by Doug Beason
The Captain stood with his hands on his hips before a line of candidates. They quivered at attention, each with a white-gloved officer jamming their faces into the candidates’. The young men’s spines were bowed back so far it looked as though they were auditioning for a limbo contest.
Scowling in front of the two lines, Captain Justice looked upset. His face was bright red; throbbing blue veins protruded out from his head. The officer’s blond hair was cut razor close on the side.
Rod hesitated. To join his classmates would mean certain torture—he could see what they were going through. But to hesitate any longer would only attract the wrath of roving officers who were intent on playing palace guard to the elusive Captain Justice.
Making up his mind, Rod ran at attention to Captain Justice.
“Sir! Simone, Rod, reporting to Captain Justice! Sir!”
Justice blinked and clicked his eyes to gaze down at Rod. It was the only part of his body that moved. “Simone Rod? You sound French; what the hell type of name is that?”
“No sir, I’m American. My name is Rod Simone—”
The man thrust his face into Rod’s. Rod’s back bent.
“Five responses, candidate! Only five responses are allowed by basic cadets. But you’re lucky you are not a basic cadet yet, otherwise you’d be down on the dirt pushing Colorado soil to China. You’ll learn those five responses once you’re privileged enough to become a basic cadet, after you’re sworn in—if you live that long. Until then, candidate, you simply follow orders. Is that understood?”
The entire rapid fire exchange lasted no more than a few seconds.
“Yes, sir!” Rod screamed, unsure if that was one of the five allowed responses.
“Then get into line, Candidate Rod Simone! Move it! Get over there and help your classmates! You’re already late!”
“Yes, sir!” Keeping his arms rigidly to his side, his back bent, his chin in, his eyeballs locked straight ahead, his fingers and toes clinched into tiny tight balls, he sped to the end of the line. He was instantly confronted by a wild-eyed screaming officer who proceeded to find fault with every way he was standing.
Second by second, Rod thought, squinting through the verbal blast. That’s the only way he was going to survive. None of this “day-by-day” crap his dad had counseled him about.
Because at this pace he wouldn’t last more than another few minutes, much less an entire day.
O O O
It might have been ten minutes, or it just as likely could have been an hour, but the screaming suddenly stopped.
Rod’s back sprang forward, like a reed after being bent; he kept as rigid as he could. The fear of bringing attention to himself, of suddenly standing out in the long row of sweating bodies, kept him from relaxing.
As if on some hidden cue, the officers stepped back into a long line, leaving only Captain Justice standing before the candidates.
Rod would never forget the moment, when the thundering, in-your-face screaming ended; he smelled new paint emanating from the boxy World War II-era buildings, mixed with the odor of his sweat-soaked shirt and the freshly trimmed grass; he heard the distant sound of cars. But Rod gave his full concentration to the massive, blond Captain standing in front of them.
Justice put his hands on his hips. “All right, now listen up. You men have twenty days of military customs to learn in the next five hours, so you will pay attention to me and you will obey my orders. Are there any questions?”
Please, please nobody answer. He prayed that the short smart aleck from the barbershop would keep quiet, or it would surely bring a swarm of angry of officers.
Rod’s universe focused on Captain Justice. It was so quiet that Rod could hear the pounding of blood in his ears.
“Good,” Justice said. He paced up and down, keeping his chin lifted just high enough to convey his disdain for the candidates. “You gentlemen are in a position we call a brace: chin in, head back, eyes straight ahead; arms, elbows, and hands to your side; knees together, but not locked. You lock them and I guarantee you will faint in this heat. Keep your back straight, stomach in, shoulders back and down.”
Justice stopped in front of the candidate next to Rod. Frightened that Justice would turn his attention to him, Rod took small breaths and kept his chin rammed into his chest and his spine bowed back as far as he could.
Justice raised his voice. “I will now demonstrate how you turn to the right. Pay attention, and don’t let these directions overwhelm your puny little brains.” Justice executed a flawless right turn, each part of his body appearing to snap smartly into position. “Once you turn, I will give the command to ‘forward march.’ You will accomplish this by stepping out with your left foot. Are there any questions?”
A moment passed when a thin voice, three cadets down, spoke up. “Captain Justice, how do we stop marching?”
As if dam burst open, a flood of officers surrounded the candidate and started screaming at the top of their lungs. Two officers pushed past Rod from behind, causing Rod to stumble forward, but Rod quickly snapped back into a brace.
It took a good two minutes before the riot quelled. Justice’s face was bright red, as if shocked that anyone would actually ask a question.
When the officers retreated Justice looked around. “Any other questions?”
None came.
And they lived a few seconds more.
“Good, let’s give it a try. Candidates, forward, harch.” They lurched forward. “Your other left foot! Can’t you tell your left from your right? Now get in step! Left … to your left … to your left, right, left.” He trotted alongside the formation. “Concentrate, maggots! Get in step!”
Justice put his hands on his hips and shook his head, “Losers! Every one of you is a loser. How did you ever manage to be accepted to the Academy, and in the first class at that? Now keep marching and keep your eyeballs locked in place.”
Hours seemed to pass before the sound of a bugle echoed across the area. Justice immediately turned them and led the formation to a building.
When they stopped, Rod snuck a peek at the sign and saw MITCHELL HALL—
Captain Justice ran up to him and started screaming. “What do you think you’re doing? Taking a tour of Colorado? I am totally disgusted by the gross behavior of you and your classmates. I told you to keep your eyeballs locked straight ahead, and that means do not gaze! What would happen if you were in combat and your wingman started looking around?” Justice thrust his face close to Rod’s; he stood less than an inch away. “You, man. I asked you a question: what would happen?”
“Sir, I don’t know—”
“Do not use contractions in my Air Force, mister! Use complete sentences! I will not allow an uneducated cretin to enter my Air Force, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Answer me! What would you do if your wingman was following you in combat, only inches away at 500 miles an hour and you started gazing around?”
“Sir, I do not know,” Rod stammered, aware from his peripheral vision that several other officers had seen the exchange and were now running up to join the fray.
“You would die, mister candidate! That’s what you would do! You, your wingman, and two multi-million-dollar jets would go down in flames and splatter your puny little body over some foreign land. All because you gazed around. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir!” Rod braced, ready for another onslaught, though not completely convinced why his looking up at a building sign had anything to do with suddenly losing two multi-million-dollar fighter aircraft.
Shaking his head, Captain Justice stepped back and surveyed the candidates.
“You men are pathetic. You can’t stand at attention and you sure as hell can’t march. If it were up to me, I’d have you out here for the rest of the afternoon so I wouldn’t be embarrassed at the dedication ceremony. But the Commandant says you have to eat. Against my better judgment we’re going into Mitchell Hall.”
Rod felt
a sudden pang of hunger in his tight stomach. He hadn’t eaten since five that morning, when he and his dad had sat alone in a corner of the Brown Palace Hotel restaurant. Hank had lectured him on what to expect: They’ll come at you from all sides, lad, trying to break you. But remember, it will be over soon.
He’d thought at the time it couldn’t be that bad—after all, they were the first class of a major new military academy, right? This wasn’t Texas A&M where his adoptive father had attended, who continuously had to prove that were just as good as West Point or Annapolis.…
“Listen up,” Justice said, raising his voice as they marched into the dining hall. “You men have a lot to prove, to me and to the rest of the world. So no gazing, no talking. You will act just like you would when you are outside, except you’ll be sitting at attention. Keep your eyes locked on your plates, keep your mouth shut when you chew, and take no more than seven chews to swallow. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
Mitchell was already half full with cadet candidates, eight to a table, and the noise level was so high it sounded as if a thousand people were in the dining facility.
Justice stopped before a row of empty tables. “Find a seat. Move out.”
The candidates scrambled around to find a chair.
“No, no, no!” Captain Justice ran up to the short, wiry candidate who had recently been dressed in a green shirt and yellow pants; the candidate had taken a seat at the head of the table. “What are you doing? You never sit at the head of the table. That’s only for ATOs and AOCs, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The short candidate wavered. Rod recognized the young man as the smart aleck guy in the barbershop, the one who had given the barber so much grief.
“Are you going to move or what?”
“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to move—”
“No contractions!”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. It won’t happen again, sir, your highness, sir—”
Justice’s face grew so bright red it looked as if he were about to pop. “Don’t you understand English? I said NO CONTRACTIONS! What part of the word no don’t you understand?”
“Sir, I, I—” the candidate sputtered, at a loss for words.
“What’s your name, mister?”
“Jakes, sir. Cadet Candidate Sylvester Winston Jakes.”
“Sylvester?” Justice moaned. “You have got to be kidding me! What kind name is that? Are you sure you’re a cadet candidate, Jakes? With a name like that you belong at Yale or Harvard, not the United States Air Force Academy.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean—”
“Shut up and sit down, all of you.” Justice waved a hand around the table, then motioned for the candidates at the tables on either side of him to sit as well.
A swarm of waiters converged on the table, depositing huge plates of steaming fried chicken, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, green beans, and coleslaw. They sloshed metal pitchers of milk and red juice on the table.
Justice said wearily, “Pass up the food. Officers are served first.”
Sitting at attention, Rod passed the platter of fried chicken to the front of the table. His stomach growled in hunger.
It seemed as if the brawny officer had eyes in the back of his head. During the meal, Captain Justice corrected each candidate for every infraction imaginable: starting to eat before everyone was served, sitting too close to the table, sitting too far from the table, allowing food to drop onto their lap, chewing with their mouth full, taking too big of a bite, not looking at their plate, not sitting with their back straight and their chin tucked in, not asking permission to take another helping … nothing slipped past Captain Justice’s eyes.
Rod didn’t get in more than three mouthfuls before they were called to attention and ordered to leave Mitchell Hall to continue their training. As they left, he tuned out the shouting, and focused on why he’d wanted to be here.…
O O O
Sitting on the hood of his adoptive father’s car outside of March Air Force Base, Rod held a hand to shield the glare from the sun. He squinted; two flashes of silver gleamed in the air. A distant whine grew louder, escalating to an ear-aching shriek.
“What’s that?” Rod said. He pointed to two small swept-wing jet fighters making a tight spiral in the air.
Hank had to shout over the growing noise. “F-100 Super Sabres.”
“I thought March was a bomber base!”
“They’re from TAC’s 479th Fighter Day Wing, America’s first supersonic fighters. But they’re just toys, lad. Toys. The real power of the Air Force is in heavy bombers.”
“Yeah, but look at them!” Rod breathed hard. He jumped off the car, his eyes wide as he followed the nimble jet fighters, turning as they spiraled down. “Aren’t they neat!”
The F-100 fighters screamed overhead as they completed their tight combat landing pattern. Wheels unfolded and locked into place beneath the sleek, silver jets. Rod and Hank put their fingers in their ears to muffle the sound from the jet engines.
Craning their heads around, they watched the fighters fly in tight formation less than a hundred feet above them. Sunlight glinted off their silver paint and the Air Force emblem.
One of the jets suddenly peeled off from the landing pattern, retracted its landing gear, and flipped upside down. Accelerating upwards, a long line of fire erupted from its engine. The blast rolled over the car in an explosion of noise.
Still flying upside down, the fighter zoomed toward the three-story glass control tower sitting at the edge of the runway. Rod saw the people inside suddenly dive for the floor as the fighter jet screamed by, just missing the building. The jet waggled its wings.
“All right!” Rod said. He pumped his arm in the air.
The upside-down jet pulled into a tight turn and flipped upright. Wheels extended from inside its fuselage as it eased onto the runway in a slick, perfect landing.
Rod staggered back, his eyes wide and short of breath. “I want to do that!”
“That dammed showoff could have killed someone,” Hank snapped. Long columns of shimmering, hot air trailed behind the fighters as they taxied across the tarmac. Their engines dopplered down. “They ought to ground him for gross poor judgment.”
“I’d give anything to fly a fighter!”
“What?”
Rod pointed to the small jets just approaching the base operations building. A crowd of people streamed from the control tower and ran toward the jets. “Didn’t you see them turn? Or how fast they flew?”
“No son of mine is going to fly a fighter,” Hank said in a low voice.
Rod lifted his chin. “Why not?”
“Because they’re too dangerous, that’s why. Don’t you remember those people killed at Farnborough? That fighter pilot was a bloody showoff!”
“It wasn’t the pilot’s fault, it was a defective plane!” Rod felt his heart race.
“Fighters have only one engine and if it goes out, the pilot is as good as dead. It’s an unsafe, stupid way to fly. And besides, fighter pilots are arrogant.”
“Why even be a pilot if all you’re going to do is to fly straight and level?” Rod said. “That’s boring! You might as well be a bus driver!”
Hank reddened. “I said, fighters aren’t safe. This discussion is closed.”
Rod balled his fists, standing his ground. “A bomber can’t maneuver like a fighter!”
“And you’ll never fly them if you know what’s good for you!” Hank said. He eased off the hood of the car and used his cane to walk over to the door.
Sliding onto the seat, he engaged the mechanism which allowed him to use his good leg to drive; he started the engine. “Damned fighter pilots think they own the world,” he said. A minute passed and Rod made no effort to get into the car. Hank rapped on the window, “Get in the car, laddie. Now!”
Not replying, Rod started jogging the 15 miles for home, toward San Bernardino.…
O O O
Standing rigidly
at attention outside the barracks, Rod watched Captain Justice out of the corner of his eye as the officer looked over the line of cadet candidates. Justice walked up and down the ranks, tugging at a belt, pulling the rim of a cap low over a candidate’s eyes, tucking in the back of a shirt, ensuring shoulders were pushed back and down, picking lint off their khaki shirts, straightening ties, and most importantly, taking his index finger and pushing their chins as deep into their chests as possible.
In the distance the methodical beat of a bass drum thumped away, keeping time to a military march. The music seemed to come from somewhere around the corner.
In spite of Captain Justice’s comments, Rod thought they looked impressive; they had spent the last two hours falling in, lining up, and falling back out again. The next, and most important, test of their limited training was yet to come: if the candidates could march together, he knew that they wouldn’t be the motherless scum that Captain Justice had somehow thought that they had evolved from.
Looking as if his eyes might bulge from his socket, Captain Justice strutted up and down the line of candidates, inspecting minute details of their uniform. As the sound of a bugle blasted from the speaker horn, Justice shouted, “Bravo Squadron, atten’hut!”
Rod pulled his chin in even tighter. He had thought they had already been at attention, so he didn’t know if Justice’s command was more of a reaction to the bugle, or if the man really thought that the candidates could pull themselves up any straighter.
“Remember that sound, gentlemen,” Justice said as he walked up and down the line. “That’s known as First Call. In five minutes another bugle will announce Assembly, and the Wing will be at attention, waiting further orders. For the next year you gentlemen will be in place before First Call, and no later, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Bravo squadron answered as one.
“The time between First Call and Assembly will be used to ensure that all Basics are present and to correct any gross discrepancies in your appearance. Prior to First Call, you will stand at attention and study your book of Basic Cadet Knowledge. Your mission in life is to memorize this book. You will perfectly recite all quotations and facts. You will be judged by how well you know this knowledge. Attention to detail is a defining attribute of an officer, and you will be motivated as such. Do you understand?”
