Chapter Two
“Baby Talk”
August, 1959
Stanford University Married Student Housing
No, when the fight begins within himself, a man’s worth something.
Robert Browning, Bishop Blougram’s Apology
Rod scrunched over the small kitchen table that was covered with books, journal articles, pads of paper, pencils, and a cup of cold, stale coffee. He squinted in the dim light from a single overhead bulb and reread the problem set for his graduate mechanics class for the third time. He couldn’t understand the words—or even concentrate on what they meant. Not with all the racket going on in the next room.
For the last two hours Nanette’s screams had pierced the normally quiet married student housing. Julie had even turned on the kitchen and bathroom faucets to try to mask Nanette’s shrill cries from the neighbors, but all that accomplished was to fill the small apartment with a cacophony of noise. With the distractions and loud sounds, it might have been better if he’d attended Columbia University in downtown New York City; at least with the traffic and taxicabs, they wouldn’t be constantly disturbing their neighbors.
Rod raised his voice. “Julie! Did you burp her?”
“I’ve been burping her, rocking her, walking her, and swinging her all night … everything but giving her a shot of booze.”
“Well don't do that! Do you think she’s teething?”
Julie appeared in her pink bathrobe at the doorway, her hair in disarray, eyes bloodshot. She rocked Nanette in her arms. It was hard to imagine that such loud, frantic screams could come from something that small. “She’s only seven weeks old, but I’m putting cold compresses on her gums in case she’s teething early. Nothing seems to work.”
“Then what else do you think is wrong?”
“Dr. Spock says its colic. If that’s the case, there’s nothing we can do. She may have it for another two or three months.”
“Oh, great.” It seemed as soon Nanette hit three weeks old, the screaming started every night at six on the button and lasted anywhere from three to five hours. Rod didn’t know how much more of this he could handle. “Isn’t there something else you can try?”
Julie stared. “You’re kidding, right? You think I enjoy this? Why don’t you quiet her down?”
Rod felt the veins on the side of his head start to pound; the past few hours of nonstop screaming was getting to him. “I have to study. This is my job, remember? If I don’t graduate, then I don’t go to pilot training.”
“Well, screw pilot training. What about me? Aren’t my goals just as important as yours?”
“I thought your goal was having a good time,” Rod said.
Julie pulled back and her eyes widened. She turned and left the room, rocking Nanette in her arms.
Rod closed his eyes. He felt like a heel. He knew Julie was constantly watching Nanette, and if tonight’s short time he’d been at home was wearing on him, he couldn’t imagine what she was going through.
And now, look what he’d done. Although she’d never told him what she’d really wanted in life, what he just said still wasn’t nice—or fair. He’d hit her below the belt.
He pushed up and walked into their small bedroom. Julie sat on the bed, looking dully at the floor. Nanette screamed while lying on the mattress, her eyes squeezed shut and her tiny fists clenched.
Nanette’s crib was pushed up against the wall, next to Julie’s side of the bed. Their clothes were stacked in cardboard boxes that served as a temporary chest of drawers. He wouldn’t get flight pay until he started pilot training, so his $222.30 a month Second Lieutenant’s salary didn’t allow them leeway for extravagance—which for now was anything more than housing, food, and baby formula.
He thought of his former roommate’s father, Mr. George Delante, and his caustic observation of how Air Force officers would be eking out a living, and how George Delante had urged his son, Fred, to quit the Air Force as soon as possible so that he could exploit his education for making money.
Well, Fred never had to make that decision since he’d been booted from the Academy on an Honor violation … so it was Rod, and not Fred, who was experiencing the truth of Mr. Delante’s prophesy.
“I’m sorry,” Rod said.
Julie ignored him.
He reached for Nanette. He used a hand to support her head and brought the shrilling baby to his shoulder; he patted her back. He whispered in her ear, “That’s okay, sweetheart.”
He turned back to Julie, feeling like an absolute jerk. “Julie … I didn’t mean it—”
“Go to hell.” Julie buried her head in a pillow.
Rod stood there for a moment. He thought he heard her sob, and his stomach felt sour. “Julie.”
When she didn’t answer he turned to leave, rocking Nanette as she continued to scream.
As he left the bedroom, he remembered that Mr. Delante had lectured him about this austere life when he and Rod were just a few, scant miles away in San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel—barely three years ago … and on the same night he’d met Barbara Richardson.
*
October 1959
Engineering building, Stanford University
Rod glanced at his watch and was startled to see that nearly an hour had passed since he’d last looked at the time. It was eight thirty on a Wednesday night, and although five other graduate students sat next to him at the sprawling oak table, the library in Stanford’s engineering hall was dead quiet; even the sounds of papers rustling seemed to be muffled by the surrounding bookshelves.
What a change from studying at home.
Rod turned his attention back to the two problems assigned during this afternoon’s class. He’d quickly assimilated to graduate school, and compared to the hectic pace of life as a cadet, he now felt that he had an enormous amount of time to devote to studying.
Especially in contrast to the first few months with Nanette’s colic, where he’d found he had to camp out in the engineering building in order to complete the horrendous problem sets that his professors kept assigning. But as opposed to his Academy homework, where he might be able to complete several assignments in the span of an hour, he discovered that sometimes it took that same amount of time just to comprehend what his professors even asked.
Thank goodness he’d reached an understanding with Julie: he’d study like crazy all week, and then watch Nanette over the weekend. Julie still did the heavy lifting, but at least he could give her a break.
Rod looked around the table. He recognized three of the students from this afternoon’s class; he’d seen the other two in Professor Rhoades’ Special Topics seminar, and assumed that they were all working on a similar problem set. Everyone was a first semester graduate student in Aeronautical Engineering, but no one had spoken in the last hour.
That was another reason for studying in the small engineering library annex, instead of the much larger library complex—there was almost no chance that Barbara Richardson would be here.
He turned back to his papers. He knew the purpose of these homework sets was to not only make graduate students apply what they’d learned, but to force them to use creative leaps in solving real-world problems.
Professor Rhoades had said the world wasn’t just a series of homework exercises where you simply guessed at multiple choice answers; rather it was a complex, frothy, and ever changing exercise in intuitively connecting-the-dots, sometimes using unassociated, disparate information. And just as attending class brought new insight into solving problems, Rod remembered his most useful learning experiences as a cadet had come from participating with a group—with his squadron, or with his classmates in a focused study session.
He was tired of slogging it out alone, and with two months into graduate school, it was time to make a change. Civilian university or not, there was a better way to study and it was time to see who would join him.
Rod looked around the table and cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I assume you’re all working on Dr. Ahluwalia’s problem set in Methods of Theoretical Aeronautics?”
Most of the graduate students put down their papers; one ignored him, and another arched her brow. “So?”
“Since we’re all working the same problem, why don’t we solve it as a group? Use our collective knowledge to gain more insight into both what Dr. Ahluwalia is looking for, as well as the physical principles he wants us to learn.”
“You mean solve the problem as a team.”
“Right.”
The female graduate student shrugged. “Sure. Seems okay to me.”
“Yeah,” another said. “Anything to help.”
“It’s called homework for a reason,” said the lone student, still bent over his papers. “You do homework on your own.”
Rod frowned. “You’ve never participated in a study group?”
The graduate student didn’t look up. “Why should I? I’ve always been the brightest in school. I’ve never needed anyone’s help. These problems are a piece of cake.”
The female said softly, “Then why have you been here tonight as long as the rest of us?”
The loner looked up and glared, then returned to his problem set.
Rod gathered his papers and stood. “There’s a small conference room next door with a blackboard. Why don’t we use it to brainstorm?”
“Right.” The others pushed back their chairs and gathered their material.
As they left, Rod stopped by the lone holdout. “You’re welcome to join us.”
The graduate student didn’t reply.
Rod shrugged. “Just come on in if you change your mind.”
Rod followed the other four students out of the engineering library and across the hall. They left the conference room door open as they started their discussion, in the chance that their fellow student might want to join them.
*
Two hours later, Rod and his classmates finished copying the train of equations they’d transcribed on the conference room’s four blackboards. Rod felt that their discussions had given him more insight than he ever would have ever obtained by working alone. In addition, they finished in record time, allowing them to concentrate on their other classes; they made plans to meet after Thursday’s class to start working on the next set.
The last one out, Rod closed the conference room door; a voice startled him.
“Lieutenant Simone?”
He turned. Professor Rhoades leaned against a doorframe, pipe smoke curled around him.
“Hello, Dr. Rhoades,” Rod said.
“I heard your plea to form your study group.”
Rod shifted his books from his left hand to his right. “We didn’t bother you, did we?”
“No, no. My office is across the hall and I couldn’t help but overhearing.” He straightened and stepped toward Rod. “And I peeked in to watch your group’s progress. Nice work, Lieutenant. I can see the Academy succeeded in its leadership training. Every time I try to persuade faculty members or students that study groups work, it’s like trying to convince a herd of cats to all move in one direction.”
“It didn’t take much to convince the graduate students, sir. After two months alone of hitting my head against the wall, study groups make a lot more sense.”
“Still, you managed to persuade your classmates; most of them, anyway. And from the way I observed you leading the group, I think you have a future in education. You’re one of the standouts in my class.”
He tapped his pipe and drew in smoke. “Why don’t you stay at Stanford and complete your course work for a PhD. All you’d have left to do would be to conduct your research for your dissertation, and you could return to the Academy as an assistant professor. From what I’ve seen in my seminar, you have a natural talent for academics as well as leadership.”
Rod straightened. He felt somewhat flustered at the praise, but he knew what he wanted in the short term. And it wasn’t returning to the Academy, at least not soon—although someday it might be fun to go back and teach. “Thank you, sir, but I really do want to fly. I’ve wanted to all my life, and if I do well in pilot training, I’ll have a good chance of getting fighters. It’s been my dream as long as I can remember.”
Rhoades smiled. “Ah, yes. Fighters. The future of the Air Force. Well, consider what I’ve offered, and even if you decide not to pursue a PhD, think about going back to the Academy to teach after your flying assignment. I think you’d enjoy it.”
Rod lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, sir. I’ll consider it.” He’d never really thought about going back to teach, but now that Rhoades had mentioned it, he realized he did have a lot invested in the place. He couldn’t say he’d always enjoyed being a cadet, but the incredible opportunities he’d been given, from flying to navigator training while living under the honor code, made him prepared for attending flight school.
Rhoades turned to leave, then almost as an afterthought, stopped. “Lieutenant, something’s been nagging at me.”
“Sir?”
“I’m sure we’ve met before. I don’t know if you remember, but eight years ago I was completing my sabbatical at Cranwell when I attended the Farnborough Airshow, the one with that unfortunate disaster. You look very familiar, and I’m positive you're the young man who helped in the initial rescue.”
Rod felt his face grow warm. The memory of the burning jet tumbling through the crowd of on-lookers was still seared in his memory. “Yes, sir. I was there. Hank McCluney was my father, and brought my mother and me to the airshow.”
“General McCluney’s your father?”
“Yes, sir—my adoptive father. He rescued me after he was shot down over Cahors.”
Rhoades nodded. “So … that explains your French accent. And yes, I do remember meeting you. You’re a lucky man, Lieutenant. It’s unusual for someone so young to experience Farnborough.”
“I don’t remember too much about anyone there because of the … accident.” He shook his head. “Sorry, sir. About the only one I distinctly remember was Lieutenant Whitney, who led the rescue.” And only because at the time I was impressed with his self-assurance, and not with the man he turned out to be.
“Of course,” Rhoades mused, “Field Marshal Whitney. Now that is a man who’s a legend in his own mind. He was nearly as bad as that reprobate land developer who kept telling your father where to build the Academy.”
Rod opened his mouth to disagree when he realized that Dr. Rhoades had put Whitney in his place, while simultaneously dismissing Whitney’s inflated opinion of himself. Well played, professor.
But who was this so-called reprobate?
Rod frowned. “Yes, sir—but I’m afraid I don’t know who else you’re talking about.”
Rhoades cocked his head. “George Delante. I’m surprised General McCluney never mentioned him. That man pestered your father throughout every phase of the Academy study.”
Rod felt his face grow red. “He … he had mentioned Mr. Delante, sir. They weren’t exactly on the best of terms.” Which was putting it lightly. His father couldn't stand the man, as Delante had tried everything from blackmail to extortion to force his father to build the Academy at an ill-suited site in south Colorado Springs. He was so slimy it wouldn’t surprise him if Delante had even had a hand in his father’s death.…
Rod drew in a breath.
Now where had that come from? He hadn’t seen Delante since graduation, when he’d spotted George and his son, Fred, with Captain Whitney in the stands.
But could Delante have been involved in father’s crash? That would explain a lot—
He abruptly changed the subject; he didn’t want to get into that whole mess with Dr. Rhoades. “Well anyway, thank you for supporting our study group, sir.”
“Anything to help our best and brightest.” Rhoades motioned him to leave. “Now you’d better get home. I assume your wife is waiting for you, Lieutenant, so this study group should free up time for you to return to her good graces. Heaven knows you’ll have even less time to spend with your family once you get to pilot training. And, oh yes, please, give my regards to General McCluney.”
“Yes, sir.” Rod hesitated. “But he … died in a plane crash this past spring.”
Rhoades’ face fell. “I’m sorry to hear that. I enjoyed working with him; we go back a long way. In 1948 we attended the first meetings at Air University to establish an air academy.…” He grew quiet.
“The general who’s heading up the Flight Accident Board was a good friend of dad’s. He’ll find the underlying cause of the crash.” And would that path lead to George Delante?
“Good. Now if there’s anything I can do, I’d be happy to help. Just put your mind to completing this year, young man. With your background and this degree, you have a world of opportunity ahead of you.
“But don’t forget going back to the Air Force Academy—they gave you a world-class education, and hopefully produced the best officer they could, all on taxpayer expense. After flying, you owe it both to the Academy and the nation to return the favor, and pay it forward.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you, that’s good advice.” Rod turned and walked down the long, empty hallway for home. Another seven months and he’d be through with this latest phase of his life.
He hadn’t thought about his father for a few weeks now, and George Delante even longer. He hoped it wouldn’t distract him from his studies, because Professor Rhoades was right, he did have a lot of opportunity—but right now there was something he wanted more than anything else in the world, and it wasn’t teaching cadets: it was flying fighters.