by Doug Beason
Stunned, Rod backed away. He searched for her through the darkened glass, but couldn’t make anyone out. He held up his hand in a small wave, then jamming his hands in his pockets, turned and headed quickly back to the dorm.
O O O
Shouts and laughter still punctuated the night. It was cool, and the stars blazed as Rod walked across the campus. He tried to make sense of what had happened tonight. Wendy had known all along.
A whistle interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey, Rod!” Fred and Sly trotted up. “Look at this!” Sly flipped a stack of bills. “A hundred and twenty-five bucks! My down payment on a new set of golf clubs!” He’d already outlined all the bills in red as a good luck charm, and it wouldn’t have surprised Rod if George Washington or Abraham Lincoln sported either a red goatee or glasses.
“I thought one fifty was in the pot.”
Fred’s face clouded over. “Five guys didn’t pay up.”
“Why not?”
“Changed their minds at the last minute.”
Sly pocketed the cash. “Did you see my partner?”
“I thought she wasn’t bad looking,” Rod said.
“That was the first one,” Sly said. “The next one won the prize.”
“Man was she ugly.” Fred made a face. “Lucky there were no mirrors around, otherwise we’d be sweeping up broken glass for the next month.”
“Ouch,” Sly said. “Makes me queasy just to think of her.” He punched Rod on the shoulder. “This money could have been yours if you would have gotten your date on the dance floor.”
“Yeah,” Fred said. “After you made that run on her, everyone thought you’d re-entered the pool. But what gives? Didn’t she want to dance?”
Rod shrugged, “We didn’t get around to it. And actually, she was very nice.”
“Come again?” Sly cocked his head. “All you needed to do was to call your classmates.”
“Yeah. We could have gotten a crowbar to roll her out to the dance floor,” Fred laughed, “or a wheelbarrow.”
Rod looked at them sharply. “Grow up. Our classmates were right to pull out of your contest—and I’m glad I didn’t enter.”
Suddenly, the loudspeaker at the edge of the quadrangle clicked and the sound of taps started playing across the campus. Without another word, the three started sprinting toward their dorm in a mad dash to reach their rooms before taps ended.
***
Chapter Eighteen
“I’ll Be Home”
Christmas, 1956
Air Force Academy Construction Site
Colorado Springs, CO
If we had no faults of our own, we would not take so much pleasure in noticing those of others.
—Duc de la Rochefoucauld, Maximes, 31
Rod climbed out of the passenger side of the jeep and stepped into six inches of newly fallen snow. He steadied himself on the hood as he scrunched around to help Hank get out of the vehicle. Despite it being Christmas, he wished he was anywhere else besides here with his father, touring the permanent Academy site.
Hank McCluney grunted as he used his cane to swing from the jeep. “I suppose you aren’t having much of a vacation. We should have gone back to Southern California, let you see your friends.” He hesitated. “But I’m glad we finally have some time together.”
Rod kept to himself as they walked. There wasn’t anyone he wanted to see in Southern California, not after a year and a half. Although his friends were back from college, their families would want them to stay at home over Christmas, not out visiting even if he had returned. And although he and Sandy had broken up over a year ago, he couldn’t bring himself to discuss that, or much of anything else with his father. Hank was still the same old black and white guy, unyielding in his opinions, no matter what Rod or anyone else thought.
Hank didn’t even know about Barbara. If her family hadn’t made plans to visit relatives in Oregon over the holiday, he’d be with her now in the Bay area rather than being here, with his parents. He’d spoken to Barbara over the phone just last week. Rod ached to see her again, but it looked as if they might not be able to get together until next summer. He didn’t know if he could stand being away for so long.
So Hank was right, it wasn’t much of a Christmas vacation. The only consolation was that he didn’t have to stay at the Academy as he did last year.
Tinged with snow, the Rampart Range jutted up a mile to the west. A blanket of white covered the construction site. The sky was blue, free of clouds as sunlight reflected off the snow from last night’s storm. Rod squinted from the glare.
Puddles of water began to form by the piles of metal girders as the sun heated the steel. If it weren’t for the crusted layer of unbroken snow, there would be no way of knowing that just twenty-four hours ago blizzard conditions existed.
Hank limped toward the north end of the construction site. Rod walked beside him, stepping along the outline of the dirt road.
Melted water from the site streamed underneath the snow. When the construction crew returned, the area would be covered in mud.
They stepped around iron rebar that protruded from the ground. Demarcated by orange twine, signs were posted around the site: DANGER! CONSTRUCTION AREA!
Rod edged up to a giant excavated pit that ran east-west, toward the mountains. At the bottom of the pit were long rows of concrete footers, the basis for the immense foundation work. The footers stretched a quarter of a mile toward the Rampart Range. Water pooled at the bottom.
Hank hobbled up. Next to the pit were piles of lumber, concrete trucks, huge earth diggers the size of houses, temporary aluminum-sided buildings set on logs that served as construction headquarters, and pick-up trucks used for hauling workers. Snow covered everything, masking even the dust that had permeated the area.
Rod looked over the piled up material and said, “Do you think they’ll finish on time?”
Hank looked startled, as though he suddenly had to recalibrate his thoughts. “They’d better! It has to be ready by July of ’58 so your class can move in.”
“They still have a lot to do,” Rod said. “Eighteen months isn’t a long time.”
“It’s more time than it took to build the Pentagon. Plus, we’re further along in the project than General Groves was back in World War II.” He pointed to the east-west pit. “That’s where your dorm will be; it will be six stories high when it’s finally complete, and so large I predict someday pilots will use the cadet area as a checkpoint, maybe even do low flyovers.”
Rod turned to the east to see another massive pit, this one running north-south.
Hank stepped up beside him. “That will be the academic building. It will be nearly as large as the dormitory.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to slow down building the academic building, is there?”
Hank looked at him curiously. “I thought you liked taking classes.”
“I’d rather fly,” Rod said.
“That will happen soon enough. You’ve already got your private pilot’s license, and you’ll have to graduate before taking Air Force pilot training.” Hank pointed his cane northeast. “Can you see our house?”
Rod spotted the building right away. Built next to an arroyo by a grove of trees, their unfinished brick home contrasted against the snow, five miles away. It looked lonely, almost forlorn on the prairie.
Rod folded his arms. “How does mom like living in the country? You’re pretty secluded from everyone out there.”
Hank balanced himself with both hands on his cane. “It has its advantages. With all the space we have she’s taken up skeet shooting. Don’t laugh. Mountain lions were spotted in Pine Valley, and this is her way of keeping safe when I’m not home. And we have enough VIPs visiting to keep us busy. She enjoys entertaining, even though the house isn’t complete yet.”
“So what’s going to happen in eighteen months, when the Academy’s finished and you’re out of a job? Your house is pretty far from Colorado Springs.”
Hank shifted his weight to his good leg and turned to look back at the mountains.
A lone prairie falcon circled high overhead, watchful for any game scurrying around the snow covered ground. It looked majestic circling in the clear blue sky.
“We’ll be all right, lad. The Academy’s been my life—our life—for the past ten years. I’m building a university, and a self-sufficient town with its own water supply, power generating plant, hospital, commissary, elementary school, base exchange, community center, and chapel. What more could anyone want to accomplish?”
Rod drew in a cold breath of air. He instinctively knew that his father wasn’t doing this because his son happened to be in the first graduating class; this was Hank’s way of making a difference, a meaningful contribution to history. It was exactly what Barbara had gotten excited about.
Everything else—the education, the heritage, the cadre of Air Force officers, the bonding, and the common experience of cadets—were all just icing on the cake. His father may be betting that the Academy will produce graduates with the same devotion to duty and unwavering commitment as himself. Making a difference.
Maybe there was more to his father than he realized.
Rod felt a chill. He felt that for the first time he’d seen what made his father tick, and why the man was so focused on seeing this project come to fruition.
But despite the revelation, Rod remained silent. He couldn’t bring himself to open up to him; his father had disappointed him too many times in the past, from demanding what planes he should fly to lecturing him about Mr. Delante.
Hank spoke quietly. “Captain Justice writes you’re doing well at the Academy.”
Rod’s head jerked up. “Captain Justice? He writes you?”
“Once a month. Like clockwork over the past 18 months.”
Rod shook his head and muttered.
“Say again, lad?”
Rod turned to view the growing Academy campus. “Justice doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He is always yelling that we can’t do anything right.”
“He cares very much about all of you. He’s a good man, and an outstanding officer.” His father hesitated for a moment. “He said you met a girl in San Francisco—”
“How did he know that?”
Hank shrugged. “All I know is that the Air Force pays their AOCs to produce the finest officers in the world. I imagine they do whatever it takes to know their cadets.”
“I guess so.” Rod drew in another breath. He never knew that Justice even cared about him. But it wasn’t as though he could bother his dad with something as trivial as … as his and Fred’s growing differences. Or how wonderful Barbara was.
After a minute Rod said, “Fred’s father took us to dinner in San Francisco.”
Hank didn’t say anything, but Rod noticed his face grew tight.
“He tried to talk Fred and me into getting out of the Air Force,” Rod said. “He said that we could do a lot better if we didn’t pursue a military career.”
“What do you think?”
Rod thought for a moment. “He had some good points, but they all seemed to be based on making money, and not much else.”
“If that’s the most important thing in your life, then he’s probably right. Anything else?” Hank said with an edge to his voice.
“At first he made a lot of sense. Especially when he pointed out that the Air Force doesn’t really reward you for all your hard work. He said that they’ll expect us to think that because we did a good job, then that should payment enough. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get promoted.” Rod looked at his father. “Mr. Delante said that you were a general when you were 35, and that Fred and I would be fortunate to be majors by that age.”
Hank was quiet. He turned away and was silent for a long time.
He was quiet for so long that Rod thought that his father had forgotten about what Mr. Delante had said. It was a weird silence, the only sound being the wind blowing over the mesa.
Moments passed and a prairie falcon wheeled overhead, as if a hand traversed a clock.
Still looking away, Hank spoke in a low voice. “At least you’re not in a war, lad. That’s the only reason I became a general so fast. I’d rather your promotions come slowly during peacetime than have you rise quickly in a conflict.” He breathed heavily. “Early promotion means you’re filling another man’s position, a man who died. And a hell of a better person than George Delante will ever be.”
Hank turned. He seemed a changed man; his face was red and his eyes blazed. Rod couldn’t think of when he’d seen the old man so upset.
“Don’t listen to Delante,” Hank said. “You can’t trust him.”
Rod took a step back. “But he bought me dinner, paid for my hotel room. He didn’t expect anything in return!”
Hank slammed his cane at the ground. “He always wants something in return. Do you remember that trip we took to Washington, D.C.?”
Rod felt flush. “Of course I remember!” He felt his heart race. Finally! He’d wondered about it all these years, yet never brought the subject up. “Who was that … that woman you were with?” He’d caught his father with a prostitute! How could he ever forget? His breath quickened—
“That woman! What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I saw you with her in the hallway.”
Balancing on one leg in the snow, Hank pointed his cane at Rod. “That was nothing.”
“She had her hands all over you!”
“There’s a reason for that. It was all because of George Delante—”
“Everything’s his fault! Aren’t you responsible for anything that’s ever happened to you?”
Hank slammed his cane against the ground. “I said stay away from the Delantes, do you understand me?”
“Screw the Delantes. They don’t mean anything! Tell me about that woman!”
“She was a pawn! A setup.” Hank’s voice echoed across the snowy construction site. “They’re bad news—all of them. Even that young Fred. Stay away!” He raised his cane.
Rod felt a cold wind whip through his body; his heart beat so fast the blood pounded in his ears, and he was short of breath. What right does he have to tell me what to do? He still thinks I’m a boy … and he’s not even my real father!
After that insincere buildup and trying to relate to him as a caring father, Rod could plainly see the old man was too mired in his ways to ever change. Ever. All he does is lecture, blame others; he wouldn’t even answer a simple question and admit he’d been caught with that prostitute.
Rod balled his fists and felt the tendons in his neck tighten. He wanted to strike the old man, push him down in the snow, and pummel him with his fists. He’d taken boxing at the Academy, and he knew that Hank wouldn’t be a match for him. He’d never struck his father before, but Rod had never felt so angry. He flexed his hands and drew himself up, but Hank stood his ground, not backing down.
Rod breathed deep, pulling in the crisp air. They didn’t say anything to each other, merely glared … and the moment passed away.
Hank slowly lowered his cane as they both knew who the victor would be.
Rod turned and stomped to his parent’s house on the far ridge, five miles away in the snow, but much, much closer than the fifteen miles he’d run in Southern California to get away from his father, four years before.
“Rod! Wait, I can explain.”
Rod never looked behind, leaving the old man to drive back on his own.
Chapter Nineteen
“Chances Are”
February 1957
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, I:7
A thick, gray depression blanketed the Academy like a fog that wouldn’t dissipate. It was a feeling devoid of hope, without a future. An acidic feeling gnawed at the pit of every cadet’s stom
ach that winter would never end. Snow swirled into everything, and chill permeated their bones.
The sun didn’t rise until well after they had marched to their first class. They trudged across the campus with their heads down, bent like monks as they fought the blowing snow. Their long gray scarves were wrapped tightly around their necks, ice collecting at their nose and mouth as they converged upon the academic building. Long shadows spilled over the campus before their last class was over.
Sitting in Rod’s room one night when Rod was playing his bagpipes, Sly came up with the description: The Dark Ages. It fit perfectly their mood, an endless despair. It was bordered by an endless repetition of quizzes, GRs, SAMIs, inspections, and indoor PE.
As far as the cadets were concerned, life before the Academy had never existed. It felt as if they had been there forever, and they would never leave.
O O O
“It’s nice to see you again, Wendy,” Rod said. He sipped on a glass of punch and greeted the group of young women who approached the table.
Wendy smoothed her dress. “I brought some friends. They’re all from CWC.”
Fred and Sly stepped up and introductions were made.
The band struck up a Crew Cuts song, “Sh-boom,” and the group quickly dispersed to the dance floor. Wendy and Rod were left alone at the table.
Rod felt awkward without the others. He poured another glass of punch. “I’m surprised you came back.”
“Are they still doing the worst date competition, or whatever it’s called?”
Rod nodded as he felt his face grow warm. “I guess that’s one reason I’m surprised to see you.”
Wendy laughed. “At least your friends are having fun, even if it is elementary school humor. At CWC they sit around in malt shops reading Ginsberg’s Howl, or they listen to folk musicians, like Pete Seeger. Have you heard of him?”
“Yeah, he’s all right. I guess the Kingston Trio is okay too, but I don’t really care for that type of music.”
“Neither do I.”
At the far corner of the gym a few of Rod’s classmates stood around the dance floor and held thumbs up and down, continuing the tradition set last semester; Rod was pleased to see that at least fewer of them were participating.
