Battle Dress

by Amy Efaw

“Hey, Daily. Here’s the new addition to your squad.” The cadet moved aside, and behind him stood a tiny girl with sweaty red hair shaped into a bun. Her eyes, enormous in her face, darted nervously around the room. “New Cadet Bryen. First name, Gabrielle,” the cadet announced. “Her roommate decided Woo Poo U wasn’t the place for her, so after the parade, when we marched off the Plain, she just kept on going, right into her parents’ waiting car.” He smiled. “The CO told me to hand her over to you since your female’s roommate never showed.” He thumped Cadet Daily on the back. “So, Dude, you have the only females in the platoon. Here’s your opportunity to excel, my man!”

  I bit the inside of my lip. That’s it? Just two girls in the entire platoon? Just me and her? After Cadet Daily released us back to our rooms, the first thing Gabrielle did was make her bed. Flawlessly. Then she helped me with mine. “My brother graduated from the Naval Academy two years ago,” she said as we crammed my black-and-white-striped mattress into a white mattress cover. “He taught me how to do all this stuff.” We heaved the mattress back onto the springs and sat down on the bed to rest. “He just made first lieutenant in the Marines.”

  I ran my hand along the metal footboard of my bed. I could sense her looking at me, waiting for a response, but I didn’t have one. I had no idea what a “first lieutenant” was.

  “That’s a pretty high rank, you know.” She grabbed my pillow and shoved it into a pillowcase. “He told me, ‘Gab, keep a sense of humor. It’s all a game. Play it the best you can.’” She tossed the pillow on my chair. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen nothing, absolutely nothing funny about this place.” She untied, then retied her shoe. “All day, all I could think of was my mom and dad.” She turned to look at me. “You know what they said to me, right before I left? ‘You can always come home, you know!’”

  I smiled. “That’s exactly what my brother said to me, but he didn’t really mean it.” Oh, that sounds really pathetic. “I mean, he knows I could never do that. You know, go back home.” Okay, you can stop now. You’ve said enough. Because I knew myself. If I said one thing more, I’d blurt out my whole life’s story, tainting myself forever in her eyes like I’d been tainted in everyone’s eyes at school. This is a new place with new people. I wanted her to like me. I didn’t want her—or anyone—to know what I had left back home.

  So I shut my mouth and let her do the talking.

  Luckily, Gabrielle was very good at talking, and since she was so engrossed in her own story, I didn’t think she’d heard a word I’d said anyway. “They really didn’t want me to come here. Oh, they never actually came out and said it or anything. But I could just tell.” She shrugged. “I guess they were a little disappointed I didn’t decide on Penn. They’ve had this huge college fund set up for me for years.” She walked over to her desk and stood on tiptoes to pull the B.A.G.—Barracks Arrangement Guide—off her bookshelf. She leafed through it and said more to herself than to me, “Yeah. And today I almost took them up on it.”

  I was glad she hadn’t. That would’ve left me the only female in the platoon.

  We both stuffed a barracks bag with three sets of Gym Alpha—West Point’s P.T. uniform of gray T-shirts and long black shorts—socks, a swimming suit, towel, and running shoes. We were just about to ping down the hall to the bathroom to arrange our athletic lockers when someone’s fist hammered on our door three loud times.

  “Enter, sir!” we yelled, and stood in the position of attention, dropping our bags at our feet.

  The door flew open and Cadet Daily stomped inside.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU LADIES BEEN DOING FOR THE PAST HOUR?” he roared, taking the room in with one ferocious glance. Army equipment still littered the floor. Underwear, socks, undershirts, and toiletries were piled all over the place. “WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS, A SIX-WEEK SLUMBER PARTY?” He disappeared and returned seconds later, dragging New Cadet Ping with him. “It is now 2145,” Cadet Daily said, looking at his watch. “That gives you exactly fifteen minutes till Lights Out. This room better be squared away by then, Boneheads.” After he was gone, his voice drifted in from the hallway: “And leave the door open ninety degrees when a male is in the room, Davis. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

  Gabrielle turned to me and raised an eyebrow. I blushed.

  “Sorry about this, Ping,” I said, happy to change the subject. “You’re probably sick of bailing me out again.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry, this is my fourth room tonight. I’ve just finished helping Boguslavsky and McGill next door.” He looked around our room. “Theirs was worse than this, believe me. At least you guys know how to fold underwear.” Then he grinned. “Plus, you know what they say around here: ‘Cooperate and graduate!’”

  CHAPTER 5

  TUESDAY, 29 JUNE 0530

  Up in the morning ’fore the break of day,

  I don’t like it, no way!

  Eat my breakfast too soon,

  Hungry again before noon.

  —U.S. ARMY RUNNING CADENCE

  THE DOOR OPENED with a bang. I shot up in my bed, shaky from adrenaline and lack of sleep. Light from the hallway flooded into the room; it was still dark outside.

  “FEET ON THE FLOOR, BONEHEADS!”

  I squinted at the silhouette in the doorway. Cadet Daily. The overhead lights snapped on and, simultaneously, our metal trash can sailed across the room, crashing against the foot of my bed.

  “LET’S GO! ON YOUR FEET! I want you standing tall and looking good, wearing Gym Alpha, outside my room, at 0545. Got that?”

  My feet hit the floor, and I scrambled into the position of attention.

  “YES, SIR!” Gabrielle and I yelled, trying our best to sound wide-awake and eager. Cadet Daily left, slamming the door.

  I checked my watch: 5:32. I subtracted in my head. That gives us ... thirteen minutes.

  We had no alarm clocks—I had turned mine over to Cadet Daily last night. “Don’t worry about getting up on time,” Cadet Daily had said. “I’ll make sure you’re awake.” He certainly had.

  I stumbled to the sink. My exhausted brain buzzed like radio static. Gabrielle and I had spent most of the night scurrying around in the dark with Army flashlights to finish fixing up our room. And now it was immaculate. Too immaculate. Every drawer, shelf, and closet in the room had conformed to the diagrams in the B.A.G. Every pair of underwear, socks, and gloves, every undershirt, handkerchief, and bra was folded and positioned accordingly. The uniforms hanging in the wardrobe closets faced left, their hangers canted right. Our combat boots and shoes were lined up along the lengths of our beds, laced with toes pointing to the center of the room. I wasn’t used to such orderliness. It made me feel unsettled, somehow. I turned on the water and reached into my medicine cabinet for my toothbrush.

  “I am not a morning person,” Gabrielle mumbled, joining me at the sink. “I am not a night person. I am a ten A.M. to two P.M. person. The rest of the day, I am worthless. Totally worthless.”

  I wanted to tell her that I was definitely a night person, that once I made it past midnight, I was good until morning. But I was afraid she’d think I was weird, so I said nothing. The two of us took turns washing our faces, brushing our teeth, and putting in contacts in silence.

  Loud music started blasting in the hallway. The theme music from the classic movie Rocky. Back home, construction workers used to serenade me with that tune as I ran past them. It had always made me run a little faster and a little better. Now it only made me want to hide.

  Gabrielle and I looked at each other. “It sounds like it’s coming over the PA system,” she said. She stood on her toes and leaned over the sink to remove a tube of lotion from her medicine cabinet. “They probably want to make sure that we’re really awake.” I watched her put a blob of lotion under each eye and rub it in. “Well, it works. I’m definitely awake.”

  I pulled on my white socks and running shoes. Last night before he’d left, Ping had told us to wear Gym Alpha to bed, and I was glad we had
. Outside our door echoed the tormented cries of the uninformed souls who hadn’t and were now catching all kinds of heat as they braved the hallway to retrieve their Gym Alpha from their lockers in the latrines.

  The music changed. The eerie theme from another classic movie, that Clint Eastwood Western The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly—one of my dad’s late-night cable favorites—was playing now. I paced back and forth across the room. I checked my watch. I wasn’t about to go out into that hallway of horrors a second before I had to.

  Gabrielle was walking in circles near the door, checking her watch and adjusting her bun. Finally she said, “It’s 5:42. Think we should go?”

  My stomach jumped, but I nodded.

  Gabrielle opened the door a crack and peeked outside. “Those guys next door, what’re their names again?” she whispered.

  “Boguslavsky and McGill.”

  “Yeah, them. They just left.” She turned away from the door and faced me. “Do I look okay?”

  Look okay? I hadn’t given much thought to my looks. At home I would’ve never left to go anywhere without a good half hour of “primping,” as my mother loved to call it. We had fought many gruesome battles over it. Battles in which my hair straightener was the booty, confiscated and locked away inside my mother’s room, and my makeup was the carnage, strewn in broken pieces across the yard. But today, primping just didn’t seem that important anymore.

  “Well?” Gabrielle asked impatiently. “I don’t look fat in these stupid shorts, do I?”

  “Fat?” I asked. At a time like this, who gives a rip if you look fat? I shook my head. “You’re not fat, Gabrielle.” I checked my watch again.

  “Oh, I always look fat in shorts because I’m so short.” She stared up at me. For the first time, I noticed how short she really was. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder. “I had to get a waiver to get in here, you know. I’m only five feet tall.” She looked down at her feet and studied her running shoes. “Well, actually, I’m four feet eleven and a half.”

  “Well, I really didn’t notice,” I said. She frowned. What a dumb thing to say. “I mean, I noticed that you’re short, but not that short.” Great—that was even worse! “You look fine, Gab.” I checked my watch once more. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here! We have one minute.”

  “Okay.” She pulled up her socks. “I’ll go first.” She charged out into the hallway. I followed, pulling the door closed behind me. She made a sharp right turn, only inches from the wall, and pinged toward Cadet Daily’s room. The rest of our squad was already there, lined up with their backs to the wall. Cadet Daily paced before them, yelling something about a “dress off.”

  Dress off? Who’s wearing a dress?

  “I was just having a little chat with your illustrious squadmates about dress offs,” he snarled at us. He stopped pacing and studied all of us, from head to running-shoed toe. “You maggots are so unmilitary, you make me want to puke!”

  Dress offs ... dress offs. I should know this. Words, uniforms, and names whirled around my brain like snow flurries. Then I remembered. The thing we did yesterday when we got ready for the parade—wrapping our shirts tightly around ourselves and tucking them into our trousers the way people wrap Christmas presents. But why in the world do we need dress offs to go outside and sweat?

  “You ragbags look like you just crawled out of bed.” He looked at his watch and snorted. “We’ve got to go to formation now. But first let me get one thing through your brainless boneheads.” He took a huge breath and roared, “I AM NOT PLEASED WITH YOUR PERFORMANCE THIS MORNING, THIRD SQUAD! YOU BETTER KNOCK YOURSELVES TOGETHER, OR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU’RE GONE COME LUNCH FORMATION! DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CLEAR?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “Good. Now, Third Squad—right, face!” We turned. “Davis, you’re leading. Go down the hall till you get to the stairwell. Don’t miss it! Then down the stairs till you reach the sally port, and I’ll take it from there. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yes, sir!” To the stairwell. Down the stairs. Into the sally port. I had done it a million times yesterday, but never with people following me. I sucked in a shaky breath. Just don’t miss the stairs! The simplest tasks were suddenly impossibly difficult here.

  “Good. Third Squad, move out!”

  I rushed along the wall and made it down the stairs. When we reached the sally port, Cadet Daily led us out toward the Plain, where we had marched for our parents only twelve hours ago. The sun was just beginning to splash color across the sky, and the outlines of the granite buildings were starting to emerge out of the darkness. The air was cool but damp.

  “H COMPANY, FALL IN!” yelled an upperclass cadet as we scurried to our places.

  In unison four other upperclassmen each bellowed at their platoons.

  Cadet Black was one of them. “THIRD PLATOON, FALL IN!” Cadet Daily had told us yesterday that Cadet Black was our Platoon Sergeant. He was the guy whom everyone in Third Platoon, including the squad leaders, would answer to.

  “THIRD SQUAD, FALL IN!” Cadet Daily yelled. “Into the position of attention!” We hustled into the spots we had been assigned before Dinner Formation yesterday. The four squads of Third Platoon lined up in four rows, one behind the other, facing Cadet Black. The four squad leaders stood in the far right position, anchoring down their squads. We new cadets stood in height order. In my squad New Cadet Cero, the tallest, stood beside Cadet Daily. Gabrielle, the shortest, was on the far left end. My spot, next to Ping, was somewhere in between.

  H Company with its four platoons now formed a giant square, divided into four equal parts—two platoons in the front and two in the back. Two cadets stood facing us at the very front of the formation. One held the guidon—a yellow flag with a black H—hanging from a tall staff. The other was our First Sergeant, Cadet Stockel. I recognized his peach-fuzz-covered, wire-framed head. Just the sight of him made my armpits sweat. Please don’t see me.

  Cadet Black saluted his squad leaders as each reported how many new cadets in their squads were present—and how many were not. When all the platoons were ready, First Sergeant Stockel received each platoon’s attendance report. Then Cadet Haywood, our Company Commander, walked briskly to the front of our formation. He exchanged salutes with First Sergeant Stockel, who left for the rear.

  From my spot tucked inside Third Squad, Third Platoon, I felt my skin tingling as I watched all the precise movements around me. All the squads were straight. All the platoons square. Everything was perfectly organized. It reminded me a little of standing in the center of the football field with my high school marching band during the halftime show. Only this was a hundred times better. Mr. Rodwell, my band director, would’ve killed for us to look this good.

  “RE-PORT!” called a lone cadet from the center of the Plain, his voice drifting toward us across the grassy field.

  One by one, the company commanders answered:

  “Alpha Company, all accounted for!”

  “Bravo Company, all accounted for!”

  “Charlie Company, one unaccounted for!”

  When it was Cadet Haywood’s turn, he saluted and yelled, “Hotel Company, all accounted for!”

  “India Company, all accounted for!”

  From some distant corner of the Plain a bugle pierced the morning air, sounding like a call to battle. Then a cannon fired. For one still second all of West Point seemed to hold its breath. Cadet Haywood broke the silence. He shouted at us over his right shoulder, “H COMPANY, PRESENT—”

  “PREE-SENT—” echoed the platoon sergeants.

  “—ARMS!”

  And everyone, cadet and new cadet alike, raised their right hands to salute the flag as it climbed the flagpole, formally declaring that June twenty-ninth was a new day.

  0615

  After marching into North Area, we did stretching exercises and calisthenics to the commands of the bellowing cadets standing on what looked like an oversized collapsible card table. We did repetition a
fter repetition of familiar exercises with new names, like the Side Straddle Hop (jumping jacks) and the Turn and Bend (toe touches), and a few new ones like the Standing Long Sit and the High Jumper. And all the while, upperclassmen circled around us, spewing corrections and insults.

  When we finished, First Sergeant Stockel ordered the platoons to line up in reverse height order behind the squad leaders.

  “Stretch on your own, Third Platoon,” Cadet Black said. “Get ready for the run. I’m setting the pace, and you’re gonna get smoked.”

  I felt the prerace jitters coming on. I stretched my quads and eyed Cadet Black, sizing him up like I did my competitors before a race. He looks pretty strong. His legs were long and lean, but muscular—definitely a long-distance runner’s legs. I watched the other new cadets twisting and bending around me. How fast can these guys run? I bent over at the waist without bending my knees and touched my palms to the ground. I noticed that the other companies in North Area were assembling for the run too.

  “What do you have, Davis? Rubber bands for legs?”

  I snapped to the position of attention, but Cadet Daily had already passed me on his way to stand at the front of the platoon with the other squad leaders.

  “HOTEL COMPANY!” yelled First Sergeant Stockel. “FALL IN!” He waited until we all stood at attention, then shouted, “QUICK TIME, MARCH!” We walked with quick, long strides. I felt more like I was bouncing than marching in my springy running shoes. “LEFT. LEFT. LEFT, RIGHT,” he called, his voice amplified three times louder as we marched through a sally port. “DOUBLE TIME—MARCH!”

  And we were off, trotting at a pace of about eight and a half minutes per mile.

  Cadet Black took over the commands for Third Platoon. “LEFT. LEFT. LEFT, YOUR RIGHT, LE-EFT!” he called in his singsong voice.

  We passed a statue and the Plain on our right. “A WHOLE LOT OF LEFT! LEFT, YO’ RIGHT, LE-EFT!” On our left stood two mansions, and behind them the brick gymnasium where the bus had dropped us less than twenty-four hours ago.