by Doug Beason
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.
Seeing an ATO, Rod slowed to attention, called out, “Good morning, sir!” and continued on his way. With less than five minutes to First Call, and after the experience of being late to the morning formation, he didn’t want to be late again. And with missing breakfast, he couldn’t imagine anything worse that could happen to him.
A voice called out to Rod. “You man, drive over here!”
Rod immediately stopped, causing the line of basic cadets following close behind him to run into each other, like a twenty-car pileup on a narrow mountain road. He stepped out of the line, allowing the basics behind him to continue to the dorm.
It was Lieutenant Ranch, but he looked as though his mind were elsewhere. He returned Rod’s salute. “Mr. Simone. You’re minute caller today. Uniform is gym clothes, USAFA t-shirt, black sneakers, white socks. Get going.”
“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” Popping off a salute, Rod turned and sprinted off, determined to get to the dorm in time.
On the way, he told himself he just had to stop thinking that things wouldn’t get any worse.
O O O
Rod discovered that although the ATOs may have been given the power to withhold food, personal gear, civilian clothes, cards, radios, hi-fi’s, and just about everything under the sun that had not been issued to them, that someone, somewhere up the chain of command, had ordered that the basic’s mail would not be withheld. Just before shower formation, Flight B-2 marched to the admin building and were issued a mailbox at the same location where a hundred years ago they had in-processed and obtained their clothing.
The basics practiced opening and locking the mailboxes several times before Lieutenant Ranch was satisfied they could do it right. “Don’t ever forget your combination,” he said, “you’ll quickly learn this box will be your lifeline home.”
Rod didn’t have any mail, but for the rest of his time as a cadet he’d check the mailbox at least once a day—and sometimes twice.
***
Chapter Eight
“Hard to Get”
July 12, 1955
Air Force Academy Construction Site
Colorado Springs, CO
Mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery.
—John Ruskin, Modern Painters, Vol. IV
Colonel Stoltz held out a hand to help Mary McCluney make the final step up the dirt rise. She wore hiking boots, grey tweed pants, and a green plaid jacket that highlighted her red hair. Wearing a brown corduroy suit and matching fedora, Hank McCluney puffed behind them, slowly but steadily using his cane to negotiate the mule trail and join his wife and the Director of Academy Installations.
They paused for a moment at the crest, surveying the site. The Rampart Range jutted up in front of them, a contrast of colors with green pine, scrub oak, and red soil dotted by the white bark of aspen groves. The deep blue Colorado sky was unbroken except for wisps of cirrus.
“Who would have thought when I was here last year we’d be starting to build it?” Hank said. He turned to Colonel Stoltz. “How long before you begin construction?”
Stoltz lit a cigarette. Shaking out the match, he took a long drag. “With your help, we’ll be on a train that’s not going to slow down for anything, General. Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill was awarded the construction contract last July 23rd, beating out 340 other architectural firms. Their final design was presented on the first of this month, and construction is scheduled to commence upon release of funds by the Congress. That’s why we need you out here as soon as possible.”
Mary spoke quietly, breaking the Colonel’s soliloquy. “I thought Frank Lloyd Wright had derailed that train of yours, Colonel.”
Stoltz reddened. “Wright is a horse’s rear-end, ma’am. If you’ll excuse the expression.”
“I also understand that horse’s rear-end has managed to convince the House Appropriations Committee to withhold nearly a quarter of a
billion dollars from the supplemental appropriations bill, which will not only escalate your cost, but will delay construction. And if you don’t have any money, then what’s the hurry for us to move to Colorado?” Mary smiled sweetly.
Stoltz coughed smoke.
Hank raised his eyebrows. “Good question, Colonel. What’s the rush?”
Stoltz crushed out his cigarette and drew himself up. “You’re right, Mrs. McCluney. The House is going to withhold some money, but our legislative liaison assures us they’re working hard to get the American Institute of Architects to back the Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill design. We believe things are firmly in hand. The reason we need you out here is that we expect the logjam to break any day, and when it does, we’ll be scrambling for help.”
Turning his full attention to Mary McCluney, he said with admiration, “Not too many people would have spotted that flaw in our strategy, ma’am. If your son has half the intelligence you do, he’ll excel at the Academy.”
Hank turned to look out over the mesa that would soon hold the Academy area. To the north and south a series of ridges extended east from the mountains like the fingers on a hand. “My wife did my legislative research when I was on the site commission, Colonel. In some ways, she played a more important role than me.”
“It helps to keep up with my contacts,” Mary said, slipping an arm through her husband’s; she gazed over the vista. “It would be nice to live close to Rod.” She studied Hank’s face. “But Colorado Springs is still quite a drive to Lowry Field.” She turned to Stoltz. “Could we live here, on the Academy grounds? It would be closer to Denver and Lowry than living in Colorado Springs.”
“We won’t be able to house you on the base, ma’am, but there is some undeveloped land just east of here, overlooking the campus.” Colonel Stoltz pointed to the eastern plains. A forest of dark trees covered the hills to the north, and the hint of several canyons wound just south of a ridge. “I think we’d be able to get you a good price if you’d like to build out there. I know it’s out in the sticks, but you’d be close to campus. And when the Academy is finished, you’d have a place that overlooks the cadet area. I don’t think you could get any closer than that.”
Hank nodded. The remoteness didn’t concern him. Compared to the farm he’d grown up on in Tyler, Texas, this was a metropolis. And it would be even more so once the construction started. In addition, it was only 60 miles south of Lowry. It would be a lot easier to spend time with Rod if they lived here. Perhaps he could turn things around with the two of them.
He turned to Mary. “What do you say we think about it?”
She patted his arm. “We already have.” She looked at Colonel Stoltz. “When can you arrange for us to see the land, Colonel?”
“Probably within a week. A local real estate magnate, Mr. Delante, is the developer. He owns a thousand acres east of here in partnership with Jim-Tom Henderson, the owner of Pine Valley airport, and has been very helpful coordinating the construction companies. In fact, he’s made himself indispensable.”
Hank froze, his face emotionless, but inside he boiled. “George Delante?”
Mary frowned. “Is that a good idea, husband?”
Colonel Stoltz looked from Hank to Mary. “Do you know him?”
“Yes. Yes, we do.” Hank thought for a long moment before continuing. George Delante, the reprobate who’d tried to blackmail him with that prostitute in an amateurish attempt to influence where the Academy would be built. Hank had discovered that Delante had amassed thousands of acres south of Colorado Springs, probably thinking he’d make millions selling the land to the government, but the fool hadn’t realized that the southern site was located much too close to Fort Carson and didn’t have enough airspace for flight training the cadets. Delante had probably lost money when that southern site was rejected in favor of the current site, but that wasn’t Hank’s concern; this site northwest of Colorado Springs had the land area and remoteness needed for preparing future generations of Air Force officers.
He should have known that Delante would have inserted himself into the construction phase. Hank didn’t have any hard evidence that Delante had been connected with that blackmailing shenanigan—but there was no doubt in his mind. Nor in Mary’s; at the time she’d demanded that Hank bring up charges, but he didn’t have enough proof.
He should just forget it, not involve himself in Delante’s land business.
But where else could they live that was so close to the site? And where would that leave the Academy if he just walked away? If they really needed a general officer to run interference for them, whom else could they get?
After spending the last decade of his life working so hard to establish the Academy, walking away wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
Hank said carefully, “Colonel, have you told Mr. Delante about asking me to work here?”
Stoltz frowned. “No, sir. May I ask why?”
Mary said curtly, “No concern of yours, Colonel.
Stoltz’s face turned red.
A moment passed and Hank said, “Do us a favor.”
“Yes, sir?” Stoltz said.
“Please keep our name out of this. We’ll have to return to Colorado to see the land, and I’d like to consider several locations. But whatever we decide on, we’d prefer to work with Jim-Tom Henderson and do it through a third party. I want to remain anonymous.”
“That’s a very unusual request, sir—”
Mary cut him off. “Those are our terms, Colonel.”
Hank said, “If you want us here in Colorado, our purchase will go through a third party, working with Jim-Tom, not Delante. Our name will not be mentioned. Understand?”
Colonel Stoltz looked from Hank to Mary. Neither one said anything.
Stoltz shrugged. “Very well, sir, ma’am. I’ll do as you say.”
***
Chapter Nine
“Ain’t That a Shame”
July, 1955
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
CRETIN (n)—That person ill-disposed at doing acts of nominal coordination or acts requiring minimal thought.
—Contrails
Rod lived each day as a lifetime, surviving from minute to minute.
So he wouldn’t waste time dressing and making his bed each morning, he slept in his uniform on top of the covers and woke just before reveille. Before the doors were kicked in, he and Sly scurried around the room, dusting, ferreting out dust bunnies underneath furniture, straightening, cleaning their sink, re-shining their boots, cleaning their rifles, and ensuring a hundred other small details were taken care of, from dusting the top of the door frame to lining up their shoes in the closet.
When the wake-up whistle blast reverberated down the hall, they timed things just right so that when Lieutenant Ranch kicked open their door, it appeared that they were waking up and simultaneously putting on their clothes and making their bed.
Once Lieutenant Ranch had caught them out of rack before reveille; Ranch had ordered the two to disrobe and get under their sheets: “You gentlemen need your sleep!” thus defeating any advantage they had gained by waking up early. That morning they were late to morning formation and had caused all of B Squadron to do squat-thrusts.
They had quickly figured out the strategy: it was impossible to get ready in the allotted time, even working at light speed. So the basics gamed the system by also working after taps, cleaning what they could in the dark, then waking early to complete their chores.
Half the time, after returning from shower formation, an evening meal, or the nightly air power lecture, their room would be destroyed by Captain Justice. Their clothes were thrown from the closet, or their underwear drawer was dumped on their bed: “Haven’t you dumb doolies figured out how to put your clothes in order? Try it again until you get it right!” Or they would find their beds turned upside down, the sheets torn from the mattress, wadded, and kicked into the corner, because the bed wasn’t taut enough t
o bounce a quarter that had been dropped on it. It seemed that for every inch forward Rod managed to crawl, he was drop-kicked back a mile.
And so it went on for eternity; throughout the endless, changeless Colorado summer of freezing cold mornings, unbearable noon heat, rain showers starting precisely at 1400, and chilly, clear skies at sunset, without fail, and without end.
O O O
Staggering into his room, Rod collapsed from holding an infinite brace. Sly entered the room moments later, gasping for breath. The two leaned against the corners of the closet, out of sight from the hallway, not speaking, but eyeing each other as sweat beaded on their forehead and trickled down their face.
Rod’s body screamed for him to lie down, to get some rest—but that violated a rule so sacrosanct that it stood just below the holy “only five responses.”
Sitting down was nearly as bad of a sin. Rod couldn’t move the chair far enough out of sight from the hallway as to not draw any attention.
“What next?” Sly whispered.
Rod shook his head dully. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to know.” Times like these, when they had a few minutes respite, made Rod suspicious. Captain Justice must have been dreaming up something especially sinister for the ATOs to be so quiet.
A whistle blew in the hallway. “All right, you dumb wads! You’ve got two minutes to get outside to the assembly area for a uniform formation.”
Sly frowned and mouthed, “What’s that?”
The answer came instantly. “Uniform is flight suit, shower clogs, and raincoat!”
Rod and Sly scrambled to pull the unusual combination of uniform parts out of their closet. Rod hopped on one leg, pulling on his “bunny suit,” as they called their unusual-colored powder-blue flight suit. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Sly moaned. “Justice must have hit the Officer’s Club bar during the break. He can’t mean it. This doesn’t make any sense.”
Rod shrugged on his raincoat, then shower clogs. “It doesn’t have to make sense. All we have to do is not wear the correct uniform, or worse, be late, and they’ll fry us.”
