by Doug Beason
They stopped by a statue of a winged sprite that spurted water from its mouth into a pond. Rod stepped to the side and watched. Laughing, the man steered Barbara off the path. She giggled, and ran a hand up the side of his face. Even from this distance, Rod could see her ice-blue eyes. She pulled his head near and kissed him deeply.
Rod balled his fists, feeling his breath quicken. His heart pounded wildly.
They continued to kiss, oblivious to the people walking around them. The kiss went on and on, and Rod felt a sour feeling grow at the bottom of his stomach, a tight knot that wouldn’t go away. He felt short of breath, flushed, and at a loss of what to do.
After a moment the man looked quickly around. Rod turned his head, not wanting the man to see that he was spying. Thinking no one was watching, the man pulled Barbara by the hand way from the path and disappeared into the thick bushes.
A moment passed.
Rod stepped close. From behind the leaves he heard a gasp. Branches rustled. Shoes scuffled and muffled grunts came from the brush; he heard struggling, crescendoing voices. Barbara screamed, and he heard a sharp slap.
There was no time to think. Barbara was in trouble and she needed help.
Thorny vines tore at his face as Rod crashed into the deep bramble. Ignoring the pain, he shoved the branches aside, wildly looking for her. The bushes were thick and almost impenetrable.
He broke into a small clearing and saw the bearded man shoving Barbara up against a palm tree, groping her while kissing her neck. She struggled, trying to push his hand away.
A red rage filled Rod’s head. Without thinking, he leaped forward and pulled the man off Barbara. He yelled as he started pummeling the old man with his fists. He hit him over and over, beating him in fury, the same, wild fury he felt against those who took advantage of others, people like Captain Whitney, Fred Delante … or, or his father …
“Rod, for God’s sake, stop! Stop it!”
He felt Barbara’s hands pulling at him; he stepped back and groggily looked at Barbara.
Tears ran down her face, but her ice-blue eyes flashed. “Look at what you’ve done!”
Rod bleared down. The bearded man lay immobile, his face bloodied.
Rod took a shaky step. “Barbara—”
“What the hell are you’re doing!” she said. “Why are you here?”
“I, I—”
“You attacked him!”
“Barbara—” He was confused as to why she was not grateful for saving her.
She knelt to stroke the man’s face. “Alan was walking me back to the dorm. We had a date.”
“A date?” Rod said, stunned. “You’re seeing someone else? But I thought—”
Barbara looked up and stared, incredulous. “You thought what! That I shouldn’t date anyone else?”
There was a long silence.
Rod straightened. Of course she could date other men. Why would he expect such a beautiful young woman not to see anyone else, especially since they had only been together once, and a year ago at that. They weren’t engaged; they weren’t even going steady. He had more common sense than that. But why had he assumed that she wasn’t seeing anyone? He didn’t know.
Rod couldn’t look her in the eye. “He … he was attacking you.”
A moment passed as she dabbed blood from the man’s nose with a tissue. “Attacking me?” She straightened and swept the hair from her eyes. “I’ve been in situations far worse than this; I know how to handle myself. And besides, sometimes I like my men to be aggressive.”
Rod stiffened, remembering how they had only talked that night they’d met.
“You just can’t crash into my life.” Barbara said coldly. “Especially if you can’t control your temper.”
Rod felt stunned, his heart yammered. It was clear his surprise had failed. “You’re right. I just can’t crash into your life. Excuse, me,” he said and strode off. Barbara’s world was much too complex, and he needed to get away.
***
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Too Much”
July, 1957
US Army Airborne Training School
Fort Benning, GA
The attempt and not the deed, Confounds us.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, II:2
Three weeks later, Army Jump School seemed like a piece of cake compared to his experience at Stanford.
Plus, living and training at high altitude had its advantages at sea level, especially since cadets were in great shape anyway. The summer was already half over and the cadets were participating in one of their three-week summer training sessions.
They fared well at the Airborne training school, and soared past the physical fitness tests with record scores. Morning runs, sit-ups, pull-ups, leg-lifts, squat-thrusts, and even wind sprints in the hot Georgia humidity took their toll, but after downing salt pills and swigging gallons of water the cadets popped back up and amazed even their grizzled enlisted Army instructors.
It was the perfect place for Rod to put the memory of Barbara behind him.
The three-week summer course was designed to give the cadets an appreciation for Army parachute school. The course was shortened from its usual four weeks, as the cadets more than demonstrated their ability to keep up physically.
But what no one counted on was that despite the cadet’s arduous environment back at the Academy, their family-style meals, the converted barracks at Lowry, and the professional demeanor of the officers, it was a rude awakening when they were exposed to the stark life of a lowly Army trainee. They quickly realized how good they’d had it.
It was the middle of the night and Rod was deep asleep when the overhead light blinked on.
A voice yelled, “What the hell is this quarter doing on your chest of drawers?”
Rod stumbled out of bed. Sly struggled out of the top bunk as Rod groggily glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was 2:35 a.m.
An Army second lieutenant dressed in khaki uniform and mirror spit-shined boots stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the room; Rod and Sly popped to attention. The lieutenant picked up the quarter off the dresser and held it high in the air. “Whose money is this?”
Rod stuck out his fist. “Mine, sir.”
“Don’t you know I could have snuck in your room and stolen this money? Where’s your sense of security, cadet?”
“Sir, I do not know,” Rod said, astonished that anyone would care about a quarter.
“Neither do I.” The lieutenant slammed the quarter on the furniture. “Secure this. I’d better not catch you slacking off anymore, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Rod and Sly said in unison.
“You cadets come down here with an attitude problem, thinking you can blow us out of the water. Well, you haven’t even jumped out of a plane yet, you damn legs. You’re nothing but a bunch of arrogant college boys.” They’d learned that “legs” was a derogatory term used to describe poor SOBs who had never jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.
The lieutenant’s voice drifted from the hallway. “If I catch you again, you’ll be serving fireguard the rest of your life! Now secure your personal items, legs.”
Sly shot a glance at Rod, unimpressed at the officer’s attempt to demean them. They waited until they could hear the officer open another sleeping cadet’s room, then they bent over in laughter.
“I could have stolen this,” Sly mimicked. “Go ahead and take it, GI—it would have been worth it to not be woken up.” He swept the quarter into his drawer and climbed to the top bunk. “Geez, these guys have a chip on their shoulders.”
“I served fireguard last week,” Rod said. “Two hours of trying to stay awake, watching for fire in the hallway. What a waste of time.” He flicked off the light and found his way to the lower bunk. “Whoever would have thought that I would miss the Academy?”
“Yeah,” Sly said, turning in his bed. “At least they treat you like adults.”
Rod thought back to some of the idiotic
stuff the AOCs had ordered them to do, such as the disparate uniform formations during BCT and the 120 hours of marching back and forth he had done as punishment. “I’m not sure about that. Maybe we don’t know any better and we’re growing used to it.”
“Yeah,” Sly’s voice was slurred. “Good night.”
Rod lay awake for some time, thinking about what he had just said. Maybe things weren’t all that different between the Army and the Air Force—maybe it was just that they had gotten used to their own system, and it was just as bad as the Army’s but they didn’t know it. He snorted and pulled his sheet up. No way.
O O O
Dressed in a uniform of khakis, jump boots, and a combat helmet, the Airborne Chaplain stood in front of the cadets. Rod and his classmates sat on a green wooden bleacher, dressed in identical gear. The week of learning PLFs—parachute landing falls—getting in shape, training to jump and count, then check their chutes, was about to come to a head. Their first jump was scheduled in twenty minutes.
Songs blared from speakers set behind them: “Ain’t Gonna Jump No More”; “My Girl, She Done Run Off with a Leg”; “Say Hi to that Big Chute in the Sky.” The Airborne Chaplain led them in a prayer, then looked solemnly around.
“Men, brevet Airborne Rangers, I have one last, important lesson for you. After you jump and you look up into that big blue airborne sky, what should you see?”
“Your chute, Airborne Chaplain!” they yelled in unison.
“And what do you do if you don’t see it?”
“Pull the emergency chute, Airborne Chaplain!”
“And what do you do if you don’t see the emergency chute?”
No one spoke. A low murmuring ran across the bleachers, as if they had just realized that there was only one backup parachute.
“Just what I thought,” the Airborne Chaplain said grimly. “Thank God Almighty I could give you this one last piece of advice.” He leaped to attention and slapped his hands on his hips. “Men, if your emergency chute fails, put your hands on your hips and cross your legs, like this.” He wrapped his right leg in front of his left, then kept silent.
No one spoke. The silence grew deafening.
Two minutes passed and the tension mounted. The cadets exchanged glances. Sly squirmed in his seat, unable to keep it in.
Finally, Sly blurted out, “Airborne Chaplain! Why do you assume that position?”
“So we can screw you out of the ground like a corkscrew, son.”
***
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Raunchy”
August, 1957
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Christabel, I
A week later Rod flew into Peterson Field on board a C-97 transport proudly wearing the silver parachutist badge. He’d survived the five jumps without being injured, although he was so scared during the first three jumps his eyes were squeezed tightly shut when he leaped from the plane. They called them night jumps, because he did them with his eyes closed, and in effect, in the dark of night. But he was still alive, and that was the important thing.
Although it was only the middle of August, summer was over for the cadets as academics started within days of them returning. For the first time their class had participated in different summer programs, and the war stories that accompanied the renewed acquaintances grew wilder every time they were told.
The first squadron meal back, Rod sat at the head of the table, serving as Table Commander. He looked down at the activity going on at the opposite end of the table. Doolies from the class of ’61 sat ramrod-straight as they efficiently worked with the waiters. The new Third classmen from ’60, themselves barely out of the Fourth class system, mercilessly trained the doolies, anticipating and correcting every mistake.
Mr. Raf Garcia handed platters of steaming food from his cart, then cheerfully waved at Rod. “Welcome back, Cadet Simone!”
“Same to you, Mr. Garcia. Be sure to save the biggest dessert for my table.”
Mr. Garcia hooked a thumb back at his cart. “I have, but do not tell anyone.”
Sitting at the head of the next table over, Sly leaned over and punched Rod on the shoulder. “Feels good to be back home, doesn’t it?”
Rod remembered the disastrous time at Stanford with Barbara. As hard as it was, he didn’t want to think about her again. “Compared to Army life, this is heaven.”
Someone came up behind Rod and whispered, “Permission to sit at your table, sir?”
Rod looked up and saw Jeff Goldstein; he pulled out the chair next to him. “Hey, Jeff! Have a seat. How was your summer?”
“Like crazy, man!”
“So how’s basketball treating you?”
“Practicing all the time.” Goldstein slid in the open seat next to Rod. He stretched his feet out as far as he could to keep his knees from knocking up against the table. He took a plate of food and helped himself to a steaming chicken breast. “But the team got roped into helping the Notre Dame committee. We’re getting up a group to accompany the football team to cheer them on—you know, one varsity sport helping the other. Interested in going?”
“Sure. Where’s Notre Dame?”
Goldstein cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding.” He handed Rod the platter of chicken.
Rod helped himself. “Nope. Never been a football fan.”
“So I guess Knute Rockne doesn’t mean anything to you.”
“You mean Ronald Reagan?”
Goldstein sighed and passed him a bowl of peas. “Notre Dame’s in South Bend, Indiana. We can spend the weekend in the Second City if you’re interested.”
“Second City?”
“Don’t you Frenchmen know anything? That’s what we New Yorkers call Chicago, you know—like Nowheresville. Anyway, one of our classmates on the basketball team couldn’t make it, so the offer’s open.”
“Sure. Sounds like fun.”
Goldstein turned his attention to the end of the table. “Hey, you smack wads.”
The three doolies instantly put down the food trays they were passing to the head of the table and popped their heads around. “Yes, sir!”
“Where am I from?” The doolies hesitated. “Well?” The one at the end of the table stuck out his fist. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, Cadet Roderick Jean-Claude Simone’s family is from—”
“Simone? Do I sound French to you?” Goldstein stood and bellowed.
“No, sir!”
“Then why did you think I was Cadet Simone?”
“No excuse, sir!”
“That’s right, there is no excuse. Now get off my table, you maggot! You don’t deserve to eat in my presence.”
“Yes, sir.” The doolie stood. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, gentlemen.” He executed an about face and left.
Rod leaned over to Goldstein and whispered, “It’s their first meal with us. How could they know who we are?”
“They should.” Goldstein leaned forward and yelled, “Well, where’s my hometown?”
Now that their choices had been narrowed down, the other two doolies answered in unison, “Sir, Cadet Jeffrey Goldstein’s home is in the Bronx, New York City.”
“Thank you,” Goldstein said, passing down the rest of the food. “Now listen up. Next time you sit on my table, I want you to get a famous person to request that I, Cadet Jeff Goldstein, should allow you to sit at rest. Understand?”
“Sir, may I ask question?”
“Proceed.”
“Sir, how famous must this person be?”
“A Congressman, or a movie star. Better yet, Miss America.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on.” The doolies’ eyes clicked down to their plate and they started eating.
Miss America. Rod’s thoughts drifted, thinking about Chicago and some of the famous people to whom the doolies could write.
He blinked. There w
ere plenty of famous people in Chicago, and the Academy was still new enough that cadets were sometimes treated as celebrities. He remembered the time in San Francisco when Barbara had been mesmerized that he had been a cadet.
“Hey, Jeff,” he said. “How would you like to go on the double date of your life?”
“Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“Just wait. I’ll surprise you.” Rod called to the doolies at the end of the table. “Hey, you two—the two smacks Cadet Goldstein ordered to write to someone famous.”
Their forks clattered on their plate. “Yes, sir!”
“Drive around to my room before Ac Call. I have someone specific I want you to write to in Chicago. But first, gather up some food for your classmate who was thrown off the table; make sure he gets it right after the meal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now who has the Form O-96 tonight? I want you to compose a poem for the head waiter, Mr. Raf Garcia.”
O O O
A month later on a Saturday morning, Rod and Jeff Goldstein stepped off the bus that had taken them to downtown Chicago. Their military transport had landed at O’Hare an hour ago, and the rest of the cadet contingent had headed out for South Bend.
Wearing their Academy ties and blue cadet blazers, they strolled around the busy streets feeling as though they were on a different planet. Vendors hawked Chicago dogs and little children ran up to them, trying to sell them Chicago Cubs t-shirts.
Walking briskly up the crowded street in the growing Indian summer heat, Rod felt like taking off his jacket, but he didn’t want to be caught out of uniform.
“Okay,” Goldstein said as they stepped over a broken wine bottle, “What’s the big surprise? Can we eat first?”
“Save that for the date. This is going to be one heck of a long day.” Rod glanced at a piece of paper with directions and a map drawn on it. They passed by two more blocks before turning right, and after one more block they stopped.
Goldstein leaned back and looked up at the skyscraper. “These high rises aren’t as tall as the ones in the Bronx.”