Battle Dress

by Amy Efaw

  “You don’t want to be too cute here, Miss,” the female cadet said to my reflection. She looked almost triumphant, like Cinderella’s stepsisters must have looked after ripping her pretty dress to rags before the ball. The cadet leaned closer, her blue eyes locking with my brown. “Be outstanding,” she whispered. “But don’t stand out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  MONDAY, JUNE 28 5:00 P.M.

  The first qualification of a soldier is fortitude under fatigue and privation. Courage is only the second; hardship, poverty, and want are the best school for a soldier.

  —NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, THE ART OF WAR, MAXIM LVIII

  ATHOUSAND NEW CADETS AND I marched onto the Plain. Standing at attention in perfect rows, we faced our families. About eight hours had passed since we’d last seen them. We’d spent those hours transforming while they’d been busy waiting. I could feel the excitement all around me.

  I quickly scanned the crowd for a glimpse of my family, wondering if they’d even bothered to stay. But I didn’t spot them. I was actually a little disappointed—I wanted them to see me standing here, to know that I had made it through this day.

  Together we raised our right hands and pledged to “support the Constitution of the United States and bear true allegiance to the National Government. ...” Then, marching in four columns, we moved off the parade field. Left behind was the cheering, waving, picture-taking throng. Rank after rank marched forward for as far as I could see—down a road, away from the granite buildings, North Area, and the Plain.

  Well, that’s it. No going back now.

  “DRESS IT RIGHT AND COVER DOWN ...” sang an upperclass cadet, marching to the left of Third Platoon, my platoon. All the members of Third Platoon echoed him, imitating his inflection and volume. Four squads made up Third Platoon; Cadet Daily and the three other squad leaders marched abreast, leading their squads of new cadets behind them. I remembered “dress right” and “cover down” from marching practice earlier in the day. Stay on line with the guys on your left and right, and directly behind the guy marching in front of you.

  “FORTY INCHES ALL AROUND!” Third Platoon new cadets surrounded me on all sides. I felt as if I were just one bottle among many within a living, breathing Coke crate, rolling down a conveyer belt. And the space between me and any of them—“forty inches all around.”

  “MOMMA, MOMMA, CAN’T YOU SEE?” The cadet who marched alongside us had a great voice, smooth and soulful. A voice that should’ve been captured on a CD somewhere, breaking hearts.

  “WHAT THIS ARMY’S DONE TO ME!” I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s the guy who taught us how to march ! The only person who had smiled today, who had joked. Cadet Black—no pun intended.

  “MISERY, OH, MISERY ...” Cadet Black sang on, echoing the thoughts of my heart. We followed the companies ahead of us toward a huge brick building crouched near the edge of the Hudson River.

  “IS WHAT THIS ARMY IS TO ME!” It felt good to be marching. No thinking. Just marching. Mindlessly repeating back the phrases that Cadet Black shouted out. I could hear the roar of voices in the companies ahead of us, traveling over the warm air. The steady beat of hundreds of feet pounding the pavement in unison—left, right, left, right—relaxed me. I felt my tense muscles start to unwind, like they did a couple of miles into an eight-mile run....

  And then I heard her voice.

  “Andi? Look, Ted! It’s Andi!”

  It can’t be! I darted a look to my left. And what I saw out of the corner of my eye—my mother, camera in hand, scrambling behind Cadet Black—almost stopped my heart. So they had stayed after all.

  “Do you think she can hear me, Ted? Come on, Andi! Look at me! Over here!”

  Cadet Black scowled and then barked at us, “Third Platoon! Heads and eyes to the front! One. Two. Three. Four. United States Cadet Corps!”

  “Why won’t she look at us?”

  Please, God, don’t let them guess that she’s talking to me. I ordered my eyes to stare at the building ahead, which was growing larger with every step. Don’t react. Not at all.

  I could hear her behind us now, her voice growing fainter. “Oh, just shut up, Ted! I only wanted to take her picture, you know. Is that so bad? She could’ve at least looked at us.”

  “I USED TO BE A HIGH SCHOOL STUD ...” Cadet Black sang. I couldn’t hear her at all now. But it had taken the entire platoon marching behind us to drown her out.

  I tried to relax, to concentrate on keeping in step—but I couldn’t stop shaking inside. How could she have done that to me? What was she thinking? No other parents had followed the cadets off the field. But then again, my parents were no ordinary parents. I should’ve expected it. During home track meets my mother had trotted out in front of the starting line just as the starter’s gun went off. She had made surprise visits to band concerts and awards ceremonies. She had zipped up and down the aisles during my high school graduation. Every place that I was featured in any way, she and her camera arrived, behaving like a sugar-charged, lollipop-clutching kid in a toy store. And my dad was always in tow, grinding his teeth and looking uncomfortable, but powerless to stop her.

  “NOW I’M MARCHING IN THE MUD.” Tears settled into my eyes. My throat ached. No other parents had humiliated their new cadet like my parents had humiliated me. I yelled louder, trying to push it all away.

  “I USED TO DATE A BEAUTY QUEEN—” My toes rubbed against my new, stiff black shoes. My wool pants clung to the backs of my legs. Clipped hair pricked the skin between my shoulder blades.

  “NOW I DATE MY M-16!”

  Date my M-16? Weird words, weird people, weird clothes. Suddenly, surrounded by yelling, sweating, White Over Gray-clad kids who only this morning were ordinary teenagers, I felt totally alone.

  We reached the building and, one squad at a time, filed inside a huge auditorium. Air-conditioned plushness greeted us. It looked like a fancy concert hall with its rows of crushed-velvet seats. But instead of containing the cultured sounds of an orchestra, the place rocked with loud chanting and stomping feet.

  “Fill up this row, Beanheads!” Cadet Daily shouted at us over the roar. “And keep your skanky bodies off the seats until you are ordered to sit!”

  Though every inch of my body whimpered for my seat, I yelled with the others, “WE ARE,” (STOMP, STOMP) “HARDCORE!” over and over. “Hardcore H,” I guessed then, was H Company’s nickname. Our job was to let all the other companies know that we had arrived.

  My seat was soft and comfortable when we finally were allowed—no, ordered—to sit. The air-conditioning cooled my skin, making me both refreshed and sleepy. This was the only relief any of us had had all day. And Cadet Daily knew it. “Listen up, Knuckleheads! Don’t let me catch any of you racking in here. You will not be comfortable. That’s an order! You will sit at attention.” He peered down our row to ensure each of us was listening. “If I see any of you chilling out, I will personally crank up the heat on your sorry maggot bodies! Got it? Instant dee-frost!”

  So I sat on the edge of my seat and stared at a cadet walking onto the stage at the front of the auditorium.

  “I am Cadet Captain Knight, Regimental Commander of Cadet Basic Training,” the cadet said. “Otherwise known as King of Beast.” His voice lacked the malice that most of the upperclassmen’s voices contained, and his welcome was cordial enough, but something about him chilled the room.

  “Keep a sense of humor and a high degree of motivation,” he told us. He reminded us that we had been selected out of thousands of applicants because each one of us demonstrated that trace of the exceptional intelligence, drive, and leadership ability that marked members of the Corps of Cadets.

  “Now, look at the person to your left and right.” I looked. New Cadet Ping, the guy who had helped me with my name tag, sat at my left. New Cadet McGill, the guy with the sun-bleached hair and lifeguard tan, sat at my right. “Four years from now, one of you will be gone.”

  I looked down at my hands in my la
p. Four years. My feet ached. My eyes burned. My stomach growled. Sweat, dried and crusty, traced my hairline. Four years of days like this?

  “Most of those won’t make it through Cadet Basic Training.” He paused. “That’s why we call it ‘Beast.’”

  Will I be the one to leave? I thought of my alternatives. It’s either here or home. I sat up even straighter on the edge of my soft seat. No. I will make it. I will.

  7:15 P.M.

  The medieval mess hall was filled with noise—of clanging dishes and roaring voices—as if the Crusades were being fought within its very walls. The other new cadets and I sat, by squad, around rectangular tables for ten.

  “I am Cadet Black,” boomed Cadet Black, sitting at the head of our table. I snapped my head to face him. So did the six other new cadets who had helped me get dressed earlier and were now sitting with me. “No pun intended.” His lips twitched. Cadet Daily and another upperclassman flanked his sides. “I am your Table Commandant.” Earlier, at lunch, Cadet Black had ignored the new cadets under his charge as they ate. Now he glared steadily at each of us around the table. The overwhelming aroma of roast beef made my empty stomach grumble. I concentrated on breathing in and out of my mouth so I wouldn’t have to smell the food.

  Cadet Black’s eyes rested on me. I hoped it was only because I was sitting opposite him. “I had the pleasure of dining with some of you at lunch.”

  I rewound my memories from earlier in the day at triple speed. Did I mess up for him, too?

  “That was then. This is now.” He narrowed his eyes. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.” Then he began to rattle off orders faster than my mother could hurl dishes. “You will sit at the position of attention at all times. Sit one fist’s distance from the table edge, and one fist’s distance from the back of the chair. Spread your napkins on your laps, and place your hands on top of the napkins. Position your plate so the West Point crest rests at twelve o’clock. Stare at the crest. NO GAZING AROUND!” Once again his eyes traveled around the table, following the contours of our sweaty faces. “YOU GOT THAT, BEANSMACKS?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “GOOD. MAKE THE CORRECTION!”

  Shaky hands spread linen napkins, fists sandwiched stomachs, and torsos shifted. I stared at my empty plate, my eyes locked on the crest, a black shield superimposed by something that looked like a gold knight’s helmet.

  “To eat,” Cadet Black continued, “pick up your knife and fork. Cut an approximately one-square-inch piece of food. Big bites are not authorized! Raise your fork to your mouth. The forearm must be at a ninety-degree angle to the spine, elbow out.” He demonstrated. “Then once you’ve placed the food in your mouth, ground your fork and knife diagonally at the upper-right-hand corner of your plate—across the twelve-o’clock and three-o’clock positions. Return to the position of attention with your hands on your lap. Then and only then may you chew and swallow the food. With your mouths closed! DO YOU UNDERSTAND, KNUCKLEHEADS?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  I don’t think I can eat like this! And my defense against the roast beef was wearing thin. Oh, why didn’t I eat lunch today?

  “Davis!” Cadet Daily cut in, yelling down the table at me. “You are the Cold Beverage Corporal.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. The what?

  “Your function in life is to fill all those glasses with ice and a beverage.” He pointed to the upside-down glasses lined in neat rows before me. “You will hold up the pitcher of the preferred beverage above your right shoulder, with both hands, like this”—he demonstrated with his plate—“and away from your mouth. I don’t want your verminous spit anywhere near my beverage. You will look directly at the Table Com and announce in a command voice, ‘Sir, the cold beverage for this meal is—’ What’s in the pitcher, Davis?”

  I peered into one of the two stainless-steel pitchers beside me and yelled, “Sir, water is in the pitcher!”

  “No, Bonehead! The other pitcher. The one with the preferred beverage. What is it?”

  I tilted the second pitcher and watched an unrecognizable dark liquid slosh around inside. I racked my brain. Iced tea? Coke? Grape juice?

  “TODAY, DAVIS. TODAY! WHAT’S IN THE PITCHER?” He pounded the table, making the dishes, silverware, ketchup, salt and pepper shakers—and me—jump. “Immediate Response Please—IRP! Morons in the loony bin are quicker than you.”

  Cadet Black and the other upperclassman sneered down the table and nodded in agreement. I was tired and hungry, and I wanted to cry. Even the mealtime insults I had endured back home were no preparation for West Point’s dinner conversation and table etiquette.

  Then Cadet Daily said the unbelievable. “Grab a glass and taste it.”

  I grabbed a glass and shakily poured the liquid. Three sets of upperclass eyes glared down the table at me, daring me to spill it on myself or, worse yet, on the pristine white tablecloth. My squadmates stared dutifully at their crests, probably thanking God, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, and every other higher power they could think of that they hadn’t sat in my spot tonight. When I tried to drink, all three upperclassmen jumped out of their seats in rage, roaring corrections and insults at me. My forearm didn’t form a ninety-degree angle to my spine. I gulped instead of sipped. I brought my mouth to my glass instead of my glass to my mouth.

  I can’t even drink right!

  Finally, I choked down what tasted like bitter water. And after my fourth attempt of yelling over the din in the mess hall (“We can’t hear you, Davis! Try it again! Is that what I told you to say? Do it again!”), I correctly made the announcement, “Sir! The cold beverage for this meal is iced tea. Would anyone not care for iced tea, sir?”

  “Just fill all the glasses with ice and water,” Cadet Daily said, motioning toward the stainless-steel bowl filled with cylindrical ice cubes. “Three whole ice cubes in each glass. No shrapnel. Do you think you can handle that, Davis?”

  “Yes, sir!” I assured him.

  “WORK!” Cadet Black bellowed.

  I started spooning ice cubes into the glasses.

  A mess-hall waiter suddenly appeared, wearing a red coat, white shirt, and black pants. He deposited stainless-steel platters of steaming food—roast beef, wide noodles, and peas with mushrooms—on the table to my left and right before shuffling away.

  “Pass that food up here!” Cadet Black growled.

  “Boguslavsky!” yelled Cadet Daily, pointing down the long table at Jimmy Fallon’s lookalike on my left. “That means you! Function!”

  When everyone had a glass of ice water and a plate of food before them, Cadet Black bellowed, “EAT!”

  I grabbed my knife and fork and attacked my roast beef, cutting it into minuscule pieces and chomping it down, barely chewing.

  “REGIMENT, RISE!” The command from the King of Beast, standing on the balcony in the center of the mess hall, came too quickly.

  “ON YOUR FEET!” Cadet Black yelled. Hundreds of chairs pushed away from the tables. I was on my feet with the others, standing at attention and waiting for direction. I snuck a quick look at the table. So much food ... and all I had managed to get past my lips were three peas, four square-inch pieces of roast beef, and a clump of stuck-together noodles.

  Cadet Daily herded us out of the mess hall and into New Cadet Ping’s room to teach us the basics—how to fold our clothes and make our beds—West Point style. New Cadet Ping’s side of the room was already in perfect order. Along with his own stuff, I noticed, he’d also arranged most of his roommate’s. I waited for Cadet Daily to tell us all that Ping was a model new cadet and would be promoted to an upperclassman instantly. Instead, he flipped Ping’s mattress upside down onto the floor.

  What did he do wrong?

  “THE FIRST THING YOU BETTER GET THROUGH YOUR DUMB KNUCKLEHEAD, PING,” Cadet Daily bellowed, “IS YOU DON’T DICK ON YOUR CLASSMATES!” He yanked the bleached white sheets and Army-green blanket from under the mattress and tossed them aside. “The objective here is not to make yourself look
good, New Cadet Ping. This ain’t no dog and pony show! This is West Point. If you can’t hack it, beat it. Go back to being an E-5 in the Army!” Cadet Daily stood nose to nose with Ping, his veins straining against the skin of his neck. “The objective here, New Cadet Ping,” Cadet Daily said between clenched teeth, “is to cooperate and graduate. You got that, Hotshot?”

  “Yes, sir!” yelled Ping.

  But he had cooperated. He’d helped his roommate out! I thought of how he had helped me with my name tag earlier. Doesn’t cooperate mean help? But I wasn’t sure what anything meant anymore.

  Cadet Daily turned from Ping, stepped over the crumpled mound of bedding, and walked over to the dismantled bed. “Get over here, Ping,” he snarled. “I’m going to show you miserable maggots how to properly make a bed.” He eyed Ping with disgust. “And Mr. Combat here”—he flicked the multicolored rectangular pins lined up on Ping’s chest—“is going to be my demonstrator.” Where Ping had medals, our uniforms were bare—including Cadet Daily’s.

  When Cadet Daily had finished his step-by-step bed-making class, he smiled. With its tight hospital corners, the bed looked like an olive-drab business envelope. “Now, this is the standard, Third Squad! This bed is so tight, you can bounce a quarter off it.” He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and slammed it on the bed. Like a rubber ball, it sprang back into his hand.

  Before he could repeat his trick, the door opened and an upperclass cadet stepped inside the room.