by Donna Faye
Stella heard the snicker from that mouthy brat as she ran past. Indignation swept over Stella as she silently fumed about being disciplined for putting that idiot in line, as she ran ahead to rejoin Elaina. Why would they punish her for defending that man? It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?
Chapter 7: “GI Party”
A term used to describe scrubbing the barracks from top to bottom. This sort of party is seldom, if ever, fun.
“Trainee di Imbrogliado, front and center,” Stella heard her new TI, Staff Sgt. Lucas King, call out as she sat on the day room floor and studied her training manual. He often mumbled, which made it hard for Stella to understand him, but this time he was loud and clear.
Irked, she rose from the floor and walked over to Sgt. King. Her sneakers squeaked on the spotless floor. She snapped to attention and saluted before offering her required reporting statement for the second time that day.
“At ease, trainee. I got an interesting report from Senior Master Sgt. Vinyard after PT today. Do you have anything you’d like to say about this?” he asked as he handed over the 341 the TI filled out earlier. “Read it over before you answer.”
Surprise washed over Stella as she read the remarks, “The trainee exemplified the Core Values and she showed exceptional leadership abilities today by correcting the poor behavior of another trainee. She did so while continuing to perform the task set before her, and accomplished all this with excellence and integrity.”
She read it twice to be sure she was not imagining the words there. Stella forced her jaw closed, then looked up to the face of Sgt. King. Was that a smirk she spied on his face? It was too quick to catch, but she got the distinct feeling he was impressed.
“Do you have anything to say about this, Trainee di Imbrogliado?” he asked.
“Sir, I don’t know what you want me to say,” Stella spoke softly to her TI, but she knew every eye and ear in her entire flight of forty-five women followed their conversation.
“Senior Master Sgt. Vinyard explained the situation to me when he gave me this,” he said quietly as he gestured toward the form. Then he spoke up, clearly intending for everyone to hear what he was saying. “The training superintendent said you could’ve ignored the slander of an outstanding airman...” – he glanced menacingly toward the corner of the room where a certain mouthy sat gaping – “... but you didn’t.”
Unease crept up her spine, would he make her rehash what happened during their run? He continued, “Well done, trainee. Sign this and have a seat.”
That was the end of it, much to Stella’s relief.
Later, as Stella and Elaina tidied up their area of the dorm before bed, she shared what the superintendent had written on the 341. Elaina listened and shared her relief that Stella wasn’t in trouble for defending the mystery man they’d since dubbed “Running Man,” like the old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. They laughed together at the mental image of their favorite runner wearing the golden spandex costume from the movie.
On Sundays TIs encouraged trainees to attend worship services according to their own faith practices, something Audrey had also strongly encouraged.
AS she knelt in the chapel, Stella felt as if a wellspring of feelings surged through her body. She’d never expected the gut-wrenching emotions that flooded in as she prayed – the ones she’d been too busy to face since she’d been tucked up in Audrey’s bed, away from her sham of a marriage and traitorous mother.
The torrent of hurt peaked and brought tears to her eyes. She wept from the crushing feeling of having her own mother betray her so horrifically, and experienced rage at her mistreatment by those she should’ve been able to trust the most.
She also mourned for having truly reached the end of her marriage. She’d done her best, but it was clear now that she’d built her future on quicksand. It wasn’t her fault, but Stella still felt like a failure, with an acute fear of being alone forever, and of what the future might hold.
But she also experienced the excitement of doing something new and worthwhile, something she’d secretly longed to do for years.
Stella’s litany of emotions mixed together, boiling over to bring violent sobs as she knelt in the pew. She blubbered, albeit silently, through the whole Mass, barely managing to stand and walk for Communion. She cried until her tears ran dry.
Then, a peace she’d never known swelled up in her heart. Relief and strength pushed out her remaining woes to help her face what life had become, and gave her the courage she needed to forge ahead and create the life she wanted.
She dried her eyes after Mass, and returned to the dorm. There she joined their first GI Party, aka cleaning duty.
With all hands on deck, the flight deep cleaned the bays. This was slightly more relaxed than most days in training, as they could talk and even sing while they worked. However, the greatest source of entertainment entered with the floor buffer.
“Just hold it steady!” someone shouted as Stella found herself being flung in circles by the evil scrubber as it spiraled out of control.
“I’m trying,” Stella harrumphed as Elaina grabbed the bar, too, in an attempt to bring the thing under control. “I need some leverage.”
Somebody else yelled for her to turn it off. After much trial and error, they managed to shine the floors by taking turns with one person riding on top of the machine’s body while two or three others operated the handle.
But that soon deteriorated into games when they took bets on who could stay on the longest in their buffer rodeo. As with most fun things, it all ended gloriously with the machine bucking one of the tiny chicks into the wall locker, then the squawk box sounded as the attending TI howled at them to shut up.
As she stretched and massaged her achy arms and shoulders later that night – the afternoon’s and days of PT had her body screaming at her – Stella snickered at herself. She was sore everywhere. But it was the kind of pain that brought pride – she’d earned those aches and that was the best kind of hurt.
…
The Air Force packed Week One with marching, PT, and classes. Death by PowerPoint seemed inevitable as the boredom kicked in.
The near constant marching, running, lifting, new living conditions, round-the-clock Entry Control shifts (they had to guard the dorm in pairs for two-hour shifts of two twenty-four hours a day), and strenuous PT left trainees exhausted and tempted to doze off during afternoon classroom time. But woe to anyone who fell asleep.
Trainees were encouraged to stand at the back of the room if they felt themselves struggling. This was not seen as weakness, rather as strength in disciplining themselves to remain alert.
This week saw the rainbows transform into “Sneaker Weekers,” dubbed as such because they split their time between gym shoes and combat boots while in ABUs. The boots could really tear up someone’s feet with the amount of marching they accomplished that week, despite wearing two pairs of socks.
So recruits wore their boots part time and endured the snickers of advanced trainees. Stella couldn’t blame them for laughing, it looked so dorky to march around in sneakers. It was bad enough to have no markings on their uniforms without the weird footwear as their flight learned rudimentary marching skills.
They woke every morning with dawn and rushed to dress and rush down to the marching pad where they reported in to leadership.
“From my left to my right, report,” the officials would shout. Then one at a time each flight would report in with, “Sir, all airmen present and or accounted for.”
They followed this with all the groups reciting “The Airman’s Creed” and singing “The Air Force Song.” Before sunrise, every single day – even before they could brush their teeth – trainees greeted the dawn outside while they sounded off.
Afterward they’d rush back upstairs to their morning ablutions and dress in whatever the TIs declared as their PT uniform of the day. They announced this each morning over the intercom. They’d make their beds, straighten their living areas, and then l
ine up to march over to breakfast.
Who knew Stella’s old Psychology 101 class in college would pay off in boot camp? It helped her not only understand what was going on around her but kept her sense of humor in place. While thoroughly engrossed in her lessons or whatever activity Sgt. King inflicted upon them, the moment he yelled, “Chow runner, go,” her stomach growled.
It seemed she had a Pavlovian response to the words. At the TI’s command, the person assigned as chow runner ran ahead of their group to stand in line for the flight before chow time. The quicker the chow runner, the sooner the flight got to eat.
Stella mentioned this to Elaina and soon regretted it because any time he said it, her friend would give a tiny bark or mouth the word “woof” to Stella. They’d choked down the inappropriate giggles that followed. It’d felt so good to laugh, even inwardly. How had she lived without laughter for so long?
…
“Flight, tench-hut,” Sgt. King called the flight to attention. “Forward, March!”
They stepped off, leading with their left foot first…well most of them did. Stella grunted as the girl behind her kicked her right boot – again.
Of course it had to be that little brat from PT, since dubbed by Stella as Mouth, who constantly marched behind her in formation.
Mouth obviously struggled with the concept of left foot first. Or perhaps she had horrible rhythm. Either way the girl marched out of step, which meant she constantly kicked the back of Stella’s boots. She’d like to think it wasn’t intentional, because she really didn’t want to go there. Blanket parties and fist fights among friendlies were frowned upon in the modern military.
Ugh. The chick was on Stella’s last nerve, especially since she never offered an apology for stomping on her feet or for her rude comments. In fact she seemed to be growing even more antagonistic, throwing out an “Oops,” with no remorse as she picked away at Stella’s resolve to stay calm.
When everyone else worked to master whatever lessons the TIs taught, or when they snuck away to the back of the bed bay to do extra sit-ups and push-ups after their work was done, somehow Mouth was omnipresent with a sneer on her pug-like face. Only shower time and sleep provided a reprieve, and for that Stella said a silent prayer of thanks that she was assigned to sleep in the other sleeping area, in the dorm.
During their Wednesday PT session, Mouth sounded off with yet another round of rude comments about Running Man, and Stella’s patience snapped.
When she turned around from her stretch to set her straight, Stella spied the sneer on Mouth’s mug. It was as ugly as her comment, and that made her giggle.
“Ya know, Mouth, you keep on making that face and it’ll stick like that. It’d be tragic to live the rest of your life looking like your upper lip reeks.”
Mouth snapped her jaw shut, and Stella swore that if looks could kill, she’d be wounded. But she tossed her head back and laughed, glad that Nina had drilled manners into her. She didn’t need to lower herself to others’ behavior to make her point. Using humor made the person even angrier than cussing and spitting at them ever could.
When Stella turned back around to finish her hamstring stretches, she nearly fell over. Running Man winked at her as he jogged past. It wasn’t the Texas heat that had her flushed. Oh man…that man was F-I-N-E. And those eyes...those turquoise eyes…she didn’t see eyes like that every day.
Her heart lurched. Wait a minute. Stella knew those eyes. Darn it! Running Man was the giant TI she’d slammed into at the Welcome Center. If only the ground would swallow her whole.
Apparently, her face showed her thoughts, because Running Man’s low, sexy chuckle floated back to her as he ran off.
In her defense this was the first time she’d seen him up close since their collision, but it wasn’t like you saw someone who looked like that every day, or at least she hadn't. Because after that day, it seemed as if he was everywhere once she knew where to look.
Running Man had to be a sadist, there was no other explanation for the way he grinned or gave her a blush-inducing wink that nearly made her knees give out whenever their gazes connected – not exactly helpful when running or doing PT.
While doing her pull-ups (she could manage three at that point), Stella swore she felt the heat of his stare on her back, which made her lose her grip on the bar – and possibly reality, though certainly upon her hormones. No man had ever affected her so profoundly.
Stella spied Running Man in a lot more places once she realized he was a staff member. Apparently, he worked with another flight in her squadron or something because she often saw him eating at The Snake Pit – the term lovingly coined for the table where TIs ate in the chow hall. No airman ever willingly ventured over there for fear they’d lose more than their lunch.
His stride was as strong and sure as the rest of him. He definitely looked different in his uniform, even more handsome, if that was possible. His prosthetic limb must have accommodated a combat boot as well as a gym shoe. It was amazing that if people didn’t know about his injury, they wouldn’t guess it was there, as his gait was nearly unaffected. His features were rugged and his body solid and massive.
Stella yearned to know his story...but even more so, how he got back up and kept going after being hurt so badly.
Though careful to avert her eyes from the Snake Pit – even glancing that direction was an engraved invitation to trouble – Stella’s gaze drifted there often, as if by magnetic force. She noted a mischievous glint in those gorgeous turquoise eyes before he’d turn his attention her way and catch her staring.
He’d toss her another wink or smirk that would, inevitably, set her face aflame. Each time she mentally berated herself, but she had no idea why he affected her so strongly. She reminded herself again and again that not only was he off-limits as an instructor, but she had enough man problems to last a lifetime. Her life was complicated enough already.
Chapter 8: “Customs and Courtesies”
- The display of good manners and politeness in dealing with other people that builds morale and discipline.
Over the next couple weeks, Stella learned her way around basic training a whole lot better, and discovered an appreciation for her new life, especially that they could finally wear only combat boots with her ABUs. This joy was only trumped by their return trip to supply to get their blues uniforms and have their tapes sewn on their ABUs.
They deposited their ABUs with tapes, the patches worn above the chest pockets on military uniforms – Air Force on the left side and their last name on the right, in the correct pockets, into large bins, then spent ages in Supply. They issued a bunch of blues blouses, tabs (the ladies’ version of a tie), a service dress jacket, pants, and a mess of other clothing items. The low quarters, a pair of practical, but ugly, black dress shoes were meant to go with her blues uniform. They topped all with two flight hats that resembled the paper hats cooks wore at hot dog joints back in Chicago.
When they retrieved their ABUs with the Air Force finally secured above her heart, Stella wished, more than ever before, that her divorce had been complete so she hadn’t sullied her beloved uniform with the name di Imbrogliado.
She didn’t want to keep Fabian’s name, much less wear it for all to see. She was eager to change her name and put on new name tapes but she was in a conundrum. It wasn’t as if she was thrilled to carry Calista’s name, either. Unable to do anything immediately, she pushed the thought from her mind. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it, and then blow it up so neither one would follow.
The old saying, “The devil is in the details,” summed up everything in basic training for her.
Though tedious and frustrating, their emphasis on the minutia existed to remind the trainees to pay attention to what they were doing – small mistakes added up to huge losses in the military.
Stella shuddered at the TIs example of forgetting a wrench in an aircraft engine. Such a simple mistake meant the aircraft would crash and people would die. It also meant th
e loss of very valuable material resources like the plane itself as well as whatever it’d hit.
It’s important enough that any tiny mistake is treated as an improvised explosive device, IED, because missing a small detail in the field could put every person in the area at risk.
The small details they worked with in basic training were odd things like folding a shirt exactly as instructed, clipping all extra strings from garments, displaying their uniform and extra blanket perfectly at the end of the bed in case of surprise inspections during the night, and for formal inspections.
Those surprise inspections were the stuff of nightmares. A shrieking banshee TI would walk through and rattle their cages if things were out of place. Only women could enter the flight’s dorm after certain hours, so it wasn’t anything inappropriate, just alarming.
One night, a female TI picked up the end of Stella’s bed and slammed it down, nearly tossing her out of bed.
“Trainee, what is this frickin’ nonsense?” she howled at Stella as she pointed at a bandana that had somehow landed in her area.
Stella rubbed the sleep out of her eyes as she hopped out of bed and stood at attention.
“Ma’am, Trainee di Imbrogliado reports as ordered, I don’t know. It isn’t mine.” Stella swooped her hand down to grab the item before it became a bigger issue.
“What, it just magically appeared?” the lady TI taunted.
“No, ma’am,” Stella replied. “It’s trainee Evans’ bandana.” She reached over to hand it to her neighbor, and they both sighed in quiet relief as the TI moved on to her next victims.