The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  It was time to call in favors.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Near You”

  mid-September, 1958

  USAF Academy, CO

  Nonconformity and lust stalking hand in hand throughout the country, wasting and ravaging.

  —Evelyn Waugh, Decline and Fall, Part 1, Chapter 5

  The weekend after Julie arrived from Virginia, she and Rod canvassed Colorado Springs checking out apartments until they found a small one-bedroom unit on the second floor of an old Tudor style house on Cache la Poudre Avenue. The owner was a dour-looking, white-haired lady who had trouble hearing, not quite understanding that it would be Julie and not Rod renting the small unit.

  They entered the stairs from a door on the front porch. Rod carried Julie’s boxes up a dark, narrow flight of creaky steps and deposited the pile in the center of the room. He pulled back a curtain and saw cottonwood trees towering over the row of houses. Down the street he spotted the buildings of the Colorado College. The neighborhood looked like a melding of Victorian and East Coast sensibility.

  Sunday afternoon, before Rod was due back at the Academy, the old woman started pounding from below with a broom handle; the thumping reverberated throughout the tiny bedroom, making it sound as though they were inside a huge bass drum. Julie pulled the sheets up around her, brought a hand to her mouth, and couldn’t stop laughing. “I thought the old biddy had trouble hearing!”

  Rod started jumping up and down on the mattress, causing another volley of pounding from below. “Maybe we can get her to beat in rhythm.”

  She picked up a pillow and whacked him. “It’s bad enough sharing you with the Air Force. Damn if I’m going to share you with anyone else!”

  In stark contrast, their car was dead quiet as Julie drove Rod back to the Academy.

  A stream of automobiles deposited cadets alongside the dorm. Three stories above, on the Terrazzo level, the sounds of doolies yelling drifted down to the cars. As opposed to the joyous scene a scant twenty-four hours earlier when Rod had left on an overnight pass, one would have thought the cadets were now returning to go to war.

  Rod held Julie tight. He brushed back her hair and moved his lips close to her ear. “My mom said to come by whenever you need someone to talk to; you could help her around the house when they return from Washington, DC—Dad’s testifying at another hearing, but they’ll be back Friday, before the CU game.”

  “Are you sure your father won’t mind? I may have some time on my hands if I can’t find a job.”

  “They need all the help they can just keeping track of things,” Rod smiled. “A few weeks ago Dad lost both his cane and the boot he wears walking around the property; it’s gotten so bad, Mom thinks he even misplaced her shotgun. He’ll never admit it, but he’s under a lot of stress from that congressional investigation.”

  He pulled back and searched her eyes. Her dark hair was plastered on her forehead, from a combination of recent tears and their passion from an hour ago.

  A bugle sounded over the loudspeakers, announcing the start of academic call to quarters. Rod’s stomach tightened. “Gotta go.” He gave her a quick kiss. “See you at the CU game on Saturday. Sly said he has an idea for doing something afterwards, so once I find out I’ll give you a call. Talk to you soon.”

  He sprinted for the stairwell and joined a mob of other upperclassmen, all racing pell-mell up the stairs to reach their squadron area and sign in before the bugle stopped blowing. A sick feeling swept over him as he faced yet another week without Julie.

  O O O

  Rod woke at the touch.

  Sly stood over him, his face lit by the reflection of a flashlight held low to the bed. “Put on your clothes,” he whispered. “We’re heading up to Boulder.”

  Rod pushed up on an elbow and rubbed his eyes. “Boulder?” He tried to make out the hands on the clock. “Are you crazy? It’s 2230 Thursday night! I thought we were going Saturday after the game. And classes start in eight hours.”

  “We’re moving up the timetable. The University of Colorado football team was all over the radio tonight, bragging about how they were going to end our perfect record. Tonight will give us a psychological advantage.”

  Rod debated with himself, racing through the options. Last Sunday, once Sly had proposed his scheme, he’d spent all week researching what it would take to liberate CU’s mascot—but they’d agreed to do it after the game. It wouldn’t be illegal, and it certainly wouldn’t be an honor violation if they did it now, especially if they marked their cards as unauthorized. But they’d have to go OTF, and that would be against cadet regs.

  As a squadron commander he was supposed to support and enforce those regulations, as was every cadet; but on the other hand, Sly had a point: liberating CU’s mascot before the game would supercharge both the Wing and the football team, and would certainly help keep their perfect record. But there would be huge consequences if he were caught going OTF. He remembered marching all those tours just two years ago—

  “Are you coming or not?” Sly glanced at the door and looked at his watch.

  He shouldn’t do it, he just knew he shouldn’t do it. Yet … even if he marched tours from now until graduation, it would be worth it to fire up his classmates to win a national championship. And the Academy would talk about it for years to come.

  Rod threw back his sheets and rolled out of the bed. “Let’s go.”

  Minutes later they flipped their cards to UNAUTHORIZED, slipped quietly out of the squadron area, and tiptoed down the stairwell. The fall moon splashed light over the cadet area, lighting up the sidewalks in a pale white. Rod dashed across the service road. Hugging the side of the granite retaining wall, they dogtrotted down to the field house and slipped into a waiting car.

  Jeff Goldstein was at the wheel, sitting so tall that his head hit the roof. He drove away with the lights off, waiting until they rounded the corner by the reservoir before switching them on. Once out the North gate, the cadets burst out laughing.

  They arrowed north up highway 85, winding through the Palmer Divide and driving in the center of the two-lane road so they wouldn’t have to slow down for the curves. They roared past pine trees and meadows, dark blurs that broke up the moonlight until they reached the cutoff to the tiny whistle-stop town of Castle Rock.

  Slowing at the sight of lights up ahead, Goldstein pulled into the parking lot of a small bar. A truck with a long cattle trailer sat in front, along with six pickup trucks and two cars, all parked at various angles to the one story, windowless metal building.

  The front door to the Baby Doll Lounge was open. Hazy light and smoke diffused from the inside. Rod heard the strains of cowboy music wailing from a jukebox as they crunched across the gravel parking lot.

  Inside, George Sanders sat alone at a table, sipping on a beer. The table was covered with exotic animals meticulously fashioned from dollar bills—buffalo, armadillos, emu, rhinos, and giraffes; his origami talent had grown exponentially since their doolie year. He looked ridiculous wearing his trademark cowboy hat, now tipped back on his head. He thumped a fist on the table in time with the music. “Cool … clear … water!”

  “George!” Rod called as they entered. The men at the bar ignored them.

  Sanders held up his pint of beer. “Hey, man! What took you so long?”

  They joined him at the table and poured themselves beer from his pitcher.

  Once they finished toasting their cleverness at escaping undetected from the Academy, Sly asked, “Where did you get the trailer?”

  “Borrowed it from the rodeo club. Even left a note.” He raised his glass. “Rod suggested it.”

  “Brilliant idea, Rod,” Sly said. He placed a hand on his stomach and burped.

  “Yep. I amaze myself sometimes.”

  Ten minutes later they decided to order another pitcher of beer before heading out. The bartender tipped the pitcher under the spout, pouring the foam head into the sink. “I’m clos
ing up pretty soon, boys. Is this it?”

  George dug into his pocket and slid a wad of bills across the bar. “Here you go. Might as well get another round.” He turned his classmates. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  The bartender shrugged. One of the cowboys at the bar sauntered over to the jukebox and played “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Boos came from the other men at the bar. Wavering, George struggled to attention and saluted during the playing of the Texas national anthem. Moments later the bartender slid over two pitchers of beer.

  Sly drained his beer and belched. “What’s the plan?”

  Rod poured another round for everyone but himself as they finished off the second pitcher. He lowered his voice as the cowboys at the far end of the bar started laughing. “There’s a ranch south of Boulder where they keep the buffalo. George will back the trailer up to the fence while the rest of us herd it in.”

  “How did you find that out?” Goldstein said.

  “I called CU,” Rod said, pushing away his unfinished beer. “It’s incredible what they’ll tell you if you just ask.”

  “You should have asked them where all the unattached coeds live,” Sanders belched.

  Rod looked at his wristwatch. “It’s one in the morning. We’d better get going if we want to get back to the zoo in time for reveille. Classes start in six and a half hours.”

  They pushed back their chairs and stumbled out of the Baby Doll Lounge. The fresh air nearly floored them. “Wow.” Sly shook his head. “This is great.”

  Rod eyed Sanders as he unsuccessfully tried to climb into the truck. He stepped up and put a hand on Sander’s shoulder. “Can you drive?”

  “Sure.” Sanders dropped his keys on the ground. “Oops.” He wavered.

  “I’ll drive.” Rod scooped up the keys and helped Sanders to the other side of the truck. He helped him up and slammed the passenger door.

  Minutes later he followed Goldstein down the narrow road toward Boulder. The trailer moved back and forth behind him, sometimes swinging across the median as they swept through the countryside. Lucky it was late enough that there was hardly any traffic on the road; otherwise he might have smashed into them.

  Half an hour later they located the ranch, northwest of Sedalia. Rod backed the trailer slowly toward the barbed wire fence as Sly stood behind him, motioning him on. “Come on, come on, you’ve got it.”

  Bam. Rod hit the brakes as the trailer crashed against a wood fence post.

  “That’s okay,” Sly said. “It’s only a scratch. Keep on coming!”

  Rod turned off the engine and hopped down from the truck, leaving the door open and George Sanders sleeping in the cab. He inspected the trailer. The wooden post holding the barbed wire was knocked at an angle. “I think this is good enough.”

  Staggering, Sly opened up the back of the trailer and pulled out a rope and bolt cutters. He went to work with the bolt cutters, slicing through the barbed wire like scissors cutting thread. Grunting, he pried open the fence.

  Rod, Sly and Goldstein stood back and admired the work.

  “All we need now is the buffalo,” Sly said.

  “Where is it?”

  “Uh-oh.” They looked around in a panic, suddenly terrified they had the wrong field. They had all just assumed the ranch was the buffalo’s home.

  A minute later Rod spotted a dark object moving slowly across the field, not more than fifty yards away. He flicked on his flashlight. The animal was bigger than a cow and was covered with thick, matted hair. “I think that’s it.”

  A retching sound came from behind them. Turning, Rod saw Sanders leaning outside the cab, vomiting on the dirt. He gave a sickly wave. “I’m okay.” Sanders eased himself down from the truck. He ran a hand across his mouth and staggered forward. “Go on, get the buffalo.” He lay down in the grass and started snoring.

  Rod, Sly, and Goldstein hesitated, then jogged onto the field.

  “Hey, Rod. Run behind him and wave your arms.” Goldstein looped the rope around his arm. “Sly and I will herd him toward the trailer after you scare him our way.” He tossed the other end of the rope to Sly. “Tie this around him.”

  They spent the next twenty minutes hooting and hollering at the beast, waving their arms trying to get him to run toward the trailer. Every time they started moving the beast toward the fence, the buffalo would lower its head, paw the dirt, snort and charge, chasing them away. The three city boys tried to corral the buffalo while the only true cowboy among them lay passed out by the end of the trailer.

  Flicking the rope around his head, Rod finally managed to toss a loop around the buffalo’s neck. He let out a whoop and dug his heels in the dirt, expecting to be dragged across the field. But the buffalo stopped and suddenly turned docile, as if it knew exactly what to do now that it had been lassoed.

  Sly ran up ahead and opened the back of the trailer. He waved at his classmates. “Hurry up, push him in!” He grabbed Sanders’ feet, dragged him out of the way, and opened the small window at the trailer’s front. “Thread the rope through the window and I’ll pull from here.”

  Rod walked into the trailer and tossed Sly the rope. He moved behind the buffalo as Sly took in the slack. “Okay,” Sly shouted, his voice muffled. “Push!”

  Rod and Goldstein stood on either side of the buffalo’s hindquarters and pushed, grunting as they tried to gain purchase on the trailer’s ramp.

  The buffalo shuffled halfway into the trailer and stopped. It started backing up. Sly screamed, “Hey, come on you guys, he’s almost in here!”

  Rod put his shoulder to the hindquarters and shoved. The buffalo snorted. Inch by inch they pushed him forward.

  Rod stepped back and shoved with both hands. When the buffalo took an unexpected lurch forward, Rod slipped and his right arm slid into the buffalo’s rectum, all the way to his shoulder.

  “Ugh!” His hand felt slimy enclosed in the animal’s cavity.

  The buffalo bellowed then collapsed onto the floor.

  Rod went down with him, and was fortunate not to be smashed. Pulling his arm from the rectum, he shook off black manure. A horrid smell drifted up.

  “You killed him!” Sly said. “Look what you did, you idiot!”

  Rod staggered back and wiped his arm in the prairie grass, trying to get rid of the black, chunky slime. He looked up. “See if it’s still breathing!”

  Goldstein clamored over the buffalo and climbed into the trailer. He put his head down by the buffalo’s nostrils. “His breath stinks, but I think he’s alive.”

  Sly ran around from the front. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  Goldstein shook the hairy buffalo but didn’t get a response. “Something’s definitely wrong.”

  Rod joined them and they stared at each other helplessly.

  They turned as a scraping sound came from the back of the trailer. Sanders appeared with a hand to his head, hung-over. He spat a wad of chewing tobacco to the side. “Oh. I feel terrible.” He looked down and seemed to notice the buffalo for the first time. “What the hell did you boys do?”

  Goldstein said, “Rod stuck his arm up the buffalo’s butt. I think he killed it.”

  Rod pulled himself up. “It was an accident.”

  “What are we going to do?” Sly said.

  Sanders spat again and leaned over to pick up the long bolt cutters. “We’ve got to wake it up.”

  “How?” Sly narrowed his eyes at the bolt cutters. “By cutting off its nuts?”

  Sanders looked thoughtful. “Rocky Mountain oysters. They pay a lot for them in Denver. Fry ’em up and they taste like chicken.”

  “Everything tastes like chicken,” Sly said.

  “Out of the way.” Sanders squeezed to the front of the trailer as the others moved outside. He flipped the bolt cutters around and started pounding on the buffalo’s head. Seconds later the buffalo snorted, shook its head, then tried to scramble to its feet. “Grab the rope!”

  Sly sprinted to the front and pulled the rope t
hrough the window.

  “Secure it,” Rod directed as Sanders jumped from the trailer. “Are you all right?” The buffalo started kicking the trailer as Rod closed the double doors.

  Sanders dropped the bolt cutters and sat down on the dirt, his head between his knees. “I think you’re going to have to drive again, Rod.”

  Glancing at his watch, Rod announced to the group. “It’s after three. Reveille’s in three hours and classes start in four. Plenty of time to get to the Academy stables.”

  Shaking dirt, dust and manure from their clothes, the cadets climbed into their vehicles and started the long drive back.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “It’s all in the Game”

  The next day

  mid-September 1958

  USAF Academy, CO

  Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.

  —John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi, IV:2

  “USAFA pre-game! USAFA pre-game!” Wind whipped around the Academy football stadium as the cheerleaders tumbled onto the field. The sky spat snow.

  The crowd waved silver and blue flags; cowbells rang; a cadet walked the sideline carrying a hooded falcon on his wrist, making the early morning event look more like a medieval faire than a major college football game. The University of Colorado crowd at the opposite end of the stadium displayed their support in similar spirit.

  “U! S! A! F! A! Air—Force! Fight, fight, FIGHT!”

  The Wing stood as a solid blue block, all dressed in identical class A’s, complete with high-necked overcoat and silver-rimmed wheel cap. Along with the AOCs, Master Sergeant Coltrin, a slender, no-nonsense NCO, paced up and down the stairs, ensuring the cadets looked as professional as possible.

  A static-filled voice came over the loudspeaker. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Presenting the CU mascot!”

  Rod held his breath. Nothing appeared.

  Again, the announcer clicked the microphone. “The CU mascot!”

  A murmur swept the crowd. Rod’s knees felt weak, unsure if his role in Friday morning’s liberation would ever be discovered, or even if the mascot had been unknowingly harmed; he felt guilty about going OTF, even though he hadn’t been caught. He stood on his tiptoes and searched for Julie.