For a moment, the noise from the stands drowned out almost everything else. Sergeant Moore’s fans were voicing their objections to the call as Rains’s squad and the others cheered loudly. Moore jumped up and began to argue the call with the umpire as Rains started away with the ball in her hand. As the noise from the bleachers was dying down, Moore continued her protest with a gesture at Rains’s departing back, yelling something that ended with “that motherless half-breed.”
Rains stopped walking. After about five seconds, she turned slowly and started back toward Moore. The stands got very quiet. The umpire stepped back, out of the way. When Rains and Moore were face to face—Rains a good four or five inches taller—Bett could see that the color had drained from Moore’s face. Unable to meet Rains’s eyes, Moore dropped her head and muttered something that might have included the word sorry.
Rains put the ball in her chest, perhaps a tiny bit harder than necessary and repeated, “You were out.” One of Moore’s teammates came up with her glove and pulled her out into the field. Rains went back toward her team’s bench. Bett began to clap and the rest of the spectators joined in.
By the time Rains was up to bat again, the other team had changed pitchers and was trying a lefty. The sergeant approached from the other side of the plate.
“And Sarge is a switch-hitter, too,” Archer said in an almost reverent tone. Then she grinned at Bett. “Just what you’d expect from a superhero.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be on the other side?” Bett asked, confused.
Archer began to explain about batting positions, but Rains hammered the first pitch into another home run.
Rains’s team won the game, 14–4.
“Don’t run off, ladies,” Jo teased Moore’s fans as the game ended. “Our throats are dry from all the cheering. We’ll be expecting our escort to the NCO club real soon.”
Good-natured grumbling sounded from Sergeant Edwards’s group as they gathered on their side of the stands, checking purses and pockets for extra change.
Bett was still absorbed in watching Rains as she joined her team to shake hands with the other players. When she got to Sergeant Moore, Bett could tell that Moore was still conscious of her outburst, but Rains simply nodded a bit and shook her hand like everyone else. Apparently she doesn’t hold a grudge. That’s good to know, Bett thought, wondering if they were allowed to speak to the players now. She gestured to Jo. “I’d like to congratulate the sergeant on her play.”
“Oh yeah. Good idea. I’ll go with you,” Jo said.
Rains was standing near home base, helping to collect the equipment, but she turned as they approached, several bats tucked in the crook of her left elbow. “Great game, Sarge,” Jo extended her hand for a congratulatory shake. “You bat like DiMaggio and field like Rizzuto.”
Their sergeant seemed relaxed and was as close to smiling as Bett had yet seen. “Thank you, Private Archer, but I think you must be missing your Yankees a lot to make those comparisons.” They shook hands. Rains’s face was a bit darker with exertion, her skin glistened with sweat, and her exercise clothes were quite dirty. Bett had never really been attracted to the athletic type, but something about having watched Rains’s body all day made her interested in knowing more. To her surprise, Rains turned to her, making eye contact. “Did you enjoy the game, Private Smythe?” There was something adorably cocky in her tone.
She knows how good she is, Bett thought, and she’s proud of it. Bett knew something about these sporting types. At Kent and at Oxford they all hung together, acting superior, but it was a different story when their prowess on the grounds or the court didn’t always translate to the classroom. And those field hockey players were the worst, Bett recalled, usually confident that their physical skills on the field would translate into something desirable off it. And she did seem to recall that one… Somewhat self-conscious as she dismissed the memory, Bett leaned slightly toward Rains, whose dark eyes drew her quickly back to the present. “I’m afraid I had to ask Jo for a lot of explanation about what was going on, but even I could tell you were the best player out there.”
Rains’s color heightened, and Bett detected some surprise in her response. “That’s very kind of you, Private.”
Bett thought she’d see how Sergeant Rains responded to more of a verbal challenge. “But then, you didn’t need me to tell you that, I’m sure. Your ability so clearly surpassed some of the other girls’ that it made the game somewhat unfair, really. I mean, look at the score.”
“We were born to succeed, not to fail,” Rains quoted calmly. “If you don’t bring your best to whatever you do, there is little point in doing it. A contest such as this one appears to pit one group’s effort against another’s and for some, that’s all it does. But as I see it, the true challenge is to improve oneself at each attempt. To strive for a personal goal, not merely to be superior to one’s opponent. Can I hit farther the next time? Can I throw more accurately?” Rains brushed her arm across her face, clearing away a glint of perspiration before leaning down to pick up another bat. “By your argument, should I assume that you sometimes deliberately missed questions on your school exams, just so your level of intellect wouldn’t be unfair to the other students?”
Bett was taken aback, quickly realizing that she had completely underestimated Rains’s intelligence and embarrassed that she had taken such a weak position. She shifted her stance slightly and tried again. “Of course, I’ve always felt that sports are overly glorified. There’s really not much contribution to society in sweating and heaving a ball around, wouldn’t you agree?”
Archer’s mouth dropped open and she leaned back, apparently trying to distance herself from her squad leader. Rains set the bats down and straightened, ticking off points on her fingers as she took up the argument. “At this level of play, Private Smythe, I think participation in certain games can teach us a great deal about sportsmanship and teamwork, as well as about ourselves. The hand-eye coordination required in batting and fielding is good preparation for some of our specialized jobs. Many of our women are unfamiliar with the intensity of competition and they need to learn how to perform successfully under such pressure, as well as learning how to work well with others, which is also an important facet of sport.” The sergeant moved her hands apart and stood with her palms out, softening her expression. “I was taught to view someone more skilled than myself as a role model, not as a competitor. Wouldn’t you agree that a community such as this functions better when the achievement of one becomes the possession of all?”
Rains paused for her reply, but Bett’s thoughts were too unsettled for a quick comeback. The idea that a community would benefit more from accomplishment by many instead of by the benevolent domination and informed control of a few was the exact opposite of what her father had preached at her for her entire life. Yet in this environment, it seemed to make sense. Jo was nodding in agreement.
Seeing that Bett had no ready response, Sergeant Rains added, “Plus, for some of the officers, the physical release of sweating and heaving a ball around helps us rechannel energies that otherwise might be misdirected at our more difficult recruits.” Her gaze sharpened on Bett, and Archer let out a short laugh.
“Okay, Queenie. I think that’s your third strike.” She put her arm around Bett’s shoulder as if to lead her away. “Let’s go celebrate”—she gave Bett a little shake—“or drown our sorrows.”
Seeing that Rains was again retrieving the equipment, Bett stepped away from Archer and deliberately slid her arm along Rains’s, reaching for the bats. “May I help you carry these?” she asked sweetly. The contact of their skin seemed to shock Rains and she took a step back as the bats spilled out of her arms. “Oops,” Bett said. Should I consider that a foul ball or a home run? She wondered if Rains had detected the same electricity that she had in their touch.
“No, Private,” the sergeant’s voice was almost harsh. “But thank you anyway.”
Archer jumped in, helping Rains pick up th
e bats. “Hey, Sarge, some of us are going over to the NCO club for a little liquid refreshment. Wanna join us?”
Rains did not look at Bett. “Thank you, Archer, but no. I’m not allowed to fraternize with enlisted personnel under my command and I…” Her voice trailed off for a few seconds. “I need to get cleaned up.”
Bett thought she detected something else in that hesitation but decided not to press it. “Well, thank you for providing the afternoon’s entertainment, Sergeant Rains.”
Rains made a funny little bow. “Glad to be of service, Private Smythe.” She turned back to Archer with a caution in her tone. “Watch your time. You must be back in the barracks before lights out. And”—she glanced at the veterans who were waiting—“leave no one behind, Archer.”
Archer straightened to attention. “You can count on me, Sarge.”
Rains mirrored her position as best she could without dropping the bats again. “I am counting on you, Private.”
*
Sergeant Edwards led the way over to the NCO club. There was no problem finding a table, and Sergeant Riley, another member of Edwards’s group, explained why. Sweetie’s, the bar in town, was the place to go. “Some of the local establishments aren’t particularly welcoming,” a corporal named Davis told them. Another veteran, Sergeant Patterson, added how she’d been deliberately ignored by the saleswomen in a downtown department. The antagonism apparently stemmed from the locals’ fear that the WACs were going to take their jobs, their men, and generally take over their town. Some places, the other veterans admitted, were okay. But Sweetie’s was the preferred hangout, where the owner always made them feel at home, and the food and drinks were as good as it got. Sergeant Riley went on at great length about how the walls were covered with pictures from all over the world where soldiers had renamed their commissary Sweetie’s or had constructed signposts with mileages to various hometowns, with Sweetie’s included.
Bett understood. Sweetie’s was a reference point, a touchstone for all those who came through Fort Des Moines, and it was probably one of those shared experiences to which Sergeant Rains had referred. Being there was common ground that gave them all a way to relate to each other a little better.
After they were served, the baseball game, and by extension Rains, was the next topic of conversation. Once the complaining about Sergeant Moore’s being called out at the plate had subsided, Corporal Davis informed the group that Sergeant Rains had never played baseball before she signed up with the Army.
“No way,” Jo said authoritatively. “No one could have her instincts for the game unless they’d been coached for years.”
“It’s true,” Riley joined in. “Sergeant Moore told us she taught her everything. Said Rains didn’t even know which end of the bat to hold or which hand to put the glove on at first.”
“Sergeant Moore strikes me as the type who would claim credit for teaching the sky to be blue,” Bett observed, bringing equal parts laughter and grumbling from the assortment of WACs at the table.
“Well, according to Moore, Rains could hardly write her own name when she upped,” another of the veteran WACs chimed in, turning to one of her squad mates. “Remember that girl—I think her name was Cindy—who got transferred from Rains’s squad to ours because she was so obsessed with Rains? The base shrink said it was unhealthy.” A few of the girls at the table laughed uncomfortably at this. The speaker didn’t seem to notice and went on. “Sergeant Moore spent a full week telling her every bad thing about Rains she could think of. None of it helped, though. One night Rains came back to her quarters and found Cindy in her bed. Moore said Rains came out of that room as if it was on fire. In the end they discharged Cindy with other-than-honorable.”
A quiet moment of drinking followed this story. That kind of discharge was every WAC’s nightmare. Besides the indignity of having to explain why you were suddenly out of the service, a blue ticket often meant difficulty in finding other work after being considered undesirable by the Army. Then Bett broke the silence by asking what she had really wanted to know. “So is Sergeant Rains married or dating or anything?”
Everyone looked at her for a second. Then one of the veterans said, “She’s MTTS.”
Bett and Jo looked at each other. They were already learning a lot of acronyms but hadn’t heard that one. Finally they both shook their heads and all the veterans laughed. “Married to the service!” They toasted each other.
Bett and Jo joined in the laughter, and Sergeant Patterson went to get the next round. Soon they were all the best of friends, swapping life stories and tall tales about basic training. Bett had to explain again about her accent. Jo made her guess where their new friends were from and Bett got four out of six right, causing Patterson to assure her that with a skill like that she could significantly supplement her pay once she could go off base to Sweetie’s or could make appearances at the NCO club if she got promoted.
After the fourth round of drinks, Bett began to notice that one of the veterans was making prolonged eye contact with her more frequently. She noted that the woman was wearing a pinkie ring on her right hand. In Bett’s experience in the scene, that meant someone who was looking. Looking for another woman. Bett felt fairly sure that the veteran, whose name tag said PFC Covington, was only window-shopping. Even though Bett also wore a pinkie ring, she was wearing several other rings as well, which seemed to confuse the issue for most women. Bett’s appearance was such that she was always assumed to be heterosexual, even by those who might know that not all women were. It wasn’t a deliberate cover-up on her part; she dressed the way she’d been brought up to dress since that was how she felt most comfortable. In her experiences among lesbians in London and in Los Angeles, she had noticed that there was much more role-playing among the working-class types. The trend among those women was to look extremely masculine or extremely girly—butch or femme. The butches acted tough and stoic; the femmes were flirtatious and solicitous. Having slept with both types, Bett knew that once the lights were out these roles didn’t necessarily hold true at all.
Bett was what those girls sometimes called kiki. They seemed to find it confusing or even offensive that girls like Bett didn’t identify as either butch or femme. Since she was often shorter than her partner, Bett was often led around the dance floor, but was more than willing to ask a woman to dance, in which case she could lead quite well. And in bed? Well, she didn’t believe in roles there either, although if she was with a woman who did, Bett was fine to oblige her companion for the night.
By the time they left the NCO club, Bett hadn’t yet had enough to drink to make Private First Class Covington her type. She was stocky and somewhat masculine looking, although she had a nice smile. As they began walking back to the barracks, Covington positioned herself close enough to Bett that she reached out to steady Bett when she stumbled over a curb. Yes, those hands definitely lingered just a bit longer than necessary, Bett acknowledged to herself. Hope springs eternal, I suppose. This was a sport she knew very well. All it would take would be some meaningful eye contact in return, along with a few smiles and carefully worded innuendoes on her part. As a veteran, Covington would certainly know a place to go. She gave it a moment’s thought and then decided she really wasn’t interested just now.
*
Leaving nothing to chance, in the event that Archer had trouble getting everyone back, Sergeant Rains waited in the guardhouse, having showered and changed, when the group came giggling along the sidewalk that ran past the gate. She ended her conversation with the MP on duty and trailed them unseen as they made their way to the barracks. The veterans were teaching Charlotte and Phyllis one of the WAC songs, singing its newly rewritten and amusing lyrics to the tune of “The Marine’s Hymn.”
She could hear Smythe laughing at the ending and she appeared to be the slightest bit unsteady. PFC Covington, who worked in the mail room, seemed to be unnecessarily close by, but she was not singled out in the good-byes that were exchanged when the two groups made th
eir way to their separate barracks, so Rains dropped back from the group.
Charlotte and Phyllis were also a bit wobbly as the squad stood at the foot of their beds for Rains’s inspection, but she moved through quickly before announcing, “Lights out,” and leaving without any other comment.
*
For a time after they were all in bed, Bett’s mind was still working, proof that she really hadn’t had that much to drink. The veterans had turned out to be quite pleasant, almost gracious, once they’d accepted their loss. After replaying some of the more interesting conversation from the NCO club, Bett decided she was glad that she hadn’t tried to make any further arrangements with Covington. There was no reason to start that up again. Not yet, anyway. She ran over her losing argument with Rains, almost ready to laugh at herself for being so soundly overcome. She was intrigued by the sergeant’s comments about competition and success, so opposite of her own upbringing. But she kept coming back to how Rains had reacted to her touch. As if it was on fire, the veteran WAC had said of the other incident. Maybe officers were trained to be like that.
Not exactly homesick but not completely comfortable in her surroundings either, Bett drifted through thoughts of England, of home, of her friends and what they would be doing right now. She was almost asleep when she felt a brush of air as the barracks door opened. Her anxiety level jumped. Who could it be, coming in at this late hour? Her father’s relentless warnings about threats to her safety began playing in her mind like a broken record until they stilled as Sergeant Rains’s form moved soundlessly past. Relief flooding through her, Bett pretended to be asleep as her sergeant walked through the barracks. Will she check up on us so late like this every night?
She peeked ever so slightly as Rains slowly made her way to the far end of the barracks, retrieving Tee’s ragged teddy bear from the floor and returning it to her arms and taking a book out of Barb’s sleeping hands and setting it on the floor nearby. She’s not really so tough. Bett smiled to herself, quickly closing her eyes and holding very still as Rains began moving back toward the door. The sergeant paused at her bunk and said softly, “You had better get some sleep, Private Smythe. I’ll be running you tomorrow.” Bett was so stunned that she didn’t know what to do, so she just lay there with her eyes shut. Maybe Rains did have superpowers. She thought she heard her sergeant breathing out a chuckle as she went through the door.
Basic Training of the Heart Page 4