Sisters in Arms

by Kaia Alderson

  “Jones! Your spot is here.”

  “What are you doing, Grace?”

  “Putting us in alphabetical order. I might not have been in the Army long, but I’ve noticed enough to know that Uncle Sam does everything by the letter. In this case, that’s alphabetically. Now, come on.”

  “Your friend there is a piece of work,” one of their fellow recruits remarked.

  Grace heard Eliza grumble behind her back, “Bossy is more like it.”

  Grace turned to correct her. “I am not bossy. I’m organized. Now get in line.”

  The officers were exasperated by the time they had sent the white recruits on their way. The one who appeared to be in charge squeezed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. While still looking down, he barked, “Fall in! That means I want you gals to line up. Do you think you can manage that without taking all day?”

  “We are lined up,” called out one of the ladies in the front.

  “Alphabetically,” chimed in another.

  Grace, who was standing toward the end of the line, could’ve sworn the voice sounded like Charity’s. Grace bit her lip to keep from snorting.

  “Sounds like we have a jokester already. Now, I told you gals I’m not in the mood . . .” He looked up and abruptly stopped speaking. “Wait, who told y’all to line up like that?”

  “We told ourselves, sir.” Grace wanted to slap her hands over her mouth but didn’t dare move. She hadn’t meant to speak her thoughts out loud.

  The man’s jaw unhinged itself further. “Well, I’ll be . . .”

  He quickly regained his composure—his composure being frowning so hard that his face looked like a wrinkled pug’s and harrumphing like a grumpy old man. “I bet you all think you’re so smart. Well, nothing gets under my skin quicker than a bunch of know-it-alls. Let’s get this right straight, you all know nothing. I don’t care how much college these here forms say you have. You are nothing. And you will continue to be nothing until I say each and every one of you is worthy of wearing the officer stripes from this here United States Army. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” they all shouted in unison.

  The grumpy officer harrumphed again. “It seems like now is a good time to introduce you all to the basics of military life.” He held up his pointer finger. “One, do not do anything unless you are ordered to. I do not care who birthed you. I do not care who sired you. I’m your daddy now. That means from now on you do not move, you do not think, you do not eat, you do not shit, unless I tell you to.”

  Grace heard a few gasps at the officer’s coarse language. One woman was even so bold as to breathe out an “Excuse me?”

  “I did not give you permission to speak,” he screamed, punctuating each word.

  He waited a beat, then held up another finger. “Two, there is no place for girls in the United States military. You stopped being girls or young ladies or . . . whatever when you stepped off those trucks and onto the ground of this here military compound. You are now soldiers. That means I do not care if something is too heavy or you broke a nail or whatever female problem you might be having at the moment. Your job is to do what you are told and to do it well.”

  Up went his ring finger. “Three, do not embarrass me. Everything you do or say from now on is a reflection of me. I do not tolerate sloppiness and I do not tolerate excuses. The correct answer is not ‘I don’t know.’ It is ‘I don’t know, sir, but I will find out.’ Is that clear?”

  They all nodded. A few added “Yes, sir” to their responses.

  “Good. Now, fall in.”

  None of them moved. They looked at each other for clarification, but none of them dared speak.

  Finally, Grace opened her mouth. “We do not know what ‘fall in’ means. Would you explain . . . sir?”

  “It means I’m ordering you to line up.”

  Grace closed her eyes because she knew what was coming, but it had to be said. “We are lined up already, sir.”

  He marched over to where she stood. “Are you to be my smart-ass? There’s always one in every class. Who are you?”

  “Grace Steele, sir.”

  He stepped back and made sure he had the attention of every woman in the group. “No, you are not.”

  He approached her again, this time screaming in her face. “When I ask you who you are, you are to respond with your name, rank, and serial number. Now, I am going to ask you again: Who are you, soldier?”

  “Grace Steele,” she repeated without flinching. “I am a new recruit. I can’t tell you my serial number because I haven’t memorized it yet, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you learn it quickly.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “I suggest you keep your mouth shut if you want to stay here more than a day. You and your kind don’t belong here, and we don’t want you here. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered back.

  “Good.” He addressed the entire group again. “Now, march your fancy asses down to the barracks at the end of this row. Number fifty-four. It’s time for you know-nothings to learn how to make up a bed.”

  Once his back was turned and their line began to move, Grace let her face break out into a full grin. Was that all he had to dish out—screaming in their faces and making up beds? She’d had piano teachers who were worse than that.

  Boot camp was going to be a piece of cake.

  SOON ENOUGH, GRACE would come to regret that thought. Who knew that in the military making up a bed required a good understanding of geometry and the use of a ruler? Grace had gotten the gist of it on her second attempt, although she had yet to nail placing the blanket at the requisite six inches below the head of the bed. She had been assigned the top bunk, which made precision difficult. But working together with her bottom bunkmate, a girl named Corrie Sherard from Atlanta, Georgia, both of their beds turned out better than most.

  The other training staff who had been assigned to their company were slightly younger than the officer who had screamed in Grace’s face. They had more patience with the women they were teaching. But none seemed particularly happy to be stuck with the “girl soldiers,” or, in their specific case, the “Colored girl soldiers.”

  That evening, while everyone else was excitedly unpacking their luggage, Grace fell onto her bunk with a thunk. She was exhausted. So exhausted that the hard mattress felt like heaven. It felt like a week had passed since she stepped off that train this morning. The rest of their first day had consisted of finishing their on-site processing and receiving a battery of shots from the medical staff on top of the initial lessons on basic military commands and learning how to make up a bed the Army way.

  Her feet ached. They were also cold. The rain had caused the grounds of the base to be muddy everywhere they went today. The dress shoes she had worn aboard the train were now caked in dark brown mud. That ticked her off. Only one day in and the WAAC already owed her a pair of shoes as far as she was concerned.

  Grace hugged her pillow as she squeezed her eyes shut. Lieutenant Rogers, the drill instructor who had screamed in her face, had informed them that they would begin again at 6:30 A.M. the next day. However, their first task would be to report to the quartermaster after breakfast to be issued uniforms and other gear. She was looking forward to that, as it meant that she could stop ruining her personal clothes in all the mud around the base.

  She smiled into her pillow as lights out went into effect in Barracks #54.

  A voice on the other side of the barracks broke the silence. “I’ve never been away from home like this before.”

  Grace cracked an eye open and groaned. “I’m trying to get some sleep over here.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Silence again. “Where is everybody from?”

  Grace turned onto her stomach and put her pillow over her head. But her protest was in the minority; everyone else was eager to bond. Voices began to chime in out of the darkness.

  “Columbia, South Carolina.”

  “Toledo, Ohio.”

&nb
sp; “Kansas City, Missouri.”

  “Chicago.”

  “Louisville.”

  “Texas.”

  “New York City.”

  “Boston.”

  “Washington, D.C.”

  “Los Angeles, California.”

  “Virginia.”

  “Connecticut.”

  “Florida.”

  “Nebraska.”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Indianapolis.”

  “Tuskegee, Alabama.”

  Grace felt no need to join in, since several voices had already called out New York. She was curious about what part of the city they were from. But in the end, what difference did it make? They were all here in Iowa now.

  “Dang, we’re from a little bit of everywhere, huh?” Grace recognized Eliza Jones’s voice. “What were you all doing before you signed up? I graduated from college last year. I’ve been writing for my daddy’s newspaper ever since.”

  The responses varied from dietician, to high school math teacher, to podiatrist, to law school student. A good number had been office clerks and secretaries.

  And then a voice said, “I was a professional dancer. So whoever said they were a podiatrist, I’m coming to you about my feet.”

  That got a few chuckles, even from Grace. So someone else had a background in the arts? That reassured her some. She had begun to question whether she belonged here.

  Grace felt her nerve begin to build. Then finally, she felt she couldn’t hold back anymore.

  “I was working toward becoming a concert pianist.”

  “Whoa. There’s a lot of talent in here, ladies. The WAAC is lucky to have us.”

  “Yes, they are,” came a grumpy voice from the middle of the room. “Now, will y’all shut up so I can get some sleep?”

  Grace smiled. Whoever said that was now her favorite person in the whole world.

  Chapter 10

  Fort Des Moines, Iowa

  July 20, 1942

  (Day Two of OCS)

  ATTENTION!”

  Eliza had been in the process of introducing herself to Vera Campbell, who, to her surprise, had been a podiatrist prior to joining the corps, while they waited outside their barracks before breakfast. But their and everyone else’s conversation ended immediately, with all thirty-nine women—since Harriet’s prediction about the one no-show proved correct—standing straight and tall.

  Lieutenant Rogers gestured toward another slightly older officer who was approaching them. “This is Colonel Donald Faith. He is the commandant of the training center here. He would like to share a few words with you.”

  He stepped back, giving Colonel Faith the floor.

  “Forgive my interruption. I know that you all are eager to get to breakfast so you can start your first full day of training. I just wanted to formally welcome you all to the first WAAC Training Center here at Fort Des Moines. No doubt you realize that this is a historic moment for us all. With this being the first ever all-female training class, we thank you for your patience and flexibility as we work through making adjustments to our normal way of doing things around here.

  “With that said, I know that some of you may have been, let’s say, alarmed by the way our new arrivals were, uh, separated into companies yesterday. I apologize that our way of doing things may have made you uncomfortable. Had I been free to do so, I would have instructed my staff to handle it another way. At this time, the United States Army’s policy is to separate our personnel by their color and, now, by gender. You will soon learn that in the Army, policy is policy and we must follow it to the letter if we are to achieve our mission.”

  He paused for a moment as if to allow for a response from the women. Eliza could feel the tension radiating from the entire company. She bit her lip to keep from screaming at Colonel Faith about what he could do with his apology. She dared not, for she knew that would only lead to her being on the first train out of there and back to New York, back to her father. Eliza wouldn’t give Daddy the satisfaction.

  By now, the silence that hung between the officers and soldiers had become awkward. Colonel Faith inserted his finger between his collar and his skin before clearing his throat. “I appreciate your understanding. Lieutenant, you may proceed with whatever you were about to do.”

  “Yes, sir. Soldiers, fall in!”

  Colonel Faith executed a crisp turn and walked back toward the base headquarters.

  Eliza was spitting mad as they marched toward the mess hall. She knew she wasn’t the only one who was. She had caught the eyes of Vera and a few others while they were lining up. All of their eyes had been blazing.

  The colonel’s “apology” had felt like it had been more for reassuring himself than to comfort anyone in their company. Eliza couldn’t put her finger on why it did. But one thing she did know was that she had never heard of any white man in a position of power apologize like that, especially when it was to a bunch of Negro women. She wondered what had prompted it. The reason became clear when they marched into the mess hall for breakfast.

  Someone had placed tented pieces of paper with the word “Coloreds” on four of the tables in the farthest corner of the room, the ones closest to the door leading out to the latrines. The signage was completely unnecessary, since each soldier was required to sit with her own company anyway. Everybody already knew that all the Negro trainees had been assigned to Third Company. What couldn’t be overlooked was that there weren’t similar signs on any of the other tables, only theirs. Whoever had put the signs there did so for the cheap satisfaction of humiliating the entirety of Third Company while simultaneously putting them in their place.

  All eyes were on them as they got into line to get their food. Not one of them said a word. They kept their chins up and looked straight ahead, with the exception of the occasional knowing glances at each other.

  Once they were seated, Eliza was the first to speak.

  “I’m calling my father about this as soon as I get the chance,” she whispered just loud enough for the entire table to hear her. She was livid. Even though she was a New Yorker by birth, she had gone to school in Washington, D.C., a segregated city. She knew what to expect when she stepped off the campus of Howard University, which was why she rarely did so during her four years there. But this was Iowa, which was well north of the Mason-Dixon Line. There wasn’t supposed to be any segregation here.

  “What’s he going to do?” came a flippant reply from the other end of the table. “Unless he has a direct line to FDR himself, tattling to Daddy isn’t going to do anything except make us look like a bunch of whiny spoiled brats. We have to be smarter than that.”

  “He has a newspaper. He can write an editorial about it.” The retort sounded weak to Eliza’s own ears. Now that she had a moment to think, this was definitely not the kind of thing she wanted to complain about to her father on only her second day here. Just another reason for him to say “I told you so.”

  “It’s not a half bad idea, though,” Grace chimed in.

  Now, there was a surprise. Eliza never imagined Grace Steele would cosign any ideas she had to share. It seemed like every time Eliza opened her mouth, whatever came out would get on Grace’s nerves.

  “Calling the newspapers part, that is. But we have to be strategic about it. Think about who each of us knows who is well connected enough to call the newspapers, the NAACP, and elected officials on our behalf. The people who can get the word out to get others to do the same. If it comes from us directly, then it does sound like a bunch of spoiled Negro girls whining about how boot camp is too hard. But if it is the community who’s sounding the alarm . . .”

  Nods went around the table. Eliza, starting to warm up to Grace’s take on her idea, added in, “Let’s not all rush to the post office at once to make our calls. That’ll be too obvious. We’ve got to be cool so it looks and sounds like a routine call home. No getting on the line demanding to speak to so-and-so directly.”

  “
Yeah, I like that,” Grace agreed. Eliza nodded a grateful smile in her direction.

  Eliza nudged the person sitting next to her. “Tell Harriet at the end to spread the word to the next table. Keep it on the hush-hush.”

  AFTER BREAKFAST, PICKING up their gear from the quartermaster had been more tedious than anyone anticipated. The process was supposed to be that you told the clerk your sizes and he issued you the correct-fitting garments. However, it appeared that no one had informed Uncle Sam that the Army was now enlisting women. They quickly had run out of the medium and small sizes. They had only five skirts in stock before the first two companies had been issued their gear. Eliza’s jaw fell in horror when the supply officer thrust a stack of boxer shorts for underwear at her.

  “Was anyone in our group issued a complete uniform?” Eliza asked when they were marched to their barracks next.

  Her bunkmate, Alice, shrugged. “Doesn’t look like it.” She dangled a pair of standard-issue saddle shoes from her fingers. “I can’t believe they expect us to march and do calisthenics in these.” She gave a short laugh. “Thank goodness we have a foot doctor among us.”

  The women of Third Company quickly went through the process of storing their issued clothing and equipment into their lockers. Eliza, however, struggled with putting away her things. Back home, she would’ve just shoved it all in her footlocker and called it a day. But that wouldn’t fly now that she was in the military. She chafed against the expectation that her personal items had to be folded and put away in the specific manner that some Army regulation book dictated.

  “It’s none of their business how I fold and store my underwear,” she grumbled under her breath. “All that should matter is how clean they are when I put them on.”