by Doug Beason
“Pampered?” Rod said. He turned away from the window. The DV Quarters had two leather chairs, an overstuffed couch, floor lamps, paintings on the wall of bombers dropping a cluster of bombs over a city at night, flowered wallpaper, two separate bedrooms, a dining room area with polished wood table and chairs, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. There were even small bottles of liquor arranged on the top of the refrigerator. It put the Academy to shame. “Now this is being pampered!”
“They do treat general officers well,” Hank said. “Even retired ones.”
“I’ll say. This doesn’t look like my dorm room.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad. What I meant is the pampering you’re getting now. How many officers have the Wing Commander greet them when they arrive on base?”
Rod hesitated. “Not too many, I guess.”
“You’re right. So enjoy it while you can.” He pointed with his cane. “I guarantee that once you pin on those second lieutenant bars, you’ll be starting at the bottom rung of the ladder.”
Rod was not encouraged by the bleak future. “Gee, thanks.”
Hank struggled to his feet. “You have a half hour to get ready for the Officer’s Club. Do you want to take a shower?”
Rod felt his heart beat hard against his chest. He had too many bad memories of his father’s myopic views. Too many times of telling him what to do. He felt a sick knot in his stomach. He didn’t want to put up with his unbending observations, his one-sided views trumpeting SAC, and the scorn he was sure to heap upon Fred. No, he didn’t want to put up with it, nor did he have to. He wasn’t a doolie anymore. He’d been taught to never back down, and he knew the right thing to do: don’t compromise his ethics. And pretending to get along with his dad would just make him a hypocrite.
Rod bent over and picked up his bags. He said forcefully, “I’ll stay with my classmates.” He turned and left.
O O O
“Gentlemen, to the President of the United States.”
Chairs screeched against the wood floor as cadets and officers pushed away from the table. Rod raised his glass and joined in the toast. “To the President!”
He sipped the grape juice and sat back down, his father on one side of him and Fred and Sly on the other. Colonel Speedy Beaumont sat next to his father, and both wore the formal mess dress uniform that served as the military equivalent of a tuxedo. In contrast to their formal wear, the Colonels sitting next to the Wing Commander all wore green flight suits, looking as if they had just stepped off planes at the flight-line. As Rod looked around the room, he was aware that there was more rank present at this Dining-In than there was at the entire Academy.
Colonel Beaumont tapped a knife on his crystal goblet and stood. As the room grew quiet, he paused for such a long time that Rod thought he had forgotten what he wanted to say; when he spoke, his voice nearly cracked. “Gentlemen … airmen share a bond that transcends military or civilian professions. We celebrate our common victories, and we mourn each other’s grief. This afternoon I was notified of a horrific collision over the Grand Canyon between a United Airlines DC-7 and a TWA L-1049 Super Constellation that killed all 128 souls on board. Please join me in a moment of silence.”
The room grew somber and no one spoke. Rod looked around and saw that most of the pilots stared into their plates; he wondered if they were thinking that one day such a collision might happen to them. He knew air-to-air collisions were rare, but the thought of so many people dying so quickly was tough to comprehend.
After two minutes of silence, the group started an assortment of toasts, the last being to Major General McCluney, USAF, retired; afterward the meal was served.
Waitresses slid their food onto the tables, quickly serving the room of over a hundred. Thick steaks covered their plates, along with heaping mounds of mashed potatoes, peas, carrots, gravy, and sautéed mushrooms.
The Colonel next to Sly boomed out, “Go ahead and eat! What are you waiting for?” He slapped Sly on the back. “And relax, son, this is the real Air Force!”
Sly’s shoulders slumped a little, but he still sat a fist’s distance from the back of his chair. “Yes, sir.” He sounded unconvinced, as if he were scared that the officers might start correcting him as the ATOs had done over the past year.
Colonel Beaumont put down his fork. “How was your tour today, Rod?”
“Fantastic, sir,” Rod said. “And after doolie year, it’s great not getting yelled at.”
They answered questions from around the table, and it was soon apparent that the officers considered the Academy “their” school, even though it had existed for less than a year and none of them had been closer than a hundred miles from the site.
Chimes rang from the back of the room, and a second lieutenant, the president of the mess, stood and announced, “Gentlemen, the smoking lamp is lit.” Cigar smoke filled the room, rising to the ceiling.
Fred toyed with his dessert, then put down his fork and looked around the table. “Sir, Minot seems pretty barren. What do junior officers do around here for fun?”
The Colonel sitting next to Sly roared and once again slapped Sly on the back. Sly gave a painful grin. “Now that’s getting straight to the point, young man.” He turned around in his chair and pointed his cigar at a waitress. She busily poured coffee, refilled water glasses, and took away plates. “See any male waiters?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s because the women up here know that there are so many eligible young officers they drive for miles so they can meet an educated bachelor. You’ll find farm girls, ranch girls, girls from Minot, you name it. On Friday and Saturday nights the Officer’s Club is packed with nice young ladies who drive in just for the weekend.”
Colonel Speedy Beaumont cleared his throat. “There’s also great fishing, hiking, and camping, if you like the outdoors. I don’t want to leave you young gentlemen with the impression that chasing women is the only extracurricular activity we have at Minot.”
“That’s not true!” the flight-suited Colonel insisted, “And it sure the hell is a lot more fun. Let me show you.” He held up a hand high in the air. “Excuse me, miss?”
Picking up two coffee pots, the young waitress sashayed over. “Yes, sir?” Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had a lithe figure that seemed to move twenty directions at once. Freckles made her look cute, and she was probably just under 20.
“Young lady, I’d like you to meet three Air Force Academy cadets.” The Colonel in the flight suit pointed his cigar at the cadets. “These are America’s finest, and future SAC pilots. Introduce yourselves, men.”
Rod and Sly mumbled a greeting.
Fred stood. “How do you do, ma’am? I’m Cadet Third class Fred Delante. Pleased to meet you.” He extended a hand as she put down one of her coffee pots.
“Gosh! You’re Air Academy cadets? That one in Colorado?”
“In the flesh,” Fred smiled, still holding her hand.
“I’ve read about it in the paper. It must be exciting.”
“It is. Perhaps we can talk later.”
“Yes. Yes, we can.” She nodded to Sly and Rod. “Nice to meet you cadets.” She picked up her pots and hurried away. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.
Sly gave Fred a wink. Rod laughed and looked around the table. He noticed that his father smiled tightly. His stomach tightened, wondering what the old man might say.
“See what I mean?” the Colonel said, picking up his cigar. He blew a puff of smoke. “If you’re looking for a loyal, decent woman, we SAC pilots have the market cornered. These young ladies know you have a good future and they won’t settle for second best. They’re the cream of the crop. Good, solid farm girls. Find someone like that in a city!”
Fred started to speak when a klaxon blared, sounding out a loud alarm. Instantly the officers dressed in flight suits pushed back from their tables and started rushing for the door.
Chairs toppled. Napkins slid to the floor. Utensils cla
ttered.
Stuffing his cigar in his mouth, the Colonel grinned at the cadets before following the rest of his officers who were running from the dining room. “Good hunting, men. Remember this when it comes time to pick your aircraft. Bombers are the only planes that matter, and SAC’s the only reason the Air Force exists.” He bolted from the room.
Colonel Beaumont stood and put his hands on the table. The walkie-talkie next to his plate squawked. Speedy raised his voice over the static. “General McCluney, this is an alert. Would you and the cadets care to join me at the flight-line while the birds rotate?”
“Aye. I was hoping this would happen, Speedy,” Hank said. He pushed up from the table and balanced on his cane. “You didn’t arrange this just for us, did you?”
Colonel Beaumont looked shocked. “I wish I could, General, but this is a different Air Force from when you were on active duty; even we Wing Kings don’t have that much power anymore. This probably came from General LeMay himself. But on the other hand, since the general knew the cadets were here, I wouldn’t put it past him to show off an airpower demonstration.”
The second lieutenant who had served as the President of the Mess jogged up, his one medal jingling from his formal jacket. “Sir, what should we do with the cadets?”
Colonel Speedy Beaumont nodded to the Protocol officer who had strode up to join them. “Pile them in the busses. Let them experience what it’s like to have America’s nuclear bomber fleet fly overhead.” He pointed at Rod, Sly, and Fred. “I’ll take General McCluney and these three cadets in my staff car.
“This way, General, cadets.” Sweeping up his walkie-talkie, he sped out the door.
Colonel Beaumont’s staff car was running when they arrived at the front of the Officer’s Club. The blue sedan had a Colonel’s emblem as the front license plate, a silver eagle with spread wings. Hank McCluney eased in the front seat as Rod, Sly, and Fred squeezed in the back. As soon as General McCluney was in the car, Colonel Beaumont squealed off. The other cadets streamed from the Club into the waiting buses.
The walkie-talkie squawked as a continuous cacophony of voices spoke back and forth, verifying runway and tarmac availabilities, confirming frequency codes, and coordinating engine run-ups. In the car, no one spoke as they peeled around buildings.
Colonel Beaumont slowed as a guard carrying a rifle stepped out into the road. The air policeman was not much older than the cadets in the car; he leveled his rifle at the car.
Beaumont eased to a stop. He rolled down his window.
Another air policeman stepped up to the car and saluted when he saw the Wing Commander. “Good evening, sir. Can you vouch for your party?”
“General McCluney and three Academy cadets. Two busloads of additional cadets will be joining us at the end of the runway.”
“Thank you, sir.” He stepped back, saluted, and waved them past. His fellow airman shouldered his rifle and stepped out of the road.
Colonel Beaumont drove around the runway and pointed to the planes that crawled to the far end of the long asphalt strip. The B-47 bombers looked as crouching giants, their red lights at the tip of the wings bouncing as the planes lumbered across the tarmac.
Smoke belched out of their engines. The wing tanks were so heavy with fuel that the ends of the wings drooped nearly to the runway. One after another, the jets lumbered into line. A thundering, growling noise from the engines rolled across the prairie, washing over them and enveloping them in a high-pitched white roar.
The lead plane started rolling down the runway. It slowly built up speed as it lumbered forward. Faster and faster it came toward them. Engines screaming, the plane reached the end of the asphalt before it inched off the ground.
Standing at the end of the runway, Colonel Beaumont stood with his hands on his hips, his hat cocked to one side of his head. A wild grin was plastered on his face as the plane crawled into the air, thundering not more than twenty feet above them. They were so close to the plane that they saw the treads on the black tires.
Rod put his fingers in his ears. The roar made the ground vibrate and his gut shake. He felt wind whip past. The smell of kerosene filled his nostrils. Looking up at the underbelly of the giant jet, Rod saw that the bottom was painted black. He remembered one of the Colonels at the table earlier in the evening explaining that the B-47s flew so high that the bottoms were painted black to camouflage it in the sky.
Another plane screamed down the end of the runway and lifted off. It swayed from side to side as it hit the vortices from the first plane. Looking like a crab moving sideways, the bomber followed its leader into the air.
Plane after plane roared over in their minimum interval takeoffs. It seemed as if they were on each other’s tail.
Colonel Beaumont looked at his watch and shouted to Hank McCluney over the noise, “They’re taking off 17 seconds apart.”
“That’s fantastic,” Hank yelled over the din.
“It’s not good enough! General LeMay wants it down to fifteen.”
Within minutes, the twenty-four bombers that made up Colonel Beaumont’s Wing were in the air. A line of tankers revved their engines at the end of the runway, preparing to loft and refuel the thirsty B-47s as they flew to their failsafe position.
Hank hobbled over to Rod. He tried to put his arm around his son, but Rod twisted away. Not chagrined, Hank’s eyes followed the distant flock of bombers climbing high over the North Dakota horizon. “This is why you make the sacrifice, son. Flying those bombers is the greatest feeling on earth.”
Rod looked at Colonel Beaumont. Like his father, the Colonel followed the war planes for as long as he could, mesmerized by the thundering power.
As he watched the two officers, it occurred to Rod that they were in love—not with the planes, nor with the Spartan-like facilities on the base, nor even with the prestige they received from being senior officers; rather, they were in love with the mission and with the men and women who made it possible.
Rod shuddered, wondering if they were also more in love with the past than the future.
***
Chapter Sixteen
“Why Do Fools Fall in Love”
July 1956
Travis Air Force Base, California
Suffering is the true cement of love.
—Paul Sabatier
Rod quickly learned that a Protocol officer could be his best friend.
Besides paying attention to the seemingly annoying and petty details of who sits next to whom at a formal dinner, or on what side should a subordinate be when walking next to a superior, the Protocol officers that met each plane during their whirlwind summer tour of bases proved that they could help in practical matters as well.
The Travis AFB Protocol officer in Northern California was no exception.
It was their last free weekend before they would fly back to meet the new doolies of the Class of 1960 and start the academic year. In addition to setting up a mixer last night with the local colleges and inviting a bevy of local beauties to the dance, this morning the Protocol officer procured a bus so the cadets could tour San Francisco.
The cadets played grab-ass as they boarded the bus. It was early morning—early for everyone except for the cadets who were used to getting up at 0530 and devouring a stomach full of steak, eggs, waffles, hot syrup, bacon, orange juice, and milk.
Rod folded his blue USAFA blazer in the rack above the seat. He secretly hoped that Sandy would have come in from Berkeley last night, but he knew he wouldn’t have been able to handle her dancing with anyone else. It was over, and it was for the best.
Fred slipped in and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I want to see Alcatraz.”
“What for?” Rod said, turning to stand by the window. They were near the front and had a great view out the massive bus window. “You already live in a prison no one can escape from.”
“Yuk, yuk, yuk.” Fred shook the seat in front of him. “It’s the girls, Rod. The chicks! Didn’t you see those college
coeds get all starry eyed last night when we said we were going to San Francisco? Any detail we said about the city on the Bay, and bang,” he slapped his hands together, “instant sophistication.” He fingered his Academy tie. “Combine that with a uniform, and the girls will buy it every time.”
Rod snorted. “Just like those at Minot. They were starry-eyed because you put them to sleep.” He stood. “By the way, you’re getting a little too close with the honor code when you start concocting those ‘There I was at twenty thousand feet’ stories.”
“I did do a roll in a T-33 at twenty thousand feet.”
Still standing, Rod squinted down the bus. “Not with an engine flamed out.”
“The pilot had to restart the engine. That’s the truth. Hey,” Fred said, seeming to notice Rod standing for the first time. “What’s the matter?”
Rod spotted George Sanders, Sly’s roommate. “Hey, George. Where’s Sly? I didn’t see him this morning.” A self-professed cowboy from Fort Worth, George never seemed to get excited about anything.
“Slept in,” George said. He had a fistful of dollar bills that he was folding into animals—a horse’s head, a diamond back rattler, a falcon. “I figure he got the phone number of some sweet young thing he met at the mixer last night. He said she’s driving in to see him today.”
“Sly?” Now that was news.
“Yup. At least that was what he mumbled last night. I tried to wake him this morning but he shoved me away. I think he wanted to get in a few rounds of golf before he met her. You know those big city boys.”
“Good for him,” Rod said, sitting. He clapped Fred on the shoulder. “Hey, thanks for inviting me to stay with your dad tonight in the city. Sure he won’t mind driving us back to Travis tomorrow?”
Fred waved him off. “It will give him something to do. He had to stay out here anyway over the weekend, so things worked out well. Just like with your father. Too bad he had to leave the next morning after we got to Minot.”
“Yeah, but staying in San Francisco tonight is a great way to finish summer training.” Rod knew that his father didn’t care for Mr. Delante, but Hank had not shown any animosity toward Fred. So whatever had happened between the older Delante and Hank was water under the bridge as far as Rod was concerned. He was just happy to be able to visit with Fred and his dad in the city, rather than return to Travis with the rest of the cadets to sleep in the VOQ.
