Basic Training of the Heart

by Jaycie Morrison

  The colonel’s perceptive brown eyes surveyed the scene: Sergeant Rains with her jacket off and sleeves rolled, obviously helping with Private Smythe’s KP duties, Smythe’s empty plate from the mess hall. “I understand there was a problem at the stockade?”

  “Yes, Colonel. Apparently some information in Private Smythe’s file was…incomplete,” Sergeant Rains responded, sounding very formal.

  Issacson’s gaze lingered on Bett for a moment. Keeping her eyes fixed on the wall, Bett tried not to squirm. “I see. But things are resolved now?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rains stated firmly.

  Bett wondered if she should say something and then decided that it would be better not to. She gave just the slightest nod of affirmation.

  Colonel Issacson looked back at Rains. “Very well, Sergeant. Carry on.”

  Rains saluted again. Bett copied her. After Issacson left, Rains let out a breath as she turned and picked up her jacket.

  “Have I gotten you into trouble, Sergeant?” Bett asked, genuinely worried.

  “I shouldn’t be here helping,” Rains said, almost to herself, rolling down her sleeves briskly. “I should have reported in as soon as we left the stockade.” She glanced briefly at Bett. “I’ll be back to check on you later, Private.”

  Grabbing her jacket, she was gone before Bett could say another word. Bett resumed peeling, despite feeling somewhat forsaken. She thought about how Sergeant Rains had defended her to Issacson earlier and now had covered for her lie to the admissions board. Of course I could become a good soldier if I wanted to, she thought, somewhat crossly, but then checked herself. Perhaps she owed Rains’s Army some benefit of the doubt. It was certainly a better option than going back to her family with her tail between her legs, admitting that she couldn’t get through eight weeks of Army basic training.

  *

  It was well after midnight when the sergeant came back. Bett had fallen asleep leaning against the wall with a potato in her hand. She had finished about three-fourths of the job. By the time Bett awoke, Rains had almost completed the chore. When she heard Bett yawn and stretch she said, “Sleeping on your post is a serious infraction, Private. You’ll have another week of this if it happens again. In the future, you finish your duty assignment first and then you rest. You are dismissed.”

  Bett had made up her mind to try and be better about Army protocol. She cleared her throat and replied, “Understood, Sergeant. But aren’t I supposed to complete this task myself?”

  “Ordinarily yes, Private. But your emotional evening has taken its toll, I’m sure. For tonight only, I will finish your work. I don’t want you thinking that you have an excuse for sleeping in class tomorrow. Dismissed.”

  Bett knew she shouldn’t argue but she didn’t want to leave things on a bad note. She nodded, but then bent and rested her hand carefully on Rains’s forearm. It was lean and hard with muscle. She resisted the sudden urge to run her hand along the length of it. “I still want to say thank you. I appreciate the way you handled…well, everything.”

  Whether Rains turned to the touch or to the sound of her voice nearby, Bett wasn’t sure. But for a moment their faces were close, and Rains’s dark eyes searched hers with an unexpected intensity. Unable to venture even a guess as to what she was thinking, Bett wondered if Sergeant Rains always had her guard up, if there was a reason why she always seemed to maintain such distance. Then for one second, she thought she saw a change, a gentling of Rains’s expression. Almost immediately, it was gone. Rains turned back to the potato in her hand and said, “Good night, Private.”

  Everything was quiet when Bett got to the barracks. She got ready for bed as carefully as possible, so as not to disturb her squad mates. Almost without meaning to, she touched the place below her throat where Rains’s fingers had been before she fell asleep.

  *

  As she finished the last potatoes and swept the little room, Rains went over the roller coaster of events that the night had produced. She had anticipated that Smythe would be difficult about her KP assignment and had the MPs standing by for just that reason. She had been prepared to let a night in the stockade make the significance of Army orders a little more imperative to a spoiled rich girl. But when the severity of Smythe’s claustrophobia became evident, Rains had been fine with changing that plan. It was not in her character to injure someone without good cause, and the private’s initial failure to peel potatoes didn’t warrant serious psychological damage. Once Smythe had recovered sufficiently to admit that she had lied about her claustrophobia, the way she had challenged her situation with, Are you going to run me off now? told Rains that she really wanted to stay in the Army.

  Sergeant Rains’s experiences with difficult recruits in the past had taught her that these types often said the very opposite of what they wanted. Those who would yell at her, Why don’t you just send me home, then? really meant, Please don’t sent me home. This place is very different for me and I just need a little more time. By her own manner even more than with her words, Sergeant Rains always managed to convey the same answer: We want you here. There is time for you to learn. But you must show respect if you wish to be respected. Then the absurdity in the way Little Miss Rich Girl had timidly acknowledged that she had never peeled potatoes had made Rains want to laugh. It had been quite some time since she’d had that reaction. Apparently Smythe had what some of the other sergeants called a quick trigger. She would lash out suddenly when upset, but she was quite manageable once that had passed. After the simple acts of getting Smythe some dinner and teaching her the most efficient way to peel a potato had created a familiar, almost friendly relationship between them, Rains had found herself relaxing, confident that she was getting Smythe on the right track. It was most unlike her not to think about reporting in, though, especially considering the critical nature of Smythe’s presence here. Her report for Colonel Issacson tomorrow had better be thorough, but she felt that it could be mostly positive.

  As she walked slowly toward her room, Rains considered that last moment when Smythe had moved to touch her arm. Instead of the crackling heat of their last contact, this was gentle, almost tender, and surprisingly…nice. And as Smythe bent to speak, her face was so close that Rains had let herself look, really look, into those blue-green eyes. There was almost always a time when Sergeant Rains took the measure of each of her recruits—where she would sense the proportion of their willingness or their cunning, whether there was fortitude or intelligence or deception or fear within them. These moments would come in their own unforced time and Rains knew how to wait. She’d already had that opportunity with Helen Tucker during their initial meeting. In those seconds of eye contact, Rains had seen Tucker’s anger waiting just below the surface, ready to loose itself on a target. Beyond that, though, was pain. For the recent loss of her father or something more, Rains wasn’t quite sure, but she understood both of those emotions all too well and had readied herself to absorb either. But Tucker had chosen to capitulate—that time—to what was being asked of her in this new environment. Rains was glad and felt hopeful that Private Tucker would find her place here, especially if she could find an outlet for those things that troubled her. She’d had a similar moment of assessment with Archer as well, and had been pleased by it.

  In Smythe’s eyes she had seen surprising depth of character, both a goodness of heart and an unexpected yearning, almost sadness over something lost or absent, which Rains would not have expected from the daughter of the forty-second richest man in America. And as Smythe had met her eyes willingly, had searched her in return, a warmth had kindled between them for a few seconds. Rains believed she knew why that had happened. Because while helping Smythe recover on the steps outside the stockade, in trying to model breathing more slowly for the shaky private, Rains had fully breathed in a scent—the mix of Smythe’s skin, tinged with her soap, shampoo, and what must be a hint of some exotic perfume. The chemical blend that made Bett’s own particular aroma was now lodged in her memory. E
ven Rains’s jacket, after the short time that Bett had worn it, had enough traces of it to call her to mind. Enough of that, Rains ordered herself, so now you know her. The rest of her thoughts matched the timing of her footsteps as she mounted the stairs to her room. Clear your head. Cool down. Tighten up.

  Chapter Four

  That morning everyone in the barracks wanted to ask about Bett’s KP. Bett only told them about the laps and the potato peeling. She didn’t mention the incident at the stockade.

  “Was Sergeant Rains really mean?” asked Maria.

  “Well, not too much,” Bett admitted. “She was tough on me about acting up in the classes and she’s right, really. She made sure I had dinner, even though it was late, but then she left me with enough potatoes to sink a battleship.”

  “Do you think she’s still mad at you?” Phyllis wondered.

  “I’m not sure,” Bett began slowly. “She’s so difficult to read, and of course I couldn’t just ask her. She’s not cold exactly, but not approachable that way.” She smiled at her squad mates. “You know, I haven’t even been able to tell where she’s from. Her accent isn’t like anything I’ve ever studied and her cadence is so unusual.”

  “That’s b-because she’s an Indian,” Teresa said softly. “Or at l-least half.”

  Silence filled the room. “What?” Bett said faintly. Her mind was picturing Rains’s coloring. From the first day she had noticed that the sergeant’s skin was the burnished shade of someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors, and she had such dark hair and eyes. After the time they’d spent together last evening, Bett was able to envision the finer points of Rains’s appearance. Her nose and the shape of her face seemed more refined—well, more typically Anglo—and she had those marvelous cheekbones that made her face look almost chiseled. In the few Western movies she’d seen, American Indians were little more than caricatures. She was fairly certain that Sergeant Rains’s solemn demeanor was based on the seriousness with which she approached her duty, not because of any cultural disposition. Then she recalled Moore’s insult during the game—motherless half-breed. At the time, Bett had thought it was just something to say, but maybe it was true.

  Teresa nodded. “There’s lots of ’em in Oklahoma,” she confirmed. “B-but she don’t look the same as them. Must be another t-tribe.”

  “I think Tee’s right.” Maria’s voice stopped everyone. “When I was little, some cousins of mine came to see us. They had moved somewhere up north, near Canada. Now that I think of it, one of the boys married a woman who looked somewhat like Sergeant Rains, black eyes with very long, dark, straight hair. They said she was a Sioux.”

  “Ooh, better hold on to your scalps, girls,” warned Jo. “I remember reading about them in school. The Sioux were warriors, very fierce fighters. Other Indians were afraid of them.”

  “Good thing she’s on our side,” suggested Barb with a smile.

  “Yes, but joking about scalps and other such rubbish is probably exactly why she doesn’t go around talking about it,” Bett said somewhat sharply. Jo dipped her head apologetically. “I’m sure she doesn’t want to be called Chief or be asked where her feathers are.”

  Maria gestured angrily. “Yeah, or be called a mutt.”

  “Yes, just so,” Bett concurred, looking fondly at Maria. “So we’re not going to do any of that and we’re not going to say anything about it to her unless she says something to us. Agreed?” Her gaze took in every member of the squad. They all nodded solemnly.

  Bett tried not to be obvious about studying Rains at the officers’ table after she marched them to breakfast. Her sergeant always sat on the end, facing the tables where the squad ate. From their first day, Bett had chosen a seat facing Rains and had observed that she appeared to listen, but almost never joined in the other officers’ banter. Suddenly Rains dark eyes were on her, and almost reflexively, Bett smiled. Rains’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and Bett became aware that the whole squad was looking at Rains. She cleared her throat loudly and all heads went back down to their meals, as if they’d all realized the same thing at the same time. Sergeant Rains rose and started toward them. “Uh-oh,” Bett heard Jo murmur.

  “Ladies.” The sergeant was standing at the table. “Is there a problem?” Rains’s eyes moved over the group. No one spoke. Her eyes moved back to Bett. “Squad leader, is there a problem here?” she repeated.

  “No, Sergeant,” Bett said. Rains did not move. She was obviously waiting for an explanation of the group stare. “We were just wondering…um…” Bett’s normally agile mind deserted her. It must have been the late night. Rains’s eyes moved over the group again. Not one head came up. Her squad mates were eating as if it was their last meal. Bett cast about for something that was different about Rains, other than her heritage. Suddenly she realized that Rains was one of the officers who was still wearing the old-style WAC hat, the rounded one with the stiff brim. Several of the others had on the newer, softer garrison style. “We were just wondering why you wear that particular kind of hat, Sergeant. Don’t you think the other one is more comfortable?” Bett managed, at last.

  Rains didn’t answer for a few seconds. Bett worried that perhaps the sergeant did not believe her last-minute question was sincere.

  “My hat, Private, is worn to cover my hair, in accordance with Army regulations,” Rains finally spoke, her tone somewhat strained.

  “But wouldn’t the other hat do that just as well, Sergeant?” Bett was almost genuinely curious now. Then she felt Jo kick her under the table.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Sergeant Rains replied firmly. “Not my hair.” She looked over the group again. “Parade grounds in one hour, ladies,” she added, leaving the mess hall.

  *

  For the second night of Bett’s KP, Sergeant Rains let her eat dinner with her squad before meeting her at the door of the mess hall.

  “You’ll need to report to your KP duty now, Private Smythe.”

  Bett saluted smartly, with a touch of her own command in the answer. “Lead on, Sergeant.”

  Rains seemed to ignore the minor infraction and they walked back toward the kitchen. Once inside the little room, Bett sighed. “Will it always be potatoes?” Perhaps it was her imagination, but the unpeeled mounds seemed even larger than they had been the night before.

  “That’s not up to me, Private,” Rains clarified. “The kitchen staff just sets out whatever they need done. Before the week is over, you may get to wipe tables and mop or just police the grounds and take out the trash. But don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Yes, I don’t see you as the type to lead a girl on with false promises, Sergeant.” Bett grinned.

  There was no answering smile from Rains. “I’ll check on you later, Private.”

  “I was rather hoping you would,” Bett said, inclining her head as she took off her jacket and put it on the nail that Rains had used before. “You don’t even have to help this time, but I would love to have your company.” Bett saw Rains draw back a bit, so she quickly added, “It just makes the time go so much faster.” She heard Rains make the little grunting sound and wondered if it was something from her Indian background. They nodded briefly at each other and Rains went out.

  Bett had taken off her jewelry and had stopped herself from looking at her watch at least ten times before her sergeant came back. Even though she had been listening for her footsteps, she heard nothing until the door opened.

  Rains seemed satisfied to see that she was awake and working. “You’re making good progress, Private.”

  “Well, Sergeant, I had an excellent teacher.” Bett gestured toward the second stool that she had brought in and was pleased when Rains leaned against it without comment. “So I was thinking of your reference to Tom Sawyer last night. Is that your favorite of Mr. Twain’s works?” She held her breath and worked diligently while Rains seemed to be debating whether or not to answer.

  When Rains took her jacket off and laid it on the table which Bett had already cleared of
potatoes, Bett just managed to hide her smile. “Where is the other peeler?” Rains asked.

  “No, no. I told you that you don’t have to help me this time,” Bett assured her.

  “I cannot sit idly by while you work, Private.”

  “Why not?” Bett asked. “That’s what officers usually do anyway.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Bett wanted to take them back. After a quick glance confirmed that Rains was not happy with her comment, Bett kept peeling without looking up again.

  Finally Rains said, “Private Smythe, it is not your place to judge what most officers do or don’t do.”

  Bett stopped working and dropped her head a bit. “Of course you’re right, Sergeant. I apologize.”

  The sergeant rose and went out the door. Bett would have thought she was leaving except that Rains’s jacket was still on the table. She was relieved when the sergeant came back with another peeler. They worked in silence for a moment, until Rains ventured, “Actually, I prefer Huckleberry Finn for content, although Tom Sawyer is an enjoyable adventure.”

  A wide-ranging conversation followed, from character analysis to historical context. Although Rains clearly had opinions and positions on whatever aspect of the novels they were discussing, she was a very careful listener, and there was usually a pause of up to a minute during which she peeled thoughtfully as she considered Bett’s comments. Bett, who enjoyed lightning-fast verbal play that sometimes valued wit over substance, found that waiting for Sergeant Rains’s reply forced her to slow her own thinking and listen better as well. Much more quickly than the night before, the potatoes were done. They were still talking as they left the mess hall, walking toward the barracks.