Chapter Three
True to her word, Sergeant Rains started her squad out with a morning trot after a stretching routine, taking them on a course which helped familiarize them with certain locations on the base. Along the same road where the quartermasters were located, she ran them past the theater, a chapel, tennis courts, various administrative offices, classrooms, and the PX which, in addition to a well-stocked store for toiletries and cosmetics and magazines, also housed a beauty salon, soda fountain and grill, and a dry cleaners. It was also the place to send and receive mail, so there was always a crowd there. This was only a small portion of the base, but Bett suspected that Rains had chosen to point out the places that would be most visited by the new recruits. While they recovered from their exercise, sitting on the bleachers of the reviewing stand, the sergeant went over various aspects of military courtesy, including where, when, and how to salute an officer. She called on a well-prepared Private Archer to help demonstrate, which obviously pleased the New Yorker, and appeared satisfied when most of the girls already demonstrated the correct form. The lecture continued with information such as where and when smoking was permitted and how to get special leave to go beyond the fifty-mile radius of the fort once off-base privileges were approved. They would have one of these lectures on the Army way everyday for the first few weeks. Although some of the girls listened with rapt attention, Bett just managed to resist rolling her eyes and yawning with boredom. I just can’t wait until we go over the Army way of tying your shoes and brushing your teeth, she thought irritably.
Then it was time for their first class, which was on food preparation. Bett was probably only expressing the views of some other participants in the class when she blurted out, “Aren’t we supposed to be getting women out of the kitchen?”
Helen, who was apparently ready to come out of her shell, chimed in, “Damn right. I didn’t join the Army to cook. I could do that at home.”
A rebellious mood was created and the presentation was not particularly successful. At lunch, Bett noted the lieutenant in charge speaking to Rains while gesturing in the direction of her squad’s table.
At the exercise session before the next class, Rains walked among them as they were stretching. “Being in the Army is not an exercise in personal privilege. It is about learning to contribute your individual skills toward the advancement of the group.” She stopped near Bett and continued. “Just because you don’t find a particular class to your liking, you must allow for the fact that someone else in your squad may have been waiting for just that opportunity. We are here to build each other up and encourage every member of our family, not to let our own preferences negatively influence our sisters’ interests.”
At this Bett had a flash of regret, remembering Barb talking about how much she liked to cook.
Unfortunately, the afternoon class was on secretarial skills. Bett tried not to let the presentation of traditional roles bother her, but when the lieutenant presenting the material referred to the boss as he for the tenth time, Bett raised her hand. “When can we expect the boss to become a she?” The class roared with laughter and applause.
This time it was a private conversation with Sergeant Rains held in the hall after the rest of the squad had been dismissed. “I’m sorry, but at university we were expected to challenge pre-existing notions like that,” Bett tried to explain.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Private Smythe, you are no longer at Oxford,” Rains said in what Bett had come to think of as her patient teaching voice. “And you must admit that the odds are considerable that most of these women will be working for a male boss at some point in their lives.”
“Of course, Sergeant,” Bett said, feigning agreement, “especially if we don’t take advantage of this historic opportunity to try to change that.”
“Do you intend for your stay in the Army to be a personal crusade for improbable causes or are you here to do something for your country?” Rains countered. Not waiting for Bett to reply she went on, “Because I must warn you, Private, if you continue on this path of disruption in your classes there will be consequences that you will not enjoy.”
“Are you threatening me with some kind of retaliation simply for asking questions or giving my opinion?” Bett was incensed.
“I’m only trying to make you aware that in the Army there are measures which are designed to help mold recruits into part of a whole. On your next outburst, you will find yourself subjected to those measures.” Sergeant Rains paused and rubbed her hand across her forehead, under her bangs. Adjusting her hat slightly, she continued, “I know you are an intelligent person, Private Smythe. You can understand that at some point I will have no choice. You must find the self-discipline to hold your tongue. Especially to these superior officers.”
“Superior?” Bett muttered, loud enough for Rains to hear.
The sergeant sighed. “Dismissed.”
Bett did manage to remain quiet during the next morning’s munitions class, which was not a topic of particular interest to her but was well-presented by a dark-haired, thick-waisted lieutenant with an interesting accent. Cajun? Bett wondered. It seemed that the lieutenant’s eyes came back to her frequently. At lunch, Bett noticed the same lieutenant talking to Rains but felt it couldn’t have anything to do with her behavior. Sergeant Rains does look displeased somehow, Bett thought, but nothing came of it.
The afternoon class was about the Quartermaster Corps. As the major in charge droned on about facilities and labor, shop systems, excessive stockages, packing materials, and inventory control, Bett found it so boring that she fell asleep. She might have gotten away with it, except that she had a vivid dream in which Sergeant Rains was trying to wake her. She jerked herself upright, saying, “Oh, shite,” loudly enough that everyone in the room heard, including the base commander, who was observing the squad. Colonel Janet Issacson was a no-nonsense woman with streaks of gray invading her wavy brown hair. Once the class was over, Bett was ordered to wait in an empty classroom next door, where she could hear Issacson questioning Rains on her disciplinary tactics to date. They then discussed her punishment.
“KP for a month and ten extra laps every day for a week.” Colonel Issacson’s somewhat muffled order didn’t hide the brusqueness in her tone. “You said yourself that she’s been warned. Maybe we can get rid of her after all.”
Bett bristled at the words until she heard Rains’s answer.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Rains replied, her voice sounding more pensive. “In most cases I would agree with you. But I believe Private Smythe could become a good soldier if she wanted to. I’m not sure that KP for a month and extra laps for a week will make her want to.”
There was a pause and then an almost-sad sigh. “Well, something is going to have to be done, Sergeant. Our enrollment is still down after that ridiculous slander campaign last year. This is bad for the morale of her whole platoon and her instructors, something we certainly can’t afford.”
“KP and laps for a week, but I’d like to assign her to do some additional tutoring with some of the squad members who are struggling,” Rains suggested. “I think that would be a more productive use of her abilities.”
Issacson cleared her throat, sounding as if she was ready to be done with the matter. “Very well, Sergeant. See to it and make it stick. If she slacks this, she’s out. Sergeant Webber will take your people for the afternoon exercise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Well, at least she stood up for me…somewhat. Bett expected her sergeant to come through the door right away, but she didn’t. Time stretched out. Half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes. Bett knew better than to leave the room without permission, but she needed to go to the bathroom. Finally, just when she was about to give in to her bladder, Sergeant Rains appeared in the doorway.
Bett opened her mouth to ask, Where the bloody hell have you been? but the sergeant spoke first. “This is your first chance to practice the self-discipline that I spoke of, Private,
unless you’d like me to come back later.” Bett closed her mouth and crossed her legs. Rains waited a beat and then nodded. “Good.”
After a stop at the restroom, they went to the parade grounds. Rains stretched out on the bleachers and watched the sky as her recruit ran. By the last lap, Bett’s pace had slowed considerably.
The sergeant was standing as Bett panted to a stop. “You’re not injured, are you, Private?”
“No, but I need to eat.”
Sergeant Rains crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “Kindly address me as your officer, Private Smythe.”
Bett breathed an exaggerated sigh. “No, Sergeant Rains, I am not injured. But since you asked, I am hungry.”
“I think that you will miss dinner tonight, Private. But I will bring you something while you are doing your KP.”
They began walking toward the mess hall. “How long is this KP going to take?” Bett asked.
Rains didn’t answer.
Bett rolled her eyes and emphasized the name at the end of her question. “How long is this KP going to take, Sergeant Rains?”
“That depends on how fast you are at peeling potatoes, Private Smythe,” Rains replied evenly.
They went in the side door of the mess hall, into a small area in the back of the kitchen. There were two buckets, a stool, and mounds of potatoes everywhere.
“You must be joking!” Bett sputtered. “There is no way I am peeling this many potatoes.” Rains waited silently. “I’m serious, Sergeant Rains. This is too much, really.” Bett was shaking her head.
“You may think so, Private, but you’ve been given an order. This is your evening duty.”
“Well, thank you very much, but no thank you.” Bett turned and started back out the door.
“Halt!” Rains’s voice was knife’s edge sharp. The tone made Bett stop immediately. Two MPs appeared in the doorway. “Escort Private Smythe to the stockade,” Rains ordered.
The MPs came alongside Bett and maneuvered her out the door. Rains accompanied them across the grounds and up the steps of a small, squat building. They climbed five steps and went through the door into a hallway, which opened into an anteroom. Another MP, who was sitting at a small desk, rose as they entered. Beyond him, four very small jail cells—two on each side of the hallway—were visible. All were empty. Bett had been moving automatically, but she stopped abruptly when she saw the cells. The MPs stopped behind her, but Bett was trying to back up.
Rains spoke from behind the MPs. “Private Smythe, you disobeyed an order and you were deserting your duty. The punishment for that is a night in the stockade.”
“Oh no, no, I can’t,” Bett said in a haunted tone of panic. As one of the MPs held her arms, the other took a set of keys from the MP at the desk and opened one of the doors. Bett began to struggle fiercely. There was pure hysteria in her voice. “No! No! No!” She turned enough to see Rains standing there. Pleading now, she cried, “Sergeant Rains, I can’t stay in there. I can’t. Oh my God! Oh God, no.” She was beginning to hyperventilate. “Please, no. I can’t. Oh God, please.”
Sergeant Rains looked at Bett closely and saw her eyes rolling wildly, almost as though she were a spooked horse. She is definitely not faking, Rains realized. “Let her go,” she ordered and Bett stumbled away from the open cell. Rains caught her arms carefully and the top of Bett’s head butted against Rains’s chest. Bett’s eyes were closed and her breathing was still very fast and ragged. She was making whimpering sounds of fear. “You are claustrophobic?” Rains asked. In her NCO training, she had learned of various psychological ailments like this, most of which would disqualify someone from the service. Bett managed a slight unsteady nod.
Rains dismissed the MPs and walked Bett back outside into the fresh evening air. She was shaking badly and Rains was worried that her rapid breathing might cause her to faint. On the steps, she made Bett bend over and kept her head down for a count of five. Then Rains had her sit on the end of one of the low cement sidings along the steps, so that Bett’s legs dangled off the front edge. “I’m going to loosen your collar, Private,” she said, working down Bett’s tie and undoing the top two buttons. Smythe was still gasping for air, her chest heaving. Rains knelt behind her and put her right arm around Smythe, resting her fingers on the breastbone, just below the opening of her throat. “Slow,” she said softly. “Slow your breathing.” Still ragged, but a bit slower, she judged. “Now try just one deep breath—breathe in…slowly…fully.” Rains breathed with her. It took Bett two tries, but she finally matched Rains’s respiration rate. “Easy…good. Now out slowly. Again. Good.”
Less than fifteen seconds later, Bett’s breathing was coming under control. Rains removed her fingers from Smythe’s front, laying them briefly on her temple. Her pulse and temperature seemed to be returning to normal as well. Rains started to get up but felt Smythe begin to shudder again. This time it felt more like normal crying. Rains spoke gently, close to her ear, her hands very lightly on Smythe’s shoulders. “Sh. It’s all right. You won’t have to stay in there. Come. We’ll go back over to the mess hall.”
Bett took in another shaky breath before giving a slight nod. Rains helped her up. Wiping her eyes as they walked slowly, Smythe was still shivering occasionally, even though the night was warm. Rains thought it was probably the last of the panic leaving her body, but she wanted to make sure there was no chance of shock. Unbuttoning her jacket, she slipped it onto Bett’s shoulders. “There is nothing in your file about claustrophobia, Private.”
Looking gratefully at Rains, Bett pulled the jacket close around her. “Thank you, Sergeant.” She ran her hands over her face and her voice was small. “I lied. I didn’t want anything to interfere with my enlistment going through. Are you going to run me off now?”
“No, not just yet. But is there anything else you need to tell me about?”
Bett sighed and stretched her neck.
Good, Rains thought. She’s moving more normally.
Looking down at her hands, Bett had a little shyness in her voice. “Yes. I’ve never peeled a potato in my life.”
Sergeant Rains looked away so quickly that Bett wondered if she was trying to cover her reaction. When she looked back at Bett, her face was serious as usual, though as they passed under a light, Bett thought she might have seen a little amusement in Rains’s eyes. “Well, we are going to remedy that inexcusable gap in your education tonight, Private.”
Rains settled Bett into the small potato-filled room with a plate of cold chicken, some fruit, and a roll along with a small glass of milk that she rustled from somewhere in the kitchen. While Bett ate, the sergeant carried in another stool, peeler, and two more barrels. She took her jacket back from Bett and hung it on a nail that was sticking out slightly from a window frame. Gesturing to it, she added, “The Private Rains Commemorative Coat Rack.”
Bett giggled, but Rains kept her face neutral as Bett teased, “You can’t mean that the fabulous Sergeant Rains was once a lowly potato-peeling private.”
“Private Smythe, if you started now and really worked at it, I still don’t think you could ever match the number of potatoes I’ve peeled in this very room. Now, this is how it’s done…” She rolled up her sleeves and began the demonstration.
Bett had not noticed the size of Rains’s hands before, but it was nothing for her to palm even the largest of the potatoes. The sergeant deftly swiped the peeler around and after a few quick strokes she tossed the potato into one of the barrels. “I think we’d better stick with the basic peeling technique for now. If you were more skilled, I’d recommend the difficult and technically advanced peeling, where you’ll be able to trash the peel without letting it drop. This can save a good twenty-five minutes off your total time.” She shook the peels from her hand into the other barrel. “Try it.”
“I had no idea that potato-peeling could be such an art form,” Bett mused, picking one up uncertainly.
“Henry David Thoreau said that the highest condition of art
is artlessness,” Rains replied. “I’m sure he must have peeled quite a few potatoes.”
Bett laughed again but in her mind she was moving into a new level of appreciation for Sergeant Rains. Not only is she smarter than I expected, she can be rather amusing and…unexpectedly kind. She could have left me screaming in that dungeon. I’m sure Sergeant Moore would have. She watched Rains’s hands work another potato and thought of how the touch of Rains’s fingers had calmed her panic. Or was it that voice? Low and almost lilting in its cadence sometimes. Where is she from?
Rains’s voice broke into her musing. “Come now, Private. I’ve done five potatoes and you haven’t finished that one. Take off your jewelry and get busy. I’m not going to play Huckleberry Finn to your Tom Sawyer.” She sounded adamant, but not angry.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bett smiled to herself as she put her watch and rings into her pocket. She tried to work faster, but her mind kept interfering. What had that other WAC said? That Sergeant Rains couldn’t even write her name when she joined up? Well, she was obviously able to read, since there had been two literary references in her last two sentences. Wearing just the shirt from under her WAC jacket, Rains looked thinner, although the muscles in her forearms flexed nicely as she worked. Just then Bett noticed that Rains was switching hands about every third potato and operating the peeler just as efficiently with her left hand. She was about to ask the sergeant if she was truly ambidextrous when Colonel Issacson came through the door. Rains dropped the potato and peeler and quickly stood at attention, saluting. Bett joined her a second later, but not before she detected an embarrassed grimace on Rains’s face.
Basic Training of the Heart Page 5