by Doug Beason
As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t imagine having a busier day. For a fleeting second he wondered how they were going to wake up in the morning. They hadn’t been told what time they were expected to get up, and alarm clocks weren’t part of the equipment handed out to them.
His thoughts drifted to Sandy. He wondered what she had done today and if she was thinking of him, half a continent away. But unlike him, she probably had a normal, uneventful summer day, one just like every other, and one that she would never think of again.…
***
Chapter Six
“That’s All I Want From You”
July 11, 1955
Red Rocks Amphitheater
Denver, Colorado
Change is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better.
—Richard Hooker, English Dictionary, Preface
At the end of the evening the Boy Scouts returned to the stage for the closing ceremony. They continued their chants, their feather headbands bright and full. Bells jangled from their wrists and ankles. Their bright yellow and red blankets wavered in the spotlight.
Hank started to speak to Mary when someone tapped at his shoulder.
“Excuse me, General McCluney?”
He turned and saw an Air Force Colonel crouching next to him. “Yes?”
“Excuse me for bothering you, General. I’m Colonel Al Stoltz, Director of the Air Force Academy Construction Agency.”
“How do you do, Colonel. This is my wife, Mary.”
After exchanging handshakes, the Colonel continued to crouch and spoke in a low voice, obviously trying not to disturb the other guests around them. “Sir, would you mind coming with me so I can discuss something?”
Hank lifted the blanket he and Mary had wrapped around themselves and showed the Colonel his missing leg. “Can we stay here? It would be easier if I didn’t have to negotiate these stairs.”
“Is Rod okay?” Mary clutched Hank’s arm.
Colonel Stoltz blinked. “Rod?”
“Our son,” Hank said. “He’s a new basic cadet.”
“No, sir. This isn’t about your son. But congratulations, I’m sure he’s being well taken care of. This is about the Academy.”
“What about the Academy? It seemed fine when we left Lowry a few hours ago.”
“I mean the Colorado Springs site, General. The permanent campus.” Stoltz leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Sorry to catch you now, sir, but I couldn’t get ahold of you earlier and I was told that you would be leaving for Southern California tomorrow morning.”
Hank smiled and patted Mary’s arm. “We were just talking about staying another day or so.”
“That’s great news, General. Then I’d like to invite you and your wife down to the Colorado Springs site tomorrow and show you around.”
“That’s nice of you, but why do you need me to come now? I was on the site selection committee and my job is over.”
Stoltz hesitated. “My agency is assigned to the Chief of Staff for Installations back in the Pentagon, but I’m remotely detached to Colorado Springs, down on North Stone Street. We’re starting construction and we don’t have any flag officers representing the Academy who actually reside in Colorado Springs.”
“General officers are assigned to the Continental Air Defense Command at Ent.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct, but we don’t have any generals at our site representing the Academy’s interest. And that’s the problem. We’re getting distinguished visitors that require the protocol presence of a general to fight spot changes these people want to make to the new campus.”
Hank frowned. “Spot changes?”
“Yes, sir.” Stoltz glanced around, as if he were ensuring that there was no one around who might take offense. He scooted closer and lowered his voice. “For example, last week a political appointee ordered us to build the campus on different mesa than the one approved by the engineers. That would have set construction back a year!”
“Can’t your headquarters help out?”
“Yes, sir, and they did,” Stoltz said, “but only after I dropped everything and finally convinced Washington, D.C.to engage. That problem alone slipped our schedule by over a week. You see, what matters to these political visitors is rank; they want to interact with generals, not colonels. Plus, I can’t fight political battles and still keep to my schedule of opening the campus in 1958.”
“What do you want me to do, Colonel?” Hank felt Mary’s hand tighten around his arm. The crowd started clapping as the Boy Scouts completed their dance. After they left the stage, the western band that had played earlier in the day came out and started a set of foot stomping music; the crowd began to disperse.
Colonel Stoltz shifted his weight. “Sir, would you and Mrs. McCluney drive down and take a tour of the site? We haven’t started construction, but I want both of you to visit the spot the Site Commission picked for your son’s campus. After that I’ll make a proposal.”
“I want to hear your proposal now.” Mary’s voice was firm.
Stoltz set his mouth. “You should really come down to the site, first, ma’am.”
“Tell us the proposal, Colonel, or we’re not going,” Mary said.
The Colonel looked at Hank.
Hank shrugged.
Mary said, “What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like your husband to represent the Academy in an emeritus status.”
Mary drew herself up. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning he’d serve as our ambassador to our high-level visitors.” He turned to Hank. “As a retired two-star general, you, sir, have the protocol rank to fully engage these distinguished visitors, allowing me to do my job. With everyone from Senators to reporters showing up, we need some flag-level horsepower to represent the Academy in Colorado Springs.”
Hank nodded, going over the implications in his head. “The Chief doesn’t realize what you’re going through?”
“He’s aware, sir.”
“Isn’t he willing to assign a general officer out here?”
Colonel Stoltz looked pained. “Oh, General Twining understands, sir. The Academy already has a general officer assigned to it—Major General Briggs, the Superintendent, but he’s headquartered at Lowry, 70 miles away. It’s a good two-hour drive to the construction site from there and he can’t do that at the drop of a hat. Also, General Briggs won’t move down to the Springs until the new campus opens. I need a general officer on-site now, not in three years.”
Mary continued to press the Colonel. “This sounds like Hank will have to spend a lot of time in Colorado; he travels too much already. And with Rod gone, I don’t care to spend any more time away from my husband.”
Stoltz’s eyes widened. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me, ma’am. I’m not asking the general to take this on as a part time job—that wouldn’t help. I’m asking him to come to Colorado full-time, for you and him to move out here and set up a permanent residence in Colorado Springs. That’s why I want to show you the site.”
“Leave Southern California?”
“You’d be closer to your son if you do.”
Mary blinked, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
Hank nodded, having anticipated the need for them to move minutes ago. “We’ll see, Colonel. But first we’ll take a look at the site. Both of us.”
***
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 s
lowed 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.
