Chapter One
“Sincerely”
July 11, 1955
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, Denver, CO
The purpose of the Fourth Class System at the United States Air Force Academy is to lay the foundation early in the cadet’s career for the development of those qualities of character and discipline which will be expected of him as an officer. These qualities must be so deeply instilled in the individual that no stress or strain will erase them from his personality.
—Contrails, The Air Force Cadet Handbook
Eighteen year-old Rod Simone’s emotions yo-yoed from a deep, sickening knot in the pit of his stomach to uncontrollable excitement as he anticipated becoming a cadet. He’d dreamt for years of attending the Academy and being a member of the first class at an institution that would rival West Point and Annapolis.
So why did he feel so nauseous?
He sat in the back of the rented ’55 Chevy as they drove past brown fields of tall prairie grass on their way to Lowry Field, temporary home of the new Air Force Academy. The rolling hills were punctuated by cattle, tails whipping flies off their backs. Houses dotted the side of the road; children played in yards, unconcerned that Rod’s world was about to turn upside down. The ride seemed to take forever.
Rod wished that he could be out on the range, not having anything more stressful to do than herding cattle. Or maybe back in Southern California with Sandy, taking her to the Disneyland Park that would soon open in Orange County. For some reason, dozens of alternatives filled his head, anything other than attending the nation’s newest military academy. But it seemed he’d wanted to go forever, ever since he’d accompanied his adoptive father on the trips to help establish the institution.
Rod straightened in the back seat and held up a hand at the light shining through the front windshield. Sunlight glared past his mother’s long hair, strands of red flying in the wind as she drove east on Sixth Avenue. Behind them, the Rocky Mountains were still ridged with snow from a late spring storm.
Hank McCluney twisted in the passenger’s side of the front seat. “How are you holding up, lad?”
“Fine.” Rod turned back to the side window, not wanting to talk.
“Nervous?”
He hesitated. “No, sir.”
“Aye,” Hank said, pulling his lips tight.
For a moment Rod thought Hank would lecture him. It reminded him of the time Hank admonished him after he had stood up to Robert, the much taller and overweight bully who had taunted him for his accent, making fun of his foreign name; or when Hank had demanded that he shouldn’t try to fly fighter planes; or even when Rod had seen Hank with that … that woman in Washington, D.C.
Why couldn’t Hank stop treating him as a kid? He still seemed to think Rod was that helpless French boy he’d rescued from a burning house. Didn’t Hank remember that he’d killed a man?
As if sensing Rod’s apprehension, Hank said, “I used to get sick before going into combat. Every time I flew, I got the jitters, not knowing what to expect. I suppose the fumes I smelled on the flight-line yesterday made my stomach think I was flying again.”
There were plenty of fumes yesterday at the airshow when Rod and his parents had joined the mob of 4,200 people at the Academy’s dedication ceremony. He’d stood on his tiptoes, wishing he was closer to the center of activity as CBS had covered the event on national TV; cadets from the Military and Naval Academies mixed with three- and four-star generals, government officials, and Hollywood starlets.
Rod had watched in awe as giant bombers thundered low across the sky, featuring a massive aerial display of lumbering B-36s and new B-47 jets, along with F-84 and F-86 fighters. The sky had rumbled with gleaming metal. He ached to be in the sky, to feel the plane respond to his touch and look out over a horizon a hundred miles away, to hear the jet engines whine as he swooshed through the air. It had all seemed surreal.
But today, all the pomp and circumstance and the excitement of yesterday didn’t make Rod feel any better. Now his stomach churned with uncertainty.
His adoptive mother Mary slowed the car as they approached a guard shack. A crowd of onlookers stood next to a fence. They partly blocked a blue sign with white lettering:
LOWRY AIR FORCE BASE
A young guard wearing sharply pressed khakis, a tan belt, and a blue-banded helmet stepped out of the shack. A pistol was strapped at his waist.
Light bulbs flashed. A man in a red plaid jacket and wearing a Press card stuck jauntily in the band of his hat ran in front of the car. He snapped their picture as they pulled to a stop, then leaned into the front window. “Tony Rafelli, Denver Post—”
“Excuse me, sir. You’re obstructing traffic.” The guard pulled the reporter back. He watched the reporter saunter away, then reached into the guard shack and picked up a clipboard. “May I help you, ma’am?”
Still blinking from the flashbulb, Mary McCluney straightened, her head high. “My son is entering the Air Academy,” she said with an effort. “Jean-Claude Simone.”
“Got it.” The airman made a check on the paper. He reached into the guard shack and pulled out a large white card with the words “GUEST, EXPIRES 11 JUL 55” on it, and placed it on the dashboard.
“Were you at the airshow yesterday, ma’am?”
“Aye, we were,” Mary said.
“Good. You’ll be going to the same location.” He pointed inside the base. “Follow the signs to the cadet area and Air Policemen will direct you to parking. Watch out for pedestrians and do not exceed fifteen miles an hour. Once you’ve dropped off your son at the administration building, be sure to be back at the viewing stands by 1530 for the 1600 parade and dedication. Do you have any questions?”
Mary shook her head. Tears formed in her eyes; she tried to pull a green kerchief from her matching purse, but it caught and she quickly dabbed her face with a white-gloved hand. She smoothed her green Coachman dress with winged black collar and straightened in her seat.
Rod looked at her curiously; he hadn’t suspected she’d be moved. Normally, his adoptive mother was all business, much more so than his adoptive father; he didn’t know what to think.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Hank said. He leaned forward and put an arm around his wife. “Are you all right, Mary?”
She tightly gripped the steering wheel, a thin smile on her face. “Aye, husband,” she whispered. She drove slowly into the sprawling compound, inching up to the strict fifteen mile an hour speed limit. “Just a wee dram of nerves.”
Rod heard cheering as they drove onto the base. People lined the streets. They waved signs reading GOOD LUCK! and WE LOVE OUR CADETS!
The streets were meticulously clean. The lawn was cut razor close, looking as if a team of yard workers had been down on their hands and knees ensuring every blade of grass was the same height. Windows gleamed, yellow stripes on the road glistened, white paint on the curbs shone, and even a mothballed P-51 Mustang sitting by the side of the road on display looked as if it had been specially polished.
An Air Policeman directed them to a parking lot. When they stopped, Rod heard voices hoarsely yelling from beyond a cluster of white-painted wooden buildings.
Hank opened his door and rolled out of his seat. He stood erect next to the car and leaned on his cane, his brown fedora set perfectly straight on his head.
Rod’s mother ran a hand up and down his arm as they watched a group of young men line up outside one of the buildings marked Administration. Parents stood in clumps throughout the parking lot, quietly saying goodbye to their sons. Younger brothers and sisters ringed the family groups. Girlfriends cried openly, and Rod wished that Sandy had come with them so he could have said a final goodbye.
“Do you have your belongings, lad?”
“Yes, sir.” Rod reached down and lifted his bagpipes and khaki duffle bag. The instructions from the Academy information office had been explicit: except for a shade 84 summer dress uniform sent to him two weeks ago by the Commandant of Cadets, he would be issued all the clothes and personal items that he would need, including underwear. The instructions further admonished him not only to leave his clothes at home, but the majority of his personal items as well.
Although the summer dress uniform took up most of the duffle bag, the remaining space was filled with pictures of his adoptive mother and father, and a school picture of Sandy Allison, given to him the night before they had left on the train for Denver. From the noncommittal comments she’d written in his high school yearbook last May, he hadn’t given her much thought until the month before he had left for the Academy.…
He’d stopped at the store to pick up some groceries when he spotted her on a small ladder stocking shelves. She wore an apron over a blue blouse and tight, white shorts; she stretched up on her tiptoes, exposing tan, strong thighs, and he was mesmerized. She caught him looking and without thinking, he walked boldly forward, offering to help.
Afterwards, they spent every minute they could together: at the beach, cruising San Bernardino, going to movies. Sandy hadn’t given Rod the time of day until this past month. It was as if she had suddenly realized that because of his appointment to the USAF Academy, Rod was a celebrity in their small California town.…
“Call us, Rod,” his mother whispered. She was nearly as tall as Rod, and they both towered over Hank.
“He’s not allowed to use the phone until after Basic Cadet Training,” Hank said. He turned to Rod. “Write when you can, lad. If you really want to fly as much as you say you do, then never forget why you came. It’s going to be tough, but remember the things that mean the most are the hardest to come by. You’ll have to live day-by-day. BCT is only two months long, but it will seem forever.” He hesitated, then held out his hand.
Rod averted his eyes and tried to ignore the gesture. “I grew up listening to how tough things were at A&M. Remember?” From the way they had fought the last few years it wasn’t right to shake hands as if nothing had ever happened between them.
“Aye, but this will be tougher. The Academy has to prove itself to the nation; especially with its first class of cadets.” He continued to hold out his hand.
Rod picked up the duffle bag and slung his pipe bag over his shoulder. He stood at a nexus, ready to start a new life. He drew in a deep breath.
Hugging his mother, he turned to his father. He hesitated a long moment. He still couldn’t bring himself to act as if nothing had ever happened between them; he couldn’t even believe him, much less respect him.
“I have to go.” Rod turned and made his way across the parking lot.
Young men, teenagers like himself, shuffled in a slowly moving line outside of the two-story Administration building. They spoke in low, nervous tones as if something might happen any moment; the line seemed to crawl toward the in-processing center.
As he joined the line he noticed the reporter who had taken their picture as they entered Lowry interview one of the families; the reporter scribbled furiously on a small pad of paper “—yes, sir, Mr. Delante. I understand. Yes, sir. I’ll make sure Fred’s full name is spelled correctly. You got it, Mr. Delante—”
“Speed out, candidates,” barked a sharp, irritated voice from inside the building.
As the line moved inside, Rod turned and surveyed the parking lot. His parents stood by the car, Hank with one arm around Mary. A memory of Hank standing outside of Rod’s burning home in France swept over him, an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu—the warm smell of garlic and onion, customers laughing quietly, and the security of his parents while he tried to fall asleep … and he felt weak.
Rod had a sudden deep yearning for the open California freeways, driving with Sandy, carefree, laughing. He remembered them parking at Lake Gregory the night before he left. Stars blanketed the sky and the radio played “Only You” by the Platters as she slid into his arms; her hair smelled intoxicating, like a bouquet of fresh summer flowers. They’d talked about their life after he graduated, and how they’d travel the world with him flying fighters. She said she’d wait for him forever, and when they kissed she pressed up against him and he moved his hand under her blouse.…
Torn between wishing he’d shaken Hank’s hand and ignoring him, he stepped inside the wooden Administration building.
And left his old life behind.
***