by Doug Beason
Rod sighed. He joined Manuel sitting on the desk. “How do you decide the winner?”
Fred said, “Easy. Whoever gets the ugliest girl.”
“Ouch,” Goldstein said. “That could be bad if she’s really ugly—”
“Okay,” Fred interrupted. “The point is that once you’ve found a heifer, corral her to the center of the dance floor. Classmates will vote with a thumbs up or thumbs down.”
“Thumbs up means she’s ugly,” Sly said. He turned to Rod. “What do you say?”
Rod grimaced. “I don’t know. This isn’t right—”
“Mooo, mooo!” The room filled with the noise of pitiful sounding cows.
“And five bucks is a lot of money to play a prank, especially a mean one.”
“Mooo!”
“Would you guys shut up?”
“Come on, Rod,” Fred said. “You don’t have to participate. At least add to the pot.” He softened his voice. “Otherwise everyone will think you’re cheap.…”
Rod shook his head. “I don’t care. If I give money I’m saying this cattle call is all right. But it’s not.”
Fred narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious?”
Manuel Rojo slid off the desk and stood. “You know, Rod’s right. We’re all being mean if we contribute to that pot. If we give you money then we’re saying we approve of what you’re doing. I agree with Rod. It’s just not right.” He hesitated. “I want my money back.” He stuck out his hand.
The room was dead quiet. All Rod could hear were his classmates breathing.
Fred spoke slowly. “A deal’s a deal, Manuel.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Fred grew red in the face. His eyes darted back and forth from Rod to Manuel. The tension in the room spiraled.
Fred yanked out a five dollar bill; it must have been the one Sly had given him because it was outlined in red and had glasses drawn on President Lincoln’s face. He threw it at Manuel’s feet. “There. We don’t need your money,” he turned to Rod, “or yours either. You guys are killjoys.” He stormed from the room.
The rest of the flight remained. Goldstein turned away, and no one spoke. The rest of the flight looked at the bill on the floor. It was as if it was covered in radioactivity.
Several moments passed, and the flight exchanged glances.
Finally, Sly bent over and picked up the money; he gave it to Manuel. “Hey look, you two have a point. But we don’t have to be mean to these girls, just dance with them. What does it matter if they’re ugly or pretty?” He looked pained. “Besides, I’m not sure if I really believed Uncle Jack’s cattle call stories anyway.” He clasped Rod’s shoulder. “Thanks for standing up for what you believe in, classmate.” He turned and left.
The rest of the flight followed. When Manuel reached the door, Rod said, “Thanks.”
Manuel turned and stopped in the doorway. He looked worried. “I wish I would have spoken up sooner. I think I’m starting to see a rift in the Wing.”
“A rift?” Rod said.
“Yeah. Some cadets think that they’re free to do anything they want as long as they don’t break the honor code. We have to change that line of reasoning. Otherwise, we’ll create a culture of jailhouse lawyers—cadets that only care about how far they can push the limits of the code, and not if what they’re doing is morally or ethically wrong.”
“You’re right,” Rod said, “and if that happens, we’ll have a Wing full of unprincipled, but seemingly honorable, cadets.”
O O O
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
Mitchell Hall instantly fell quiet as over 500 doolies, third classmen, ATOs, and waiters stopped what they were doing and gave their attention to the head table.
Rod swiveled in his seat so that he could look over the sea of cadets sitting in the dining hall; the doolies at the end of the table sat at rigid attention and stared at their plates, probably relieved for a moment of respite from the hectic noon meal training. Lieutenant Ranch, sitting at the head of the table frowned at the interruption.
Rod was surprised to see Manuel Rojo walk up to the microphone. Elected their squadron Honor Rep last year during doolie year, Rojo had quickly gained the respect of the Wing and had been elected Wing Honor Chairman.
Manuel tapped the microphone; the sound reverberated throughout Mitchell Hall. He moved close to the mike. “Gentlemen, it is my sad duty to inform you that this afternoon the first cadet in USAFA history has been found guilty of violating our Honor Code. The details of the case have been forwarded to the Secretary of the Air Force for legal review, so for now I cannot relay any specifics of the case. However, I can say that the cadet, referred to as Cadet X in the official Board minutes, turned himself in last week for lying to an ATO.
“An honor board was convened and unanimously found Cadet X guilty. He has resigned from the Wing, and pending official adjudication from headquarters Air Force, his name will be stricken from our rolls.” Manuel’s voice wavered. “I ask that you not discuss this with anyone outside the Academy, for we don’t want any rumors to start. An official announcement will be made in the future, and we will provide details of the case to the Wing. In the meantime, I implore you to maintain the highest degree of vigilance in honoring our code. It is our bond and sacred oath to each other and for the classes to come. Gentlemen, carry on.”
Rod turned back to his plate and glanced around the table. The Wing was silent except for a low murmuring and clinking of silverware. The doolies at the end of the table remained stiff at attention, their faces red as they stared into their plates.
Across the table from him, Sly looked stunned. He’d normally be sitting on the intercollegiate training tables with the rest of the golf team, but the word had come down from General Stillman that all cadets were to eat with their squadrons today. Now Rod knew the reason why.
“Wow,” Sly said. He slumped back in his chair. “I wonder who it was?”
Lieutenant Ranch tapped his knife on his water glass. “Continue eating, gentlemen. I hope you all understand how serious it is to follow your code.”
Rod picked up his fork. “I think we all do, sir. And to think he turned himself in.”
“That’s the point, Rod,” Lieutenant Ranch said. “This was a tough test of your code, but I hope you’ll never have a violation of the toleration clause.” He picked up his water.
“Why’s that, sir?” Sly said.
Lieutenant Ranch hesitated. He put down his glass. “You smacks at the end of the table—listen up.” He turned his attention back to Sly. “I pushed for an additional quote to be included in your Fourth class knowledge, but it was turned down. We might not be having this discussion if that quote had been put in Contrails.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“G. K. Chesterton wrote ‘Tolerance is the virtue of the man without convictions.’ So without convictions, where will it stop? If you’ll tolerate a cadet lying, cheating, or stealing, you’re not embracing your own code. You cadets screw this up, it will create a cancer that could permeate your Wing years down the road. Any other questions?”
No one spoke.
Ranch started eating, then said to the table, “Carry on.”
O O O
That evening, as if by magic, the gym was transformed into an exotic looking nightclub. Wives from the Officer’s Wives Club had spent the day decorating under the supervision of Mrs. McComas. Posters and construction-paper flowers covered the walls. The lights were low and a stage band from Lowry played quietly at the side, setting the mood. Against the far wall, punch bowls, hot hors d’oeuvres, and snacks were set on long tables covered with white tablecloths.
The wives hovered in the background like ghosts, keeping out of sight, yet just noticeable as chaperones.
Dressed in formal mess-dress, Rod pulled at his collar, thinking that the gym had suddenly gotten hotter. He stood near the gym entrance along with the rest of his classmates in the flight.
The door swun
g open and in stepped some of the prettiest girls the cadets had seen. Wearing long gowns, white gloves, jewelry, and with their hair up, they looked as though they had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. The young women looked from side to side as they walked slowly into the gymnasium, uncertain as what to expect.
“Man, oh, man,” Sly said. He wavered and clenched Rod’s arm. “I don’t care about the contest anymore. What’s this say about the others if these are the losers?”
“Just wait,” Fred said. “It has to get worse.”
Rod drew in a breath. The memory of Barbara was still strong. Yet she was a thousand miles away, and these young ladies were here, now. Although through their correspondence Rod felt he knew Barbara better then he’d ever known Sandy, it had only been a one-night stand, and not even a sexual one at that.
And just as Sandy’s letters, Barbara’s missives were becoming more and more infrequent.
“Look,” Fred said. He dug an elbow into Rod’s side. “Thar she blows! The beached whale in the yellow dress. She looks like she just rolled off the candy truck.” He nodded at an overweight girl who had walked in with the second group.
“Quiet.” Disgusted, Rod said. “Do you want them to hear you?”
“Gentlemen!” Mrs. McComas’s airy voice came over the stage band. “Over here, cadets, and greet your guests. Remember your manners.”
Fred said in a stage whisper, “A hundred and fifty smacker-oos are on the line. But not for you, Rod!”
Rod, Sly, and the rest of the flight walked stiffly to the group of young women. Girls kept entering the gym, and congestion built up around the door.
Rod stepped up and held out his arm to the young women. “Good evening. I’m Cadet Third class Rod Simone. May I escort you into the ball area?”
The girls hesitated, taken aback by Rod’s immaculate appearance; they were the first non-military people ever to see the cadets in their formal wear.
From behind the first row of young women, the heavy-set girl pushed forward. Dressed in a long yellow dress that draped to the floor like a tent, her brunette hair was piled on top of her head. It was the overweight girl Fred had zeroed in on from across the gym. And she was even larger up-close than from a hundred feet away.
She smiled and took Rod’s arm. “Thank you, Cadet. I’m Wendy Shelby.”
Rod swallowed. “Do you live in Denver, Wendy?”
“My family’s from Denver; I’m a sophomore at Colorado Women’s College. I love your accent. Are you French?”
“Not any more. It’s a long story.”
Wendy looked around the gymnasium as they moved from the entrance. Her eyes wide, she took in the decorations, the low ceiling, the military uniforms. “This is beautiful. The building didn’t look like a ballroom from outside.”
“It’s not,” Rod said. “If you were here 24 hours earlier you would have been in the middle of a basketball game.”
“Hey, Rod!” Fred walked past, on his way to escort the women into the ballroom. He slapped Rod on the back and whispered, “It’s not too late to join the pool!”
Wendy waited until Fred passed. “What did they do with the basketball hoops?”
Rod pointed straight up. “They pulled them into the ceiling. If we’re lucky, they won’t fall. But then again, if things are dragging maybe they will, and stir up some excitement.”
They reached the reception line. A captain with silver braids on his right shoulder stepped out to meet them. He bowed slightly at the waist. “Good evening. May I have your names please?” They complied, and the captain turned to the line. “General and Mrs. Stillman, may I present Cadet Simone and Miss Wendy Shelby.”
It seemed as if every medal on earth was being worn by the officials in the receiving line. Compared to the officers with their polished silver pilot wings, silver braids, and ornate rank insignia, Rod’s own uniform looked desolate.
It took five minutes to complete the handshakes and greetings before they finally made their way through the line. In addition to greeting the Commandant and his wife, all the officers, including the Dean, the Director of Athletics, the AOCs, the Director of Admission, and their wives, were lined up in a gauntlet. Rod could tell that Wendy was flustered by all the attention. He felt a swell of pride that the entire senior USAFA leadership would show up for their first formal ball.
Rod steered Wendy to the tables at the back wall. He poured her a glass of punch, and they watched from across the gym. One by one the cadets lined up, took a young lady by the arm and escorted her to the receiving line. The stage band played a popular Mary Martin song low in the background.
Wendy took a sip of punch and stole a glance at Rod. “This is like a fairy tale.”
“Excuse me?” Rod put down his glass.
Wendy nodded at the receiving line. “The decorations, the band, the officers, the cadets—it’s something you read about in Life, or The Saturday Evening Post. We just don’t do things like this in Denver.”
“This isn’t Denver. This is the United States Air Force Academy.”
“It still isn’t real. Like I said, it’s a fairyland.”
Wendy turned, and for the first time he saw that she had incredibly beautiful brown eyes. They seemed to look deep inside him. He flushed, embarrassed that she might know what he was thinking, and that he had stereotyped her because of her weight.
She murmured, “You said the ballroom wasn’t here 24 hours ago, and I’m sure that by tomorrow night it will be a gymnasium again. It’s like a Broadway performance, set up and choreographed. But it’s a wonderful stage show, one that should never end.”
Rod blinked, still mesmerized by her eyes. “Choreographed?”
She placed a fleshy hand on his arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Rod. I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that this is so impressive. You cadets in your uniforms, the music, the way that you escorted me into the ballroom.” She smiled warmly. “I was very nervous when I showed up, but everything makes me feel right at home.”
“We’re trying to get off on a good foot with the community.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
“Thank you.” He looked around as several couples strolled their way, arm in arm. “Wendy, it was a pleasure meeting you. We’re supposed to greet the rest of the ladies and not dominate anyone’s time. If you excuse me, I need to go back to the entrance.”
“I’ll see you later tonight?”
Rod smiled. “Of course. Good evening.” He put down his drink.
The stage band started playing a swing number and the dance floor was suddenly crowded with cadets and young women.
As Rod started to walk off, three of his classmates nudged each other when they saw that Wendy was all alone.
At the far end of the room, Fred apologized to the girl with whom he was ready to enter the receiving line; leaving her behind, he straightened his tie and walked briskly toward Wendy.
Like an unsuspecting, overloaded cargo freighter wallowing in the open sea, Wendy sipped on her punch while four torpedoes zeroed in on their target.
Rod’s face suddenly grew warm. This wasn’t right. He didn’t care if he was supposed to mingle; he had to do something.
He quickly walked back to Wendy. He touched her elbow. “Wendy?”
She turned, still oblivious to the oncoming onslaught. “Yes?”
Now that he had her attention, Rod eased her away from the hors d’oeuvres. “I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about Colorado Women’s College. I’m not from Denver, and I don’t know anything at all about your campus.”
Fred and the other cadets pulled up short, scowling. Wendy strolled next to Rod, not cognizant of the aborted attempt to get her onto the dance floor.
They spent the next two hours walking around the ballroom, talking with some of his classmates and Wendy’s girlfriends from CWC. Rod never asked her to dance, and he noticed that she didn’t seem to mind.
Once, Rod caught a glimpse of Fred out on the dance floor
with his partner. A half-dozen cadets lined the wall, watching their classmates dance. When Fred’s partner turned around, he put his hands up in the air and pointed down, motioning for his classmates to take a vote. Like Roman citizens judging gladiators at the Coliseum, the cadets voted thumbs up or thumbs down. Jeff Goldstein wrote the results on a piece of paper.
One by one, some of Rod’s classmates showed their desire to be judged. Sometimes they had to quickly bring down their arm and run fingers through their hair if their dance partner spotted them with their hands in the air.
Rod walked Wendy outside as the stage band played their last song. The air was filled with the smell of diesel fumes as the drivers started their buses. Air brakes groaned, and the ground vibrated from the engines.
They stopped before a bus with a CWC placard in the front window. The driver rotated the door open as they approached.
Wendy held out her hand. “Thank you for the wonderful time. I enjoyed myself.”
“So did I.” Her hand enveloped his.
“You’ve led such an interesting life. France, California, and now as a cadet.” She paused and her brown eyes softened. “You can look me up if you’re ever at CWC.”
Rod smiled. “Thanks, Wendy. I will.” He led her to the door. “Good night.”
“Good night, Rod.” Lifting up her dress, she stepped up the stairs. She grasped the pole at the front and turned to Rod. “And thanks for not taking me out on the dance floor. You were such a gentlemen, especially by keeping those cadets at bay.”
Rod wavered. “Excuse me?”
“I may be overweight, Rod, but that doesn’t make me unaware of what’s going on. I know not all of your classmates were participating in that little contest, but it doesn’t take much to guess that I would have taken top honor. If you can call it that.” A lithe girl in a long blue dress brushed past Rod and made her way up the steps. She smiled at Rod as she passed.
Wendy stepped aside, then held on to the pole with both hands. “It gives me faith knowing that there are real gentlemen here. You’re a good man, Jean-Claude Simone. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” She disappeared into the bus.