by Donna Faye
Though fears of ineptitude weighed heavily in the beginning, Stella soon excelled in her classes at Defense Information School, or DINFOS, as it was more commonly known. It was a joint service organization, which meant all the branches of service attended there to learn the public affairs trade. It was also where the very best PA people from all the branches taught classes, and where foreign nations sent their military officers to master public relations.
Maryland was beautiful, and the people at Fort Meade had been decent so far. Stella got a big kick out of the rivalry on display during the morning formations.
When the airmen all formed up and recited the Airman’s Creed before their morning classes, the other branches kicked up their shenanigans a notch or five. The airmen loudly proclaimed their mission to fly, fight and win.
Not to be outdone, the Marines drowned out the noise from the airmen, as they shouted out a cadence. “Blood makes the grass grow, kill, kill, kill. Kill them all, kill them all, kill, kill, kill….”
If she didn’t know most of those nuts, she’d be concerned about their wellbeing. Marines were a breed apart, for sure. But they had to be for the demands of the Corps. She grinned, remembering the weekend prior when she and her friend, Carla Flores, an Air Force technical sergeant she’d met in her classes, had wandered up to the bowling alley and ended up tossing a few beers back with a band of wild Marines.
With the constant strain of classes, it’d been nice to blow off some steam, and Stella looked forward to the coming Friday night, when they planned to meet up again. Sure they were a wild bunch, but they were fun. They were charmers who kept them plied with brews, then saw them safely into a cab, with no hard feelings despite having been repeatedly shot down in their efforts to get into Carla and Stella’s pants.
There was a fun yet surreal sense of camaraderie among the branches that warmed Stella’s spirit, despite the seemingly harsh words they exchanged.
The rivalries among the branches grew exponentially as the groups convened...as evidenced by the massive Army unit that marched by immediately following the Marines. The soldier calling cadence sang out, “Just the other day I heard a master sergeant say, ‘U.S. Air Force leads the way.’” The formation replied at full earsplitting volume, “Oh what a liar.”
Stella felt a grin spread across her face as the Marines refused to be drowned out and the decibels reached epic proportions, as they upped their game shouting more than singing about an unfortunate yellow bird.
The rowdiness was to be expected if people remembered that the military existed to kill people and break things. In the world of political correctness, that factor was often overlooked. Fort Meade got wild and rowdy, but never fully out of line. Each group ribbed the other, but there was always an underlying respect.
It was essentially sibling rivalry – they picked on each other fiercely, especially the Coasties, or Coast Guardsmen, though the Air Force was often a favorite target of the Marines. Much like an annoying brother or sister, woe to anyone else who messed with them. Disrespect was not tolerated from anyone outside the family.
Morning classes would soon start for the day, and Stella could already feel her brain ache. The pace of the information was intense. She’d doubted her instructors’ assurances when they said no college program could touch this training, but they’d proven their point many times over.
Classes covered an unreal amount of subjects over the course of a few months. She’d aced two years of schooling in one of the most challenging colleges around, and yet she struggled to keep up with the overwhelming volume of information.
That day they’d spend the morning, as usual, in the j-class, or journalism session, but the afternoon they tackled speechwriting. Oh joy. Stella hated to give presentations, but part of doing public relations work included speaking to the masses – whether by press release and subsequent conference, or through speaker requests to the community relations division.
Her past speech writing courses had prepared her for the form and content, but that hadn’t quelled her fear that her knees would shake enough to make it look like she was wearing vibrating undies. She rolled her eyes at herself. It shouldn’t be a huge deal, but she absolutely hated being the center of attention. With any luck, she’d dodge that duty when she settled into the career.
Apparently, it was fairly common for wing and numbered Air Force commanders to request PA staff to write their speeches for them. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath as she headed into the familiar brick building to seize the day.
In truth, every week of their three month course had been intense. It was a blur of learning journalism and writing speeches, good composition in photojournalism, designing newspapers and websites, using photo editing and desktop newspaper design programs, and most importantly the types of information staff members could release to the press. In other words, deciphering which information would or would not endanger lives. And because there was so much to cover in such a relatively short amount of time, they never repeated a lesson – so attendance had been mandatory.
Initially, the notion of filtering information reeked of a cover-up to Stella. But everything became clearer as the instructors shared real-world mishaps in classes. One example cited had happened during Desert Storm...a news correspondent had recorded his footage with a mountain in the background. This seemed innocuous, until the enemy recognized the location on the TV report and started bombing the site almost immediately after their TV segment aired.
The PA staff missed an important detail when they allowed him to report outside. From then on correspondents had to report from nondescript rooms inside their locations. The reporter’s desire to have a more appealing visual during the broadcast could’ve cost the lives of everyone on site…had the enemy been a better shot. The classes highlighted the important role that PA played in managing the information flow and helping keep everyone safe – troops and press alike.
Essentially, she’d come to understand that PA served as the grease between the military and civilian worlds. They were there to help the civilian world get the information they needed, at the same time, it was their job to protect sensitive information that might cost people’s lives if reported. It was a fine line to walk, made even more complicated because of festering mistrust of the military among the press pool, and the view that PA was a sellout in the eyes of many military people.
Life at DINFOS, while exhilarating, had been exhausting. The students either sank or swam in the grueling course load.
One of the most unusual aspects of military learning was that it was an ordinary occurrence to have classmates randomly stand with their notebooks and walk to the back of the room. If students found themselves tired or having difficulty paying attention, it was not only encouraged but expected that they discipline themselves by standing to stay awake.
God help the student who nodded off in class.
…
“Ugh, is it just me or did this week feel like dog years?” Stella grunted to Carla as they wiped the sleep from their eyes and headed outside to form up for their last morning PT session for the week. Unfortunately, Fridays seemed to be when they stepped it up since they’d have two days to recover.
“Right? At least we’re almost done,” Carla replied, ever the optimist. She took her spot and bent to touch her toes as they whispered their conversation.
“True! One more week,” Stella was almost giddy at the nearing milestone. Soon she’d continue to her new base, but even better, she’d soon, officially, become a Tobias.
“I can’t wait! Xavi is driving down with Zoey, and we’re headed out to Louisiana from here.” Carla’s excitement was contagious.
Her friend had been missing her husband and daughter, especially after having waited months to see them. Carla had insisted Stella sit in on her video call when she revealed her next duty station to Xavier. He’d been positively giddy about moving to Barksdale AFB near New Orleans. They’d both insisted Stella had a standing invitation to
stay with them for Mardi Gras.
After having never traveled anywhere, suddenly Stella felt like the world was at her feet, and with her great new friends, she knew it’d be a great trip.
One of the Marines ran past and stumbled, apparently seeing all the Air Force chicks bent double stretching their hamstrings distracted and strained his poor system. His buddies would no doubt give him hell for that misstep.
And speaking of a great trip, Stella snickered, not daring to eye contact with Carla, or anyone, for that matter. They’d be doing pushups through the weekend if they didn’t fight their giggles.
During their torturous butterfly kicks Stella’s mind drifted to all the things she needed to do before classes ended at Ft. Meade the following Friday. For once her groans had nothing to do with PT.
“Push-ups – go,” the cadre called out, and she choked back her groan as she flipped over into the front leaning rest position. “One…two…three….” Onward he counted until her arms felt like jelly and sweat dropped to the cement beneath her face. Finally they finished and it was time for their run along the perimeter of the golf course.
This was her favorite part of PT.
The sunrise shone bright and beautiful in shades of coral, pink, and purple, and that was only bested by the site of her beloved Marines as they zoomed past wearing their tiny, slinky shorts. The men claimed their silkies shorts were really called Daisy Dukes of Freedom, and she couldn’t find words to argue, and barely managed to breathe. The buff men running with their legs on full display was perhaps the most magnificent site she’d beheld. In fact the Devil Dogs made waking at oh dark thirty worth every missed moment of REM sleep.
Despite the physical attraction – which obviously was mutual given the increasing challenge of dodging their constant flirting – she still had no real desire for that kind of male companionship. She’d narrowly escaped a craptastic marriage. There was no way she’d make herself beholden to another man. This was her time – time to explore and learn, to finish her degree and take on the world.
Besides, the men, though great to look at, were young and had a lot of growing up to do – and Stella refused to mother another male unless she spawned him herself.
So she’d been careful to hide behind Carla’s skirts, or rather ABUs, keeping her nearby to be clear on her intent as she’d really enjoyed their plutonic company and their Friday nights at the bowling alley, as well as Saturday jaunts into Washington D.C. to take in the sites.
She grinned as one lapped her…again. But they’re sure fun to look at.
Just as he shrank out of site, another beautiful site met Stella’s eyes as she took the final curve of their run, her shiny new truck.
Their classes and homework crammed the weekdays, but most weekends had allowed Stella and Carla to join the guys on adventures in Washington D.C. But the voyage there aggravated Stella, between cramming into cabs riding to the Metro as well as the transfers required to get downtown. Add in the stifling heat of summer, and she gave into her craving for a new toy.
As she cooled down from the jog, Stella took in the behemoth bright blue pickup with its roomy crew cab. So pretty. Sure it was somewhat impractical with the enormous V-8 engine, but after so many years of longing for it, Stella gave in and spoilt herself. It wasn’t as if she had to pay rent or buy meals, or support that sleazebag any more. Why not get what she wanted for a change?
Plus, after receiving her orders to Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington State, four-wheel drive would be mighty helpful for winter in the mountains. It was a far cry from her dinky little car and she adored it.
She grinned as she remembered her maiden voyage. Her buddies had whistled when she pulled into the lot at the bowling alley and climbed out.
“Beautiful,” said Mike Jones, a cocky lance corporal she’d met in class.
She grinned at him and patted the hood. “I know, right?”
Jones’ buddy Jason Moore actually moaned. “Damn, you really went all out.”
She’d giggled and shrugged. “Go big or go home, right?”
Her new baby was tricked out. It’d been the most irresponsible purchase of her life, but she couldn’t care less. If she took care of it, she’d be driving this for a long time. Might as well get her money’s worth.
“So what’s her name,” Jones asked with his gaze tracing the lines of the truck.
“Her name?” Stella giggled at his silliness.
“Oh come on, you can’t insult this beauty. She needs a name,” Jones countered.
“He’s right, you know,” Moore piped in.
“Like what, the Beast?” Stella shook her head.
“Nah, she’s too classy for that,” Jones countered as Moore nodded. “She’s a good girl and needs a solid name.”
“Oh really? Like Marilyn?” Stella asked.
Moore wrinkled his nose. “She needs something sweet.”
“He’s right, something like Betty or Louise,” Jones said.
“Betty? Not Betty Lou?” Stella giggled.
“Yes!” They’d replied in unison.
“Betty Lou,” Jones announced triumphantly. “That’s her name.” His nod punctuated his statement as he exchanged a fist bump with Moore.
Stella had giggled. It had a nice ring to it. “Okay. Betty Lou it is.”
It was as if the sexy truck had raised her status further with them. They’d doubled down on flirting until Stella spelled it all out. Things had finally gone back to chill, especially since their final weeks of class kicked into high gear. Nobody had time for sleep, much less anything extracurricular.
…
That evening, her beloved Betty Lou remained parked as they opted, once again, to take the student company cab to the bowling alley. After enduring the intense training week, heck intense training months, nobody wanted to serve as designated driver.
With training almost over – thank God – it was a night for celebrating.
In less than a week, she’d be on her way back to Villa Park, having spent the longest, best six months of her life working her tail off. She felt like a new person, and that in itself was amazing.
She beamed as she and Carla strolled into the bar. Jones was at their usual spot near the corner pool table with Moore and Urban. There were a few others, but it was hard to tell who was who since they had their backs to her – Marines all had the same haircut. Plus the dim lighting made it a challenge to decipher one from the other, at least from behind – but their behinds were the best view around.
Carla led the way as she cut across the room. A round of cheers went up around the table when they spotted the ladies approaching. Stella felt her face heat with embarrassment.
“Hey guys,” Stella said as Jones and Moore budged apart to make room for them to sit.
“Air Force in the house,” Jones called out as he popped the tops off a couple Coronas and handed them to Carla and Stella. They were on special that night and the guys had gotten a bucket of them for the table.
It certainly was great for their egos, and wallet, to hang with them. They always had a drink and a pickup line to share.
“I swear all the pretty women go to the Air Force.” Jones added, and laughed when both of them blushed as the rest of them toasted in agreement.
“Flatterers, all of you,” Stella countered, then took a pull from the beer. It wasn’t her first choice of brew, but it’d do just fine to take the edge off.
“What? It’s true.” Jones said with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth expression. He was Trouble, with a capital T. So handsome with his bright blue, flirty eyes, and huge grin, nice broad shoulders and bulging muscles. But he was a baby at just 21, with eyes for every skirt around him. No thank you.
“Whatever,” Stella rolled her eyes, then raised her glass. “To The Corps.”
A chorus of oorahs and yuts sounded around the room.
They all clinked bottles and drank. They toasted to everything from silkies to their last week of classes. The evening p
assed quickly between rounds of drinks and spirited games of nine ball. The ladies fed the juke box all night, but laughter dominated the soundtrack in their corner of the world.
Soon it was time to break the seal, so Stella excused herself to the ladies room. She tended to her business, washed her hands, and headed out the door. As she turned the corner, a large man stepped into her path.
“Hey beautiful, how about you dance with me,” -Warren or Warry, something like that- said to Stella. She’d met him once or twice, but they’d never had a real conversation. He leaned in far too close for her liking.
Suddenly extremely alert, Stella’s fight-or-flight instinct kicked in.
The man’s body language screamed danger. Then he leaned forward and attempted to cage her against the wall.
“Aww sweetie I don’t bite…much,” he winked at her and pressed in further to block her attempts to get back to her group.
He forced her closer still, and let his hands slip down to her rear where he gave a rough squeeze. He used this grip to pull her against his arousal.
Gross.
She put her hands on his shoulders and shoved, but he was much stronger and didn’t budge. “Get your hands off me,” she growled.
“Sweetheart you’ve been asking for this all night with your flirty little smiles.”
Stella ducked under his arm, but he immediately countered by grabbing a handful of her hair.
He slammed her back against the corner behind her. Dazed, Stella groaned and blinked away the involuntary tears that sprang up from the pain as he held her upright by her hair.
“You think you’re so hot coming in here every week. Stupid little cocktease,” his breath was hot and foul in her face.
She shook her head no, unable to move much, and watched his every move, waiting for her opportunity. Remember, your hands are free, hit him where it hurts!