Gray Girl

by Susan I. Spieth

  8

  Q: What is Murphy's Law?

  A: (1) Nature always sides with the hidden flaw.

  (2) Things, if left to themselves, go from bad to worse.

  Heritage, Bugle Notes, 81, p. 246

  Jan probably should have reported what “Jackass” had done on the remedial run, but any complaints would have to go up the chain of command which meant she would have to tell Dogety, then Dogety would tell Jackson and that’s where it would stop. Or worse, “Jackass” might accuse her of lying because there weren’t any witnesses. It was her word against his and he had all the power and influence in the situation. Besides, she was fairly sure she could handle him next time. Next time, she would just keep running until she reached the barracks. So, it seemed reporting the incident would only make things worse.

  Things got worse anyway. Jan and Wright prepared their room for the first SAMI—Saturday AM Inspection. They tightened their beds and opened their closets displaying their uniforms on hangers exactly two inches apart. Their highly polished shoes and boots were lined up from tallest to shortest, left to right. Below the closet, two large drawers held their foldable garments, displayed according to the regulations manual. Underwear folded in thirds, left side over right, then crotch tucked underneath, lay folded side down. Bras looked like small hills among the panties, with one bra cup tucked into the other, clasp end stuffed into the hollow of the cups and displayed with cup opening down. They also swept, dusted and emptied the trashcan.

  Two loud knocks announced the inspectors’ arrival. “ENTER, SIR!” Cadets Dogety and Jackson sauntered into the room. Dogety inspected the sink cabinet and laundry bins while Jackson made a cursory look around the room dragging his finger along Jan’s desk and shelves. He dropped down into a squat to peer under her bed for dust bunnies.

  So far, so good.

  Then Jackson proceeded over to the drawers beneath the closet. Looking down at Jan’s underwear drawer, he picked up a bra holding it up by the strap with his forefinger and thumb. “What the hell is this, Wishart?”

  “Sir, it is a bra.”

  “I know that, Wishart! What the hell is it doing on display?”

  “Sir...”

  “You think I wanna see this crap?” He threw the bra back in the drawer and slammed it shut with his foot. “I don't wanna see any goddamn bras or panties or tampons or sanitary pads. I don't wanna see any female shit. You understand?”

  “Sir, the regulations….”

  “IS THAT ONE OF YOUR FIVE RESPONSES, WISHART?” Jackson screamed.

  “No, Sir.”

  “I don't give a shit what the REGs say. I DON'T WANT TO SEE THAT STUFF. YOU GOT ME, Wishart?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That goes for you, too, Wright!” Jackson added. “AM I CLEAR, BEANHEADS?”

  “Yes, Sir,” both roommates responded.

  Jan began hiding underwear in her laundry bag and footlocker. Her tampons and pads, which she hadn’t needed to date due to “Amen-oh-yay-ah,” went in a woman’s locker from Third Platoon. Every sign of femininity disappeared from her room and locker. She never asked Wright what she did with her female items; she wasn’t sure Wright ever had that stuff.

  About halfway through Beast, Sixth Company began having weekly “weigh-ins.” Cadet Jackson sat behind a desk at the end of the hallway where a scale with adjustable weights had been placed. Cadet Dogety assembled Fourth Squad along the wall facing the scale and called them, one by one, to step on the scale.

  “Pope, step up,” Dogety yelled. New Cadet Pope stepped on the scale and Dogety adjusted the measurement. “172 pounds!”

  “Pope—172 pounds!” Jackson repeated for clarification, apparently, and recorded it on a piece of paper.

  “Not bad, Pope,” Dogety said. “Now get off my scale. Jones, step up.” Dogety fiddled with the weights again. “149 pounds.”

  “Jones—149 pounds!” Jackson said.

  “You could stand to eat a little more, Jones.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Jones replied.

  “Now, get back against the wall. Wishart, step up!”

  Oh damn. Please, please, please…don’t let it be too high.

  Dogety adjusted the weights. “160 pounds!” Dogety’s voice sounded venomous.

  “Wishart—160 pounds.” Jackson repeated as he looked at Dogety, shaking his head slightly.

  Does he really have to do that?

  “My God, Wishart, what the hell have you been eating?” Jackson asked loudly enough for the whole hallway to hear. Jan couldn’t think of a good answer. “Well, answer me!”

  “Not much, Sir!”

  “Is that one of your five responses?”

  “No, Sir!”

  “Then, I’ll ask again. What the hell are you eating, Wishart?”

  “No excuse, Sir!”

  “Damned right there’s no excuse! You're turning into the Pillsbury Doughboy! No wonder you cannot run worth a damn. I better start seeing this number go down. Do you understand me, Wishart?”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Now get the hell off my scale.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Jan turned, red faced and close to crying, to take her spot back against the wall with all nine of her squad mates.

  “Teady, step up!” Dogety shouted.

  And this is how Jan began to despise her beautiful, healthy, strong body.

  Jan’s table Commanders most often were either Dogety or Jackson, making it practically impossible for her to eat a decent meal. Yet, she didn’t lose weight during Beast. In fact, she gained weight. She never understood how someone could eat so little, move so much, and put on weight. Still, she felt hungry most of the time in Beast.

  That’s why she went to church.

  New Cadets had one free hour after dinner on Wednesday nights to attend Chapel. Jan wasn't sure what Chapel meant, being that she was raised in a good, lapsed-Catholic family. But if Chapel could get her away from the cadre for an hour, she would be more than happy to learn all about it. The real incentive, however, were the cookies. Cookies were given out at Chapel.

  Exiting the huge Mess Hall doors opening onto The Apron, Jan pinged to Trophy Point beyond the far end of the Plain, on the bank of the Hudson River. As she moved away from the massive, gray, gothic structures toward the open beauty of the river and the surrounding hills, she felt an ever-so-slight lightening. Facing the blue water and sky had a calming effect.

  She scarfed a few Oreos and sat in one of the folding chairs. Another new cadet sat next to her with about five cookies in each hand. She was glad to see someone else had come for the goods. Jan wished she had thought to grab a few extra. The guy must have read her mind as he leaned his left hand in front of Jan, offering cookies. She hesitated, knowing the Dogety/Jackson duo would not approve. Wait! This is insane. I’m not going to let those jerks decide if I can eat cookies! Jan reached over and took two of the offered cookies, smiling at the young man’s kindness.

  “I hope we can grab a few more before leaving,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Me, too!” Jan admitted.

  Someone started playing guitar, others started singing—and that’s when it began to get awkward. But Jan figured this was a small price to pay for more cookies. The guy next to her sang beautifully. His voice soothed and comforted her, almost painfully so. Jan knew she might cry if she wasn’t careful. For that reason, she stared straight ahead as if she were standing at attention.

  The singing stopped and the man called “Chaplain,” another unknown word to a lapsed-Catholic girl, began to speak. Jan could not remember anything he said that evening, except one sentence: “I lift mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help.”

  Her brain locked onto this sentence, and as Beast progressed, she said it over and over again. When doing leg lifts on The Plain, when running in formation, when marching in full combat gear, and when staring at her barely-eaten plate full of food in the Mess Hall, it became her mantra of sorts. Along with Jim Croce's song, “New York's
Not My Home,” this verse somehow comforted and sustained her.

  “I will lift mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help,” followed her like a prayer.

  After Chapel, just as she and Wright began polishing their boots and quizzing each other on poop, they heard two loud knocks on the door. It’s probably Dogety or Jackson wanting to know how many cookies I ate!

  The two roommates popped to attention and yelled in unison, “ENTER, SIR!” The door flung open and Wright’s Squad Leader stood at the door. He held out a whole, uncut, Martha Washington Sheet Cake.

  “Just happened to have an extra one of these. Thought you two might want it.” Jan and Wright stared in disbelief at this unexpected offer. Jan also wondered what the catch might be. Was he teasing them? Yet, the firstie simply stepped into their room, put the cake down on the sink counter, then turned and walked out.

  First the guy at chapel offered her cookies, now this. Well, maybe not everyone thinks I’m fat.

  9

  Friday, May 7, 1982

  0330 hours

  The blueberry pie is sailing through the air in slow motion. It looks like a Frisbee, but she knows what it really is. The sweet scent floats toward her, closer and closer. She shuts her eyes and breathes in the perfume of warm blueberries. Her mouth waters in anticipation of that first bite.

  The pie smashes into her face. Ah shit, how’d that happen? The blueberry goop drips from her nose and chin; somehow though, it looks like camouflage. She stands up. The entire Mess Hall is silent. Everyone is watching the girl with the blueberry face. She hopes they will assume that she’s covered in combat paint, yet she cannot tell what they see. She turns to run away from the table, but her body feels like it’s underwater. Her feet seem to have grown roots into the floor. The muscles in her legs ache with every arduous step. She keeps running, slowly and painfully, until she reaches the massive, oak doors. With the speed of peanut butter, she descends the granite steps.

  She hears Cadet Jackson laughing from his table inside the Mess Hall. Then Cadet Dogety starts laughing even though he is at the opposite end of the Mess Hall. Another cadet begins to laugh from the third wing, then another joins in, and then another. Soon the entire Corps of Cadets is laughing. Even the waiters are laughing. She knows they are laughing at her.

  She keeps running toward her room and finally arrives just as the two-minute bell is being called. She must report to formation. But her Dress Gray is ruined. Blueberry goop has stained all of her uniforms. There is nothing she can wear. The minute caller leaves his post. She has to go to formation. Now.

  She pings back outside and stands in the squad line. Everyone is staring at her. The Commander shouts, “Forward, March!” She begins marching in formation with her Company onto The Plain. All the other companies are already there and formed into a large circle. Company H-3 marches into the center of the huge circle. The Commander shouts, “Wishart, stand fast!” The rest of H-3 marches away toward the outer ring of cadets. Alone, in the center of the circle, Jan stands at attention, completely naked.

  10

  “Cadets cultivate the habit of not offering excuses. There is no place in the military profession for an excuse for failure. Extenuating circumstances may be explained and submitted, but, even if accepted, such explanations are never considered excuses.”

  The Fourth Class System, Bugle Notes, 81, p.72

  The last week of Cadet Basic Training finally arrived and began with a grueling 14-mile road (and off-road) march in full gear to Lake Frederick. The new cadets and cadre wore the OD green, Army fatigues, helmets and Load Bearing Equipment (LBE) which held the water canteen, bayonet, compass and other necessary items. Then the rucksack went over everything—holding socks, underwear, personal hygiene items, sleeping bag, pup tent and various field training equipment. They also wore their, now worn in, Army issued combat boots and carried M-16 automatic rifles.

  They had completed plenty of marches in full gear, but none more than five miles. This last march would be more than double the length of any previous marches. “You WILL NOT fall behind on this march,” Dogety told Jan a few days before. In fact, he informed the entire squad that no one would be allowed to quit the march to Lake Frederick. For any reason. Period.

  He also warned them about “Bear Hill” near the end of the march. “It’s a do-or-die hill,” Dogety told the entire squad. “You will either make it to the top of this hill or you will die trying. Especially you, Wishart.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Jan could march with the best of them. As long as the formation didn't break into a run, she knew she would make it.

  “Everyone who ascends Bear Hill successfully will be welcomed into the Corps of Cadets. Those who don’t, well, they just aren’t cut out for the Academy.” Dogety reiterated this sentiment on several occasions before and during the march.

  The first six miles went smoothly for Jan. They stopped every couple of miles for a brief water break. At some of those water breaks, they were ordered to take off their combat boots and change their socks.

  At the seventh mile, Jan began noticing a pain in her left big toe. She didn’t mention it to anyone knowing that Dogety would tell her to “suck it up” anyway. Besides, a little blister could not, and would not, keep her from marching. However, by the tenth mile, her toe began throbbing. At the next sock change, she took her boot and wet sock off to discover a massive blister. A soft liquid-filled lump bulged on top of a larger, harder lump.

  As she examined her toe, Dogety walked over and saw the bulbous growth. “Wishart, why didn't you say something? That's the biggest blister I've ever seen.” He yelled for the medic.

  “Sir, may I make a statement?”

  “What is it, Wishart?”

  “Sir, it's fine. I can march just fine.”

  “Yeah, well, that looks like it’s infected. It needs medical attention, ASAP.”

  “Sir, I don’t want to stop…”

  “I know, I know, Wishart. But you gotta do what you gotta do. And that thing isn’t going away on it’s own.”

  Dogety walked away as a young Army specialist assigned to Sixth Company came running over. He took one look at her blister and said, “I gotta drain it.”

  “How do you do that?” Jan feared he might have to take her somewhere which would cause her to lose her place in the squad.

  “I'm going to lance it and push out the puss. Then I’ll clean and bandage it and you should be good to go.”

  “Can you do it fast? I've gotta stay with my squad.”

  He was fast and good. He made a small cut with a tiny surgical tool, and then he pushed on her toe with his fingers. Jan had never seen anything so disturbing in all her years. The bump exploded. A gush of ooze came shooting out of her toe. She wasn't sure it was still her toe or some alien creature. He continued to squeeze until every last drop of the evil fluid emptied. Then he wiped it with an antiseptic pad and wrapped it with gauze and tape. He told her to have it looked at again once she got to Lake Frederick.

  “Will you come take a look at it?” Jan asked. He smiled and said he'd try to find her. She decided there should be a merit badge for any man who could push that kind of goop out of a body and not throw up.

  The line was back up and moving. Jan returned to her spot in the middle of the squad where Dogety had positioned her so that the “front could pull and the back could push her,” if necessary.

  Her toe felt amazingly better and she marveled at what seemed to be a miracle cure. The pain of the cut and the pushing on the toe were nothing compared to how it felt when it held all that crap inside. Once released, the toe was free to be a toe again—instead of a putrid vessel. For some reason, she thought a long time about that blister. Once it was cut open and drained of the bad shit, it immediately felt better. And it works again without pain!

  At mile thirteen they stopped for the last water and sock change. Dogety came down the squad line and stopped in front of Jan. “Wishart, we are about to ascend Bear Hill.” He looked
directly at her. “You know what that means?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, just to be safe, I am going to march right in front of you. As I have already said, I am not going to lose anyone to this hill, not even you, Wishart.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “If you start falling behind, you are to grab onto my rucksack. I will carry your ass up that hill if I have to.”

  “Yes, Sir.” But Jan cursed him in her mind, saying to herself, “There’s no freakin’ way I’m going to touch him.”

  She soon discovered Bear Hill was neither particularly high nor steep. As they climbed upward, the pace picked up. And then she understood why it was called “Bear Hill.” Not because of its size but to see who could bear it. About halfway up at this faster pace, to her great dismay, she started breathing heavily and falling behind. We’re practically running this damn hill! The squad mate behind her began stepping on her heels. She realized this was not a good time to die on her sword. With much reservation and humiliation, she grabbed Dogety’s rucksack. As bad as that was, it was better than failure.

  Strangely enough, Dogety seemed pleased that she had taken him up on his offer. While never dropping the pace, he turned his head to the side and shouted, “That’s it, Wishart, hang on.”

  For one moment, halfway up Bear Hill, he became her Knight in Drabby Green. Yet, she detested him even more for it, so she pretended he was that nice medic instead.

  The whole squad made it to the top of Bear Hill and Cadet Dogety was briefly proud of his little charges. They all marched to Lake Frederick as one squad and began setting up their pup tents. The field soon began looking like something out of the Civil War with some eight hundred small tents all lined up in rows.

  “Look across the field, Wishart, at that deuce-and-a-half pulling up,” Dogety said, pointing to a truck carrying a dozen or so new cadets. Jan watched as they hobbled out from the back of the vehicle. “Do you see them, Wishart?”