Chapter Two
“Sixteen Tons”
July 11, 1955
United States Air Force Academy
Lowry Field, CO
I am an American fighting man. I serve in the forces which guard my country and our way of life.…
—from The American Fighting Man’s Code of Conduct
“Next.” The lieutenant sat erect behind a desk and scowled. The creases in the officer’s khakis were impeccably ironed and looked so sharp that Rod thought it might be possible to shave with them.
When Rod didn’t immediately respond, the lieutenant raised his voice. “Speed out, candidate. We don’t have all day. You have an 1100 deadline.”
1100? Rod knew that meant 11:00 a.m. in military jargon, but he had thought the dedication ceremony was at 4:00 p.m. and not at 11:00 a.m. Maybe he should run out the door and let his mother know the time so she wouldn’t miss the ceremony.
“I said, move it, candidate. Are you deaf?”
Rod stepped up to the desk. “No, sir.”
Without looking up the lieutenant said, “State your name.”
Rod stood straight and cleared his throat. “Rod Simone.”
The lieutenant scanned the sheet and frowned. “There’s no Rod Simone here.”
“It may be listed as Jean-Claude Simone. My legal name change to Roderick came through last week.”
The lieutenant made a check mark. “Got it. Stow your stuff in the room on your right. Be sure to get a receipt, then fall in line with your classmates. Stand at attention when you are not moving and do not speak unless you’re spoken to. You have a lot to do today and we can’t afford to play twenty questions with every candidate. Did you get a good night’s rest?”
Startled by the lieutenant’s rapid-fire question, it took Rod a moment to respond.
“Well? Answer me, candidate.”
“Uh, yes, sir, I did.” The sound of harried voices drifted in from outside.
“Good. I hope you enjoyed it. It will be the last good sleep you’ll get for four years,” the lieutenant said. He rifled through a pile of manila colored tags. “Next time, don’t stutter, and from now on speak in complete, grammatically correct sentences.” Pulling out a tag from the pile, he grabbed string and tied a knot through the red hole on the tag. He looked up before writing on the tag. “Simone, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He put the string and tag around Rod’s neck. “Don’t take this off. We don’t want you to forget who you are. Pick up your bags and get out of here.” He swung his attention to the young man behind him. “Next!”
Rod grabbed his pipes, swung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and moved out of the lieutenant’s presence. His face felt flush from the curt exchange. He’d thought there’d be more camaraderie, more encouragement for being a member of the first class. Maybe the lieutenant hadn’t gotten enough sleep himself.
The storage room across the hall was filled high with suitcases, hang-up bags of clothes, cardboard boxes, and cases of musical instruments. A tech sergeant rose from a metal chair as Rod entered the room. With his head shaved nearly bald, everything about the man looked spotless. He glanced at the tag around Rod’s neck. “Mr. Simone?”
“Yes, sir. Rod Simone.”
“Stow those bagpipes over there, but keep your duffle bag.” The sergeant scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed a carbon copy to Rod. “Here you go. Don’t lose it. You’ll need it to get them back after Basic Cadet Training.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. That’s for the officers. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant smiled and patted him on the arm. “Relax. Now get out of here, son. And good luck. You’re in for one hell of a ride, so enjoy it.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod shouldered his duffle bag and moved to the next room.
He stood at the end of a long hall that was lined with tables. Each table had a hand-painted sign hanging from the ceiling. The first sign said SHOT RECORDS, then BLOOD WORK, IMMUNIZATIONS, WEIGHT, BLOOD PRESSURE, EYE TEST, HEARING, and other signs so far down the hall that Rod couldn’t read.
The hallway bustled with cadet candidates. Some spoke to enlisted men sitting at the tables. Others disappeared into the various rooms behind the tables. It was a gauntlet of medical examinations.
“Next candidate, step up!” Everyone sounded irritated.
Over the next forty-five minutes, Rod was poked, shot, pricked, and examined. Every orifice of his body either peered into or prodded.
“—Turn your head and cough.”
“—Drop your trou, lean over, and grab the table. Grit your teeth, son. This will just take a moment.”
“—Don’t squint, it will only hurt your results on the next test.”
“—Oops! Sorry. Tighten up again. I’ve got to find another vein.”
“—You’ll have to get those wisdom teeth pulled out after basic. We can’t have our pilots get air trapped back there and get a toothache when flying.”
Rod went from station to station, presenting the tag around his neck. Soon, he began to feel like a pinball, being batted from flipper to flipper.
Finally reaching the door at the end of the hall, Rod’s arms and buttocks hurt from all the prodding and shots. As he left, he was assured that once he’d had the boosters then he could be deployed worldwide at any time.
He blinked as he stepped into the bright Colorado sunshine, joining a line that formed outside the door. In contrast to the antiseptic odors in the medical hall the air smelled fresh and incredibly clean.
A small, bright red plane sat on top of a pedestal in the center of the buildings. Rows of long, two story, wooden dorms sprawled at one end of the grassy area on the opposite side of the red plane. Another row of buildings, looking as if they had been built during World War II, lined the other side.
A sergeant stepped up and spoke in a low tone, all business. “Gentlemen, you’re going to march everywhere you go, so listen up. Always start with your left foot. If everyone looks like they’re bouncing except for you, then you’re out of step.”
He walked around the line and corrected the candidates’ postures, pushing in a stomach here, making sure another person’s back was straight. He called out over another group of candidates marching past. “We’ve got a lot to do before 1100, starting with learning how to march. Remember to start with your left foot.” He drew in a breath and bawled, “Flight. Forward, harch.”
The men lurched off across the plaza. Rod felt a swell of pride as they followed the sergeant. Here he was, after all these years, finally here. It didn’t seem real, with the incredibly blue sky, the slight nip of the morning air, and the headiness of being in the first Academy class. This was just about too easy, and if this was all he would have to put up with, then the next four years should be a piece of cake.
They marched up the steps of a squat wooden building. Once inside, they bumped to a stop. A row of barber’s chairs lined the far wall, filled with young men. The black-and-white checkered linoleum floor was strewn with clumps of hair.
A constant buzz of clippers filled the room, stopping only when a barber was finished with his victim. One by one the candidates pushed up from the chair, ran a hand over their bald heads, and stared in horror at the mirror in the back of the room.
Like an assembly line, the candidates entered the barbershop as a diverse group of individuals—high school superstars, junior college standouts, from wealthy and poor families, wearing flat-tops, duck-flips, or long beatnik locks. They all left bald.
“Next!”
Rod dropped his duffle bag and plopped into the chair. He ran a hand through his hair, glad that the mirror was behind him so he wouldn’t see the carnage.
The candidate sitting next to Rod slouched down in his seat and sighed. He spoke in a clipped Boston accent. “Just a little off the side, and a light trim on top, Pierre. I have a hot date tonight after the golf tournament.” He wore yellow pants and a loud green shirt, as if he were trying to draw attention to himself.
Laughter rippled across the room. The candidates looked at each other nervously. Rod half expected an officer to pop into the barbershop and demand that the candidates stop talking.
The candidate from New England closed his eyes. He appeared to be one of the shortest men around, as well as looking as though he carried about twenty extra pounds of girth. “Man, oh, man, daddy-o, this is the life. When do they bring in the manicurist and masseuse?”
Rod squirmed in his seat as the clown chattered on. At first the short candidate was funny, but the longer he prattled the more Rod slumped into his chair, and the more he didn’t want to be next to the guy. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be smart to bring attention to himself.
The barber finished Rod’s hair with two swipes of the clippers. He announced, “Next!” He whipped the apron from around Rod’s neck, and with a crack of the cloth, dumped Rod’s hair on the floor.
Rod stood uncertainly. Turning to the mirror, he saw a stranger, dressed in his clothes but with a ridiculous-looking, untanned white scalp. His head felt like a field of stubble. At least he wouldn’t have to carry around a comb for a while.
The short candidate next to him wailed. “The co-eds at Wellesley are crying today.” Even the barbers started laughing.
Rod quickly picked up his duffle bag and left, eager to get as far away from the clown as he could.
O O O
The sergeants’ tempers grew shorter the closer it got to 11 a.m.
His arms aching from myriad shots, Rod stood outside clothing issue behind one of the largest candidates he had seen. The guy must have weighed over 200 pounds, yet Rod didn’t see an ounce of fat on him. He was obviously one of the football players that would make up the Academy’s fledgling football team. When the line moved inside the building, the hulk in front of Rod stepped forward, leaving Rod at the front of the line.
Rod stood at the end of yet another long hallway. Doors and long counters were interspersed on either side of the corridor, making the passageway seem like a maze.
An airman waved Rod forward. “Next! Step lively, young man, we’re running short of time.” The airman wasn’t much older than Rod and had a curt, no-nonsense attitude. Two twenty-pound weights sat on the side of the desk, next to a box of pencils.
An old man stood by the airman. He had large ears, a red freckled face, thin hair, and grinned as if he was really enjoying himself. The man’s tie was loose and pulled to the side. A tape measure hung around his neck.
Now familiar with the drill, Rod walked curtly up to the airman and held out the tag hanging from his neck.
The airman lifted the card from around Rod’s neck and wrote something down in his notebook. He motioned Rod to move to the side of the table. “Stand up straight, candidate. If Mr. Mushala doesn’t get your measurements right, you’ll be wearing tight trou for the next four years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”
“Yes, sir. Okay, sure,” Rod said.
“What’s your shoe size?”
“Ten, sir. I mean, just size ten.”
“We’ll see.” The airman pointed to the two barbells lying on the table. “Take off your shoes, grab these weights and step on the shoe scale.”
Rod complied, grunting as he lifted the weights.
The airman squinted down at the scale. “Size 11 and a half. Put down the weights.”
“Hey!” Rod said. “That’s too big.”
“Not when you’re carrying an 80 pound pack. Believe me, your feet are going to flatten out. Now stand up straight.”
Walking stooped over, Mr. Mushala moved behind Rod and quickly wrapped a tape measure around Rod’s neck. “Fifteen neck,” he said. The airman dutifully wrote on Rod’s tag.
“Arms, 32; waist, 30; inseam, 32 …” For being so old the man scurried around Rod like a hummingbird, calling out measurements and brandishing the measuring tape like a whip. Now in front of him, the man asked, “What side do you wear your pants?”
Rod blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your pants, young man,” the old man smiled. “On what side do you wear your pants?” He pointed to Rod’s crotch.
“I wear my pants straight, I guess.” Rod looked helplessly at the young airman.
“Your nuts,” the airman said; he rapidly tapped a pencil on the desk. “He wants to know on what side of your pants your balls dangle.”
“I don’t know,” Rod said, mystified. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“You right handed, young man?” said the tailor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we say you wear your pants on your right.” He stepped back and looked up at Rod, grinning. “That’s it. You all done. Whew-wee! Good luck, and have fun.” He thumped Rod on the shoulder and stepped back to stand by the airman.
The airman shoved the tag back at Rod. “Move to the next station.” He called out to the next candidate. “Speed out, we’re running short of time!”
Rod picked up his duffle bag and headed down the hall.
“Let’s go, mister! Over here.” Another airman stood behind a counter and waved him forward. Piles of socks were bundled in the room behind the airman. Behind Rod on the other side of the hall the room was stacked full of underwear. Glancing down the corridor, Rod saw room after room of clothing—green fatigues, blue khakis, pants, shoes, jackets, raincoats, hats, handkerchiefs, belts, jumpsuits, boots, helmets—it seemed as if a giant military clothing store had been stuffed into the building.
Cadet candidates shuffled back and forth across the hallway, cramming as much clothing as they could into their duffle bags. Sergeants stood in the middle of the hall directing traffic, urging candidates to move ever faster, and to hurry, hurry, hurry!
“Let’s go! We don’t have all day!” An airman whistled at Rod to pay attention.
Rod quickly learned to hold his tag out so that the men working behind the counter could read it and reach for clothing to dump into his duffle bag. With every stop, Rod’s cloth bag grew heavier and more bulky.
Once, after an airman threw a pair of pajamas and a bathrobe into Rod’s bag, the airman said, “Wait, let me see that stuff.”
Rod held out his duffle bag, which now weighed nearly fifty pounds.
The airman rummaged through it and pulled out the pajamas. Shaking them free, they ballooned out like a tent. “Sorry. These are extra-extra-large. You could fit two people in these.” Reaching behind him, he grabbed another pair and shoved them at Rod. “Here you go.”
“Let’s go, gentlemen! Time is running out.” A thin enlisted man wearing an immaculate uniform stood in the center of the hallway. Cadet candidates scurried back and forth across the hall.
The last stop was filled with hundreds of shoeboxes. An airman glanced down at Rod’s tag, turned and yelled to the men scurrying at the back of the room, “Size 11 and a half, the works!” He said to Rod, “Put on your baseball cap and stuff your clothes as far down as you can inside that duffle bag. You’ve hit the mother lode, Mr. Candidate.”
Rod immediately dropped his already stuffed bag to the ground and dug around for the black baseball cap he had been issued four or five stations ago; he placed it on his head and pushed the rest of his newly issued clothes as far down into the bag as he could.
When he looked up, the counter was filled with two shoeboxes, a pair of slippers, shower clogs, foot powder, black and brown shoe polish, and two pairs of combat boots. Rod groaned. How on earth was he ever going to get all that inside his bag?
The airman rapidly tied the boot’s laces together in a large looping knot. He tossed the boots to Rod. “Here. Hang these around your neck. I’ll help you stuff the rest of your gear into the bag.”
With two pairs of boots dangling from his neck, baseball cap low over his eyes and his duffle bag now looking like an obese green worm, Rod staggered out the door of the supply building with his arms wrapped around his worldly possessions.
“Let’s move it, candidates! You have twenty minutes until the 1100 formation! I wouldn’t be late if I were you!” A sergeant dressed in khakis and a pith helmet stood just outside the building. He bawled at the candidates, who scurried around, unsteadily carrying their loads as if drunks staggering under a huge stack of dishes.
Holding his duffle bag with both arms, Rod couldn’t see over the top; instead, he tried to balance the load and swivel to the side. “Excuse, me, sir. Where do I take this?”
The sergeant reached behind Rod and glanced at the tag that dangled from the string around his neck. “Dorm 4, second floor, room 22. Head straight ahead and look for the fourth building on your right. Dump that stuff on your bed, get dressed, and be back here in less than twenty minutes. Understand, candidate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Okay, sergeant.”
The gaunt man slapped him on the rear. “Get moving, son. And don’t be late! You’re about to have an experience you’ll remember for the rest of your life.” He turned and started yelling at the other candidates just emerging from the building. “Come on, gentlemen, I’m not standing out here for my health. Now get moving!”
Rod staggered out across the sidewalk, trying to keep his balance. The juxtaposition of fresh air, bright sunlight, green grass, white sidewalk, the sounds of sergeants yelling out instructions, shot Rod’s adrenaline sky high. He was ready for this. He was excited. He was in the best shape of his life and was both mentally and physically prepared for embracing the Academy and excelling. He knew that he was ready for whatever they threw at him.
Another sergeant steered him to Building 4. Rod felt so full of energy that he took the stairs two steps at a time, while still holding on to his jiggling barrel-like duffle bag.
An airman in the center of the hallway chanted in a monotone, “Gentlemen, you have fifteen minutes to change into your basic uniform: long sleeve khaki shirt with tie, khaki pants, blue belt, black socks, low quarter heel black shoes, and wheel cap. Leave your duffle bag on your rack in your room.”
Rod staggered into room 4B22 and started to dump his duffle bag when he noticed that both the beds in the room were full. Two cadet candidates in various stages of undress stared at him.
“B22?” Rod said.
“Wrong room. This is 4B24. The room number is on the right side of the door.”
“Sorry.” Rod backed out hastily.
“Better hurry,” came a voice from the room he just left.
“Gentlemen, you have fourteen minutes!”
Rod stepped into the room next door, spotted an empty bed, and threw his duffle bag on top. Clothes were scattered on the other bed, so whoever was Rod’s roommate had already gotten dressed and had left his side of the room in disarray. It didn’t seem right for things to be this messy at a military academy, which set Rod to wondering if he should try to straighten things up before getting outside.
The beds were pushed against opposite walls. Two desks with chairs were centered under a large window that looked out to the next dorm building. Behind him, an empty closet stood with its doors wide open, and aside from some lint residing in a corner, the room was sterile, hollow.
Rod thought about trying to arrange his clothes in the closet, but one of the airmen stuck his face in the room. “Hurry and get dressed, candidate. You have eleven minutes. I wouldn’t be late if I were you!”
“Yes, sergeant.” Rod turned and immediately started tearing through his clothes. He shook out the wrinkled khaki Shade 84 dress uniform that he had brought from home, as instructed in his acceptance letter. From the urgency in the sergeant’s voice, Rod figured it was more important to get dressed and be outside on time than it was to be neat.
He finished tying his shoes when the voice outside the room announced sternly, “Four minutes! Let’s speed out, gentlemen!”
Grabbing the blue wheel cap, he ran from the room. Two airmen stood at the end of the hall, waving for him to hurry. They herded the last of several candidates from the floor; they pointed to the stairwell.
“Hurry up! Two minutes! Line up in the quadrangle. You are in B for Bravo squadron. Let’s move it!”
Someone slapped Rod on the rear as he raced down the stairs. “Put your hat on when you get outside. And good luck, candidate.”
Rod turned the corner and ran from the building. From the corner of his eye he saw candidates streaming from the next building. The scene repeated itself as far as he could see. It looked as though rivulets of ants converged onto a pile of food.
In the center of the area, lined up in rows, airmen held signs over their heads; each was painted with a giant letter of the alphabet. “B for Bravo over here! Line up alphabetically candidates, and let me know you’re here!”
“A for Alpha!”
“D for Delta squadron over here! Let’s go, let’s go! Get in line and stand at attention!” In a controlled confusion of blue hats, khaki uniforms, and scuffling shoes, the enlisted men simultaneously took roll and lined the candidates up in a long column behind the signs. They stood on a street in front of the barracks, overlooking a rectangular area.
Just as Rod fell in line, the sound of a bugle echoed throughout the area. For the first time, Rod noticed loudspeakers on the top of poles at the edge of the quadrangle. In addition, each of the buildings had a loudspeaker fastened to the corner, which made the sound seem to come from everywhere at once.
The sergeants fell silent as the bugle played. They stepped into line alongside the candidates and stood rigidly at attention.
When the last sound echoed away, no one stirred.
It was as if a cloud of absolute silence had descended and blanketed the dorm area. It was so still that Rod heard the flag quietly flapping in the breeze. No one spoke, and Rod wondered if someone had forgotten to show up to greet them.
Suddenly, Rod heard the sound of feet marching in unison. Faint at first, then the noise grew louder. Precise, like the increasing beat of a drum, it sounded as though a huge army approached. A murmur ran through the candidate ranks. The sergeants stationed throughout the group kept at attention, looking straight ahead and not saying a word.
The sound rumbled louder as five columns of men, dressed in long-sleeved khaki uniforms marched around the corner. Led by an officer with a silver eagle gleaming from each shoulder, the men all marched perfectly in step, white-gloved hands swinging in unison. There must have been fifty officers in all.
The men stopped directly in front of the candidates. “Left turn, harch.” Heels clicked as they faced the candidates.
Scanning the line of stern-faced men, Rod recognized the lieutenant who had first checked him in this morning. The officers stared straight ahead, and none of them looked happy. Rod felt a sudden chill. Uh-oh.
A lone Master Sergeant stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, all candidates are present and accounted for.”
“Thank you, sergeant. Dismiss your men.”
“Yes, sir.” The Master Sergeant turned. “Sergeants, post!” The enlisted men slipped quietly away, leaving just the cadet candidates facing the group of officers.
The colonel stepped forward and surveyed the candidates. He took a long moment to look them over, then spoke in a loud voice.
“Candidates. Welcome to the United States Air Force Academy. I am Colonel Stillman, your Commandant of Cadets. You have been selected as the first class of the United States Air Force Academy. This is a great honor, and I expect you to rise to the challenge. The next four years are going to be tough, but you would not have been selected if we thought that you would fail. You gentlemen will set the standard for classes to come. If you succeed, they will succeed. But if you fail, so will they.
“There are going to be times during the coming years when you will feel like quitting. There will be times when you will be so busy, and so lonely, that you will think that this will never end. But let me assure you, that although you may think this is the toughest training anyone has endured, our nation’s two other military academies have existed for over a hundred years. Their system is just as tough, and their graduates have gone on to become world leaders. But they only did so by giving one hundred ten percent.
“I will expect nothing less from any of you. I am not overseeing a summer camp. I am not a babysitter. I am in the business of defending our nation against the meanest sons of bitches in the world. And the only way to defend against them is by training harder than they do. Over the next four years—and in particular, the next eight weeks of Basic Cadet Training—that training is going to be tougher than anything you’ve ever done in your life.
“We will turn you into cadets. We will first teach you to follow and then to lead. Then we will make you officers. In General Patton’s words, ‘If you can’t get them to salute when they should salute and wear the clothes you tell them to wear, how are you going to get them to die for their country?’”
He paused. “My first job is to teach you to march so we can conduct the dedication ceremony at 1600. And with that …” he performed a perfect about face and raised his voice to the officers standing rigidly behind him, “Officers. Make corrections!”
With a roar, the fifty men broke ranks. Like an incoming tsunami, they ran forward to consume the cadet candidates.
Rod stiffened as the hoard of red-faced, screaming officers sprinted toward them, howling like a hurricane.
***