Carly

by Lyn Cote

  “What about me?” Bowie asked.

  “Hang around here and the guys will fill you in.”

  Carly turned and started for the wide open doorway. She was left to ponder why he’d smirked at her. In short order, she found the entrance hall to the women’s quarters: a single two-story barracks. She put down her duffel and waited. Within a few minutes, a female private first class, a young African-American woman with dark hair and eyes and wearing camouflage BDUs, showed up. “You the new soldier?”

  “Yes, Gallagher, Carlyle—Carly.”

  “I’m Greene, Marla. Come with me. I’ll show you your room.”

  “Room?”

  Marla grinned at her. “Yeah, not too many women score high on mechanical ability. That means there aren’t too many of us here, so we all have private rooms. But there are only two bathrooms on each floor, so it’s not exactly the Hilton.”

  Marla’s friendly manner did a lot to settle Carly’s nerves. But her mind still buzzed with her new sergeant’s un-welcome welcome.

  Up the flight of concrete steps to the second floor, Marla ushered her into a simple room painted stark white with a bed, a desk with chair, and a closet. It reminded Carly of the many college dorm rooms she’d seen on campus tours with her mother the year before. But a room all to herself—

  heavenly. Carly heaved her duffel onto the single bed against the wall and beige vinyl bolster. “Looks like the Hilton to me.”

  Marla sat down in the chair. “You got Haskell for your sergeant.”

  The young woman’s confiding and sympathetic tone let Carly know that she wouldn’t stand on rank with her. Carly still didn’t want to blurt out what she was thinking. After all, Aunt Kitty had always taught her not to say anything about someone unless it was something she wanted the person discussed to hear. Carly opened her window, letting in the warm breeze and the sound of distant voices. She dropped onto the bed, suddenly feeling very tired.

  “He’s a tough old bird,” Marla confided, glancing at the closed door. “He sees no place in the army for women except as nurses or as secretaries to generals.”

  Carly nodded, remembering what Bette had told her about her war work as one of the few women on Bermuda. And Haskell had white hair. Was he close to her grandmother in age? “Still fighting World War II?”

  “More like Vietnam. Don’t let the white hair fool you.”

  “Any advice?”

  “No, a warning. So far he’s managed to get rid of every woman assigned to him.”

  Carly’s stomach clenched. “How?”

  Marla shrugged. “I think he made life so miserable for them that they all finally gave up and asked for reassignment.” Marla rose. “Get settled in here and change into your BDUs, then come down to room 105. I’ll walk you around the base, and then we’ll head to mess.”

  Carly nodded. “Thanks.”

  The door closed behind Marla. Carly rose and unzipped her duffel and began unpacking her BDUs, underwear, and toiletries. As she put things away, her mind played back the scene in the garage. She went over and over what Haskell had said to her. Could she have handled it any better? After several minutes of thought, she decided that she’d probably done the best she could.

  Still, Marla’s saying that no woman lasted long with Haskell began tolling in her mind like a mocking death knell. She’d been told that she would spend two years there learning to maintain and drive all types of military vehicles, and then she would be transferred to a base where she’d put her training into use. What would happen to her if she didn’t last there? If she couldn’t make the grade, would it be a mark against her—not Haskell?

  July 24, 1990

  The next morning, at the first glimmer of a hot, muggy dawn, Carly rose and dressed in her lightweight gray knit top and shorts. Reporting for physical training at six o’clock sharp, she found out what Haskell’s parting smirk the day before had meant. Evidently, he’d decided to start his campaign against her during daily physical training. She didn’t think his plan would work. Though everyone knew that most women couldn’t do as many push-ups, say, in a single session as most men, Carly knew that she was able to do more than the average female.

  So Haskell poured on the push-ups in vain. Carly kept her face impassive, but she was still doing measured, rhythmic push-ups after two of her fellow soldiers, both males, had dropped facedown into the dirt. A visibly disgruntled Haskell ordered them to run laps around their physical training area.

  Carly settled into the easy lope she’d learned in high-school track, which she could keep up for miles. She let the men pass her, sensing that Haskell would go for distance over speed. Both men and women could achieve speed, but Haskell probably hoped to wear her out with laps. Pretty soon, it was very obvious that the other soldiers were unhappy about the added distance they were being forced to run. They kept glancing at her and over at Haskell and frowning. A few grumbled to each other as they jogged, sweat starting to pour down their faces, their shirts sticking to their backs.

  Carly felt perspiration springing out all over her and she swiped her forehead with the back of her forearm. Two more laps and the other soldiers were glaring not at her, but at Haskell. Still, she loped around the training area. She felt her muscles heating but she knew she could run much farther before they began to burn. The breeze created by running evaporated her perspiration, cooling her body pleasantly. Still, she made sure she kept her expression neutral and her gaze away from anyone’s eye.

  As three of his men slowed and fell to the rear of the platoon, Haskell brusquely called the run to a halt and released them for showers and breakfast. Carly didn’t even break stride. She jogged away toward her barracks.

  Bowie, the other new private, caught up and ran alongside her. “Hey, you can really run.” He sounded impressed.

  She gave him a grin. “I lettered in track in high school. I used to run marathons.” Then she sped up. She had farther to go to her shower and didn’t want to be late.

  Bowie called after her, “See you at breakfast.”

  She waved in response. In replying to Bowie’s admiring comment, she’d purposefully raised her voice just enough so that Haskell could hear her if he were listening. It might do him or at least her fellow soldiers some good, cut them a break. Personally, she loved a good early morning run.

  After breakfast, she and Bowie, along with ten other privates, took seats behind well-worn desks in a classroom on base where an instructor began to teach them the rudimentary anatomy of a spontaneous combustion engine and a guide to the different types of military vehicles. Carly was temporarily appalled by the number of them and the fact that she’d be expected to know the engine parts of each one and how to maintain said parts for all of them.

  She recalled her mother’s scathing remark about if she’d only wanted to be an auto mechanic, she could have just gone to mechanics’ school. It was immediately clear to Carly that at the end of her training, she’d be much more than an auto mechanic. She felt like sending her mother a copy of her syllabus. But it would be a waste of time.

  Carly liked the theory instructor right off for his businesslike manner and obviously excellent grasp of how to convey his subject and even make it interesting. She decided to be sure she ranked at the top of these classes to offset whatever Haskell did. Then she got caught up in the instructor’s fascinating lecture on the history of military vehicles.

  After lunch the next day, she and Bowie headed over to the huge garage. Carly had no expectations of the hot, breezeless afternoon going well, not after she’d foiled Haskell’s efforts for the past two days to exhaust and/or humiliate her in PT. He’ll have something unpleasant planned for me today.

  Unfortunately, Haskell didn’t disappoint her. He was waiting for the privates just inside the wide doorway. “You two better figure out that being on time in the military means being early. I don’t want you two making any side trips. Your schedule for the next eight weeks will be physical training”—he gave Carly a disgusted l
ook—“breakfast, classes, lunch, and then the rest of the day here in the garage. Today, you two are going to watch what’s going on. And you’d better be on your toes. At any time I’ll expect you to be able to tell me what anyone is working on and how the task should be done.”

  Bowie openly gaped at the sergeant. Haskell turned his gaze to Carly as if waiting for her to speak.

  Carly gave nothing away. Being forced to say, “I don’t know” wouldn’t bother her. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. She refused to let Haskell intimidate her. On the other hand, the sheer, overwhelming size of the vehicles she was supposed to become expert at was beyond anything she’d ever been close to. They made civilian vehicles look like toys.

  At Haskell’s gesture, Bowie and she edged close to two privates, one white and one black, in BDUs smudged with black grease. A nearby transistor radio softly played “La Bamba.” Haskell hovered behind Carly as if waiting for a chance to hit her with a question. She tried to figure out what the two soldiers were doing. But she’d never even looked under a hood before. Haskell finally walked away.

  “You changin’ spark plugs?” Bowie asked after another few moments of silent watching.

  The men ignored Bowie. Carly wasn’t so lucky. “Sweetheart,” the white mechanic said under his breath, his eyes on Haskell’s receding back, “I’d like to check your spark plugs.” Then he gave her a sly once-over. “Anytime.”

  The other private just grinned.

  Carly froze. She’d been prepared for Haskell’s hostility. After all, when he’d enlisted probably back in the dark ages of the sixties, women hadn’t yet been integrated into the services. But these two guys were nearer her own age. Had Haskell poisoned their attitudes or were they naturally just like him?

  She leaned closer as if studying what the private, whom she now thought of as Mr. Smarty Sparkplug, was doing. He leered at her, and she leaned a little closer.

  Abruptly, she lost her balance and bumped against him. He tripped on a red metal toolbox just sitting on the concrete floor. He smothered a yelp as his shin and the unforgiving toolbox collided. And then he was on his seat looking up at her.

  “Oh, sorry,” Carly murmured. “I’m not usually so clumsy.” She gave him an innocent smile.

  Mr. Smarty Sparkplug got to his feet again. His blistering expression could have stripped the paint off the nearby Humvee. He swore at Carly under his breath, and then he leaned closer to deliver his next insult. “So, sweetheart,” he jeered, “do you know anything about spark plugs?”

  Carly was ready for him. “Yes,” she deadpanned, “I don’t have any.” And I wouldn’t show you mine if I did.

  A grumpy silence followed, which Carly didn’t mind at all. Did they think she didn’t know how some men hated women competing with them? In her last year of high school, she’d tried out for coed soccer and had to put up with the stupid masculine pride thing. But she’d showed those soccer jocks a thing or two by the end of the season. And if in basic she’d taken what Alex and her DI had dished out, she could handle this garbage. She just didn’t look forward to it.

  Matters settled down for the rest of the muggy afternoon. Carly watched and tried to take in as much as she could without asking questions. Fortunately, Bowie asked enough questions for both of them, and she memorized everything he said and was told, and thought of questions she’d ask him later. He seemed to know quite a bit about engines already. But then she recalled that Bowie had told her his ambition was to start his own garage in his little hometown in Alabama. That’s why he had enlisted.

  “Private Gallagher, get over here!” Sergeant Haskell shouted very near to the end of the day.

  Carly marched swiftly over to him where he stood next to a huge truck. It was, according to Bowie a HEMTT—or a heavy expanded mobility tactical truck specifically, if her memory was serving her—a M977 cargo truck with a material handling crane that towered over her. “Yes?”

  “Get up in the cab and drive this truck outside.”

  With a sinking feeling, Carly stared at the sergeant. No sense in trying to bluff her way through that. She lifted her chin. “I don’t know how to drive,” she announced loud and clear.

  Haskell gawked at her. And then he swore for a full sixty seconds. Then he said, “You came here, and you don’t even drive?”

  “I grew up in New York City,” she replied calmly, not in the least perturbed by his rudeness. “I took buses, subways, and taxis. Cars are a nuisance in the city.”

  “Well, isn’t that just ducky? I suppose you expect somebody to teach you how to drive?”

  “I’ll teach her,” Bowie offered, coming up behind her.

  Haskell glared at him. Carly knew that Bowie had put himself in the line of fire for her. In boot camp, they’d all learned never to volunteer for anything. Coming to her aid would not win him points.

  Haskell ordered them both up into the cab. “All right—you want to teach her, Jenkin, get started.”

  This was easier said than done for Carly as she looked up. She had to climb way up into the cab. When she got a good look at the dashboard, she sucked in breath. She saw immediately that driving a car looked like child’s play compared to driving the monster truck.

  Haskell stomped away into his office.

  “Here’s the ignition,” Bowie pointed out.

  Carly got up onto her knees so she could see clearly everything that Bowie was showing her.

  “She won’t even be able to reach the pedals,” Mr. Smarty Sparkplug sneered, his comment floating into the cab. “Doesn’t even know how to drive. And she gets paid just as much as we do.”

  “Yeah,” another unseen soldier replied, “and we’ll have to do all the heavy work for her.” These comments were followed by a general grumbling of agreement.

  Beside her, Bowie tried to give Carly a grin. He started up the engine, had her put her hand over his, and shifted to drive.

  By then, Carly had endured a full day of innuendo and mocking. All through basic, she’d weathered a storm called Alex and now the army expected her to go through one to two years of this abuse? She remembered Marla’s comment that Haskell always got rid of his female soldiers. Boot camp had taught her not to react to superiors’ abuse even if pushed to the wall. She only hoped that Haskell would have enough sense not to do that. She never wanted to lose control the way she had that Sunday in the laundry room. And right then she made her decision.

  August 1, 1990

  Carly waited about a week for the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Once more, she was in the large garage in the middle of yet another hot and humid summer afternoon. The platoon was spread out over the garage, overhauling engines on more huge vehicles: three cargo and troop carriers. From classes and Bowie Jenkin, who’d proved to be an encyclopedia on military vehicles, Carly knew that the troop carrier used a Ford low-profile F-600 body. It had a Ford-model 165 diesel engine and an Allison AT545 five-speed transmission.

  Haskell was standing with the group nearest Carly. “Gallagher,” he yelled, “get over here!”

  Carly walked quickly to him.

  “Here.” He motioned to her. “Get up under that hood and take out the air filter.”

  Carly wondered if this elementary order was designed to show how inept he thought she was. Did he hope she wouldn’t be able to find something that simple? Or what? Who knew? Haskell hadn’t let up a bit. But by this time, Carly was used to climbing up the sides of the vehicles. So she scrambled up the running board and on top of the wheel well, then leaned inside.

  With her head under the hood, she felt it.

  One of the nearby soldiers had touched her inappropriately and it was clear to her from the sudden, complete silence that everyone nearby had witnessed it. Shock and outrage pulsed through Carly. She didn’t hesitate. She’d made her decision, prepared herself for that moment.

  She swung around, leaped down from the vehicle, and attacked the soldier nearest her, Mr. Smarty Sparkplug. His eyes flew open with shock. H
e didn’t have a chance. With all the skill of seven years of martial arts training, Carly flattened him. Then she stepped back, poised and ready to continue.

  Silence reeked in the large warehouse. No one moved. It was as if everyone was holding his breath. Haskell stood to one side, his hands on his hips, looking simultaneously murderous and shocked.

  Carly finally broke the silence. “Is that enough for you?” she asked in a bored, “I couldn’t care less” tone.

  Mr. Smarty on the ground slowly got up, dusting off his seat. Carly moved back and prepared to defend herself again.

  He shook his head and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Slowly Carly let down her guard. She looked to Haskell then, waiting to hear his punishment for fighting. She didn’t really care what it would be. She wasn’t going to take it, and he and everyone else in the garage might as well know it.

  Carly had decided it would be better not to let things progress to the point where she totally lost control, as she had with Alex in the laundry. She’d chosen to make her point at a time when Haskell was present so he would know that she would not tolerate sexual harassment from him or anyone. She stared him straight in the eye.

  He stared at her. The silence between them grew and grew. Finally he barked, “Get back to work, Gallagher!”

  A moment passed. Then Carly clambered back up onto the vehicle. Relief whistled like a cool breeze inside her. But had she achieved her purpose? Had she made her point that she would not be harassed or belittled? Would it stick? Only time would tell.

  Ivy Manor, August 2, 1990

  Chloe and Kitty sat together watching Jeopardy on TV in the cottage where the window air conditioner hummed. As usual, they both kept score of their correct and incorrect answers and were eagerly waiting for Alex Trebek to give the final question to see who on-screen, and which of the two of them, would win that day’s game.

  Suddenly “NBC Special Report” flashed on the screen, and Tom Brokaw spoke from his desk, “Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein has invaded neighboring Kuwait, penetrating deep into Kuwait’s capital city. Casualties are called ‘heavy.’ The emir’s palace has been besieged as explosions jolt the city. Hussein announced he intends to annex sovereign Kuwait as Iraq’s nineteenth province.” A map of the border between Kuwait and Iraq and the nearby Persian Gulf flashed onto the screen, and then video showed Iraqi soldiers running through city streets, shooting at fleeing Kuwaiti civilians and what must have been Kuwaiti troops.