLOOD PRESSURE, EYE TEST, HEARING, and other signs so far down the hall that Rod couldn’t read.
The hallway bustled with cadet candidates. Some spoke to enlisted men sitting at the tables. Others disappeared into the various rooms behind the tables. It was a gauntlet of medical examinations.
“Next candidate, step up!” Everyone sounded irritated.
Over the next forty-five minutes, Rod was poked, shot, pricked, and examined. Every orifice of his body either peered into or prodded.
“—Turn your head and cough.”
“—Drop your trou, lean over, and grab the table. Grit your teeth, son. This will just take a moment.”
“—Don’t squint, it will only hurt your results on the next test.”
“—Oops! Sorry. Tighten up again. I’ve got to find another vein.”
“—You’ll have to get those wisdom teeth pulled out after basic. We can’t have our pilots get air trapped back there and get a toothache when flying.”
Rod went from station to station, presenting the tag around his neck. Soon, he began to feel like a pinball, being batted from flipper to flipper.
Finally reaching the door at the end of the hall, Rod’s arms and buttocks hurt from all the prodding and shots. As he left, he was assured that once he’d had the boosters then he could be deployed worldwide at any time.
He blinked as he stepped into the bright Colorado sunshine, joining a line that formed outside the door. In contrast to the antiseptic odors in the medical hall the air smelled fresh and incredibly clean.
A small, bright red plane sat on top of a pedestal in the center of the buildings. Rows of long, two story, wooden dorms sprawled at one end of the grassy area on the opposite side of the red plane. Another row of buildings, looking as if they had been built during World War II, lined the other side.
A sergeant stepped up and spoke in a low tone, all business. “Gentlemen, you’re going to march everywhere you go, so listen up. Always start with your left foot. If everyone looks like they’re bouncing except for you, then you’re out of step.”
He walked around the line and corrected the candidates’ postures, pushing in a stomach here, making sure another person’s back was straight. He called out over another group of candidates marching past. “We’ve got a lot to do before 1100, starting with learning how to march. Remember to start with your left foot.” He drew in a breath and bawled, “Flight. Forward, harch.”
The men lurched off across the plaza. Rod felt a swell of pride as they followed the sergeant. Here he was, after all these years, finally here. It didn’t seem real, with the incredibly blue sky, the slight nip of the morning air, and the headiness of being in the first Academy class. This was just about too easy, and if this was all he would have to put up with, then the next four years should be a piece of cake.
They marched up the steps of a squat wooden building. Once inside, they bumped to a stop. A row of barber’s chairs lined the far wall, filled with young men. The black-and-white checkered linoleum floor was strewn with clumps of hair.
A constant buzz of clippers filled the room, stopping only when a barber was finished with his victim. One by one the candidates pushed up from the chair, ran a hand over their bald heads, and stared in horror at the mirror in the back of the room.
Like an assembly line, the candidates entered the barbershop as a diverse group of individuals—high school superstars, junior college standouts, from wealthy and poor families, wearing flat-tops, duck-flips, or long beatnik locks. They all left bald.
“Next!”
Rod dropped his duffle bag and plopped into the chair. He ran a hand through his hair, glad that the mirror was behind him so he wouldn’t see the carnage.
The candidate sitting next to Rod slouched down in his seat and sighed. He spoke in a clipped Boston accent. “Just a little off the side, and a light trim on top, Pierre. I have a hot date tonight after the golf tournament.” He wore yellow pants and a loud green shirt, as if he were trying to draw attention to himself.
Laughter rippled across the room. The candidates looked at each other nervously. Rod half expected an officer to pop into the barbershop and demand that the candidates stop talking.
The candidate from New England closed his eyes. He appeared to be one of the shortest men around, as well as looking as though he carried about twenty extra pounds of girth. “Man, oh, man, daddy-o, this is the life. When do they bring in the manicurist and masseuse?”
Rod squirmed in his seat as the clown chattered on. At first the short candidate was funny, but the longer he prattled the more Rod slumped into his chair, and the more he didn’t want to be next to the guy. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be smart to bring attention to himself.
The barber finished Rod’s hair with two swipes of the clippers. He announced, “Next!” He whipped the apron from around Rod’s neck, and with a crack of the cloth, dumped Rod’s hair on the floor.
Rod stood uncertainly. Turning to the mirror, he saw a stranger, dressed in his clothes but with a ridiculous-looking, untanned white scalp. His head felt like a field of stubble. At least he wouldn’t have to carry around a comb for a while.
The short candidate next to him wailed. “The co-eds at Wellesley are crying today.” Even the barbers started laughing.
Rod quickly picked up his duffle bag and left, eager to get as far away from the clown as he could.
O O O
The sergeants’ tempers grew shorter the closer it got to 11 a.m.
His arms aching from myriad shots, Rod stood outside clothing issue behind one of the largest candidates he had seen. The
guy must have weighed over 200 pounds, yet Rod didn’t see an ounce of fat on him. He was obviously one of the football players that would make up the Academy’s fledgling football team. When the line moved inside the building, the hulk in front of Rod stepped forward, leaving Rod at the front of the line.
Rod stood at the end of yet another long hallway. Doors and long counters were interspersed on either side of the corridor, making the passageway seem like a maze.
An airman waved Rod forward. “Next! Step lively, young man, we’re running short of time.” The airman wasn’t much older than Rod and had a curt, no-nonsense attitude. Two twenty-pound weights sat on the side of the desk, next to a box of pencils.
An old man stood by the airman. He had large ears, a red freckled face, thin hair, and grinned as if he was really enjoying himself. The man’s tie was loose and pulled to the side. A tape measure hung around his neck.
Now familiar with the drill, Rod walked curtly up to the airman and held out the tag hanging from his neck.
The airman lifted the card from around Rod’s neck and wrote something down in his notebook. He motioned Rod to move to the side of the table. “Stand up straight, candidate. If Mr. Mushala doesn’t get your measurements right, you’ll be wearing tight trou for the next four years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”
“Yes, sir. Okay, sure,” Rod said.
“What’s your shoe size?”
“Ten, sir. I mean, just size ten.”
“We’ll see.” The airman pointed to the two barbells lying on the table. “Take off your shoes, grab these weights and step on the shoe scale.”
Rod complied, grunting as he lifted the weights.
The airman squinted down at the scale. “Size 11 and a half. Put down the weights.”
“Hey!” Rod said. “That’s too big.”
“Not when you’re carrying an 80 pound pack. Believe me, your feet are going to flatten out. Now stand up straight.”
