The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  “We’re already at a higher standard. We’re the United States, world-class, A-number one Air … Force … Academy. How much better than that can you get?”

  Rod looked around the room. It was apparent that some of his classmates agreed with Delante’s argument. But still, Rod had a gut feeling that not tolerating honor violations was the right thing to do. Despite his adoptive father’s faults, Hank had always taught Rod to stand up for what was right, to never back down. And he wasn’t about to now.

  He said forcefully. “Just because we call ourselves world-class doesn’t mean that we are world-class. People will know us by our actions, and not by what we say. I think that we shouldn’t tolerate any cadet who is not honorable. We need to put the unit first, like Lieutenant Ranch said. Otherwise, how are we different from anyone else, world-class or not?”

  The basics murmured among themselves. Rod felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He turned to see Sly.

  “I’ve been thinking about this all week, classmate, and you’ve convinced me. I just can’t see how we can be honorable if we know that one of our classmates is lying, cheating, or stealing, and we don’t do anything about it.”

  A small group led by Delante continued to argue, but one by one, the basics changed their mind. In time, most everyone agreed with including the no-toleration clause.

  Rod turned to Sly. “Now we’ll see if B-2 really are weenies, or if we can push this through the rest of the Wing.”

  “You’re the one to do it, Rod.”

  Rod shook his head. Manuel Rojo was arguing heatedly with Delante, who was now the lone holdout, but he appeared to be wavering. “There’s our guy. If Manuel can convince Delante, he can convince anyone.”

  O O O

  The mountain air was inviting—crisp and invigorating, smelling of ozone mixed with pine—but the cadets focused their attention on the officer in the center of the dirt clearing.

  “The mission comes first. Always. Everything else is secondary. Otherwise, there isn’t a reason for having a military. Any questions?”

  The ATO who stood in front of Flight B-2 was dressed in fatigues with razor-sharp creases and boots that looked as though they had a mirror finish. With his pith helmet low over his eyes, the ATO spoke in a crisp, no-nonsense style. An A-framed tripod sat next to him, holding briefing charts the size of poster boards. The chart read SUMMARY OF COMBAT TACTICS.

  B-2 knelt on one knee in a semicircle around the officer, each balancing their M-1 rifle butt on the ground. Wearing a webbed belt with a canteen, a knife, survival kit, and a mock round of ammunition, Rod felt as though he was in the Army.

  Their bivouac tents were arranged in neat lines at their left. The dining tent and HQ were aligned on the opposite side. They congregated in the middle of encampment, behind the flagpole. Pines and aspen peppered the camp, and hills rose up on either side. Fifty yards to the right ran a stream, and the sky was a cloudless blue. If they hadn’t been training, Rod would have thought he was out vacationing in the mountains.

  The ATO placed a chart on the A-frame. He pointed to Sly. “You man.”

  Sly bolted to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “Repeat your orders.”

  Sly drew in a breath. “Sir, B-2 Flight is to encircle the encampment, stand guard, and keep watch all night for enemy soldiers.”

  “Good, basic,” the ATO said. “Every flight except yours has stood guard, so tonight’s your night. This is your last day in the field; we’re breaking camp at 0400 and loading the busses back to Lowry.” He thumped Sly in the chest. “You’re the commander of the watch.” He turned to the rest of the flight. “Any questions?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Dismissed.”

  Sly turned and gave his team a big wink, pointing a thumb at his chest. As they shouldered their rifles, the ATO called after them.

  “You man, Watch Commander.”

  Pleased with himself, Sly whirled and set his rifle down to his side, at attention. “Yes, sir!” The rest of the flight stopped in their tracks.

  “Before you get any ideas about being appointed commander, do you know why I had you repeat my orders?”

  Sly hesitated. “No, sir.”

  “General Robert E. Lee, commander of the Confederate Forces, always stationed the dumbest private in the Army outside of his tent. Before General Lee gave an order to his generals, he gave it to the private and had the private repeat it back to him. Do you know why?”

  Sly gulped. “No, sir.”

  “General Lee figured that if the dumbest private in the Army could understand his orders, then certainly his generals could. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sly looked shell shocked.

  “So don’t get a big head, smack-o. Dismissed.”

  The basics scurried away, trying not to laugh.

  O O O

  Later that night Rod sat alone on the hill, a good three hundred feet above the encampment. Nestled in a thick covering of scrub oak, he supported his back by leaning against a tree.

  Rod glanced at his watch. The luminous dial read 0210—they had another hour and fifty minutes to keep watch. This seemed to be a pattern during his basic cadet training: work like crazy, then hurry up and wait.

  He didn’t dare fall asleep, so he craned his head back and looked up at the stars. The moon wasn’t out, and the altitude made the starlight seem incredibly bright. The night sky took Rod’s breath away every time he saw it. Tonight was no exception. Like brilliant pinpricks of ice, the constellations and groupings of stars seemed surreal. They looked so clear he felt as if he could reach out and touch them.

  He remembered one of the few lectures he really enjoyed in high school, about some stars being so far away that their starlight would take millions of years to travel to earth. One star could be as close as ten years away, while light from the one next to it could have been traveling since before humans were even on earth.

  He dug in his pocket and pulled out a letter from Sandy. He held the letter close to the ground, put a hand around his flashlight and clicked it on, hoping no one could see the light. He was buried deep enough into the brush he should be invisible, but he listened for any sign that he might have been spotted.

  … Just can’t say enough how proud I am! I think about you every day. I saw your mom at the A&P yesterday, and everyone in town knows all about your appointment. Rod, I miss you so much!!! I can’t bear to be without you.

  Daddy is taking me to Cal next weekend to pick out a dorm room. I’m nervous, but I think when classes start I’ll be too busy to worry. I just wish that you would be there with me, but I know we’ll be together as soon as you graduate. I miss you, Rod, and I meant what I said the night before you left—I will be there, forever for you!

  XOXOXOXO Sandy

  He carried one of her letters wherever he went for times like these. He’d taped a small picture of her inside his cap, so every time he covered himself he saw her face.

  But her letters had gotten shorter throughout the summer, as if the news from back home had slowed. His own letters mostly regurgitated what had happened during his day, and he wondered if Sandy was as lonely as he. It was one thing for a guy to write about the ordeals he had been through, but he doubted if anyone could ever relate to the intense amount of pressure and the incredible desire just to get away from it all. It was letters like these from Sandy that kept him going. They reminded him every day of why he was doing this. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

  Flicking off the flashlight, he stuffed the letter back in his pocket, leaned back, and wondered if Sandy was looking at the stars tonight, somewhere back in Southern California.

  He remembered sitting next to her on a blanket on Manhattan Beach. The stars were out but barely visible through the mist and humidity. Her head on his shoulder, they had talked for hours. She didn’t laugh about his dreams of flying jets, or even going back to France one day as an officer, taking her and their children, showing her where he had been born. Closin
g her eyes, she tilted her face back and they kissed.…

  Rod glanced at his watch. 0217. Another hour and forty some minutes.

  Thinking of Sandy almost drove him crazy. If this was a normal college, they could have gotten married and she could have gone to school at the University of Denver. But the rules were explicit: cadets were not allowed to marry. So Sandy was going to attend Cal Berkeley and they’d get married as soon as they both graduated.

  Three years and nine months.

  He hoped he could wait that long.

  O O O

  The Blue Bedroom beckoned.

  It was actually called Lecture Hall 1, but the walls were painted blue and no one made it through the summer without falling asleep in the crowded, stuffy room at least once.

  Sitting in the fifteenth row, packed next to Sly, Jeff Goldstein, and three hundred other basics with no air conditioning, it took all Rod had to stay awake. Especially since they’d broken down camp at 0400 and arrived back at the dorm for barely an hour’s sleep.

  What made the Blue Bedroom worse was that no officer was in the room. There were no ATOs to keep them alert, no ATOs to kick over their chair if they were caught sleeping.

  Manuel Rojo, their newly elected Wing Honor Rep, stood before his classmates. “General Stillman has agreed to let us caucus the rest of the afternoon.”

  His hands trembling, he unfolded a slip of paper. He paled and nodded as he read, “With a unanimous vote, our new code is ‘We will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate any among us who do.’ Any questions?” He looked around, obviously shocked at the unanimous agreement.

  Sly cupped his hands and called out in his Boston accent, “If we’ve got the rest of the afternoon, let’s sleep on it to make sure.”

  ***

  Chapter Eleven

  “Only You”

  July 1955

  East of the new USAF Academy Site

  Colorado Springs, CO

  Covenants without the sword are but words and of no strength to secure a man at all.

  —Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, Pt. II, Ch. 17

  Mary McCluney pulled off a winding dirt road and drove the borrowed blue Air Force jeep across a field to the surveyor’s stake five miles east of the new Academy site. Dust swirled around the jeep as it careened over rocks on the undeveloped land.

  When she pulled to a stop, Hank McCluney grabbed his cane, rotated in his seat, and lowered himself onto the ground; Mary walked next to him as they wove their way through the prairie grass to the ravine. They stepped close to the edge and looked out over a sprawling pasture.

  The cliffs by the side of the ravine tumbled down thirty feet. Sagewort, blue gamma, buffalo grass, and soapweed yucca covered red dirt; below, two hundred yards away, a small creek meandered through the pasture. At the far end a small hill rose to a line of pine trees. Hank drew in a deep breath and felt incredibly serene.

  But what took his breath away was the view to the west: Pikes Peak rose majestically over the Rampart Range, its brown top looking like a bare skull cap; midway up the ridge directly ahead was a cleared area of dirt where the US Air Force Academy was being built. Of all the potential sites they’d seen, this topped them all.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Mary held onto his arm.

  “Ten minutes away and we can watch it being constructed,” Hank said.

  Mary looked around the site. “Should we build the house this close to the ravine? Hurricane Diane killed over 200 people just last week, and some of those deaths were due to flooding. Does it rain that hard here?”

  “Probably not; the Academy civil engineer told me the average rainfall for Colorado Springs is less than 17 inches a year. Still, we’ll place the house away from the ravine and build a retaining wall just in case.”

  Mary was quiet for a moment. “I suppose we’ll have to sell the house in San Bernardino.”

  “There’s no reason to keep it. I’ve worked the past ten years fighting for the Academy, and with Rod up at Lowry, this is the perfect place to settle down.” He turned to her as a breeze blew his hair. A brown prairie falcon circled high overhead.

  He spotted something moving in his peripheral vision. “Look, down in the pasture.” He pointed at two antelope stepping cautiously across the clearing. Reaching the creek, they extended their long necks and drank from the stream. They seemed to take turns lowering their heads, as if they were keeping watch for any predators.

  Suddenly, a flock of green-hooded, yellow-billed mallards fluttered into the air from the surrounding land; spooked, the antelope scampered up the rise and bounded to the tree line.

  Hank pulled her close. “I promised you when we moved to California that we’d never move again.”

  Mary swept a hand from the plains to the mountains. “Aye. But look at this view; it’s too good to pass up.”

  “Even if we have to purchase this land from George Delante?”

  Mary pushed away. She looked up, a frown on her face. “Put that man behind you, husband! What’s done is done, and if you continue to carry that grudge it will consume you.” She placed her hands on hips and stared him down.

  “I just don’t trust the man. My instincts say he’s a rattlesnake.”

  “Let it go! You’re working through Jim-Tom, not Delante.”

  After a long moment Hank’s voice sounded weary. “Aye. You’re right, of course.”

  “Good.” She slipped an arm around his waist. “Buy this land and you won’t ever have to deal with Delante again.”

  Hank steadied himself on her shoulder as they turned back to the jeep. “I’ll call Colonel Stoltz tomorrow and let him know we’ve made a decision.” He hesitated. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay on the coast?”

  “And lose the chance to be this close to Rod?” She patted his chest and smiled. “We’ll just have to build the house big enough for the grandchildren to visit.”

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  “Autumn Leaves”

  August, 1955

  United States Air Force Academy

  Lowry Field, CO

  DOOLIE (n.)—That insignificant whose rank is measured in negative units; one whose potential for learning is unlimited; one who will graduate in some time approaching infinity.

  —Contrails

  “B-Squadron, present, arms!”

  Rod slapped his hand against his rifle stock as he looked over the parade field.

  It had been six weeks, or it could have been six hundred years—and for all he knew it had been six hundred years, because time before BCT was just a hazy, unreal memory. Once again they were standing in front of a reviewing stand filled with cheering people. The crowd was the same as the other Saturday parades, except this was the last parade he would march in as a Basic Cadet. Of course it was only a rumor, since they had been born Basics, and they were destined to be Basics forever.

  “B-Squadron, parade rest.”

  General Stillman walked up to a microphone, his new general’s stars gleaming in the sun. A screech of feedback came from the speakers. Enlisted technicians scurried around, trailing wires and twirling knobs on amplifiers.

  Stillman waited a moment, then looked up and down the ranks of basic cadets. “Gentlemen, congratulations on a job well done. You have completed the first phase of your training. With the Academy’s first Basic Cadet Training now behind you, you should be proud of your accomplishment. This parade signifies two events: completion of BCT, and acceptance into the Wing of Cadets.

  “The next phase, your Fourth class year, will move its emphasis away from physical and military training and will concentrate on the most important part of your education: the ability to think. We need officers who will be able to respond to new threats and situations. Your class will be the first in this grand institution to accomplish this task, and with that, I greet you not as Basics but as Cadet Fourth classmen.”

  Rod heard a rustle off to his side. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone waver, then crump
le to the ground.

  Rod hesitated, at first remembering the strict orders of Captain Justice: “If anyone falls in a parade, leave them be.” But this was his classmate. And he’d been drilled the entire summer they had to look after themselves.

  No one moved, and a slight murmur rippled through the Wing.

  Rod fidgeted. His classmate might be hurt, he might even be dying of heat exhaustion, but no one made an effort to help. He couldn’t just stand there; he had to do something. He decided it was more important to help than to remain in formation.

  Moving his rifle to port arms, he strode over to the fallen cadet, placed his rifle on the ground, and knelt; his classmate’s wheel hat was smashed against the ground. Rod could feel Stillman’s gaze on him, but he didn’t care, this was his classmate.

  He rolled the basic cadet over. He was shocked when he saw that it was Fred Delante. Two corpsmen ran out to the parade field as Rod helped him sit up.

  Someone hissed for Rod to join the ranks as the cadets started to march away.

  Sitting on the ground with his arms over his legs, Fred Delante looked dazed. The corpsmen waved a small capsule under his nose. Rod stood and caught a whiff of the foul smelling stuff as he rejoined the formation.

  “Good job, Simone,” someone behind him whispered.

  Yeah, good job, Rod thought. It really didn’t matter that they were no longer basic cadets. The whole squadron would probably be doing squat-thrusts the rest of the night, increasing their endurance for the next parade, so they wouldn’t embarrass the ATOs again as he and Delante did today.

  O O O

  Rod rapped twice on the ATO’s door. He started to report when a voice came from inside the room: “Drive on in here, Simone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rod tried not to show nervousness as he entered Lieutenant Ranch’s room. During BCT, the only time basics entered the holiest of holies was to do continuous squat-thrusts. It was usually because of committing some heinous crime, such as gazing around, instead of keeping his eyes locked straight.

  Rod stepped into the room and saluted. “Sir, Cadet Fourth class Simone, reporting as ordered.”