Battle Dress

by Amy Efaw

  Then I thought about what Cadet Daily said we’d do this week at Lake Frederick—throw hand grenades and practice tactics, run obstacle courses and sleep in tents, get gassed and read maps. “All the skills you’ve learned in Beast,” Cadet Daily had said, “are gonna come together at Lake Frederick. All the drill and ceremony, honor classes, rifle marksmanship, bayonet drills, P.T., discipline, and attention to detail we’ve been pounding into you, day and night, all summer long, is going to make sense. At Lake Frederick, Third Squad, we’re gonna make warriors out of you!”

  I tried not to think about the muscles in the back of my neck that ached from the weight of my ruck. Everything I owned was either packed in that ruck, worn on my body, or locked inside H Company’s trunk room in MacArthur Barracks’ basement.

  I thought about room 305, how it had looked when I’d closed my door that morning. The room was bare, the beds stripped down to their black-and-white-striped mattresses, the drawers and closets empty. A slight breeze had been blowing through the open windows, but we had left nothing on the shelves or desktops for the wind to carry away. In a week we’d return, but room 305 would no longer be ours; it would house other people’s uniforms and books. No scrap of paper, not even a whiff of Gabrielle’s baby powder, would remain to prove that we had ever lived there.

  We stopped only three times, and then just long enough to refill our canteens and have Cadet Daily check our feet for blisters. We changed our socks and then moved on, plodding up long, rocky hills, across meadows, and over trails through thick woods. Along the way we passed a few new cadets who had fallen by the wayside.

  Better watch your step. The last thing I wanted was to be numbered among the “walking wounded” and loaded onto a truck to finish out the ruck march, in my eyes, a failure.

  My fingers grew numb, and my arms ached from holding my weapon across my chest as I marched. Dust covered my boots, my M-16, and everything else that wasn’t slimy with sweat. My Kevlar’s chin strap tasted like soggy pretzels with too much salt.

  Finally we came out of the woods and into a huge, flat, grassy space. New cadets from I Company—the company that had been marching ahead of us—were scurrying around and erecting canvas pup tents into rows.

  “Here we are, Third Squad,” I heard Cadet Daily say. “Welcome to Lake Frederick.”

  My heart sank. The village of little tents and campfires encircling a silvery lake that I had envisioned faded into the dusty, olive-drab shanty-town reality that I saw. And then some voice from inside me with a tone amazingly like Cadet Daily’s said: This ain’t no Girl Scout camp, Davis. You’re in the Army now. I smiled to myself.

  “Okay, Third Squad,” Cadet Daily said. “You get to take a short break while we wait for the stragglers to arrive. Cadet Aussprung and I just got tasked to help police them up. We don’t want any Hardcore boneheads left wandering around out there, lost and crying for their mommas. By the way, Third Squad, I want to commend you on your outstanding effort. You all made it. You lived up to our motto—”

  “NEVER SURRENDER, SIR!” we yelled.

  Cadet Daily smiled. “That’s right, Third Squad. Never surrender.”

  “Push-ups!” screamed Cero.

  Push-ups? Now? I thought of my exhausted, aching body. He’s got to be joking.

  Cero dropped to the ground. “Motivational push-ups, Third Squad! PUSH-UPS!”

  “PUSH-UPS!” Third Squad roared in unison, dropping to the ground to push out a few, rucks and all. This ruck march hadn’t kicked our butts!

  “Okay, Third Squad, okay!” Cadet Daily was laughing. “Cease work!” He waited for us to stumble to our feet. “Now, listen up. Ground your gear—”

  We grunted a collective sigh of relief and moved to dump the burdens off our backs.

  “Hold up, Third Squad! Did I give the command to move?” His smile was gone. “Never assume anything, you got that? You know what happens when you assume?” He looked us over, one at a time. “It’s all contained in the word, Third Squad. It’s all contained in the word. Now—you will ground your gear, remove your Kevlars, and take off your boots. Make sure you drink at least one full canteen of water, then refill it at the water buffaloes. Over there.” He pointed toward a small hill about a hundred yards away where the camouflaged portable water tanks stood. “And remember—keep your weapons secured at all times, Third Squad. When I get back, I’ll inspect your feet. Fall out!”

  I stumbled forward as I dropped my ruck.

  Kit laughed. “I guess that’s what happens, Andi, when your ruck weighs half your weight.”

  “What about when it’s half your height?” Gabrielle said, flinging her ruck to the ground. “I look like a stupid turtle with this thing on!”

  “Hey, don’t let Daily hear that, Gab. He’s into nicknames, remember?” Kit dumped his ruck, too. Then he started massaging his right shoulder with his left hand. “Whew. Thought we’d never stop. This kind of walking’s brutal on the ol’ shoulders.”

  I took off my helmet, tossed it on top of my ruck, and ran my fingers through the damp mop on my head. “They’re really going to let us rest. Thank God.”

  “What? The Iron Woman is actually tired?” Kit asked, smiling. “Unbelievable.”

  My BDU shirt was soaked, and the brown T-shirt under it clung to my back. I pulled the wet fabric off my skin and squinted at him. “Oh! Did I say I was tired?”

  Jason McGill dumped his stuff next to mine and winced. “Man, my feet are killing me. I’m afraid to take my boots off and see the damage.” He pulled out a canteen and swore. “Empty.” He looked at the water buffaloes up on the hill, then back down at the empty canteen in his hand. “Great.”

  “Here, Jason. Catch.” Gabrielle tossed him hers.

  “Thanks, Gab. But don’t you need—”

  “Are you kidding?” Gabrielle plopped down on the ground. “I’ve drunk so much water on this stupid ruck march, I’m about to wet my pants. Life’s rough for us females, you know. All you guys have to do is go behind a tree, whip it out, and—”

  “I’m glad you know so much about the male anatomy, Gab,” Kit said, laughing. “But you can spare us the details. We already know all about the benefits.”

  Gabrielle’s face turned a shade darker than her hair, and she started to talk fast. “If I have to drink another sip of that water, I’ll gag. You know, one thing I can’t stand is tepid water. Especially tepid tap water. Makes me want to puke!”

  “What did you expect, Bryen?” Hickman tossed his helmet on the ground next to her and sat down on it. “Pellegrino on ice?”

  “That would be great, Hickman. But actually, I prefer Perrier. Chilled with a twist of lime. You got some?”

  I laughed and sat down between Jason and Kit. Cero was sprawled on the ground across from me. He was leaning against his ruck with his boots off, eyes closed, and an open canteen lying on his chest. I smiled as I worked on taking off my boots.

  Here I was, just sitting around with these guys, relaxing and joking around like a normal person. I used to watch the kids in the lunchroom or in the hallways between class periods do it, wondering what it would feel like to really be part of a group. Not just someone watching from the sidelines, hanging on the fringes. Now I knew, and it felt great.

  Jason pulled off his socks and whistled under his breath. “Not good.” His toes, the outsides of his feet, and his heels were bloody and raw. And almost half his toenails were black.

  My feet started to throb sympathetically. “Jason!”

  “Yeah, I know. If Daily sees them, that’s it. Profile for me, for sure.” He hung his head, looking at his mangled feet. “McGill and Often-slacker, two peas in a pod.”

  “Hey,” said Hickman, “speaking of that Often-slacker chick, Davis and Bryen, y’all did good today. Congrats.”

  I looked at Hickman, then quickly dropped my eyes. Was that a compliment? Or an insult? It was hard to tell with Hickman. I’d just let it pass.

  But Gabrielle was glaring at him. “And
what exactly do you mean by putting the phrase ‘speaking of Often-slacker’ in the same sentence with Andi and me?”

  “What do you mean, Bryen? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. I mean, you’re all three females. Right?” Hickman looked around at the rest of us, nodding his head.

  Gabrielle pulled off her socks and wiggled her toes. “I resent the comparison. Hardly a compliment, thank you very much.”

  I didn’t like the direction that the conversation was going either. But I liked the hostility even less. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Gab,” I whispered.

  Hickman narrowed his eyes. “Well, to be honest, Bryen, I didn’t think y’all’d be able to hang.”

  “You didn’t think that Andi could hang?” She looked over at me. For support, I think.

  At home, I’d always get pulled into my parents’ fights. I didn’t want it happening here, too. I didn’t want to have to pick sides. So I said nothing. Let’s just drop this conversation. Please!

  Hickman shrugged. “Yeah. Humping twelve miles with a pack on your back’s a lot different than running twelve miles, you know. Ruck marching takes lots of upper body strength. Girls just aren’t made for that kind of stuff.”

  “What?” Gabrielle looked at me again.

  I wanted to disappear.

  Kit stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back against his ruck. “Well, Hickman, there’s one thing you’ve failed to take into account. We don’t have just ordinary girls here,” he said in his slow, easy way. “They’re Third Squad caliber, same as you and me. You can’t just look at girl or guy, Hickman. You’ve got to look at the individual.” He smiled at me. “And Andi and Gab can hold their own with any guy.”

  Jason nodded. “Yeah, where’ve you been all summer, Hickman?”

  Those two are great! I’d always heard that actions spoke louder than words when it came to self-promotion. But right then, the words coming from Kit and Jason spoke louder than any action we could’ve done. And I was grateful for it.

  Hickman flexed his jaw muscles. “Hey! What’re you guys jumping all over me for? Man! I just said they did good, didn’t I?” Then, suddenly, he smirked. He pointed toward the wood line where the H Company stragglers were making their way over to us. “Just look over there. What do you see?” He crossed his arms. “’Nuff said. End of story.”

  We looked. Most of the stragglers were females, with a few recruited, overweight football players mixed in.

  The scene sickened me. Those women dragged down the rest of us girls—like Gabrielle and me—who worked hard to prove we could be as tough as the guys. That we belonged here. They made Hickman’s smugness seem justified.

  I could physically feel myself hardening against them. Repelling them.

  “Facts are facts, guys,” I heard Hickman say, his voice heavy with self-satisfaction. “And I’m entitled to my opinion.”

  “Then keep it to yourself.” We all turned toward the voice. One of Cero’s eyes was opened, staring at Hickman. “You’re cutting into my rack time, pal. And I like my beauty sleep.” Then he yawned and slowly rolled to his side with his back to Hickman.

  Bonanno suddenly stood up. “Hey, uh, how abouts I fill up some canteens? I’ll make a run to the water buffalo. All this argumenting’s getting on my nerves.”

  “I’m with you on that one, Bonanno,” Kit said. “Let me give you a hand.” He got to his feet and started collecting canteens. “Hey, where’d Ping go?”

  Hickman was chewing on a long blade of grass. “He’s over there.” He waved his hand toward where Fourth Squad was sitting. “Bein’ a hero. Fixin’ up some guy’s feet.”

  I looked at Jason. “Hey! Why didn’t we think of that? Ping used to be a medic, right? I bet he can fix you up. Hey!” I called after Kit and Bonanno, already on their way to the water buffaloes with their arms full of canteens. “Stop by Fourth Squad and tell Ping to hurry back, will you?”

  A couple of minutes later Ping was jogging back over to us with his weapon slung across his back and a camouflaged pouch in his hand.

  “What’s up, McGill?” he asked. “Bogus and Bonanno said your feet look like ground beef.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, “raw ground beef.”

  Ping squatted in front of Jason and held the feet in his hands, gently turning them this way and that. He blew out slowly. “You ain’t kidding, buddy.” He shook his head. “You finished the march on these?”

  Jason nodded.

  Ping shook his head again. Without another word he opened his pouch and got right to work with razors, disinfectant, foot powder, and moleskin, his hands working fast to mend Jason’s feet.

  “Okay, Boneheads!” Cadet Daily yelled, making his way back to us. “Mission accomplished, Third Squad. We’re gonna hold formation in about five minutes, so let’s get a quick look at your piggies—” He stopped abruptly and looked at the feet in Ping’s hands. “What did you do, McGill? Step on a land mine?”

  “I’ve got them under control, sir,” Ping said without looking up. “As long as he keeps them dry, he shouldn’t have to go on profile.”

  Jason nodded. “Sir, they don’t hurt that bad. Really. They look worse than they are. I don’t want a profile, sir.”

  Cadet Daily folded his arms across his chest and watched Ping finish. “Well, Combat,” he finally said, “I’m glad to see you putting that Combat Medical Badge to good use, for once. Besides looking pretty on your uniform, of course.” He paused. “I know this ain’t brain surgery, Ping. But I’m counting on you to keep McGill, here, healthy. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’ll be my butt if he gets gangrene or something and has to get his feet whacked off.” Then he moved on to inspect the rest of our feet.

  After First Sergeant Stockel held a formation to make sure that all of H Company had made it to Lake Frederick, he drove our guidon into the ground. “This is your standard, Hotel Company. Your rallying point. Erect your shelters in line with it. Look for it if you become disoriented. And whenever you see it, remember that you are Hardcore Company, the most motivated, high-speed, low-drag, combat-ready company in Beast!”

  I only half listened as he turned us over to our platoon sergeants; my eyes were on the guidon. With no wind, it hung limp from the top of its staff, this year’s drill streamer dangling below it. All those evenings that I’d spent practicing the Manual of Arms had paid off. I had mastered the movements, and Hardcore had won the competition. One glimpse of it should remind me that I hadn’t held my company back. But now Hickman’s opinion was gnawing at me, my small victory tainted. I had a lot more work to do.

  Cadet Black released the platoon, one squad at a time. Shouldering our rucks, we followed Cadet Daily past the line of half-erected tents to our squad’s area.

  “Okay, listen up,” Cadet Daily said. “As we’ve done before, roommates will be tentmates.” He designated which piece of ground each pair would occupy. “Remember to leave a couple of feet between tents, and cover down on India Company.” He nodded at the rows of tents that were already up behind us. “We want Tent City ‘dress right, dress.’ Just like a formation.”

  “Tent City?” Gabrielle whispered to me. “How imaginative.”

  “The sooner we knock this out, the sooner you can rest! Remember—no sags, no wrinkles. Third Squad, fall out!”

  “NEVER SURRENDER, SIR!”

  Gabrielle and I dragged ourselves over to our spot. Just like in the barracks, Jason and Kit were our neighbors. They were dropping their gear on our left. A few feet on our right, two guys from Second Squad had just finished snapping their shelter halves together and were spreading the butterfly-shaped canvas on the grass. One of the guys nodded at us. Gabrielle smiled back. I looked away.

  I stripped myself of all my gear and stretched my arms over my head. New cadet voices in relaxed conversation mixed with the clink-clank of entrenching tools hammering tent pegs into the ground and spread, row by row, over the grassy field. Another new cadet company
emerged from the woods, marching in double file behind G Company’s guidon.

  I glanced at Gabrielle. Her fingers were working in frantic motions, smoothing and adjusting her sweaty but somehow still frizzy hair. Then she opened one of her ammo pouches, fished out some Chap Stick, and ran it over her lips. Gabrielle—always worried about her looks. Even after a twelve-mile ruck march. I rolled my eyes and started digging around in my ruck.

  I pulled out my tent poles, tent pegs, and shelter half. After fitting the poles together, I started unwinding the rope from around my tent pegs.

  I stole glances at Kit and Jason as they worked, mirroring everything they did. By now, putting up tents wasn’t anything new to us. We had practiced setting them up during Squad Leader Time several times, and had even bivouacked once—on the rifle range the night before we fired our M-16s. But Gabrielle and I still hadn’t been able to erect a habitable tent on our own. We understood what we were supposed to do. But somehow our tent always ended up looking like we had thrown a blanket over a broken-down, swaybacked mule.

  When we had pounded the last tent peg into the ground, Gabrielle and I stood back to inspect our work. It looked only slightly better than our previous attempts.

  Gabrielle tossed her entrenching tool on the ground. “Oh, forget it! This sucks. I’m gonna get help.”

  “No, wait a minute, Gab. I think I know what’s wrong.” I really wanted us to figure this out on our own. I walked over to the left side of the tent. “Look. We just have to pull these tent pegs out here and move them—”

  “Great. Let’s let Ping do it.” She looked down the line of Third Squad tents. “His tent’s up, and he’s just sitting there, talking to Hickman—”

  Hickman. I thought about what Kit and Jason had said to Hickman earlier. They’d gone out on a limb for us. We owed this to them, if not to ourselves. “We really don’t need Ping’s help, Gab.”