by Alexa Kang
Who came up with these plans anyway? Why must they train in this oven? Did some bored bureaucrat dream this up for no reason other than to amuse himself by making them miserable?
When it was his turn to shoot, Anthony mustered every ounce of strength he could and pulled himself up to perform the task. Drenched in sweat, his shirt stuck to his back and his armpits felt wet. His hair was soaked inside his helmet too, but taking it off would be worse with the sun smoldering above.
Standing in line with the other recruits, he aimed his rifle. Don't deviate, he reminded himself. Be mediocre like everybody else. It was the army way. The only way.
He pulled the trigger. The bullet hit two inches north of the bulls-eye.
When target practice finally came to an end, the recruits could not wait to head back to their tents. Without being told, they all lined up in formation, wanting nothing more than to finish and leave to get some rest. Hinkle, though, had a different agenda. Hinkle wasn't satisfied with their performance. Not at all.
The blistering heat, the drudgery, the mind-numbing repetitions of all their drills and routines, the grueling training, the annoying noncom officers making their lives hell. It finally got to everybody. They had all reached their limit. This was the worst target practice they had ever had. No one did well.
Anthony himself had performed worse than usual. For the first time since coming here, Anthony received the "fail" grade. During the first round, he made an honest attempt to hit his own intended spots off the mark. As the day dragged on and the sun began to burn, he gave up. He made his shots without caring what results he would get. He only wanted the day to end.
"This kind of lazing off is not acceptable! Not acceptable! Do you all hear me?" Hinkle hollered. "How are you going to fight a war like this? You lazy scum! The Gerrys and the Japs will eat you alive. You are all a national disgrace!"
Why couldn't he stop shouting? Anthony wondered in exhaustion. How could this buffoon still have so much energy after spending the entire day out here? It was unbelievable.
"Ardley!"
What now? Anthony winced at the call of his name.
"Your regression was the worst. You'll handle target duty on your own today."
That was enough to make Anthony almost utter a curse word. Now he had to stay in this goddamned place even longer.
But Hinkle wasn't through. "You all see that?" He turned to the rest of the group. "If you don't keep up with your practices, if I see any of you screw around like this again, there will be punishment. I will not allow you people to treat training like a game. This is not child's play."
Anthony watched the trucks drive everyone else away and began to clean up the practice area. What choice did he have? He picked up the targets one by one and rebuilt the target line stations for the next practice session. When he finished, he checked his watch. With the time it would take for the unit to get back to their tent, a jeep likely wouldn't return to pick him up for another half an hour. He sat down and took a drink of water from his canteen. The water quenched his thirst but he wished it wasn't so warm. How he missed having ice. He swore he would never take ice for granted again.
He closed the cap of the canteen and stared mindlessly at the target station. A sudden inspiration overcame him. Up to this point, he had always aimed to miss. What if he were to try to hit the target itself?
He reloaded his rifle and positioned himself two-hundred and fifty feet in front of the line.
At practice, he had almost got it down to an art how to intentionally miss, or near miss. In fact, nine times out of ten, he could hit his own intended targets as opposed to the ones he was supposed to hit.
He aimed at the first target and pulled the trigger. Bull's-eye.
He aimed at the second target, then the third, and the fourth, hitting the mark on each of them until he demolished the entire line. He walked back to the station and lined up a second set of targets. This time, he walked back further and positioned himself at five hundred feet, then aimed and shot again. He hit the mark on all except one, and even that one barely missed.
Great shots. He could do this. If the army wasn't run by morons like Hinkle, he might put in some real effort. With the way everything was run, the U.S. Army probably wouldn't even win this war. But what could he do? He was nothing but a lowly grunt. If the army preferred incompetent people, then fine. Their loss.
A jeep pulled up behind him. Thank God. His ride was here. He turned around. To his surprise, sitting beside the driver was Major General Castile. Immediately, he straightened up and stood at attention.
Castile got out of the jeep. For a man in his fifties, he was exceptionally fit with a steely build. His full head of silver hair made him look younger than his age while lending him an air of distinction.
The general sauntered over to the target station. He eyed each of the shot targets, then looked Anthony once over. Anthony stood still as the Army had trained him to do. Nonetheless, the general's intimidating presence unnerved him.
"Tell me, Private," Castile said. "I've been coming off and on to watch you all practice for several days now. Did you suddenly acquire an expert level of shooting skills? Or have you been faking your shots all along, playing your officers for fools?"
"No, sir."
"Then how do you explain this?" Castile looked at the targets.
"Luck, sir. Dumb luck," Anthony said, hoping his answer would be enough.
"Luck? Are you playing me for a fool too?"
"No, sir!"
Castile moved closer. Anthony wondered how he could get himself out of this. He thought the general might punish him, but instead, Castile backed off. "I know what you're doing." Castile walked to the spot five hundred feet from the target line. "I know what you're all doing and all your little shenanigans to get past Hinkle, that sorry excuse of a captain." He mumbled the last part of what he said.
Anthony couldn't believe his ears. The general had just openly criticized a captain in front of him, a mere private. He stole a glance at Castile, who looked annoyed at the thought of Hinkle.
"Line up the targets again," Castile ordered.
"Yes, sir." Anthony did as he said.
"Is your rifle loaded?"
"Yes."
"Give it to me."
Anthony handed him the gun. Castile grabbed it and aimed. "Gonna do some target practice myself." Before Anthony could react, Castile fired the bullets in rapid speed, hitting all the targets without a miss. Anthony's ears rang from the successive blasting sounds of the gunshots, but he dared not move.
"That felt good." Castile handed the rifle back to Anthony. "I've been watching you. Don't you think for a minute I don't know exactly what is going on."
Anthony held on to his gun. The general was making him feel very, very small.
"Where are you from, Private Ardley?" Castile asked.
"Chicago, sir. Evanston just outside of Chicago."
"Chicago." Castile raised his eyebrows. "What do you know? I'm from Chicago. I'll be heading back there in a couple of weeks." He looked out into the distance at the desert. "Got some unpleasant business to take care of," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Anthony. Anthony wondered how much longer he had to remain here in this uncomfortable situation.
Castile looked at the targets. "I see thousands of men in training every day. Not everybody is gifted. It's rare to be gifted." He came close to Anthony. "You know how good you are, don't you?"
Anthony didn't feel right answering one way or another.
"Or maybe you don't know. If you don't know, would you push yourself to find out? See if you can stand head and shoulders above the rest?"
Stand above the rest? He thought the whole point of their military training was to blend in.
"Or would you waste everything you got that others don't, all because you hold a grudge against a little man like Hinkle? You can't take a little insult? Is that all it takes to stop you?"
Now the general was making him feel
petty.
"Is Hinkle going to define who you are?"
Hinkle? Of course not! But…Anthony lowered his head. He did let go because of Hinkle. At home, he achieved because of his family, teachers, and coaches. Here, he underachieved because of Hinkle. He had let everyone else define him except him.
"Next week," Castile said, looking directly at Anthony, "All you recruits will be taking the Army General Classification Test. Assuming your scores will meet the requirements, Private, I'm going to personally recommend you to the OCS after you're through with basic training."
"The OCS…"
"Officer Candidates School. I came to scout for candidates to train to become commissioned officers."
Stunned, Anthony didn't know what to say. He didn't know he was being observed. He never thought someone from the army would notice anything special about him, not after what he had been experiencing all this time since boot camp started.
"Keep up your training and finish your time here," Castile said. "When you're done, the OCS is the next place where I want you to be."
Anthony stood still. He hadn't thought at all about moving up the rank, but he dared not show any excitement, as Castile warned him, "Don't disappoint me." The general looked stern and dead serious. "You'll do yourself a favor to remember I don't take disappointment kindly. When you take that test, I don't want to see any of this faking and underperforming monkey business. I want to see what you're really made of."
Ashamed to have been caught in the act, Anthony almost forgot to respond until Castile glared at him. "Yes, sir."
"Now clean all this up and get into the car," Castile said and walked away. Anthony hustled to clear the target station, then climbed into the back of the jeep. The general didn't say anything more on their way back, so neither did he nor the driver.
Approaching camp, he hoped Hinkle wouldn't be there to see them when they returned. He couldn't believe he was riding in the same vehicle with a general. If Hinkle saw him and thought he was getting special treatment, that nitwit would make him pay dearly later for sure.
Wait. Why did he care what Hinkle thought?
What was he really made of? He didn't know. So preoccupied with doing what others wanted of him all his life, he never thought to stop to find out.
The OCS. Maybe now was his chance.
Back in his tent after supper, Anthony sat on his cot and turned on his flashlight. His tent mate was already asleep and snoring like a hog. Quietly, he took out a notebook and a pen from his duffle bag. He opened the cover of the notebook where he kept the photo of him and Tessa taken by the Christmas tree at the Museum of Science and Industry. The theme for the tree's decorations was Christmas Around the World. The tree was a beacon of hope and peace. Smiling, he ran his finger over Tessa's face, then put the photo back inside and began to write her a letter.
10
March 12, 1943
Dear Tessa,
I'm now in the California desert on a training excursion away from Camp Dover. We are camped out here, not in barracks but in tents. We have no light and no bed. I'm sitting on my cot holding my flashlight and it is very hard to write, but I don't want you to think that I've forgotten about you. I won't be able to send this letter until I return to Camp Dover. By then I'll be sending you all the letters that I've written since we got to this God-forsaken place. It's so hot and dry here.
A general came to me today and told me he will recommend me for Officers Training School after I finish basic training. You know something? I'm actually quite excited about it. The OCS training program is three months long. If I complete the program without fail, I will be assigned a second lieutenant ranking. Mother and Father will be happy to hear about that, don't you think?
I really want to think of you more often but sometimes it's very hard. To me, you are everything that is beautiful in the world. I don't like to mix up memories and images of you with the ugly, dreary views of the desert here.
Don't be too bothered by your patients thinking you're a cold person. For me, I'm happy to know your patients call you the Ice Queen. That way, I know they are not trying to come after you when I'm not there. Anyway, it gets so miserably hot here every day, I would love myself an Ice Queen right now.
When you send me letters from now on, will you spray your letter with your rose perfume? I long to hold something that makes me feel like you're right by my side.
I'm going to sleep now. I miss you.
— Love, Anthony
In her bed, Tessa finished reading the letter and put it next to her pillow. Now, she could feel his presence next to her all night.
He said he was in a desert. She wondered where.
Officer Candidates School? Of course. Anthony was smart and strong. It didn't surprise her someone would pick him out from the pack. No doubt, he would make an excellent lieutenant.
And he would look so good in an officer's uniform.
She put her fingers to her lips to hide her silly smile.
Today was a good day. Not only did she receive Anthony's letter, her mother's letter had arrived too.
March 2, 1943
Dear Tessa,
I am so sad to hear Anthony has been called to service. I had been worrying about that, and now it has happened. I wish I could come at once to America and be there with you all, especially William and Sophia. As a mother myself, my heart goes out to them. I cannot imagine what Sophia must be going through right now. I hope my letter to them will offer some words of comfort.
And Leon? How is he holding up? He must be so upset. I shall write to him too. You were too young to know this, but after Anthony Browning passed away and then Lex died in the Great War, a part of Leon was destroyed. For a long time, he lived with a wounded heart. He was still that way when I left America. But William told me young Anthony had filled the void that left him feeling so empty, and having Anthony around had made up somewhat for the losses he had suffered. Anthony being drafted must be very hard for him to take. With the memory of what had happened to Lex, Leon must be worried sick. Please watch over Leon for me if you can. Be there for him as I would.
As for Ron, the patient you wrote to me about, I think the medical establishment here in Great Britain may have more experience dealing with his condition. The Great War has had a much greater impact on everyone in Europe. His condition is not unheard of. Your colleagues have correctly diagnosed it as battle fatigue. During the Great War, the condition was known as shell shock. In 1917, a doctor named Arthur Hurst pioneered a treatment programme at the Seale Hayne Agricultural College to treat soldiers suffering from this illness. He persuaded the government to convert the College into a hospital. I've gathered for you copies of journal articles detailing records of his patients and the results of his treatments. He recorded his patients and his films have been very useful for educating the public and persuading the government to provide help to the patients with this condition.
I wish you could see the footage. I have watched the films. His treatments included something he called "occupational therapy," which was giving the patients jobs to do to reorient them to normal life. He also did a fair amount of therapy sessions using hypnosis and sometimes, reenactment of the traumatic events. I asked Dr. Lawrence and Dr. Mansfield what they thought. (You remember them, don't you? They asked about you. They are very pleased to hear you have joined the nursing profession. They send you their regards and wish you good luck.) Anyway, they suggested you experiment with occupational therapy and give your patient a work routine so he can have some sense of normality. For his phantom pain, hypnosis or massage therapy are possible options. You can find more information in the articles I am sending you.
I know you are doing all you can. The best way to help him is to be compassionate and find ways to make him feel safe. Above all, don't forget to treat him with dignity. It's what all patients need.
Your father and I are very proud of you. He is on tour again. His troupe has been traveling incessantly to perform for the soldiers a
ll around the country. I know he will try to write to you whenever he can, but it may be hard while he is traveling.
Let me know if your patient makes any progress. Take care of your Uncle William, Aunt Sophia, and Uncle Leon for me.
— Love, Mother
Occupational therapy. That was worth trying. The hospital wouldn't object to that. There must be something Ron could do in the hospital. Maybe she and Ellie could think of something together.
The journal articles her mother had sent her looked helpful too. They were in-depth analyses of battle neurosis. She had found nothing like these in their own medical library. Tomorrow, she must show these articles to Dr. Donovan.
She put the letter away in the drawer of the nightstand, then turned off the lights and lay down on her side.
Take care of your Uncle William, Aunt Sophia, and Uncle Leon for me.
Yes. She must do that. They miss Anthony so much, and they were so worried about him going to war. Most of the time, they couldn't even talk about it.
Maybe she should spend Saturday afternoon with Aunt Sophia and listen to the radio with her. She hadn't done that in a while.
Please watch over Leon for me if you can. Be there for him as I would.
Be there for Uncle Leon. She would, for as long as she could, but this could not be if she had it her own way. She wanted to be there for Anthony.
When Anthony completed his training and was assigned, she would do everything she could to join him. She had already looked into how the army departments were organized, which offices handled military assignments, and whom she might be able to contact. Being a nurse for the veterans paid off too. Those boys who had returned home sure gossiped a lot, but they were a fountain of information. They told her more than she could ever have discovered on her own how to reach the army officials who were in charge.
