by Doug Beason
Sly slipped in to join them, just as they were leaving. His eyes red, he looked around to see if anyone followed him in. “Is this nuts or what?”
“Did Ranch tell you what he wants?” Rod said.
“No. Do you think he’s going to take us out and kill us?” Sly said.
Rod shoved him toward the door. “He will if we don’t speed out. Let’s go.”
They joined the rest of their flight standing at attention in their PT gear.
Lieutenant Ranch appeared at the end of the hallway and motioned them to follow. He put a finger on his lips. “Not a word.”
Moving as stealthy as deer, they slipped down the hallway at attention, silently squaring corners until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Lieutenant Ranch gathered them around. “Keep in the shadows. If anyone spots you, scatter and run like hell. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they said.
Rod felt a surge of excitement pulse through his body. The mystery made him feel part of a team.
Crouching down, they ran from building to building, keeping to the edge of the shadows and out of the light. Quickly running past the road, they reached the middle of the parade field. Rod felt a shiver run up his arms. The sky was clear and cool. They gathered around a dark mound in the grass. It was a blanket, covering something.
There was no moonlight, and it was difficult seeing Lieutenant Ranch’s face. But the darkness shielded them from being seen from the dorms.
Lieutenant Ranch drew them around; he spoke in a loud whisper. “Men, this has been one hell of a year. I’m proud of every one of you. You’ve handled everything we could throw at you to prepare you for combat, or God-forbid, even survive being a POW. The skills you’ve learned the past ten months will last you the rest of your life.
“Tomorrow you will officially be recognized as graduating from the Fourth class system. Over the next six months you’re going to feel as if you’re floating on air. You’re going to think the next three years will be a snap.
“But it won’t. You’ll be upperclassmen. You’re going to experience different pressures, different stresses, because the hard part comes now. You’ve learned to follow, and now you’re going to learn to lead. You’ve excelled as Fourth classmen, and I’m sure you’re going to excel as upperclassmen.”
Lieutenant Ranch looked at each cadet in the flight. “I’m recognizing you early because I think you’re the best in the Wing. Tomorrow morning you’ll have one last spirit run, one last meal under the Fourth class system. After the parade, the rest of the ATOs will recognize you. But tonight, in my eyes, you’re done. So to celebrate,” he leaned over and whipped back the blanket on the ground, revealing a case of beer, ten bottles of wine, several loaves of French bread, and an assortment of fruit and cheese, “you men deserve to have a little fun—for the first time in nearly a year.”
The flight started to whoop it up, but Lieutenant Ranch shushed them quiet. “Keep it down! If we’re caught I’ll be busted, and you men may never be recognized.”
Fred leaned over and grabbed one of the wine bottles. Lieutenant Ranch flipped him an opener. “Do you know how to use it?”
Fred grinned and deftly uncorked the bottle. “No problem, sir.” He drank directly from the bottle as the rest of the flight crowded around.
Lieutenant Ranch shook hands with every man in the flight, calling them all by their first name. Rod was last. “Congratulations, Rod.”
“Thank you, sir. This seems weird.”
“It won’t take you long to get used to it.”
Rod drank long from the wine bottle. He coughed and wiped his mouth.
Lieutenant Ranch steered him away from the group, stepping back from the stage whispers and giggling that emanated from the flight. “Stay with it, Rod. From what I’ve seen you’re a natural leader. Don’t let the next three years get you down. There will be times you’ll want to throw in the towel, but you’ve got what it takes to excel both here and in my Air Force.”
Rod thought for a moment. “You seem to know what to expect, sir.”
“Attending West Point will do that to you. Keep focused and you’ll do just fine.”
“Yes, sir. And thanks. I … I don’t know how to pay you back.”
Lieutenant Ranch smiled and clasped Rod’s shoulder. “You can’t. So find the guy you’d like to take your place and help him. Pay it forward, not backwards. That’s thanks enough.” He turned to the flight and picked up his own bottle of wine. He raised it up in a toast. “Gentlemen, to the class of ’59.”
“’59!”
O O O
The door was kicked open, the whistle blew, causing Rod’s brain to erupt in a volcano of red pain. The lights in the room flickered on. “Speed out, doolies! You’re already late!”
“Oohh.” Rod groaned as he rolled out of bed. Fred’s feet hit the floor the same moment as his. Bleary eyed, they looked at each other.
“I feel like shit,” Fred moaned.
Stiffly, Rod walked to the closet. “We’ll feel worse if we don’t make First Call.”
“Oohh.”
They dressed and barely made it out the door, half-heartedly slamming up against the wall as they passed ATOs in the hallway on their way to formation.
Captain Justice glared at them. “Your class makes me sick! What’s wrong? You men look like shit. Do I have to cancel recognition? Hell Week’s not over!”
On the morning run before breakfast, three of their classmates fell out, doubled over and vomiting red.
Mitchell Hall was worse.
Ordered by Captain Justice to expedite the food, Sly gulped as he handed over greasy sausage and Spanish omelets. When they came back down, he passed the food to Rod.
Justice yelled, “Mr. Jakes! Take some food! Aren’t you hungry?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Yes, you are. Now eat. I don’t want you fainting on me out on the parade field.”
“Yes, sir.” Sly filled his plate, but sat tight.
“Jakes!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Justice returned to his meal. Seconds later, he looked up. His fork hit his plate as he leaned over the table. “Jakes! Did you understand what I said?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, may I make a statement?” Sly wavered.
“No! Eat, dammit!” Justice glared at Sly. “Eat!”
Sly looked pale. “Yes, sir.” Hands shaking, he brought up his fork and slowly put a piece of Spanish omelet in his mouth. He started to chew, then hacked.
“Jakes, don’t you get sick on me, you maggot!”
Sly gulped.
“Look at me when I talk to you!”
Sly turned, spewing eggs and stale red wine, drenching the AOC.
***
Chapter Fifteen
“Memories are Made of This”
June, 1956
The Summer Before Third class Year
Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota
Go West, young man, and grow up with the country.
—Horace Greeley, US politician and journalist
The C-54 transport turned onto the tarmac after landing on Minot’s long runway. The aircraft vibrated from the massive propeller engines, jarring the cadets inside. They sat on olive-drab webbed troop seats that ran along the inside walls of the huge plane and faced an identical row of seats down the middle.
The cadets were dressed in khakis and had stuffed their hats and personal items underneath the Spartan seats. Duffle bags carrying their clothes for the next three weeks of travel were packed in the rear of the plane, all the way to the ceiling.
A hundred of their classmates flew on the giant transport. No one had given any thought to the idea that if their plane had crashed the first USAF Academy class would have an instant attrition rate of one-third.
As the engines shut down, Rod unbuckled his seat belt and reached underneath his seat to retrieve his gear. Fred sat beside him and Sly across from him.
“Welcome to Minot,” Sly drawled. “Where the women are sparse and the sheep are nervous. Do you think they could have found a more desolate place? Why couldn’t we have drawn Eglin like second group?” Located next to Fort Walton Beach outside of Pensacola, the Florida Air Force base was wildly popular with the cadets.
“Because SAC is for real men, and they didn’t want our first impression of the Air Force to be of wimpy TAC fighter pilots,” Rod said sarcastically as he stood.
The door at the front of the plane rotated out, allowing sunlight to tumble in. The sound of people milling outside the plane came over the sound of the engines.
“Didn’t your dad fly for SAC?” Fred said. He tried to look out the window but couldn’t see much of anything through the thick glass.
“It wasn’t Strategic Air Command back then, it was the Air Corps.”
“Same difference.”
“Don’t say that to a fighter pilot,” Rod said, reaching the door. “You might get in a fist fight.”
Blinking from the sunlight, Rod stepped onto the top of the stairs. The land was flat all the way to the horizon. A crowd of people stood by a hangar, a hundred yards away. Some held up signs: WE LOVE OUR CADETS!
Sly bumped into Rod as he emerged from inside. “Wow.”
Sticking his head outside, Fred joined them. “See any loose women?”
“Any women would be a plus,” Sly said. “It doesn’t look like there’s anybody out there but school kids and old wives.”
“Hey,” one of their classmates yelled from inside the plane. “Get a move on, would you, pal?”
Rod started down the steps. Putting on his wheel cap, he held his head high, proud to be a cadet. Who would have thought, just a few weeks ago with Captain Justice calling them worthless maggots, that this is what the rest of the world thought of them?
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he saluted the Colonel who headed up the receiving line. “Good afternoon, sir. Cadet Third class Simone, reporting.”
The Colonel whipped his hand down. “Simone?”
“Yes, sir. C3C Rod Simone.”
The Colonel grinned. “Well, how do you do, son? You sure have changed. I’m Speedy Beaumont, the Wing Commander. You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, sir,” Rod said, uncertain if that was the correct response.
“I’m an old friend of your dad’s. Welcome to Minot, and enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rod moved down the line of officers. A marching band and cheerleaders from the local high school applauded behind them.
Rod stepped onto a bus at the end of the line.
Fred got on behind him. “They’re not going to let us check out the girls?”
“And get arrested for going after jail bait?” Sly snorted. “Think again, oh over-sexed one. I told you the women were sparse. I bet the only available females for 500 miles around are in high school.”
“Wait until our next stop,” Rod said, settling back into his seat. “Travis is outside of San Francisco. That’s where the real women are. Meanwhile, enjoy the tour.”
Fred scowled as the bus closed its doors. Smoke belched from the back of the blue bus as it started up. They passed one- and two-story wooden buildings and saw white paint peeling from the harsh prairie weather. Crossing his arms, Fred nodded at the bare buildings, the World War II era construction, and the sparse vegetation. “Are all SAC bases like this?”
“Of course,” Rod said. “No women, no scenery. That way there’s no problem concentrating on the job. Flying and fighting. What else is there in life?”
Sly drawled, “If I didn’t know you wanted to be a fighter pilot, I’d believe you.”
O O O
They spent the rest of the day touring the base. They visited flight crews standing alert in the ready rooms, maintenance shops where engines were being repaired, a fuel depot, the flight-line where a squadron of serious faced Air Police stood with rifles guarding B-47 bombers, a security police squadron, a base personnel office, and the special munitions depot where the nuclear bombs were stored. They moved from one stop to another and listened to briefings given by the commander of each unit. After each talk, they went through a receiving line.
Rod started to feel strange about all the attention they were getting. The attention and curiosity came from everyone, from Colonel Speedy Beaumont down to the newest airman on base. One lieutenant colonel seemed almost apologetic when he asked the cadets what planes they wanted to fly when they graduated.
The bus dropped them off at the Visiting Officers Quarters. The VOQ had a WELCOME CADETS! sign out front. The building itself looked like the dorms back at the Academy: a row of white-painted, two-story barracks. The Base Protocol Officer waited for them as they checked in. The officer read from a list and handed the cadets room keys, pairing the cadets up two to a room.
When called, Fred and Sly picked up their duffle bags and headed for their room.
The Protocol officer stood on his tiptoes and raised his voice over the crowd as they left, “Cadets, the bus for dinner at the Officer’s Club leaves in 45 minutes. Please wear your Class A uniforms, and be on time.”
“I’ll call minutes,” Sly said over his shoulder. The cadets broke into laughter.
The Protocol officer blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind, sir,” Sly said. The cadets looked knowingly at each other.
The inside jokes had already started.
Rod stepped up to the officer as the lieutenant folded his sheet of room assignments. “Excuse me, sir. I’m Cadet Simone. You didn’t call my name.”
“There’s a reason for that,” the lieutenant smiled. He tucked the list away and shook Rod’s hand. “Welcome to Minot. If you would follow me.” He walked briskly out of the lobby, down a hallway to the side.
A sign by the hallway entrance read DV Quarters. Distinguished Visitor?
The Protocol officer rapped lightly on an ornate door. “Sir, it’s Cadet Simone.”
“Come in,” a muffled voice replied.
Swinging open the door, the lieutenant stood back and motioned for Rod to enter.
His father, Hank McCluney, rose stiffly from an overstuffed chair. “Hello, lad.”
The protocol officer set Rod’s duffel bag inside the room and left.
Stunned, Rod stood silently at the door. Although his parents were building a home in Colorado Springs, the last time he’d seen his dad was the day Rod had entered basic cadet training. His mother had written all the letters he’d received from them, and when they had spoken on the phone it had only been for a quick “hello.”
It had been nearly a year since they’d seen each other; a year since he’d left and not shaken his father’s hand. He was still torn up inside, uncertain what to do.
Now, standing face to face, Rod remembered his father’s old-fashioned, stubborn views, his black and white morals, his unwavering insistence on flying for SAC, his prejudice of fighters, and worst of all, that night in Washington, D.C. Suddenly, he was the last person on earth Rod wanted to see.
Rod had conquered the Fourth class system; he had endured the hardest year of his life and the nightmares were behind him. He was supposed to be on top of the world, a champion and in total control … yet he felt sick to his stomach.
After an awkward moment Hank motioned for Rod to take a seat. “I flew in from Peterson Field this afternoon. They dispatched a plane to Minot.” He eased into his chair. “It doesn’t hurt to know the Wing Commander; Speedy had been my wingman.” When Rod still didn’t say anything, Hank said, “Colonel Beaumont. Last week when Speedy found out you were coming, he arranged for one of his birds to fly me out.”
Rod stiffened. “You’re not going to go with us on our trip, are you?”
Hank shook his head. “I have to return to the construction site tomorrow. But I couldn’t pass up this chance to see you.” He paused again and they were both aware of the silence.
Rod felt relieved, but at a loss f
or words. What do you say to a person you couldn’t respect? But his father was here, and wish as he may, he was going to have to spend some time with him. After some moments he forced the words. “You’ll … have to meet the guys. Sly’s here, and my roommate, Fred Delante.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Delante? George’s son?”
“That’s right.” Rod couldn’t quite figure out what was going on with his father and the Delante family. Something must have happened in the past, but whatever it was, Hank had kept things to himself. He had to learn to get over it.
“Fred’s a good guy,” Rod said.
“I see.” Then, “I’m sure most of the cadets are a fine bunch.”
“What does that mean?” Rod said, feeling his face grow hot. “They’re all okay. They’re my classmates!” Rod stood, his breath quickened. Who gave him the right to judge Fred and his classmates when he hadn’t even met them? It was a typical reaction from the old man—a “ready, fire, aim” way of dealing with the world.
Hank looked as if he started to retort but he held his tongue. He tapped his cane.
A minute of awkward silence passed before Hank said, “I’m glad that you’re visiting a SAC base. You’ll get a real chance to see why the Air Force is so important to national security. This may look like a godforsaken place, but these people are sacrificing a lot to accomplish the mission. SAC’s the place to be, lad.”
Not answering, Rod walked to the window. The view looked over the prairie. Tall, brown grass made the plain look like an expanse of flat glass. Distant hills broke the horizon, but aside from telephone poles and a dirt road, the forlorn place was deserted.
Rod shivered, imagining a cold, wet winter wind whipping across the desolate landscape, swirling snow into the cockpit of a B-47 as the crews trudged out to fly their missions. “Yeah, it looks like people go through a lot of sacrifices up here.”
Hank mused, “They endure long hours away from home. Imagine the pressure of flying with nuclear weapons, then going home to houses smaller than what your counterparts could buy as a civilian. It’s good that the Academy is taking you around to see Air Force life firsthand. I bet it’s a shock to see reality after being so pampered.”
