Battle Dress

by Amy Efaw

  Doors banged open up and down the hall.

  “Cease work, Bonehead!”

  “What? Where did Reveille go, Smack?”

  “You call that minute calling? I call it a dereliction of duty, Dirtbag!”

  My watch said it was time to go. I opened my door to the hostile hallway and peeked around the door frame. Gabrielle stood stiffly against the wall beneath the center clock, attracting upperclass cadets like death draws flies.

  “YOU MAKE ME SICK, BRYEN!” I heard Cadet Aussprung roar behind me, feeling guilty as I pinged along the wall away from Gabrielle. “BOWING-TO-THE-PORCELAIN-GOD SICK. IF THERE’S ONE THING THAT CHAPS MY HIDE, MISS, IT’S INCOMPETENCE. AND YOU GIVE NEW MEANING TO THE WORD!”

  0618

  “You know, Andi, he’s really hot,” Gabrielle whispered to me as we stretched with the other new cadets of H Company.

  “What?” I asked, only half listening. We stood inside a huge, drafty building called the Field House. Here we’d soon be doing push-ups and sit-ups for the P.T. test.

  “You know. Cadet Aussprung. Fourth Squad’s squad leader? Cadet Daily’s roommate?” She closed her eyes. “The guy with the slate-gray eyes?”

  “I know who Cadet Aussprung is, Gabrielle.”

  “He’s really gorgeous. Especially when he’s mad.”

  “You’re really sick. You know that?”

  She smiled and bent over to touch her toes.

  Cadet Aussprung, the Hollywood Hero. I thought he was cute, too, the first time I saw him. I remembered him leading four other new cadets and me out of the gym and across North Area on the first day of Beast. But the second he’d opened his mouth, any admiration I’d had for him evaporated.

  “There are tons of cute guys here. Don’t you think, Andi?”

  I shrugged. “There are tons of guys here, Gabrielle.” Guys were just about the last thing I needed to worry about right now. I sat down to stretch my legs.

  “Even the new cadets. Some of them are okay, too. And Cadet Daily—”

  I looked up. “What about Cadet Daily?”

  Gabrielle checked over one shoulder, then the other, to make sure no one could hear her. “He’s a doll.”

  A doll? I had never thought about him like that. A prison warden? Yes. An overbearing tyrant? Definitely. A bullying big brother? Maybe. But a doll? Never! It was almost incestuous. I looked at Gabrielle. I just could not figure her out, sometimes.

  Cadet Daily suddenly appeared and motioned for Third Squad to huddle around him. “Okay, Third Squad, pair up. I want you two”—he pointed at me and Gabrielle—“to split up.”

  Gabrielle glanced at me before scooting next to Ping.

  Hickman snatched McGill as his partner right away. Bonanno, Boguslavsky, and Cero hesitated, looking at each other.

  “Today, Third Squad,” Cadet Daily yelled. “Today!”

  I felt a twinge of panic inside, just like I used to feel in gym class whenever the kids got to choose teams, fearing I’d be picked last. Take a chance, Andi. I turned to Boguslavsky, the preacher’s kid. He’d braved the hallways and the door-open-at-ninety-degrees-when-both-sexes-are-in-the-room policy more than once to polish boots and brass with Gabrielle and me after dinner. Maybe he’d be my partner.

  “Uh, hey, guys,” Boguslavsky said, nodding at the others. “Go ahead. I’ll pair up with Andi.” He looked at me. “Okay with you?”

  I smiled and nodded, relieved.

  “You’re gonna count push-ups and sit-ups for your partner and write the number of completed repetitions on the scorecard,” Cadet Daily was saying now. He held a stack of narrow cards. “Take one and pass it around. . . .”

  “HARDCORE COMPANY, AT EASE!” yelled a voice above the low rumble, and a female cadet leaped up onto a P.T. stand at the end of the room. “My name is Cadet Barrington, Hardcore’s Athletic Officer, and I will be administering your very first Cadet Physical Fitness Test, otherwise known as the CPFT!”

  Hu-ah! and other barbaric grunts erupted in the Field House.

  Cadet Barrington smiled. “I’m glad to see that you are motivated. But . . . are you all fired up?”

  “FIRED UP, FIRED UP, FIRED UP, MA’AM!”

  “Okay!” Her skin was so tan that her white socks seemed to glow. “The CPFT is a three-event test, consisting of two minutes of push-ups, two minutes of sit-ups, and a two-mile run. The purpose of this test is to determine your level of fitness during Week 3 of Beast Barracks. In order to pass, you must achieve a minimum score in each event. During the academic year, an actual grade will be attached to your score.” She raised an eyebrow. “But today, Hardcore, we’re going to do it just for fun.”

  More war whoops filled the Field House. I whooped, too. It was contagious.

  Cadet Barrington had a very feminine voice, but it was loud and carried well. Not shrill or mousey like some of the other female cadets I’d heard. I could tell from her taut face and compact body that she was strong. She looked so confident up on that P.T. stand, I couldn’t help but respect her. And the upperclassmen seemed to respect her, too. I hoped that someday I’d have her kind of confidence.

  “The first exercise you will perform is the push-up. DEMONSTRATOR, POST!” She jumped off the P.T. stand and a stocky male cadet took her place. “Assume a good Leaning Rest position,” she continued, as the male cadet got into the push-up position. “Keep your body straight with hands and feet no more than . . .” As she explained with the help of the demonstrator how each push-up must break the horizontal plane, I tuned out. I needed no reminder of how tough push-ups are. I just let the noise pass over me, trying to relax.

  “YES, MA’AM!” everyone suddenly shouted. I snapped back to attention.

  “Good! Demonstrator, recover!” she cried. The demonstrator jumped to his feet.

  “Remember, New Cadets, if your grader determines that you are consistently performing in a substandard manner, he or she will order you to discontinue the exercise. Understand?”

  “YES, MA’AM!”

  “A pretty demanding chick,” I heard Hickman whisper to McGill.

  “Yeah,” McGill whispered back, “but I’d obey her orders anytime.”

  I rolled my eyes at them. McGill smiled sheepishly. Hickman just studied me with narrowed eyes.

  “The next exercise will be the sit-up.” Cadet Barrington jumped back onto the table. “During this exercise, your hands must remain at the base of the neck, with fingers interlaced. . . .”

  Sit-ups are easy. I can do them all day long. But the push-ups . . . I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to relax.

  0643

  I blinked away the sunlight as I followed the mass of new cadets out of the Field House.

  I felt a tug at my shirt. “Hey! How’d you do?” Gabrielle asked. She shoved her scorecard into my hand before I could answer. “Not bad, huh?” She grinned. “Thank you, tennis!”

  I looked at her card—53 push-ups and 79 sit-ups. “Fifty-three push-ups?” How did she do fifty-three push-ups? I really was a total failure. I was certain nobody in Third Platoon had done fewer push-ups than I had. Probably in the entire company. Even teeny tiny Gabrielle had blown me away. “That’s really great!” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Way better than me.”

  “Really? How many did you do?”

  I showed her my card. “Only twenty-two.”

  “But Andi! You did one hundred and one sit-ups! That’s incredible!”

  I shrugged.

  “No, really. Don’t feel bad. Eighteen push-ups pass. And you did twenty-two. That’s more than passing. Passing’s all that matters, anyway.”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled. I don’t want to “just” pass.

  “I mean, breaking the plane. It’s hard to get the hang of that. Even I had a hard time.”

  I stared at her with disbelief. Thanks a lot, Gabrielle.

  Annoyed, I turned away from her and toward Cadet Barrington, who was now standing beside a huge digital clock and yelling into a bu
llhorn.

  “The two-mile run is on a straight course that doubles back twice to create the length. That means you’ve got to turn around three times, so watch for the turnaround points.” Cadet Barrington pointed down a blacktop road that seemed to run straight into a wooded ridge that curved softly to meet the Hudson River, gently flowing on our right. Over on our left a grassy field surrounded an outdoor track. I wondered if I’d ever get to race on it. Don’t think about that now! Concentrate! You’ve got to take one race at a time.

  “You will be running by platoons,” Cadet Barrington was saying into her bullhorn. “First Platoon will go first, then Second, Third, and Fourth, respectively, set off at five-minute intervals. First Platoon, form up on the start line at this time.”

  I watched the first group’s start until they were nothing but gray, bobbing specks on the black ribbon of road. The next platoon slowly gathered together.

  I turned back to Gabrielle. “You know, Gab, I just couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. Cadet Daily kept yelling, ‘No! You’re not going down far enough!’ or ‘No! You’re not breaking the horizontal plane!’” I stretched my arms above my head. “I mean, my chest was practically touching the ground, so—”

  “Ever think that maybe your chest sticks out a little farther than the average person’s? You’ve got an unfair advantage.” She laughed. “Wish I had such a liability.”

  I looked away, embarrassed.

  “All right, Third Squad,” Cadet Daily said, walking up to us. “Listen up. Second Platoon’s about ready to start, so you’ve got about five minutes before you’re up. Remember, you’re gonna have three turnaround points on this thing, so stay alert. They’re marked with orange cones and upperclassmen, so even knuckleheads like Bonanno won’t get confused.” He laughed. “Hand over your scorecards now and start moving toward the start line.”

  When I gave Cadet Daily my card, he tapped the space where my time would be written. “Remember, Davis, I’m expecting great things out of you.”

  “Yes, sir.” After my great push-up score, I was sure he was expecting me to choke on the run.

  I jogged over to the start line and picked a spot at the very front. I’ve got to have a good start. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my jittery insides.

  “Okay, Third Platoon,” Cadet Barrington shouted. “You’ll be starting in one minute.”

  Jason McGill was beside me, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and swinging his arms. “What’re you shooting for, Davis?”

  “I don’t know.” I haven’t exactly had a chance to train lately, trotting in formation. I thought about my hollow stomach. Or eat. “Under twelve, I hope.”

  He raised his eyebrows. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or doubtful. “Yeah? For two miles? That’s pretty quick.”

  Cadet Barrington began her ten-second countdown.

  I set the stopwatch on my watch. “On the track I usually run about 11:15, but the road’s always slower.”

  “Yeah.” Jason nodded like he knew exactly what I was talking about, then set his watch, too. “Mind if I hang with you?”

  “Okay, Third Platoon. Ready . . . Go!” Cadet Barrington yelled, and I was off, leaving my doubts in the dust. The time for fretting was over.

  Five guys blew past me right away. Just keep it controlled, steady. They’re just rabbits. And as I suspected, less than a minute later one of them faded. Shortly after, I passed another. Then two more, until only one remained. Don’t worry. You have lots of time to catch him. Just relax. Keep him in sight. Jason stuck right by my side, his breath matching my own. It felt good to finally stretch it out.

  I glanced to the right, toward the river. Train tracks bordered the road.

  New cadets from the first group approached us from the opposite direction and passed, kicking it in to the finish. The only guy ahead of us from our group was maintaining about a thirty-yard lead on us.

  “Let’s work together,” I said to Jason, “and get that guy.”

  We passed a compound of cinderblock buildings, surrounded by a chain link fence, on our left. A foul odor settled over the air.

  Jason said between breaths, “Nothing like . . . sewage . . . to . . . keep you moving!”

  The orange cones, marking the first turnaround, were now visible. The guy ahead of us was just getting to them. I checked my watch: 4:01. And checked it again as we made the sharp turn around the cones. Two upperclassmen were pointing us back toward the direction where we had just come. 4:12. I quickly did the math in my head. He’s only got eleven seconds on us.

  When we hit the second turnaround, an upperclassman called out our mile split times. “Five thirty-nine. Five forty. Way to go, Miss! Hey, Mister! You gonna let that female beat you?”

  Jason and I were slowly gaining on the guy ahead of us. A few stragglers from the previous two platoons filled in the gap. We zigged and zagged around and between them, passing one by one.

  After we took the final turnaround, I could feel energy surging through my limbs. No more turnarounds. It’s straight back from here. I picked up the pace a notch. Just a little over a half mile to go. Now’s the time to start pushing it.

  Jason’s breathing grew ragged and uneven, and I felt him drop back. “Go on,” he gasped. “Don’t . . . wait for . . . me.”

  “No! Come on, Jason!” I waved my hand forward. “You can do it.” I didn’t want to leave him.

  “No . . . can’t hang.... Go on . . . just . . . get that . . . guy.”

  I thought about those twenty-two push-ups. “Passing’s all that matters, anyway,” Gabrielle had said. I gritted my teeth. Not for me. I wasn’t going to lose that guy ahead of us. “Keep it up,” I said to Jason as I pushed ahead.

  The sound of his breath at my side disappeared, and then the rhythm of his feet striking the pavement faded. The rest of the run blurred in my memory. I remember running through the one-mile mark I’d passed earlier and, soon after, flying by the squat buildings with their breath-robbing stench. I remember watching the guy ahead of me grow larger with every step—his dark hair, his sweat-soaked shirt, a black thread hanging from his Gym Alpha shorts, the quarter-sized scab on his left elbow, and finally his Army-issue glasses and the look of surprise as I passed him. And then I remember Cadet Daily jumping up and down, red-faced and openmouthed, the veins in his neck bulging, as I sprinted past the clock. 11:21.

  I did it!

  I slowed to a jog before I stopped completely, doubled over, my lungs clamoring for air.

  “Davis!” I heard Cadet Daily yell. “You kicked some serious booty! Way to go! Oh, yeah! You’ve earned some Big Bites at breakfast today, Davis!”

  I was too beat to smile. “Yes, sir!” I answered, weakly. I could use some food.

  “Just breakfast, Daily?” I heard another upperclassman ask. “If she were my smack, she’d get Big Bites all week.”

  “Oh, yeah, Aussprung? Well, you deal with your squad your way, and I’ll deal with mine my way. You wonder why you have nothing but lily-livered chuckleheads? It’s ’cause you’re soft, Aussprung. Way too soft.”

  But I knew that Cadet Aussprung was anything but soft. His brand of gentleness made every new cadet dart into the nearest latrine whenever he was spotted in the hallway.

  “Good job, McGill!” I heard Cadet Daily yell. “All the way in, now!”

  I straightened up to watch Jason cross the finish line.

  “Eleven fifty-four!” Cadet Daily shouted. “Hu-ah! You see that, Aussprung? Where are your smacks? Keep walking, McGill. And take Davis with you. I’d hate to have to haul her carcass back to the barracks.” I saw him smirk at Cadet Aussprung. “Even if she did kick everybody’s butt in the entire platoon.”

  Was Cadet Daily actually proud of me? I didn’t dare hope.

  McGill stumbled toward me, and when we both had caught our breath, we walked back to the finish line to watch the rest of Third Squad come in.

  “Did you get him?” Jason asked.

  “Yeah
,” I said. And then I smiled. Big. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Good.” He clapped me on the back. “If I’m gonna get smoked by a girl, she’d better be a fast one.”

  CHAPTER 8

  MONDAY, 12 JULY 1530

  There is no substitute for victory!

  —GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR, WEST POINT CLASS OF 1903

  “SICK CALL, FALL OUT!” First Sergeant Stockel kept the scorn out of his voice, but not from his face as he waited for the handful of new cadets to step out of their squads and limp to the rear of the formation. Most of them had crutches, so the going was slow. “TODAY, SICK CALL, TODAY! YOU’RE MOVING LIKE POND WATER!”

  Standing in Third Squad, Third Platoon, I watched the new cadets hobble past.

  Before the P.T. test this morning only two new cadets had left the sanctuary of their squads for the rear of the formation. Now there were five. Each of them, because of sickness or injury, had been put on a medical profile and was excused from any strenuous training. The two guys and three girls studied the ground as they moved, I suspected, to avoid looking at any of us straight in the eye.

  New Cadet Offenbacher lagged behind the other four, wincing with every step. As certain as the cannon fired every morning for Reveille, she was among the “walking wounded.” The joke being whispered in the latrines was that she had been issued crutches instead of running shoes. After all, no one had actually ever seen her run P.T., and she never went anywhere without them.

  “MOVE OUT, MISS ‘OFTEN-SLACKER’ WITH THE ‘PAINS IN THE THIGHS!’ WE’RE WAITIN’ ON YOU!” First Sergeant Stockel bellowed with irritation.

  Stifled laughter erupted out of the upperclassmen, up and down the ranks.

  Busting on New Cadet Offenbacher had become a favorite upperclassmen’s pastime lately. Before lunch this morning H Company had toured the Cadet Chapel, yet another huge Gothic structure that looked like it had been plucked out of medieval Europe. The grueling march to get there took us up one of West Point’s steepest hills, but Offenbacher wasn’t with us. She and her crutches arrived . . . in a truck.