Gray Girl

by Susan I. Spieth

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Then raising his voice again, he said, “In a moment, you will report to your First Sergeant. Do you see that sign on the wall to my right?”

  Jan moved her eyes but not her head. “Yes, Sir.”

  “You will memorize that sign, and you will repeat it to your First Sergeant when you report. Do you understand, New Cadet?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Now step to my right and stay there until you are called to report to the First Sergeant.”

  Jan took one giant step to her left as if she was playing Mother, May I. She read the sign on the wall, closed her eyes, and tried to say it without looking. After several attempts, someone from inside a room yelled, “New Cadet Wishart, report to the First Sergeant in room 418.”

  A few doors down the hallway, a huge sign on the wall outside room 418 said: “LEAVE BAGS AT DOOR.” Jan figured a sign that big was meant for new cadets, so she put her bags down at the entrance, happy to give her arms a break for a few moments. She entered the room and said the words from the previous sign.

  “Sir, New Cadet Wishart reports to the First Sergeant of Sixth Cadet Basic Training Company for the first time as ordered.” It came out just as it was supposed to. The only problem was the First Sergeant behind the desk was a woman.

  “Do I look like a SIR to you, New Cadet?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I mean, yes, Ma’am.”

  “I look like a man to you?”

  “NO, MA’AM.”

  “That’s better. New Cadet Wishart, you are entering the hardest seven weeks of your life, and in order to be successful, you need to keep a few things in mind. One, obey all orders from your superiors. Two, try your best at everything that is expected of you. Three, work together with your classmates. Four, do not give up. Five, maintain professionalism at all times, and six, keep a healthy sense of humor. Especially as a woman, New Cadet, you must make friends with your male classmates and you must earn their respect. Do you understand, New Cadet?”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” But Jan didn’t really understand any of that then. This First Sergeant was the only upperclass woman Jan saw that day. She’s kinda pretty. Not as good-looking as me, but not bad.

  In high school, Jan had been successful in almost everything. She had been elected Vice-President of the National Honor Society, Captain of the basketball and field hockey teams, and Senior Class President. She was ranked fifth in her class and even gave a speech at graduation along with the valedictorian. She figured West Point would be more challenging than previous ventures but one that she would handily conquer.

  “Take your bags to room 425, drop them, and report back to the man in the red sash at the top of the stairs. Do you understand, New Cadet Wishart?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Jan turned and left the room, being sure to pick up her bags on the way out. She walked along the wall until coming to room 425. Jan placed her bags on one of the two asylum-looking beds hugging the walls. She paused a moment to look in the mirror above a sink cabinet on one wall of the room. Sweat was now sliding down her face. Hey girl, you got this! Piece of pie! No problem! This little pep talk drowned out another voice, deep inside, that was trying to shout something else.

  She returned to Cadet Jackson, the man at the top of the stairs with the red sash. She stopped about a foot away from him without saying a word. “New Cadet Wishart, did you place your bags in your room?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good.” Jan saw him flinch slightly. Then he lowered his voice again. “Wishart, I do not cut any slack for females in my platoon. You either put up or shut up, just like all the men. I make no distinctions—you’re all the same to me, and if you can’t play with the big boys, then you don’t belong here. Do you understand, Wishart?”

  Jan looked into his brown eyes. She thought they looked a little like ones she had seen as a child but she couldn’t remember where. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Some upperclassmen go easy on females, but don’t expect special treatment from me or anyone else in my platoon. Have I made myself perfectly clear, Wishart?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  His voice returned to normal. “Good. You have now completed the first phase of R-day. From now on you will be taught everything necessary to succeed in Cadet Basic Training. Do you see that sign to my left, New Cadet?”

  Again, she moved her eyes but not her head. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Those are your five responses. New cadets will use only those five responses, unless asked for further comments or explanations. Do you understand, New Cadet?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Step to my left and study those five responses for a few minutes. When you have memorized your five responses, report to the man in the red sash back at the entrance to this building. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” And with another Mother, May I step to her right, she read a sign with bold lettering:

  5 Responses of New Cadets:

  Yes, Sir/Ma’am

  No, Sir/Ma’am

  No excuse, Sir/Ma’am

  Sir/Ma’am, may I ask a question?

  Sir/Ma’am, may I make a statement?

  New cadets were not to say anything other than these five responses. Coming from a large, loud, animated family, Jan realized she was in trouble.

  She returned to Dogety, the first red sash man. He taught her how to salute. “Place the tip of your right forefinger at the outside edge of your right eyebrow.” When Jan followed that instruction, Dogety made a grimace. “New Cadet, may I touch you?”

  She must not have heard him right. “Sir?”

  “Is that one of your five responses, Wishart?”

  “No, Sir.” Her arm was still in the salute position. Somewhat.

  “Then let’s try that again. May I touch you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Dogety adjusted her upper arm, making it parallel to the ground. He pushed her elbow back so it came in alignment with her shoulder. Then he flattened her fingers so that they formed a straight line with her forearm at a forty-five-degree angle from the elbow. He dropped his hands to his side again and said, “Sharp corners, straight arms and hands, New Cadet.” Then he sent her off to more lines where she learned how to stand at “attention,” “forward march,” “right face,” “left face,” “about face,” “halt,” “present arms,” and stand “at ease”—which seemed a like an oxymoron to Jan.

  After being sent to what seemed like a hundred lines, she was sorted into another line of ten new cadets called a squad. The first red sash man explained that he would be their new Squad Leader—their father and mother, their priest and pastor, their judge, jury and parole officer—for the next seven weeks. Cadet Dogety marched them around a huge paved area shouting, “Your left, right, left! Your left, right, left!” Because new cadets made many mistakes, he was constantly yelling, “Your other left, New Cadet!” or “What part of RIGHT do you not understand, New Cadet?” or “This isn’t marching band practice, New Cadet!”

  Jan kept her eyes straight ahead, thankful she had more coordination than others. Just keep in step and don’t draw attention.

  When Dogety was satisfied they had mastered the basics of marching, he led them to a barber shop beneath the huge Mess Hall. He lined them up against the wall facing twelve barbers, three rows of four chairs. Each barber held an electric hair clipper; each chair held a new cadet.

  Jan planned ahead for this, coming to West Point with a fashionably short “Dorothy Hamill,” a bob style haircut which had set her back about twelve bucks. She didn’t need another haircut. “Sir, may I make a statement?” She shouted up to Dogety at the front of the squad line.

  Dogety turned and faced the whole squad. “What is it, Wishart?”

  “Sir, I already had a haircut before arriving.” She knew she screwed up the moment it left her mouth.

  “Is that so, Wishart?” Dogety said as he
fumed down the squad line to where Jan stood, third from the end. “So you don’t think you need to get a haircut like everyone else. Is that it?”

  She froze.

  “I asked you a question, Wishart!”

  “Sir, I just thought…”

  “YOU DON’T GET PAID TO THINK, WISHART!” He stood in front of her, inside her personal space. “Do you think you’re special, Wishart, that you should get to skip a haircut cuz you’re female. Is that what you think?”

  “No, Sir.” She cussed herself for being so stupid.

  “Wishart, no one gets a pass in my squad. What would the rest of the squad think of you if you get out of doing what they have to do? Huh? What would they think about me if I let you get out of doing what they have to do?”

  She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “So get this in your little brain right now Wishart—YOU DO WHAT EVERYONE DOES. GOT IT?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  Dogety lunged back to the front of the squad. Jan’s eyes stung as she swallowed back the rock that had risen in her throat.

  Dogety motioned each squad mate to a barber chair as soon as one vacated. Jan sat down just as another female new cadet with hair to her elbows sat in the chair directly behind her. They could see each other in the mirrors. The middle-aged barbers secured capes around their necks. Then, with shaking hands, both men picked up the electric hair clippers. Jan gave her classmate a slight smile as their faces met in the mirror. The other woman shrugged as if saying, “Easy come, easy go!”

  Jan’s barber combed her feathered hair straight down all the way around her head. Then he proceeded to dot the electric clippers, full circle, starting with her bangs. Jan closed her eyes in hopes that he might not ruin the feathering for which she had already paid. But when she opened them again, her hair was cut in a bowl shape above her ears. I am a boy.

  The woman in the mirror had the very same haircut. Only it seemed much worse.

  The barbers didn’t try to style their hair; they just pulled the plastic sheets off both women and said simultaneously, “NEXT!” Jan stood up and read the other woman’s nametag. McCarron. Didn’t seem to bother her one bit.

  After the barbershop, Jan’s squad marched up the stairs, then up another set of stairs to the Mess Hall. She would have liked to take in this majestic space, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. Dogety led them to a table with ten chairs. He stood behind the head chair while the new cadets fell in behind every remaining chair. He instructed them to pull out their chairs, move to the right and sit down, after the order “Take Seats” was given. He showed them how they were to sit in the chairs—with straight backs one fist distance away from the table and the back of the chair. Then, they learned a new way of slow motion eating.

  Beginning with both hands on their lap, eyes straight ahead, they could use their fork to lift one morsel of food, about the size of a raisin, to their mouths. Only after placing the utensil back down on the plate and returning the hand back on the lap, could they begin to chew, slowly. After completely swallowing that bite, they could repeat the process.

  Jan jumped when she heard a familiar voice shouting from the next table. "What the hell do you think you're doing, New Cadet?" It was the fourth floor man in the red sash, Cadet Jackson.

  Jan froze again, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t the one in trouble this time.

  “I'm talking to you, New Cadet!” He bellowed again.

  "Uh, eating, Sir." The male voice sounded scared.

  "IS THAT ONE OF YOUR FIVE RESPONSES?”

  "No, Sir."

  "Then I'll ask again: what the hell are you doing?" He asked more calmly this time. The new cadet didn’t answer. “Well, New Cadet, I’m waiting?”

  “Sir, may I ask a question?”

  “No, you may not. Answer MY question, New Cadet?”

  “No excuse, Sir.”

  "Damn right no excuse. That was the biggest piece of chicken I've ever seen on one fork. You some kind of pig, New Cadet?"

  "No, Sir."

  "You just sit there and think about that huge bite you just took. Think about how gross that looks."

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Jan used her peripheral vision to see her squad mates taking their own unauthorized big bites. Cadet Dogety didn’t seem to look up very much. He concentrated on his own plate.

  Finally, the great hour of R-Day came. All new cadets changed into white shirts, gray trousers and black shoes without hats. Apparently, new cadets could not be trusted to keep hats on their heads. They lined up in squads, in platoons and in companies, and marched onto “The Plain” in front of all those spectators—family, friends and alumni. The first day hadn’t even ended and Jan’s calves, biceps and neck were throbbing. Throwing up was not out of the realm of possibility.

  Yet, she also felt pride to be in this elite group, on this honorable field, with so many adoring spectators. In just a few hours, they had transformed from mere civilians into disciplined soldiers. They were the future leaders of the United States Army and on that glorious, sunny afternoon, the West Point Class of 1985 became part of the Long Gray Line.

  Together with her classmates, she raised her right hand and took the West Point oath:

  “I, Jan Wishart, do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States, and bear true allegiance to the National Government; that I will maintain and defend the sovereignty of the United States, paramount to any and all allegiance, sovereignty, or fealty that I may owe to any State or country whatsoever; and that I will at all times obey the legal orders of my superior officers, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

  She wondered what “fealty” meant but figured there wouldn’t ever be a good time to ask. Then all 1528 new cadets, along with the “cadre,” which Jan decided meant “old cadets,” passed in review and presented arms.

  In that glorious exhibition of tradition, as Jan’s platoon rounded the corner, a male voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd, “Go home, Bitch.”

  3

  Thursday, May 6, 1982

  1700 hours

  “What happened after Cadet Wishart’s third time to your room?” Conrad asked Jackson.

  Here it comes. Jan dreaded this part. She hoped he would say something that seemed out of place, anything that would raise a red flag in their minds. But Jackson’s as cool as a carrot.

  “Cadet Wishart came back to my room while I had stepped out for a minute to use the latrine. When I came back, I saw the routing envelope leaning against my door. I opened it and found the note that you have in the honor investigation file.” Jackson motioned to the thick manila folder in front of Conrad.

  The Honor Board chairman opened the thick file of papers, pulled out a clump attached with a paperclip, and distributed one to each cadet. Major Hastings, Jan’s JAG counsel, also opened a binder and handed Jan a copy of the same paper: Exhibit A.

  “Is this what you found in the routing envelope at that time?” Conrad asked Jackson while holding up the piece of paper.

  “Yes, it is,” Jackson said.

  Jan looked at the copy in front of her, the same one in front of the jury of her peers. The plain sheet of paper, eight and a half by eleven inches, contained a concise message in big, bold letters:

  Quit fucking with Wishart, Assholes! If either of you messes with her again, neither of you will walk, on your own accord, across the stage on graduation day.

  Signed,

  Someone you don’t want to mess with!

  Conrad cleared his throat. A few of the other jurists fidgeted in their chairs. Jan saw smirks and grins. Apparently they found Exhibit A amusing.

  “Continue, Cadet Jackson. What happened next?”

  “Well, I was furious. I figured Wishart opened the routing envelope and took the messages between Cadet Dogety and me. I thought she had also written this note to intimidate us,” Jackson said.

  “Wouldn’t that be a bit bold for a plebe, Cadet Jackso
n?” Tourney asked.

  “Well, normally yes,” Jackson replied. “But we have known Miss Wishart since R-Day. We have seen her insubordination on many occasions. It didn’t seem unreasonable to me that she could have written this kind of thing.”

  Jan rolled her eyes again. Right, as if I needed any more attention from you!

  “So you asked her about it?” Leavitt asked this time.

  “I took the envelope and its contents back to Cadet Dogety first. He and I then went to her room and ordered her to meet us in the CQ room.”

  The Charge of Quarters (CQ) room, usually located near the entrance to each Company area, contained only a small desk and black rotary dial phone. One yearling, or sophomore, assigned to CQ duty every night, monitored the halls, checked cadet rooms every couple of hours, inspected and secured all common areas, and made a bed count at Taps—ensuring all cadets were in their rooms. When not going about their duties, yearling CQs sat at the desk in the small CQ room reading, studying or writing letters home. The black rotary phone was only used to communicate with the Brigade Charge of Quarters, usually a cow or junior year cadet, who ensured all the Company CQs were doing their jobs.

  “Why there?” Conrad asked.

  “Because the CQ room is not off limits to anyone. We figured we could question her there without violating any regulations,” Jackson said.

  And you could also close the door in a room without windows.

  Conrad checked his watch. “We only have half an hour left before we need to break for dinner. I’m going to ask Cadet Jackson to tell us what happened in the CQ room before we break. There’s not enough time for questions, so please write down any that come to mind, and we will deal with them when we resume later tonight.”