by Doug Beason
Walking stooped over, Mr. Mushala moved behind Rod and quickly wrapped a tape measure around Rod’s neck. “Fifteen neck,” he said. The airman dutifully wrote on Rod’s tag.
“Arms, 32; waist, 30; inseam, 32 …” For being so old the man scurried around Rod like a hummingbird, calling out measurements and brandishing the measuring tape like a whip. Now in front of him, the man asked, “What side do you wear your pants?”
Rod blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your pants, young man,” the old man smiled. “On what side do you wear your pants?” He pointed to Rod’s crotch.
“I wear my pants straight, I guess.” Rod looked helplessly at the young airman.
“Your nuts,” the airman said; he rapidly tapped a pencil on the desk. “He wants to know on what side of your pants your balls dangle.”
“I don’t know,” Rod said, mystified. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“You right handed, young man?” said the tailor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we say you wear your pants on your right.” He stepped back and looked up at Rod, grinning. “That’s it. You all done. Whew-wee! Good luck, and have fun.” He thumped Rod on the shoulder and stepped back to stand by the airman.
The airman shoved the tag back at Rod. “Move to the next station.” He called out to the next candidate. “Speed out, we’re running short of time!”
Rod picked up his duffle bag and headed down the hall.
“Let’s go, mister! Over here.” Another airman stood behind a counter and waved him forward. Piles of socks were bundled in the room behind the airman. Behind Rod on the other side of the hall the room was stacked full of underwear. Glancing down the corridor, Rod saw room after room of clothing—green fatigues, blue khakis, pants, shoes, jackets, raincoats, hats, handkerchiefs, belts, jumpsuits, boots, helmets—it seemed as if a giant military clothing store had been stuffed into the building.
Cadet candidates shuffled back and forth across the hallway, cramming as much clothing as they could into their duffle bags. Sergeants stood in the middle of the hall directing traffic, urging candidates to move ever faster, and to hurry, hurry, hurry!
“Let’s go! We don’t have all day!” An airman whistled at Rod to pay attention.
Rod quickly learned to hold his tag out so that the men working behind the counter could read it and reach for clothing to dump into his duffle bag. With every stop, Rod’s cloth bag grew heavier and more bulky.
Once, after an airman threw a pair of pajamas and a bathrobe into Rod’s bag, the airman said, “Wait, let me see that stuff.”
Rod held out his duffle bag, which now weighed nearly fifty pounds.
The airman rummaged through it and pulled out the pajamas. Shaking them free, they ballooned out like a tent. “Sorry. These are extra-extra-large. You could fit two people in these.” Reaching behind him, he grabbed another pair and shoved them at Rod. “Here you go.”
“Let’s go, gentlemen! Time is running out.” A thin enlisted man wearing an immaculate uniform stood in the center of the hallway. Cadet candidates scurried back and forth across the hall.
The last stop was filled with hundreds of shoeboxes. An airman glanced down at Rod’s tag, turned and yelled to the men scurrying at the back of the room, “Size 11 and a half, the works!” He said to Rod, “Put on your baseball cap and stuff your clothes as far down as you can inside that duffle bag. You’ve hit the mother lode, Mr. Candidate.”
Rod immediately dropped his already stuffed bag to the ground and dug around for the black baseball cap he had been issued four or five stations ago; he placed it on his head and pushed the rest of his newly issued clothes as far down into the bag as he could.
When he looked up, the counter was filled with two shoeboxes, a pair of slippers, shower clogs, foot powder, black and brown shoe polish, and two pairs of combat boots. Rod groaned. How on earth was he ever going to get all that inside his bag?
The airman rapidly tied the boot’s laces together in a large looping knot. He tossed the boots to Rod. “Here. Hang these around your neck. I’ll help you stuff the rest of your gear into the bag.”
With two pairs of boots dangling from his neck, baseball cap low over his eyes and his duffle bag now looking like an obese green worm, Rod staggered out the door of the supply building with his arms wrapped around his worldly possessions.
“Let’s move it, candidates! You have twenty minutes until the 1100 formation! I wouldn’t be late if I were you!” A sergeant dressed in khakis and a pith helmet stood just outside the building. He bawled at the candidates, who scurried around, unsteadily carrying their loads as if drunks staggering under a huge stack of dishes.
Holding his duffle bag with both arms, Rod couldn’t see over the top; instead, he tried to balance the load and swivel to the side. “Excuse, me, sir. Where do I take this?”
The sergeant reached behind Rod and glanced at the tag that dangled from the string around his neck. “Dorm 4, second floor, room 22. Head straight ahead and look for the fourth building on your right. Dump that stuff on your bed, get dressed, and be back here in less than twenty minutes. Understand, candidate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Okay, sergeant.”
The gaunt man slapped him on the rear. “Get moving, son. And don’t be late! You’re about to have an experience you’ll remember for the rest of your life.” He turned and started yelling at the other candidates just emerging from the building. “Come on, gentlemen, I’m not standing out here for my health. Now get moving!”
Rod staggered out across the sidewalk, trying to keep his balance. The juxtaposition of fresh air, bright sunlight, green grass, white sidewalk, the sounds of sergeants yelling out instructions, shot Rod’s adrenaline sky high. He was ready for this. He was excited. He was in the best shape of his life and was both mentally and physically prepared for embracing the Academy and excelling. He knew that he was ready for whatever they threw at him.
Another sergeant steered him to Building 4. Rod felt so full of energy that he took the stairs two steps at a time, while still holding on to his jiggling barrel-like duffle bag.
An airman in the center of the hallway chanted in a monotone, “Gentlemen, you have fifteen minutes to change into your basic uniform: long sleeve khaki shirt with tie, khaki pants, blue belt, black socks, low quarter heel black shoes, and wheel cap. Leave your duffle bag on your rack in your room.”
Rod staggered into room 4B22 and started to dump his duffle bag when he noticed that both the beds in the room were full. Two cadet candidates in various stages of undress stared at him.
“B22?” Rod said.
“Wrong room. This is 4B24. The room number is on the right side of the door.”
“Sorry.” Rod backed out hastily.
“Better hurry,” came a voice from the room he just left.
“Gentlemen, you have fourteen minutes!”
Rod stepped into the room next door, spotted an empty bed, and threw his duffle bag on top. Clothes were scattered on the other bed, so whoever was Rod’s roommate had already gotten dressed and had left his side of the room in disarray. It didn’t seem right for things to be this messy at a military academy, which set Rod to wondering if he should try to straighten things up before getting outside.
The beds were pushed against opposite walls. Two desks with chairs were centered under a large window that looked out to the next dorm building. Behind him, an empty closet stood with its doors wide open, and aside from some lint residing in a corner, the room was sterile, hollow.
Rod thought about trying to arrange his clothes in the closet, but one of the airmen stuck his face in the room. “Hurry and get dressed, candidate. You have eleven minutes. I wouldn’t be late if I were you!”
“Yes, sergeant.” Rod turned and immediately started tearing through his clothes. He shook out the wrinkled khaki Shade 84 dress uniform that he had brought from home, as instructed in his a
cceptance letter. From the urgency in the sergeant’s voice, Rod figured it was more important to get dressed and be outside on time than it was to be neat.
He finished tying his shoes when the voice outside the room announced sternly, “Four minutes! Let’s speed out, gentlemen!”
Grabbing the blue wheel cap, he ran from the room. Two airmen stood at the end of the hall, waving for him to hurry. They herded the last of several candidates from the floor; they pointed to the stairwell.
“Hurry up! Two minutes! Line up in the quadrangle. You are in B for Bravo squadron. Let’s move it!”
Someone slapped Rod on the rear as he raced down the stairs. “Put your hat on when you get outside. And good luck, candidate.”
Rod turned the corner and ran from the building. From the corner of his eye he saw candidates streaming from the next building. The scene repeated itself as far as he could see. It looked as though rivulets of ants converged onto a pile of food.
In the center of the area, lined up in rows, airmen held signs over their heads; each was painted with a giant letter of the alphabet. “B for Bravo over here! Line up alphabetically candidates, and let me know you’re here!”
“A for Alpha!”
“D for Delta squadron over here! Let’s go, let’s go! Get in line and stand at attention!” In a controlled confusion of blue hats, khaki uniforms, and scuffling shoes, the enlisted men simultaneously took roll and lined the candidates up in a long column behind the signs. They stood on a street in front of the barracks, overlooking a rectangular area.
Just as Rod fell in line, the sound of a bugle echoed throughout the area. For the first time, Rod noticed loudspeakers on the top of poles at the edge of the quadrangle. In addition, each of the buildings had a loudspeaker fastened to the corner, which made the sound seem to come from everywhere at once.
The sergeants fell silent as the bugle played. They stepped into line alongside the candidates and stood rigidly at attention.
When the last sound echoed away, no one stirred.
It was as if a cloud of absolute silence had descended and blanketed the dorm area. It was so still that Rod heard the flag quietly flapping in the breeze. No one spoke, and Rod wondered if someone had forgotten to show up to greet them.
Suddenly, Rod heard the sound of feet marching in unison. Faint at first, then the noise grew louder. Precise, like the increasing beat of a drum, it sounded as though a huge army approached. A murmur ran through the candidate ranks. The sergeants stationed throughout the group kept at attention, looking straight ahead and not saying a word.
The sound rumbled louder as five columns of men, dressed in long-sleeved khaki uniforms marched around the corner. Led by an officer with a silver eagle gleaming from each shoulder, the men all marched perfectly in step, white-gloved hands swinging in unison. There must have been fifty officers in all.
The men stopped directly in front of the candidates. “Left turn, harch.” Heels clicked as they faced the candidates.
Scanning the line of stern-faced men, Rod recognized the lieutenant who had first checked him in this morning. The officers stared straight ahead, and none of them looked happy. Rod felt a sudden chill. Uh-oh.
A lone Master Sergeant stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, all candidates are present and accounted for.”
“Thank you, sergeant. Dismiss your men.”
“Yes, sir.” The Master Sergeant turned. “Sergeants, post!” The enlisted men slipped quietly away, leaving just the cadet candidates facing the group of officers.
The colonel stepped forward and surveyed the candidates. He took a long moment to look them over, then spoke in a loud voice.
“Candidates. Welcome to the United States Air Force Academy. I am Colonel Stillman, your Commandant of Cadets. You have been selected as the first class of the United States Air Force Academy. This is a great honor, and I expect you to rise to the challenge. The next four years are going to be tough, but you would not have been selected if we thought that you would fail. You gentlemen will set the standard for classes to come. If you succeed, they will succeed. But if you fail, so will they.
“There are going to be times during the coming years when you will feel like quitting. There will be times when you will be so busy, and so lonely, that you will think that this will never end. But let me assure you, that although you may think this is the toughest training anyone has endured, our nation’s two other military academies have existed for over a hundred years. Their system is just as tough, and their graduates have gone on to become world leaders. But they only did so by giving one hundred ten percent.
“I will expect nothing less from any of you. I am not overseeing a summer camp. I am not a babysitter. I am in the business of defending our nation against the meanest sons of bitches in the world. And the only way to defend against them is by training harder than they do. Over the next four years—and in particular, the next eight weeks of Basic Cadet Training—that training is going to be tougher than anything you’ve ever done in your life.
“We will turn you into cadets. We will first teach you to follow and then to lead. Then we will make you officers. In General Patton’s words, ‘If you can’t get them to salute when they should salute and wear the clothes you tell them to wear, how are you going to get them to die for their country?’”
He paused. “My first job is to teach you to march so we can conduct the dedication ceremony at 1600. And with that …” he performed a perfect about face and raised his voice to the officers standing rigidly behind him, “Officers. Make corrections!”
With a roar, the fifty men broke ranks. Like an incoming tsunami, they ran forward to consume the cadet candidates.
Rod stiffened as the hoard of red-faced, screaming officers sprinted toward them, howling like a hurricane.
***
Chapter Three
“Learnin’ the Blues”
July 11, 1955
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
On the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that on other days and other fields will bear the fruits of victory.
—General Douglas MacArthur
Alice in Wonderland.
It was as though he had fallen through a rabbit hole. His world instantly turned upside down without any hope of ever going back. That was the only way that Rod could even think about the chaotic onslaught that slammed into him, overwhelming his senses.
Two officers in white gloves and blue wheel caps stood on either side of him, yelling in each ear. Another officer, his hair cut bristle short, stood inches from his face and thrust his jaw right up to Rod’s nose.
“Stand up straight! Lock those skinny arms to your side! Don’t smile when I’m speaking to you, slime ball! Look straight ahead, eyes locked and chin in. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Rod said.
“Louder, doolie! Cram that skinny chin in, push out your chest! Now move it!”
“Yes, sir!”
“I SAID LOUDER! What’s the matter with you, smack? Are you ignoring me?”
“NO, SIR!”
“Don’t you look at me, you pathetic toad. I told you to look straight ahead, not at me. And don’t you wave your beady little eyes at me, do you understand me, mister?”
“Answer him, mister! What’s the matter, don’t you understand English? Didn’t they teach you how to speak in high school?”
“Yes, sir!” Rod shouted as loud as he could, trying to comply with the three men’s directions. But every time he moved, he moved the wrong way. Every time he opened his mouth, he was corrected. Every time he batted an eyelash, every time he grimaced, rammed his chin back as far as he could into his neck, pressed his arms into his side, screamed, balled his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms, locked his knees; every time he did anything trying to comply with the officers—their wheel caps low on their eyes, held by black leather straps under their necks, their white-gloved fingers jamming into his chin—he was instantly cor
rected.
Rod’s brain raced, trying to sort out the conflicting orders that came as though a jet roared past on full afterburners. The confusion around him burned as a white noise. Time seemed to drag on forever. He fell further down the rabbit hole, descending into hell, unable to comply with the three screaming officers who controlled his every movement.
“What squadron are you in?”
“B squadron, sir!”
“Now stop goofing off and double-time over to my expert demonstrator, Captain Justice. Keep your arms tight to your side when you run. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir!” Rod screamed back.
“Then speed out, mister! On the double. You’re already late! Move it! Move it!” The officer swung up a hairy arm, pointing to the center of the buildings.
Keeping his arms so tightly clasped to his ribs that his side began to ache, Rod sprinted straight ahead. He shot from the men like a bullet from a gun, not knowing where he was headed, just rocketing away from the screaming trio.
“You man!” A hoarse voice hollered at him.
Rod screeched to a halt, swaying as he snapped to attention. “Yes, sir?” He turned his head to search out the voice.
A snarling face thrust into his sight. “Eyes locked straight ahead, mister! What do you think this is, a beach party?”
Rod snapped his head forward. “No, sir!” In front of him dozens of other officers were yelling at young men just like him, all dressed in wrinkled uniforms and all bending backwards like reeds in a typhoon.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Captain Justice, sir!”
“Try it again, mister. You don’t ‘go see’ anyone, is that clear? You report! Now where are you going?”
“Sir! I am reporting to Captain Justice, sir!”
“Then why are you standing here, you dumb doolie? Speed out!”
“Yes, sir!” Rod locked his arms into his side, rammed his head back as far as he possibly could and starting running straight ahead.
Like an unlucky victim being attacked by a swarm of angry bees, Rod was stopped another five times before he found Captain Justice.