by Jesse Jordan
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Ashley
Simon
Also by Jesse Jordan
To Love and to Honor
A 52nd Novel
Jesse Jordan
First of all, I’d like to thank my family, without whom I would never have had the courage to put fingers to keyboard and start writing.
Next, I’d like to thank my friends, editors, beta readers, and everyone else who helped me with this story. Their advice, while not always followed, helped me immensely. So as always, any mistakes are mine, and any good ideas are yours.
Third, I’d like to dedicate this book to all of those who have served our country. I started the 52nd Series because I have had numerous members of my family serve, and a few of my loved ones go through West Point. I was moved to write stories that covered not only the good, but the bad and everything in between. I hope that if you’ve ever been a member of the Long Gray Line, that you recognize yourself, classmates, situations you’ve been in. Not all made it through, but all were touched by that institute on the Hudson River. I love you all.
I’d like to take a few lines here to say that yes, I recognize that some of the things I’ve written are not totally factually correct about USMA or the Army. Sometimes, I simplified for the sake of clarity, sometimes I intentionally changed things for artistic license. Sometimes, I just flat out made mistakes. For those, I apologize, and beg the forgiveness of anyone who notices.
Finally, for those of you who like the story, please take a moment to friend me on Facebook, or support me on Patreon.
There’s more coming in this series! Want to know the second I release a new book or be the first to know about exclusive giveaways? Sign up to my newsletter.
Contents
1. Ashley
2. Simon
3. Ashley
4. Simon
5. Ashley
6. Simon
7. Ashley
8. Simon
9. Ashley
10. Simon
11. Ashley
12. Simon
13. Ashley
14. Simon
15. Ashley
16. Simon
17. Ashley
18. Simon
19. Ashley
20. Simon
21. Ashley
22. Simon
23. Ashley
24. Simon
25. Ashley
26. Simon
Epilogue
Also by Jesse Jordan
Ashley
It's not a perfect day, sitting in the stands of Michie Stadium surrounded by the twelve hundred other people who will, by the end of the day, become new cadets at the United States Military Academy. It's just a shade too hot for my taste, but maybe I've been spoiled going to college in Washington for the past two years. Better the heat than rain though. Dad and Grandpa have filled me in on today, I even got to watch some of it as Gavin went through it himself fifteen years ago. Dad offered to be here to support me, but I thought that I'd be able to bear up to the stress better if I did this alone.
Remember, you need to be twice as good to get half the recognition, I remind myself. Regardless of if West Point has caught up a little with the real world, there's still a long way to go in terms of women getting equal shots in the Corps of Cadets.
“Please say goodbye to your loved ones now, and proceed up the steps of the stadium,” the speaker, a Colonel, says into a microphone. He's been speaking for about five minutes, and I must be more worried than I thought, because I don't remember a damn thing he said.
With nobody to hug or kiss goodbye, I walk up the stadium steps, where I'm met by a cadet in the classic 'white over gray' summer uniform. He's intense, and I know that despite the so-called softening of the Corps over the generations since Dad went through and even since Gavin and Julius went through, there's still a feeling of intimidation to R-day, the day we start Cadet Basic Training.
“Proceed to my right, your left. Form up into two lines HERE!” he barks, some of the people around me flinching at his loud voice. Thankfully I grew up in this. Still, it puts a little bounce in my step, and I quickly find myself in two lines, sweating lightly though my t-shirt.
Once we're broken down into lines of what I think are fifty each, another cadet, I can see from the epaulets on his shoulder that he's a Cow, or junior in civilian speak, takes over. “Forward MARCH!”
The line moves, more like a chain gang than a military formation, and a few dumbasses behind me start talking. “AT EASE THAT TALKING!”
The next three hours are a chaotic, hectic blur as I'm sent through the Rube Goldberg contraption of a system that takes twelve hundred people and in the course of eight hours processes them into the military.
“Shoe size,” the civilian worker in front of me asks, bored. She's probably been doing this since before I was born, handing out tens of thousands of pairs of these ugly ass uniform shoes, old school black leathe. You're a New Cadet, you're not given rights until you get Recognized, a whole nine months from now. Until then, you shine your shoes the old fashioned way.
“Eight and a half,” I tell her, my blue nylon laundry bag already half full. It's heavy, and it's going to get a lot heavier before I get to put it down.
“Do you have another pair of shoes?” she asks, looking at her computer. “Lots of women wear eight and a halfs.”
“Yes,” I reply, and she nods, happy. I'd hate to be the poor girl who gets issued only one set of shoes and doesn't have another set. We're going to be putting a lot of miles on these shoes over the next few weeks, and you get no slack on inspections for only having one pair while supply catches up. I'd planned in advance and bought a set of uniform shoes online, they're ready to go in my civilian bag, which I can raid at some point today.
The worker puts another box in my bag, and it's off to the next station. The whole time I respect the basic rule, which is to shut up unless spoken to, at which I pop off with the loudest voice I can muster.
My bag bulges with probably fifty pounds of stuff by the time I finish going through the basics, changed out of my t-shirt and jeans into an Army PT uniform. The Cow that herds a now smaller group of us onto the huge swath of concrete that makes up the area outside Eisenhower barracks looks us up and down. He's one of the squad leaders in my company, I've at least learned so far that I'm supposed to be assigned to Alpha Company for Beast.
“This is the position of attention,” he says, assuming the heels together, thumbs running down the black seams on the sides of his trousers position that we're supposed to learn in these next five minutes. The cadet walks up and down the line, checking positions after he gives us instructions. When he gets to me, his eyes flicker up and down my body, and for the first time I feel a little bit dehumanized. I'm used to men checking out my body, I've got decently big boobs for an athletic girl, but he doesn't notice them at all, instead looking at my hair. “What's your name, Red?”
Yeah, I've been called Red most of my life, along with Scarlett, Ginger, and any other name you can think of for a girl with dark red hair and green eyes. “Carlyle, sir!”
“Good pop-off, Carlyle. But when you get inside, adjust your hair. Good for PT, but you'll need to pin it up better for changing into white over gray, got it?”
“Yes, sir!” I reply. As a new cadet, you are allowed four responses, something that's been screamed into the faces of just about everyone so far. Unless asked a question such as my name, I am limited to saying 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir,' 'no excuse, sir,' and the final catch all, 'sir, I do not understand.' All of life, condensed into four responses. And I used to think about studying poetry.
We are quickly run through the rest of the preparation for the next step
in our day, Reporting To The Cadet In The Red Sash. Red sashes are reserved for senior cadets, Firsties, something brought in from the old Army as well. It's only after successfully doing this that we're allowed into the barracks, to try and move on with our afternoons. Suddenly, it's my turn.
“Step up to my line, do not step on my line, do not step over my line, drop your bag and report!” the female cadet says, her black hair pulled back into a fierce, nearly painful looking bun that's tucked underneath her white hat. I step up smartly and drop my bag, horrified as before I can even start to report the bag by some strange combination of the crap inside tips over... directly onto her shoes.
“Pick it up and do it again!” the female Firstie yells, and behind her I can see a few smirks from some of the other cadets who are taking a moment to rest before it's their time being the cadet in the red sash. There's only one person who isn't, a Cow with almost aristocratic, sensitive features except for a scar that extends from the right corner of his mouth. “REPORT!”
I pick up my bag and twist it in my arms, hoping this time it falls properly, but yet again, like some sort of magnetic attraction, it tips directly over onto the Firstie's shoes. “New Cadet, you better figure out how to report properly or else you and I are going to get to know each other very closely,” the Firstie says, all humor dropping from her voice. “Now report!”
This time when I pick up my bag I snag the blue nylon drawstring of the bag with the middle finger of my left hand and thankfully, when I drop my bag and it leans over, the cord catches, my bag a small but precious three inches above the tops of her shoes. I quickly snap up the best salute I can, hoping it's enough. “New Cadet Carlyle reports to the Cadet In The Red Sash for the first time, ma'am!”
The Firstie, I see her last name now is Mitchell, makes a tick on her clipboard. “Carlyle, Alpha Company. Pick up your bag and proceed into the barracks. Your squad leader will give you further orders.”
My room is on the second floor of Eisenhower barracks, where three of us are jammed into a two person room. So far my one roomie is already there, and she looks scared out of her mind.
“Tamara Price,” she introduces herself, fiddling around with her uniform shoes. They're fresh out of the box, and she's fumbling with the laces, so nervous she's forgotten how to tie them. “Where are you from?”
“Army brat, but I was living outside Seattle before this,” I tell her, changing into my shoes as well. I feel bad for Tamara as she tries to get her shoes done, and I know by the end of the day she's going to have a blister on her toes somewhere. “Hey, here's a hint. Really, really stretch them wide, before you put any polish or anything like that on them. You have any insoles?”
“No,” Tamara says, looking up. She's younger than me, probably straight out of high school, and I can read it in her eyes, this is the first time she's been away from Mommy and Daddy. There's something else about her though, she's genuinely scared for another reason too. “Why?”
“You'll need them these three weeks. Chill, I have two fresh sets in my bag, they allowed me to keep them. You can have a pair. We'll dig them out before the parade. For now though, wear them just as they are, the extra space will help out.”
Tamara nods gratefully, and gets her shoes tied just as two thunderous knocks come at the door. “PRICE!”
“Yes, sir!” Price says, rushing out, her New Cadet Handbook in her hand. I'm only a few seconds behind, although we're in different squads. There aren't enough girls in the Academy for more than one or maybe two per squad.
Down in Central Area, the quad that's formed mostly by Eisenhower Barracks and Bradley barracks, we go through the rest of what's needed to cram the basics of drill and ceremony into the now thoroughly confused new cadets.
Still, even with the confusion I bear up well, and when we move back into Ike together, not a varied group but instead second squad, first platoon, Alpha company, our squad leader, Cadet Mandrews, stops us in the hallway outside his room. “Go back to your rooms, prepare your uniforms. At sixteen hundred, report to my room here for check offs. Don't make me chase you down, understood?”
“Yes sir!” I pop off, and Mandrews looks over at me. I was the only member of the squad to really pop off, and he gives me an evaluating look.
“Carlyle, you look too old for being fresh out of high school. How old are you, anyway?” he asks, his nose about six inches from me. He's no Marine Drill Sergeant, but it's good enough for most of the people here today. The combination of heat and stress has a lot of people on edge already.
“I'm twenty years old, sir!” I reply, lowering my voice enough that I'm not blowing his eardrums out.
“Twenty? I just turned twenty last week, what the hell are you doing as a twenty year old new cadet? Prior service?”
“No sir!” I reply, almost going on. Four responses, four responses.
“Explain. Speak freely,” Mandrews says, stepping back. One of my squadmates, a guy named Timms, is fidgeting, stopping when Mandrews gives him a glare. “Go ahead, Carlyle.”
“Sir, my father and brothers are graduates,” I say, not going further. Talking about Gavin and Julius is hard enough, I don't need that right now.
“Military family, huh? So are you famous, like Carlisle Barracks?” Cadet Mandrews asks, smirking, trying to be a wise ass. “Your Daddy a General, Carlyle?”
“No sir.”
Mandrews nods and steps back. “Okay then. Second squad, fall out to your rooms, prepare for parade.”
Part of the period to prepare for parade is to see if people can work together, I know. My second roomie, Lorraine Washington, shows up just as I'm putting a quick buff on my shoes from my bag, glad that I wrapped them in a nice soft cloth. “Where am I bunking?”
“Top bunk, sorry,” I apologize. “Alphabetical order.”
Lorraine shrugs and tosses her stuff up there, pulling out her white shirts and gray trousers and hanging them up. “You been in here long?”
“Just about a half hour,” I admit, looking at the pile of stuff on my issued desk. Belt buckle looks good, shoes are nearly there, hat brass... looks totally untouched, but that's going to take a long damn time to get buffed up properly. At least we don't have rifles yet. “What was your hold up?”
“Medical,” Lorraine says quickly. “They didn't get my eyeglass scrip before I got here, so I'm stuck in my civilian glasses for two weeks.”
A tense silence falls over the room as the three of us work to get things done. “So you said Army brat,” Tamara says as she tries to work on her shoes. She's doing a terrible job, but there isn't time to teach her how to do much more right now. At least she can use the shoe brush to clean off the worst of the fuckups. “Is that why you applied?”
“Something like that,” I admit, keeping that information to ourself. “What about you?”
“I... I'm not sure why right this second,” Tamara admits, her fingers trembling.
“Then don't think about it, just focus on the next two hours,” I advise her. “It'll come to you in time. Hey, either of you got someone back home?”
Lorraine shakes her head. “I broke it off with my boyfriend before coming. Figured might as well get that shit outta the way before it hits out of the blue. You?”
I nod, smiling. “John. He's going to be a junior next year, we were taking classes together.”
“Yeah? So what the hell brought you here?” Lorraine asks. “I mean, going to college already, a boyfriend, what else were you looking for? You bucking for something?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “No.... just felt the need to. Another time though, okay?”
Lorraine hums and before I know it it's three forty five, or fifteen forty five as I'm supposed to think of it now. I quickly strip down and change, grumbling at the fit. The Army's idea of making a pair of uniform pants meant for women is clearly lacking, and I don't even have a big ass.
“How do I look?” I ask Tamara, who looks up and gives me a shy smile. “Decent?”
&nbs
p; “Good,” she says, and I wonder about the way she says it. She didn't say if she left a boyfriend behind, and perhaps she was just shy about that side of herself, but maybe because she's not interested in boys. If that’s the case, she shouldn't have to worry. I'm not interested in girls, but that doesn't mean I'm going to flip out about it either.
“Thanks. Good luck, see you later,” I say, grabbing my gray cap and heading to Cadet Mandrews' room. We're not allowed to wear the white cap until after completing Beast, one of the hundred tiny steps between R-day and Recognition that slowly brings us back to feeling like real people again.
Cadet Mandrews is waiting when I get there, but there's still three guys from the squad missing, and he's not looking happy. “Westman! Lilly! Parker! Get your butts out here!”
Mandrews storms off, yelling for my three tardy squad mates, and I feel a tremor of fear. We didn't act as a squad, which is one of the cardinal sins that I should have remembered. We should have met as a squad before reporting down here en masse, all ten of us.
The blood in the water of seven unattended New Cadets in the hallway soon draws the sharks, unoccupied Cows and Firsties who have seemingly nothing better to do than turn the heat up on us. Our platoon sergeant and platoon leader are first, and I quiver when I realize that my platoon leader is Cadet Mitchell, she of the angry face and scuffed shoes.
“Ah, New Cadet Carlyle, I remember you,” Mitchell says, giving me a grin that would turn the Wicked Witch of the West to jelly, “tell me, what are your four responses?”
