Front Lines
Page 9
She cannot, will not, spend the war in a swivel chair. Not while Aryeh is chasing Japs across the Pacific Ocean.
But open defiance will get her cut from the program. Complaining up the chain of command will get her cut from the program. Trying to recruit support from male soldiers will make her look weak and cause her to be cut from the program.
There is only one way to prevail. That is to outwork, outthink, outperform every soldier in the school.
Rainy Schulterman is ready for that challenge.
9
RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA
“Atten-HUT!”
Rio, Jenou, and two dozen other new recruits, more male than female, stand more or less straight, in rows that are more or less straight. They have just piled off a bus from the train station following a sixteen-hour trip, and they are tired, frazzled, and a bit nervous. They stretch and shake out their arms and yawn at the deep-blue sky.
In Rio’s estimation, they are in the middle of nowhere. The last town they passed had a gas station, a hardware store, a feed store even smaller than the one Rio’s father owns, a diner, and a shack that might have been a tavern. And that was pretty much the beginning, middle, and end of the town of Smidville, Georgia, a town that made Gedwell Falls look like Chicago by comparison.
The camp, which they’ve been told is named Camp Maron, consists of a series of long wooden barracks that, judging by the smell of pinewood and paint, have been slapped together within just the last few days.
But this new construction is mirrored by an older, more run-down version of itself called Camp Szekely, which is just across a sluggish, green, reed-choked stream. No bridge crosses the stream, so to move from Camp Maron to Camp Szekely you have to leave by the front gate of one, drive half a mile down an orange clay road, and enter the other camp. It’s a mile away by road, but you could throw a rock from one camp to the other.
The colors here are green, gray, and orange. Green trees—hemlock, beech, and oak, but more shaggy, unsteady-looking pine than anything else. Some of the hardwoods are hung with Spanish moss, a sort of gray garland that gives everything an aged and mournful look.
The cleared areas are startlingly orange. Wet red clay holds shapes well, so the roads and bare fields are patterned by the big tires of deuce-and-a-half trucks, jeeps, graders, tractors, and, most basically, boots.
The first mosquito appears within twenty seconds of Rio climbing from the bus.
“Parade rest. That means you widen your stance and link your hands behind your backs. NO! Not with the soldier next to you, goddammit! Your own hands! Now, listen up, men,” the sergeant says in a perturbed but not-unfriendly voice. “You will pick up your gear and fall out to the barracks you see on your . . . Not now, you fugging ninnies, you fall out when I give the order! Sweet suffering Jesus in a chicken basket!”
The few who went running to their bags and shabby suitcases piled up outside the steaming bus quickly hop back in line.
“You will fall out to the quartermaster to be issued your uniforms and gear. Then you will proceed to your assigned barracks. And there you will find your new home. One barracks—and only one—will be shared by male and female recruits; we do not have the luxury of separate facilities. So there is a curtain that will be drawn across to separate you. Women bunk on the north side, men bunk on the south side of that line. Get squared away and be ready in one hour. Atten-HUT! Dismissed!”
Rio and Jenou trot back to search for their bags—they’ve been told to bring nothing but a few small personal items and a change of clothing. One of the men offers to carry Jenou’s bag for her, and Rio can see that she’s just about to consent.
“She can carry her own bag,” Rio says. “Thanks just the same.”
Jenou gives her a wry look, but Rio has an instinct born of the long train ride and the bus ride with male recruits. Her instinct tells her that the way to survive here is to take nothing from anyone.
The quartermaster occupies a long, low wooden structure with trucks parked in back and jeeps in front. Inside, the sexes are sent in different directions, women following a tacked-up piece of paper that says “Ladies.” Rio wonders if the quotation marks are meant to be a smart-aleck commentary.
A female corporal with a clipboard repeats, “Strip to your panties, put your things in a box, label the box using the grease pencils, advance.”
They file mostly naked into the hallway, which has blessedly been blocked by a hastily attached curtain. But they must pass a window en route, and a pair of soldiers are leering in at them, pointing and making inaudible comments.
Rio’s face burns red, and she clutches the box to her chest protectively, while Jenou winks at the soldiers and half-lowers her box teasingly before sticking out her tongue.
They advance to a waist-high counter. A female private behind the counter looks Rio up and down with the quick professional glance of a woman who was, until three months ago, a clerk at Carson, Pirie, Scott department store in Chicago. “Twenty-four waist, thirty-four length, and a medium blouse.” She reaches into the cut-down cardboard boxes behind her and produces two olive drab uniforms and a set of fatigues. These she slaps on the counter.
Rio starts to move on.
“Wait.” The clerk produces three undershirts, three pairs of men’s boxer shorts, three pairs of socks. “Shoe size, cup size?”
“My pumps are size six, but—”
“Size seven.” Boots appear.
“Cup? Come on, honey, you’ve bought a bra before, haven’t you?”
“Thirty-two B.”
“Sure, if you say so.” The private reaches into a box clearly labeled Brassiere, OD, Size: A Cup. “The strap’s adjustable. You’ll get used to it. Move along.”
Rio is on the point of arguing, but there isn’t much a person can say standing there in panties. So she piles her new clothing up, slides her arms beneath the pile, and staggers back to the converted closet where women and girls chat noisily and begin a process that will not end before the war itself: complaining about the army.
“What are these things supposed to be?” A woman holds up her new olive drab bra with far more buckles and straps than usual.
“These socks itch like crazy.”
“This is definitely not my size. Who sewed this blouse? Just look at this stitching.”
Rio dresses and waits for Jenou to catch up. Both breathe a sigh of relief when they are fully covered, though nothing fits quite right.
It’s the boots that feel strangest. They are undeniably masculine, brown leather, laced up to above the ankles. They are heavy and solid and the leather squeaks as Rio walks in them, trying them out.
For the first time, Rio and Jenou step out into the world wearing a uniform. These are not their first trousers—Gedwell Falls girls generally do some sort of physical labor at some point that requires overalls or dungarees—but it is the first time either of them by their dress have announced themselves as belonging to something. Being something other than just two high school girls.
They walk, terribly self-conscious, to the barracks.
The barracks is a very simple affair, one long room with metal frame cots in rows on each side, near but not precisely aligned with tall windows, eighteen bunks on each side, for a total of thirty-six soldiers. At the foot of each cot is an OD-painted wooden locker. Against the wall is a rack with four wooden hangers and a rickety shelf above. The floor is polished linoleum, cream and maroon squares. The walls are tan-painted wood paneling. Artificial light comes from eight bare lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling on cords. At the south end of the barracks is a large latrine area. A stenciled sign reads Male.
The heat and humidity inside the barracks are enough to steam rice.
At the north end is a separate room the size of a small bedroom, with a stenciled plaque that reads Sgt. Mackie. Across from this lone bit of personal territory is a smaller latrine labeled Female.
“So, this is home,” Jenou says.
“It’s no good, Father,” Rio said after several heated exchanges. “It’s either now or when you can’t stop me. But if I go now I may be able to stay together with Jenou. I’d rather have a friend with me; we can look out for each other. But one way or the other, I’m going.”
Jenou’s parents did not bother to show up at all, but Jenou’s family is not as tight-knit as Rio’s. In fact, if Jenou is to be believed—and Rio does believe her—it’s barely a family at all. It was irritating being cross-examined by her tearful parents, but Rio preferred it to the cold indifference that sent Jenou off to join the army.
“What do you think, Jen?”
“I think this is my cot. You take that one.”
Rio looks around, wondering why this particular cot has attracted Jenou. Then she sees that the curtain separating the men from the women will be drawn right next to Jenou’s cot.
“I’m not sure your mind is completely focused on protecting and defending the Constitution of the United States of America,” Rio says.
Jenou grins. “I swore to protect and defend the Constitution of the US of A from all enemies, Rio. They didn’t say I couldn’t have fun while I was at it.”
“Listen up.” The voice is not loud, but it is authoritative, and to Rio’s surprise it belongs to a woman. Rio’s first impression is that Sergeant Mackie looks a bit like Rio herself. The sergeant is tall and has that hard-to-define quality that is the mark of a life spent largely out of doors. Her black hair is cut short, almost as short as a man’s. Her eyes are blue like Rio’s but a great deal more intimidating. She wears no makeup of any kind. The creases in her uniform are so sharp she could carve a roast beef with them. There are four gold stripes on her shoulders, three up-pointing darts and one smile-like arc beneath, and a handful of tiny, colorful rectangles on her chest. Her boots could almost be patent leather they’re so shiny.
Sergeant Mackie is trim, fit, vibrating with physical energy, and shows no trace of emotion, fellow-feeling, or sympathy. She stands at rest, feet planted wide, and there seems to be around her a sort of invisible fence that makes the very thought of being close to her, let alone of touching her, an impossibility. She is a person who, deprived of uniform and dressed in a church-day frock, would still look like a soldier.
Sergeant Mackie has the effect of making Rio feel deeply, profoundly inadequate—inadequate, soft, weak, silly, and hopelessly inferior. All this before Mackie has spoken more than two words.
“When you are called to attention you will stand at the end of your cot on the right-hand corner, by which I mean that your left hand should point directly down at the edge of the frame. Atten-HUT!”
Men and women alike do their best to comply, but not without confusion accompanied by a certain amount of horseplay and wry looks and winks, especially from some of the younger males.
Sergeant Mackie seems at first not to notice the mirth. Then she walks—strides, really—in measured steps, her mirror-polished boots so steady and slow as to be almost sinister, to a tall, beefy male of maybe nineteen or twenty years who is among those laughing. He’s got buzz-cut light-red hair, a forehead that wants to crush the dark eyes beneath, and a determined, angry mouth, though at the moment he’s still stifling a giggle as he stands at an insolent, unimpressed attention. Mackie squares off before him. He is taller than she by a head, so she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes with an expression that is mystified, as if she can’t quite make out just what she’s seeing.
“What’s your name, Private?”
“Me? I’m Luther. Luther Geer.”
“Well, Private Geer, do you know how to do a push-up?”
“I reckon I do.”
“Then drop and give me twenty-five.”
“What?”
“Drop. To the floor. And execute twenty-five stiff-backed, stiff-legged push-ups.”
“I—”
“NOW!”
It’s as if her voice has the power to seize direct control of his body, because Private Geer drops to the floor and begins to do push-ups. It clearly surprises even Private Geer.
“Are you telling me you consider that a push-up?” Sergeant Mackie demands after Geer has done three. She shakes her head in sincere disgust. “Eyes on me.”
This last is an entirely unnecessary instruction since thirty-six pairs of eyes are already glued to Mackie. Well, thirty-five, since Luther Geer is staring at the floor and laboring to perform his fourth push-up.
“You,” she says, jerking her chin at Rio. “Count them off.”
The sergeant falls to the floor in a single swift motion, lands on her palms, and, stiff as an ironing board, begins to perform push-ups as Rio says, “One! Two! Three!”
Now Geer is challenged so he tries harder, but Mackie is at ten before he reaches six, and at twenty-five when he’s gasping and shaking to make it to fifteen.
At eighteen he tries to give up. Sergeant Mackie is not having it.
“Give me one more, Geer. Nineteen. One more. Come on, one more. Push, push, push . . . twenty.”
They go on like that until Private Geer is as pink as cotton candy, sweat drenched, and trembling like a man with fever chills.
When done he stands at attention, sweat stains spreading from his armpits, and he is no longer smirking.
Rio expects Mackie to berate the boy, but Mackie is smarter than that. “Don’t you worry about it, son, by the time we’re done with you you’ll be doing twenty-five without even breathing hard. Because you”—she takes a beat on that word, making it specific—“are going to be a soldier.” She pushes his shoulders back, with the heel of her hand positions his head, and with her boot kicks his feet into proper alignment.
She steps back smartly to where the entire barracks can see her without craning their necks and can witness the fact that she has not a hair out of place or so much as a bead of sweat on her olive skin.
“I won’t lie to you, people. This is going to be the hardest thirteen weeks of your life up to this point. But in the end, if I am not forced to spit you out, you will be soldiers. Answer ‘Yes, Sergeant.’”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“Ninety percent of what you will say over the next thirteen weeks will be those two words: yes and sergeant.”
Rio has no confidence that she can do three push-ups, let alone twenty-five. And that is nothing compared to what might come next. She has thus far focused all her thoughts on the job of enlisting without giving a lot of thought to the question of whether she can get through training. And as much as she is worried about her own abilities, she worries still more about Jenou. Jenou, despite her curves, is built on a strong enough frame, but she is no athlete, and unlike Rio she has never slung a bale of hay or hauled a sack of fertilizer.
“Your lives are now under army control,” Mackie says. It isn’t a threat, just a statement of fact. “You will fall out at 0600 every morning. Not 0615. Not 0610. Not 0601. You will dress in fatigues, stand ready, and be marched outside for PT at 0615. There the other NCOs and I will endeavor to train your bodies for the hard work ahead. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“After PT you will shower and shave and stand ready to be marched to chow at 0730. At 0800 you will begin the day’s assignments. You will learn drill, weapons handling, small unit tactics, and battlefield first aid. PT will get tougher with each day. Training will become more difficult with each day. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” There’s a slightly desperate sound to that affirmation.
“Lights out will be at 2100 hours. That’s nine o’clock p.m. for those of you who don’t do so well at math. From 2100 hours until 0600, you will not smoke, talk, read, or move from your bunk e
xcept to use the latrine, which you will do one at a time during the night. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“If you are still awake at 2200 hours I will have no choice but to feel ashamed. I will be ashamed because it will mean that I have not worked you hard enough. That may happen once. I assure you it will not happen twice.”
She walks now in that measured, deliberate way, that pace that evokes radio plays of supernatural terror.
“The curtain separating male and female will be drawn one hour before lights out. Anyone crossing that line will be guilty of a court-martial offense. Anyone harassing a fellow soldier will be guilty of a court-martial offense. Anyone fraternizing in an improper way with a fellow soldier will be guilty of a court-martial offense. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“But before you have a chance to whine and beg for mercy in front of a court-martial, you will have to deal . . . with me.”
She stops in front of Private Timoteo “Tilo” Suarez, a dark-haired, sly-faced, sensuous-eyed city boy. She pivots so her face is within six inches of his and says, “Do you comprehend, Private Suarez?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
Then she walks back to Jenou, and with her face so close to Jenou’s they are breathing the same air, she says, “Do you comprehend, Private Castain?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
Sergeant Mackie has unerringly picked out the two most likely offenders, one from each gender. Jenou has already been eyeing Tilo Suarez, and he has returned that attention. Rio has to grit her teeth to suppress the grin that’s struggling to break out.
“All right.” Mackie relaxes her posture a few degrees and softens her voice. “For a lot of you this is your first time away from home. Some of you are old enough to know how to handle yourselves, but a lot of you are young. Some of you very young.” Her eyes flick toward Rio.
She knows!
“So here’s what you need to do. First off, listen to the NCOs. An NCO is any sergeant, corporal, or private first class. If you see stripes on a shoulder, that’s an NCO, also known as a noncom. One stripe is a PFC, two stripes is a corporal, three stripes is a buck sergeant, four stripes, well, that’s a staff sergeant and that’s me. Beyond that you don’t need to know except that should you ever happen to glimpse six stripes with a star in the center, then you have laid eyes upon the sergeant major, which is to say God’s holy avenging angel on earth. And woe unto you if you embarrass me in front of the sergeant major.”