by Doug Beason
“Sir, things are going well at my home. Things are not going well in Berkeley, California, with my … my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend. I see.” He was quiet for a moment. “I took you for a Rock, Simone. Do you know what a Rock is?”
Rod decided not to be cute. “No, sir.”
“Figures. That’s not in your Contrails—yet—and is probably the biggest omission ever. A Rock is what all you cadets should be. At West Point a Rock was ‘a superhuman untouched with emotional feelings and unfettered by relations with the opposite sex.’”
He nodded. “I think you have the distinction of receiving the Academy’s first Dear John letter, Simone. Congratulations. This will be news to everyone, who I suspect probably thinks that with all the publicity and prestige surrounding this place, this could never happen.”
Rod remained absolutely still. He wasn’t sure where Lieutenant Ranch was going.
“It’s my duty as an ATO to look after the flight’s health and welfare, and this is something that definitely needs to be looked after. I tell you what. Do you want to keep this letter?”
“No, sir.” But Rod still clutched it tightly.
“Then hand it over. You need to start a tradition here, something that will both make you feel better and force your classmates to support you. And remember, that’s the name of the game—no one can make it through this place alone. We’ve drilled that into your skulls militarily and academically, but you will have to carry it over to the rest of your life, emotionally as well. Give me the letter.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod slowly handed it over.
Lieutenant Ranch leaned forward and picked up a pen from Rod’s desk, then wrote on another sheet of paper. He gave both the letter and the sheet to Rod. “Post these outside your door. I’ll make it a flight policy that a ‘Dear John’ letter and a place for your classmate’s comments may be posted underneath your nameplate. And I’ll encourage your classmates to drive by, read it, and comment on it. Believe me, they’ll be able to think up some appropriate remarks that will make you feel better. And if you ever have the chance to repeat them to this young lady, I guarantee you’ll get her attention.
“You shouldn’t go through this alone, and you won’t. Your classmates are there to help you, and they need to commiserate with you. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s for the best. And one more thing. This young woman doesn’t know what she’s going to miss by dumping you, will she?”
“No, sir.”
“Then carry on, Rock.”
“Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon.”
O O O
Fred tuned smartly into the room and instantly relaxed from walking at attention. “Hey Rod! There’s some more comments written on your letter.”
“There are?”
“Yeah. So many you’ll have to put up another sheet. Did you see the one telling her to take a flying leap at a doorknob?”
Ouch. “Not yet.” Although the letter had been up for a little over a day, his classmates had rallied around him. And it helped; although he still had feelings for her, he was starting to get over it.
Lieutenant Ranch had jumped all over him at the noon meal, as if to see if he’d rebounded; but he’d fended off the officer’s attacks with his recall of Air Force knowledge, and had even managed to eat enough to stop his stomach from growling, so he knew he was clawing back.
Rod turned to Fred. “Thanks. You know, about the only other time I felt this bad was when … when …” he hesitated, then turned back to his homework.
“When what?” Fred said.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” Fred scooted his chair close. “What could be worse than having your girlfriend dump you?”
“Plenty.”
“Such as—”
“I said, plenty!”
“Oh, come on. What’s bugging you?” Fred punched Rod on the arm.
“Stop it.”
“Out with it, Simone! What is it?”
Rod pushed him away. “Okay! Catching my dad with a prostitute in Washington, D.C., that’s what.”
“Wow.” Fred grinned. “What did he say when you caught him? Did he have an excuse?”
“He doesn’t know I saw him.”
Fred started laughing. He picked up his chair and moved it back to his desk. “Then get over it, classmate; he’s a guy, and guys do that all the time.”
Rod turned red. “I don’t believe it. And I certainly didn’t expect it from my father.” Or that reaction from you. “It’s just that I can’t trust him anymore.”
Fred shrugged. “Whatever. But you should hear some of my dad’s stories about the women he meets.” He selected two books from the bookcase. “Come on. Sixth period is in ten minutes. Better get a move on.”
“Right.” Feeling bad about confiding in Fred, Rod pushed back his chair and shrugged on his parka. He grabbed his math book and straightened his desk area before heading for the door. “I think we’re going to have another quiz today in calculus. That Captain Whitney never lets up.”
“Part of the plan, young man. Part of the plan. Beat them into submission, open up their heads, then pour the knowledge in.”
Deep in thought, Rod made his way across campus without being stopped by an ATO. There definitely was an advantage to this bad weather; the officers couldn’t zero in on them as efficiently when there was ice on the ground. As he trudged through the snow he pondered what Fred had said and tried to dismiss it as part of his bravado.
Ground crews, bundled up in jackets and thick gloves, shoveled paths through the slush. A snowplow cleared the assembly area even though the wind covered it just as soon as the plow passed. It seemed as if General Stillman had dictated that just like the Post Office, neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail, nor dark of night shall keep cadets from their appointed duties.
Entering the academic building, Rod stomped snow from his feet. He leaned against the wall as he removed his rubber covers to his shoes. The mirror-like finish on his shoe was slightly marred from the coverings. He hung up his coat and entered the classroom, mentally preparing for a quiz even as he tried to push the recent exchange with Fred out of his mind.
Captain Whitney entered and returned Fred’s salute as the class stood at attention. “We’ll wait until after the quiz to hear our next cadet story. Put up your books and get out a pencil.” He passed out a sheaf of dirty purples—mimeographed sheets of paper written in sharp-smelling purple ink. The stink permeated the room.
As Rod’s sheet hit his desk, Captain Whitney lifted his chin, “I say, Mr. Simone. Did your father work on General Fairchild’s Academy Commission at Air University?”
Rod looked up, startled. “Yes, sir, he did.”
Whitney’s voice grew tight. “Were … you there during the conference?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“I see.” Captain Whitney finished passing out the quiz. Standing before the class, he rubbed his hands together and looked at Rod. Ribbons ran up the side of his khaki jacket. His shoes were impeccably shined. A West Pointer. He was the model officer.
With the exception of not having any pilot wings, Captain Whitney looked as though he had stepped out of an ad for the USAF in the Saturday Evening Post. The cadets had heard that after receiving high-level attention as a fast-burning officer, Captain Whitney had dropped out of pilot training. No one was quite sure if it had been because of inaptitude, or if he had elected to drop out himself. But the rumor was that Whitney had been sent to teach at the Academy as a kind of a booby-prize, and he unmercifully drove the cadets, as though he were somehow making up for his shortcomings.
Rod suddenly felt uncomfortable. Staring at him, the man stood not more than five and a half feet tall. His blonde hair was slicked back in a perfect wave.
Rod shifted his weight in his chair as the rest of the class waited patiently for Captain Whitney to start the quiz.
Again, Whitney lifted his chin
. “I met your father once, Simone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Air University.” He walked around the class and stood behind them. “He and a Professor Clifford Rhoades from Stanford seemed quite amused at my idea of what a real Academy should be. Quite amused indeed. In fact, they shot down all of my suggestions and made me look quite foolish in front of General Fairchild and the rest of the committee. And, yes … I do remember that you were present.” He walked to the front and looked at Rod curiously.
Rod felt his face grow red. “Yes, sir.” Being so young at the time, there were few things that Rod remembered about the trip—except his father tumbling down some stairs and nearly breaking his neck, all because of someone rushing past him and pushing Hank.
Rod frowned as the memory came back. He remembered the culprit was a young officer, blonde and brash. The exchange was tense, and Hank had been furious, the young officer aloof.
He furrowed his brow. Was it Captain Whitney who had shoved his father and caused him to fall? It had been a few years back, but there was something about the Captain’s snobbish attitude that reminded him of that incident.
As Rod studied the officer he had another, sudden feeling that they had met even earlier than that. There had been a general’s aide in England, at the Farnborough Air Show, who had taken charge and helped evacuate the crowds during a horrifying crash. Rod had accompanied his father and mother to the United Kingdom to view the airshow, and although it had been a few years earlier than Air University, could Lieutenant Whitney have been that general’s aide? At the time Rod had been enthralled by the young officer’s quick-thinking actions, which seemed to exude a brash, fighter-pilot “can do” attitude; it had even motivated him to want to go to the Academy.
Rod’s classmates squirmed in their seats. Sly looked over at Rod and winked.
Captain Whitney cleared his throat. “Your father was a major general.”
“Yes, sir,” Rod said slowly.
“That’s an extremely high rank, Mr. Simone. Our Superintendent General Briggs is also a major general. Does your father plan to visit you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure he will visit at the end of our Fourth class year.”
“Yes, that’s right. That’s the first time parents may visit. Well, I hope you are still here, Cadet Simone. It would be a shame if you flunked out before he arrived. I imagine that would be a great disappointment to him. And make you feel very foolish as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Whitney walked around to the front of the class. He held extra copies of the quiz. “I say, quite a shame.”
His heart pounding, Rod watched out of the corner of his eye, not daring to meet the instructor’s eyes.
As Whitney wrote the START and STOP times on the board, Rod noticed that his hands shook.
***
Chapter Fourteen
“It Only Hurts for a Little While”
May, 1956
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
… We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.
—Helen Keller, Atlantic Monthly (May 1890)
Lieutenant Ranch gathered the flight together in his room. Closing the door behind him, he put them at rest. He leaned back against his desk.
Rod felt uncomfortable, unsure of why the ATO had called them together. Although it was early May, winter still lingered, not wanting to give up its grasp.
Lieutenant Ranch looked over the flight before speaking. “In two weeks, gentlemen, you’re going to experience Hell Week. This is the last phase of your Fourth class experience, and you need to be prepared for it, both mentally and physically. BCT is nearly ten months behind you, and you’ve all matured this past academic year. But it’s not over yet. This is the coda at the end of your fourth class year, the culmination of everything you’ve learned since you arrived.”
Sly stood. “Sir, may I ask a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Sir, haven’t we been preparing for this all year?”
“You’re right, in a way. You’re in great physical shape—well, everyone but you, Jakes—and you know your knowledge. But remember how intense BCT was, and how you felt exhausted all the time? Well, Hell Week is that and much more. It’s like a marathon but ten times worse, an endurance test.” He paused for a moment. “If I were you I would study up on my quotes. I’d run and exercise a lot more. And although Fourth classmen aren’t supposed to keep food in their rooms, if I could find a way to bring back something from the meal tables, I’d start stockpiling now. Don’t take this lightly.”
He stood and the doolies followed suit. “That’s all. Good luck, gentlemen. Remember, two weeks.”
As the doolies left Rod followed his classmates down the hallway. He started to go around Sly but his pudgy classmate motioned for Rod to follow him into his room. Once inside they relaxed from walking at attention.
“What gives?” Rod said.
“Here.” Sly pulled out his wallet and handed Rod three bills. “I forgot to pay you back for that money I borrowed at the Cadet Store last week. I want to get my debts in order in case I die during Hell Week.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.” As Rod started to pocket the money he did a double take at the cash. “What in the world?” The three bills were all outlined in red, and George Washington’s face had either glasses, a goatee, or wild-Einstein hair drawn in red with the words “Go Sox” written in a cartoon balloon emanating from Washington’s mouth. He looked at Sly. “What’s this?”
Sly reddened. “Good luck charm. I vowed I’d mark up every bill I ever got until the Red Sox won the pennant. Someday the players will see one of these bills and know their fans are behind them, and hopefully motivate them to win.”
Rod pocketed the money. “Is it working?”
Sly twisted his face. “Not really. Last year they had only 69 wins and 85 losses. It doesn’t look any better this year.”
Rod shook his head. “And people think I’m quirky playing bagpipes.”
O O O
A whistle blew, shattering Rod’s dream.
“Speed out, smacks! You’re already late! If you worthless pieces of meat don’t speed out, we’ll keep you in the Fourth class system for another year! Uniform is fatigues, white gloves under arms. Move!”
Rod jumped out of his bed, groggy, his head pounding. He bumped into Fred as his roommate staggered awake. It took him seconds to remember: Hell week. His inner clock hadn’t woken him.
He scrambled to the closet and started dressing. “What time is it?”
“Three o’clock,” Fred gasped. “They started two and a half hours early.”
The whistle blew again. “First call in two minutes,” Captain Justice screamed. “You cretins better not be late!”
Rod struggled to pull on his boots. He had to pee, but there was no way he was going to be late to the first Hell Week formation; if he was, he’d be doing push-ups for the next three years.
As he left the room an ATO screamed at Rod to recite “Discipline” and start doing squat-thrusts. The ATO ran up to Rod’s classmate and shouted, “Grenade!” The doolie threw himself chest first to the floor.
Other doolies double-timed in place, holding their rifles high over their heads, yelling hoarsely. It was as if Rod had been transported 10 months back in time, all the way to BCT. The worst memories, the nightmares, the screaming, the ATOs shoving their mouths right up into his face, had all come back in a chaotic jumble.
Someone gagged, and the hallway smelled of vomit.
They never made it to First Call. They never even made it to formation, or breakfast.
Or the noon meal.
The screaming, the running up and down and up and down the stairwells holding their rifles high above their heads, didn’t stop. They were constantly in motion, and except for a swig of water and a half bite of dinner that first night, Rod didn’t get a chance to eat—even with the sma
ll stash of crackers, packets of peanut butter and jam, and the fruit he had smuggled out of Mitchell Hall two days before.
The nightmare continued, not letting up until six of his classmates fainted before the noon meal the next day.
Rod never felt so tired in his life. Throughout the past ten months he had kept up his spirits, even through the “Dear John” letter from Sandy. He had attacked each adversity knowing that it would soon be over, and that he would eventually move on to the next phase in his training.
But now, after nearly thirty-six hours straight, without any food and putting out to the max, he was ready to call it quits. Mentally he knew that this would go on for only another five days. But even that seemed infinitely long.
He was incredibly tired. After a full year of putting up with crap, Hell Week was turning out not to be the coda at the end of his training, but rather an attempt to push him out of the Academy. It had to be. It was a conspiracy, engineered by Captain Justice, to boot them all out.
Rod grew angry at the thought.
He focused his thoughts on Captain Justice when he was on the drill field. He imagined cursing the man when he was running down the hallway; in his mind he shrilled at Justice while he was doing the pushups.
Time marched on, and Rod lost track of everything. He lost his foundation, the reason why he had come to the Academy. His lost his anchor. He no longer cared as he only reacted, and fought to keep Captain Justice from winning.
O O O
“Wake up.”
Rod’s eyes flew open at the whisper. Was it reveille already? After six days his inner clock had still not adjusted to Hell Week.
He started to push up, but Lieutenant Ranch stood over him, restraining him.
The room lights were out. Backlit by the hall lights, Lieutenant Ranch put a finger to his lips and mouthed, “Quiet. Get in your PT gear. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Ranch moved over to Fred and gently woke him. Fred’s eyes widened at the sight of the ATO, but he nodded and joined Rod in dressing.
When Lieutenant Ranch left the room, Rod whispered, “What’s going on?”
“Beats me.”
