The Cadet

by Doug Beason

“Well, get used to it. The toughest part of your training starts today—learning how to lead.” Lieutenant Ranch motioned with his head. “Come on. Drop off your stuff and let’s talk before we eat.”

  Rod hoisted his gear. “I wasn’t going to eat lunch, sir.”

  “Aren’t you hungry? I must not have kicked you off enough tables last year.”

  “I didn’t think I could go to Mitchell Hall until tonight. The OI said we’re supposed to stay away from the basic cadets.” The Operational Instruction was a detailed order of exactly what was expected of cadets during each transition period.

  “And have you starve? We’ll eat on tables at the back, away from the basics.”

  Rod found his nameplate outside a door, C3C SIMONE. Fred’s name was just above it. What looked to be a small flag protruded from the ends of the nameplates.

  Rod swung down his duffle bag and inspected the plate. “What’s this, sir?” He popped up a tiny sign that read AUTHORIZED. He looked quizzically at Lieutenant Ranch.

  “Part of becoming an upperclassman.” Folding his arms, Lieutenant Ranch leaned against the alcove wall.

  “Excuse, me, sir?”

  “You’ll have more freedom as an upperclassman, compared to when you were a doolie. We won’t keep track of you so strictly, but you’ll still only be authorized to be in certain areas. If you are not in your room, by flipping up that sign you’re saying that on your honor you are in an authorized place. Nice and easy.”

  Rod frowned. There was something about this he didn’t like, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “So you’ll use honor to make sure we’re following orders.”

  Lieutenant Ranch’s face froze. “I don’t think so.”

  “Sir, it sounds to me like our honor code will be used to enforce your regulations.”

  “First off, this is a training environment, and we’re accountable for your health and welfare. Second, if you’re in an authorized place, then it won’t be a waste of your time, or ours, trying to ensure you’re safe, or where you’re supposed to be. We’re not using honor to enforce the regs; rather, you’re using your honor code to make life easier for everyone. We’re trusting you when you say you’re authorized.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rod followed the logic, but for some reason it still made him uneasy.

  Lieutenant Ranch opened the door. “Drop off your stuff. I’m getting hungry.”

  Rod picked up his duffle bag and dragged it into the room. It smelled musty and a thin layer of dust was on the desk, the shelves. The room needed to be dusted and cleaned before he could completely unpack, but it felt good to be back in a familiar place. He hauled his bag to the closet and closed the door.

  “I figured that we’d have trouble convincing some of your classmates that the authorized cards are in their best interest. But I never thought you would balk at using them,” Lieutenant Ranch said.

  “I don’t know, sir. I understand your rationale, but it just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Well, think about it. If it still bothers you tonight when we announce it at the squadron meeting, you can bring it up with your Honor Reps. And before I forget, you did so well at flickerball last fall in intramurals that I’ve appointed you to organize your squadron’s team. So start scanning the basics for talent when intramurals start next week.” He clasped Rod’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get across the quad before the basics are done with their meal. You don’t want to be caught going against that flow.”

  O O O

  The Wing returned that night, half of them irritated at having to start academics again, and the other half excited at the prospect of what the new academic year would bring. The hallways bustled with activity as the class of ’59 interacted with the class of ’60 for the first time.

  And as before, Rod adapted.

  The acceptance parade, marching to meals, academics, afternoon drill time, intramurals, and squadron activities all came back as second nature, but instead of being receivers of wrath, Rod and his classmates metamorphosed into givers.

  That night a line of buzz-cut doolies double-timed outside Rod’s door, thumping out an even 120 beats a minute. Hoarse screaming mixed with the sound of bodies being hurled up against the wall.

  Rod leaned over his desk and glanced at the clock. It was another five minutes until Ac Call—Academic Call to Quarters, the time set aside each night as a study period. Supposedly, training was not allowed during Ac Call; not allowed in the sense that if the doolies kept a low profile, then they wouldn’t be hassled and would be allowed to study.

  Opening the top drawer in his desk, Rod noticed the change he’d stashed in the coin holder was gone. He frowned. That’s weird. He thought he’d carefully placed a handful of coins in the holder after returning from the Cadet Store yesterday.

  He pulled the drawer all the way out and saw several coins scattered at the back. That had never happened before. He must have knocked the coin holder over when he’d shoved Barbara’s picture in the drawer while preparing for the inspection this morning.

  He scooped up the money and started to put it back in place when Fred’s voice came from outside the room. “Hey, Rod, watch this!”

  Rod closed the drawer and placed Barbara’s picture on the corner of the desk. He’d received it in the mail three days ago, along with the second letter she’d sent.

  The photo had made him weak in the knees as it brought back an incredible rush of memories. He’d thought of Barbara often, and her image was almost too much to take, her long blond hair, the intense ice-blue eyes that seemed to bore into him. It was strange, since he hadn’t even kissed her.

  It wasn’t like his experience with Sandy, when the first time they’d driven into the park she’d let him touch her breasts. For some reason it wasn’t the physical memory of Barbara that made him giddy; it was being around someone so focused on him—

  “Rod, get out here!” Pushing back his chair, Rod walked to the door and poked his head outside the dorm room.

  Wearing a wheel cap crushed so low over his eyes that he couldn’t see, a doolie staggered up and down the hall, bouncing off his double-timing classmates like a ball in a pinball game. “Excuse me, sir! Excuse me, gentlemen!” the doolie screamed. He changed direction every time he hit someone.

  “Move it, Browne!” Fred yelled. He ran up and shouted into the doolie’s ear. “How does it feel not to have any peripheral vision?”

  “No excuse, sir!” Browne stumbled away.

  Fred hooked a thumb at the doolie and sauntered up to Rod. “Mr. Browne thinks he can gaze around the hallway. This little demonstration is showing his class what would happen if he depended on sound alone and not sight.” He turned his attention to the double-timing doolies. “Get those knees higher! You smacks make me sick!” Fred grinned at Rod and gave him a thumbs up.

  Rod shook his head and ducked back in the room. Fred really seemed to be getting into the training. It wasn’t clear to Rod how not letting Browne see, and smashing into his classmates, would help him use his peripheral vision. Maybe Browne would be more careful about gazing around next time.

  The sound of a bugle playing Ac Call drifted through the dorm.

  Fred yelled, “Get back to your rooms and start studying, smacks!”

  Feet pounding made the floor vibrate as the doolies ran for their rooms. It sounded like an army running for cover.

  Fred burst into the room, grinning wildly. “Man, what a blast.” He was out of breath, as if it had been he who had been exercising instead of the doolies. He flopped down on his chair. “Hey, did you hear the buzz about the Suez!”

  Rod glanced up from his studies. “Yeah, Egypt nationalized the canal and Israel invaded. Scary stuff.”

  Fred sat forward in his chair. “It gets better. Great Britain and France threatened to join the fray, and the word’s going round that if the US gets involved, West Point and Annapolis will commission all their upperclassmen to swell up the officer ranks, just like they did in WWII. We could be second
lieutenants going to war in a few weeks!”

  “Fat chance.” Rod returned to his physics text.

  Fred rocked back in his chair. “Man, between that and yelling at the doolies I love being an upperclassman!”

  Rod was having a tough time trying to understand how to calculate the speed of a block sliding down an inclined plane, much less appreciating how that would help him fly a jet. He tried reading, but with Fred in the room he couldn’t concentrate; he slammed his book shut and twisted in his chair.

  He studied Fred for a moment. “You make me wonder about Captain Justice.”

  Fred blinked. “What?”

  “Captain Justice. Remember, how we always suspected he was really having fun, even though he insisted it was harder on him than it was for us?” Rod nodded to the door, where they heard the sounds of doolies still scrambling around the corridor. “You’re getting caught up in this.”

  Fred snorted. “Just doing my part.” He snatched up a towel.

  “Maybe you should apply to be an AOC when you graduate.”

  “Maybe you ought to start training the doolies.”

  “I do. I just don’t go overboard. Try studying. Academics are rolling ahead.”

  Fred stopped and looked at him in astonishment. Glancing at Rod’s desk, he spotted Barbara’s photo. His face melted into a grin. “Academics, or thinking about Miss San Francisco again?” He unfolded his towel and whipped it out, hitting Rod’s chair with a snap. “Remember what happened the last time you had a long distance relationship, roomie. They’ll all use you when you’re in town, then rip out your heart and stomp on it after you’ve gone. Be careful with that blonde bombshell.”

  Rod felt his face turn warm. “We’ll see.”

  Fred laughed. “That’s right, you’ll see. Just like before. I don’t want to have to mop up the blood when she stabs you in the heart.” He started for the door, then turned back. “Come to the cattle call this weekend and take advantage of the girls they’re shipping in. It will get your mind off of Leslie.”

  “Barbara.”

  Fred shrugged. “Whatever. Leslie must have been one of the chicks I was with that night.”

  Rod watched him leave the room and just shook his head, bewildered.

  O O O

  “Hey,” Rod protested. “Watch the toes!”

  Sly stepped back and dropped Rod’s hand. “If you’d move your feet when you were supposed to you hairy lunk, I wouldn’t have stepped on your feet.”

  “I’m leading, not you,” Rod said. Strains of Perry Como crooning “Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes” echoed through the gym. “You’re supposed to move where I take you.”

  “Hey, fellows,” Fred said over his shoulder as he and Jeff Goldstein glided past. They moved so fluidly they looked like dance instructors, the kind that would sign you up for a hundred years of dance lessons that you would never use. “How are you going to be the hit of the ball if you can’t get started?”

  “Show off,” Rod muttered.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Mrs. McComas clapped her hands. Standing daintily in the center of the gym, the Cadet Wing Hostess waited for the cadets to stop dancing. The airman at the record player leaned over and picked up the player arm.

  The music stopped and all attention moved to Mrs. McComas. “Thank you,” she said, a touch of exasperation in her voice.

  This was the squadron’s third dance class, and the fourth total she had given today. Although she held her composure, she reminded Rod of the patient expression that his elementary teacher had acquired after dealing with a classroom of first graders all day.

  Mrs. McComas folded her gloved hands and turned from side to side, addressing the cadets. “This Saturday, the young women will not be impressed if you turn your attention away from them and chat with your classmates. You have all week to talk with your friends. During the dance, your entire attention should be focused on the young lady with whom you are speaking. Refrain from engaging in conversation across the room, or letting your focus wander. This applies not only to your classmates, but to other young ladies as well.”

  Fred leaned over and said in a stage whisper, “Watch out. She’s trying to limit us to one chick per guy.”

  “Are there any questions?”

  “No, ma’am,” the squadron answered as one.

  “Airman Bristol,” she motioned with an outstretched arm, “The music please.” Once again Perry Como filled the gymnasium. She raised her arm in the air. “Now cadets, please pay attention to your steps. Be smooth. Allow your partner to anticipate your movements.” She fluidly waved a hand, motioning them to continue.

  Rod and Sly awkwardly approached each other. As Rod slipped a hand around Sly’s ample waist, Sly growled, “Not any lower, buster. And watch the toes.”

  Within seconds the gym floor was filled with cadets ballroom dancing the best they could around Mrs. McComas’ watchful eye.

  In less than three days, busloads of young women, recruited by the legions of Air Force emissaries sent throughout Colorado, would descend upon the Academy. Fresh-faced, eager coeds from Colorado Women’s College, Loretto Heights, Colorado College, the University of Colorado, Colorado State, Colorado State College of Education, and Western State would be bussed to the dance as part of the Academy’s outreach program.

  A dual-outcome event, the dance was publicized as a way for the public to get to know the cadets in a chaperoned environment. It also introduced the cadets to Coloradoans with the opportunity to network into the better parts of the community, instead of relying on the more traditional, unsanctioned ways to meet young women … such as in bars.

  The majority of cadets viewed the upcoming dance as a great way to make arrangements for future, less-structured dating.

  The more cynical cadets recalled their history lessons from World War II, when the Japanese military was also involved in ensuring their troops met local woman, but in that extreme case, during the occupation of mainland Asia, they had forced sex camps.

  O O O

  Returning from Friday’s evening meal the night before the dance, Rod flashed a “two” sign at a doolie. Rod had had enough training for tonight, and he had plenty to do over the next 24 hours: a Saturday morning run with the squadron doolies before breakfast, marching to the morning meal, conduct a SAMI, or Saturday Morning Inspection, attend military training classes after that, then tackle homework in EE, physics, and history, all before getting ready for the dance.

  He shrugged off his jacket as he opened his dorm room door. His books from afternoon classes still sat on his desk. He was lucky that Captain Justice had not taken time during the evening meal to pop a surprise inspection on them; otherwise, he’d be marching off demerits for a month.

  He took care to hang up his jacket, grabbed a dust rag—actually an old t-shirt that he now folded carefully and kept with the room’s cleaning material—and started dusting. Waxing the floor and ensuring his clothes were folded were next on the priority list. If he did this now, it would only take a quick going-over in the morning.

  As he opened his clothes drawer to dust the top of the runner, the door suddenly slammed open.

  In an automatic response, Rod dropped the dust rag and twirled at attention. “Room, atten’hut!”

  Fred, Sly, and the rest of the thirdclassmen in the flight tumbled into the room. “Stand at ease, super smack!” Fred announced boisterously. He flopped down on his bed. Sly and Jeff Goldstein pulled up chairs and leaned back; Goldstein was so tall that it looked as though he were sitting on a toy chair. Manuel Rojo sat on the desk, looking uncomfortable as George Sanders folded his arms and stood by the door.

  “There’s a SAMI tomorrow,” Rod said, looking at Fred’s bed. It looked terrible. He eyed his own bed and was ready to throw them off if they tried to sit on it.

  “This is more important,” Sly said. “I got the idea from Uncle Jack. Tell him, Fred.”

  Fred dug a wad of money out of his pocket and fanned the bills. “The
cattle call tomorrow night; since we’re the class that starts traditions, this is an opportunity to excel.”

  “Cattle call?” Rod said.

  “Mooo,” said Sanders. The rest of them except for Manuel Rojo started lowing at each other until the room sounded like a barn.

  Fred started laughing and punched Sly on the shoulder.

  “Okay, what’s up?” Rod demanded. “What’s a cattle call?”

  “The dance, Rod. The dance,” Sly said. “Remember the girls they’re bringing in from all these colleges? They’ll be shipping them in like cows to a slaughter.”

  “Moo.”

  Goldstein shoved him. “They won’t have a chance, especially against a woman killer like Fred. Or me, the Bronx bull.”

  Rod snorted. “So what’s the tradition we’re going to start?”

  Fred righted himself. “We’ve got a betting pool for the ugliest heifer.”

  “Uh?”

  “You know, a cattle call. The cows will be herded into the gymnasium and we’ll be expected to round them up.”

  “You mean dance with them.”

  “Mooo.”

  “Shut up, Sanders,” Fred said. “Yeah, that’s what I said, round them up. Chances are, if these girls volunteer to get on a bus and travel half-way across the state to an all-male school to find a date, then that doesn’t say much about them having a date at their own school, does it? I mean, they’re probably all dying on the vine back home and are looking for someone who doesn’t have any better choice, right?”

  Rod grunted. “I don’t like it. And you know that also shoots down the theory that we cadets are so desirable that beautiful women all over the world will be knocking down our doors.”

  Sly said, “Fred came up with the neat idea that whoever ends up with the ugliest date should win a pot of money.”

  Fred waved the bills in the air.

  “How much money does it take to join the pool?”

  “Five bucks,” Fred said.

  “Five dollars!”

  “Yeah.” Fred flipped through the money. “I’ve got fifty so far, and that’s just since the evening meal. If everyone joins we’ll have hundreds. What do you say?”