by Amy Efaw
Cadet Daily shook his head but didn’t say anything else, so Bonanno cleared his throat and continued. “Well, when I was in middle school, I was, uh, well, I did some pretty dumb things, so my dad says, ‘Son, you’ve got a choice: military school in high school, or military school in college.’ I chose college because, well, frankly, I thought he’d forget about it by the time college rolled around. But he didn’t.” He cleared his throat again. “So during my junior year my dad took me up here, and I thought, ‘Hey, if I’ve got to go to military school, I ought to go to the best, right?’ So, here I am.”
“Yeah, just ask Mr. Hickman. The Citadel wasn’t good enough for him.” Cadet Daily glared at Hickman. “But what Hickman doesn’t know, Bonanno, is that West Point might be too good for him.” He turned, then stopped in mid step. “Listen, Bonanno, don’t shave your back, understand? I didn’t mean that literally. But do pay closer attention to that face. Hairy guys like you need to shave twice a day.” He sloshed on. “New Cadet McGill, what do you have for us?”
“My name’s Jason McGill, and I’m from Boulder, Colorado.” The stubble on his head kept its sun-bleached color even when wet. “I’d like to be famous for winning the Tour de France someday, but for now I guess I’m just famous for having a really cool bike.” He laughed loudly—and alone—at his own bad joke. “And I’m here because I didn’t get into the Air Force Academy.” He laughed again, nervously. “I would’ve only been two hours from home.”
I was wrong. Because of his hair and tan, I had pictured McGill as a California guy who’d spent most of his time on the beach, a surfboard in one hand and a boom box in the other. It made me wonder how the others pictured me before I opened my mouth. And, with a sinking feeling, what they thought of me now that I had.
“A zoomie wanna-be.” Cadet Daily shook his head. “And a momma’s boy. That’s a weak combination, McGill. And I’ve got news for you: If you ain’t good enough for the flyboys, you ain’t gonna last here a week. Might as well start packing now.” Then he nodded at the biggest guy in the room, New Cadet Cero. He was about six foot four, all muscle, and black. And he towered a full head and shoulders above Cadet Daily.
Cadet Daily’s the shortest guy in our squad, besides New Cadet Ping . . . and Gabrielle. He’s only maybe an inch taller than me! Somehow, he had seemed much taller than that.
“Okay,” Cadet Daily said, “let’s hear it, Big Guy.”
For such a big guy Cero had a surprisingly soft voice. “My name’s Phil Cero, and I come from East L.A. I’m not famous for anything, and I’m here because I want to be.”
Cero’s answer was way too short. Cadet Daily’s face became a mask of ice.
“East L.A., eh?” I looked quickly from one face to the other. “You speak any Spanish, Cero?”
“Yes, sir. I know a little Spanish.”
“Then, I presume, you know the meaning of your last name?”
Cero’s Adam’s apple moved up, then down. He knew what was coming, and so did I—I understood four years’ worth of high school Spanish. “Sir, in the Spanish language ‘cero’ means ‘zero.’”
Cadet Daily slapped his hands together twice in mock applause. “Mr. Zero, famous for nothing. Absolutely nothing. A complete zero.” Cero’s jaw muscles flexed in, then out. “Hey, Zero, you have a scar under your left eye. Nice touch. Mind telling me how you got it?”
I felt my body tense up. There were some things that people didn’t want to share with others. I had a feeling Cero’s scar was one of those things, and I felt bad for him.
Cero paused a second, staring back at Cadet Daily.
Cadet Daily took it as a threat. “IRP! You need an attitude adjustment, Mister? I’ll drop you right here, right now, Big Guy! A little Leaning Rest action. Is that what you want?” Cadet Daily’s ears, then face, grew crimson as he leaned closer to Cero, his face upturned and eyes blazing.
“No, sir!” Cero said quickly. “Sir, I received the scar during a fight when I was just a kid.”
“Just a kid,” Cadet Daily repeated, stepping back, his face slowly returning to its normal hue. Then, his eyes still locked with Cero’s, he said, “We all know that Ping’s been kicking butt and taking names with the 82nd. Why don’t you tell the rest of the squad what you’ve been doing since you graduated high school, Zero?”
Cero cleared his throat. “I worked for a couple years after high school, then earned two years toward a bachelor’s degree in aerospace engineering at U.C. Davis.”
He’s already been to college? Why in the world is he here?
“Well, well, well. We’ve got a bona fide rocket scientist in our midst, Third Squad.”
I watched Cero’s face as Cadet Daily moved for Gabrielle, his last victim. Whatever feelings and thoughts he had right then were written where nobody could read them.
Unlike Gabrielle, who was hastily rearranging her Speedo as Cadet Daily closed in on her. “Miss Bryen,” he said, “last is best. Or so I’ve heard. Impress us.”
She licked her already-damp lips. “I’m Gabrielle Bryen. I go by ‘Gab’ or ‘Gabby.’” She shrugged her shoulders. “Gabrielle is good, too. Actually, I like Gab best, but I’ll answer to anything.”
“Good, Bryen,” he said. “I have a few names in mind, custom-made, for you, too. Go on.”
She was babbling, but for some reason, it didn’t seem to bother Cadet Daily at all.
“Yes, sir.” She continued, “I live, or lived, in Philadelphia. The northwest area of the city, called Chestnut Hill.” She tittered nervously. “So, I guess, party at my house after the Army-Navy game!”
“If you make it here that long, Miss Bryen,” Cadet Daily said.
“That won’t change anything, sir,” Gabrielle said solidly. “I’ll have a party anyway.” She glanced at me.
I nodded. Good comeback! One thing was for sure, Gabrielle could talk well on her feet. I wished I were more like her. I could hardly talk at all.
Cadet Daily smiled. He had liked her comeback too.
“I’m famous for being a pretty decent tennis player and for being short. For obvious reasons.” She pulled at her elastic again. “I got recruited to play tennis, so that’s one reason why I’m here. Another reason—I went to an all-girl school for the past twelve years. I guess I just wanted to see how the other side lives.”
Cadet Daily laughed. “Well, Miss Bryen, you picked the place for that.”
Why does he keep calling her “Miss Bryen” and me just “Davis”? The skin of my fingers had turned white and seemed to shrink around my bones.
“All right, Third Squad,” Cadet Daily said, checking our boots and shoes as he sloshed back to Ping. “It looks like you got most of the bluing off. Put on your boots.”
After all our boots were laced, he yelled, “Let’s break those boots in real good. Double time in place, Third Squad! Let’s go! Don’t let a little water turn you into a bunch of sniveling wimps! Bring those knees to your chest. Higher! Higher!” Our boots slapped the wet tile floor in a rhythmic cadence.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ve got, Third Squad.” He paced before us, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve got Mr. Bogus, the Bible-thumping wise guy. Then there’s Super-jock Hickman and Shave Your Back Bonanno.”
My wet boots were growing heavy, and the floor was slick. Just don’t fall!
“We have the Zoomie wanna-be, Mr. I-Want-My-Mommy McGill, and the venerable rocket scientist, Mr. Zero. Of course, we mustn’t overlook our very own Miss Army Tennis, otherwise known as Blueblood Bryen, who needs stilts to reach the doorknob.” He had splashed his way down the line. Only Ping and I remained. I pumped my legs up higher and stuck a look onto my face that said, “I’m not tired. Not one bit.”
“And finally Mr. Ping, the Combat Soldier, and Oh-Why-Am-I-Here Davis.” He stood on the step that led out of the shower. “Cease work!” he yelled. We stopped. Standing on the step, he was taller than any of us.
I think that’s how he wants it.
“We have a
lot of work to do, Third Squad,” he said. “I’m going to spend the next six weeks tearing you down, inch by painful inch, until you don’t even remember you were anybody. Then you’ll spend the next four years building yourselves up to becoming someone again. But not the person you were.” He paused, watching our expressions, one by one. “When you go home at Christmas,” he whispered, “your parents won’t even recognize you.” I could sense the panting bodies beside me stiffen. “Here’s our squad motto, Third Squad: ‘Never surrender!’ I want you to brand it into your minds and write it on your hearts. Bury it deep, Third Squad, so that when things get tough—and things will get real tough before I’m through with you—it will be there for you. Never surrender! Let’s hear it, Third Squad!”
“Never surrender, sir!” We thundered as the water continued to stream over us.
“LOUDER!”
“NEVER SURRENDER, SIR!”
Cadet Daily smiled, then checked his watch. “Turn off the showers and dry off. I want you standing tall in front of my room in one five minutes, ready for Mass Athletics, wearing Gym Alpha, and holding a filled canteen. Don’t be late, Third Squad!”
And then he left.
CHAPTER 7
MONDAY, 12 JULY 0550
Hey, hey Captain Jack,
Meet me down by the railroad track.
With those runnin’ shoes in my hand,
I’m gonna be a runnin’ man.
—U.S. ARMY RUNNING CADENCE
“ATTENTION ALL CADETS! THERE ARE TEN MINUTES UNTIL ASSEMBLY FOR PHYSICAL TRAINING AND REVEILLE FORMATION. THE UNIFORM IS—GYM ALPHA. TEN MINUTES REMAINING!”
Gabrielle and I stared at each other’s reflection in the mirror, our toothbrush-clutching hands momentarily paralyzed. Gabrielle’s eyes widened, then bulged, as if some hungry anaconda were slowly coiling itself around her.
“Oh, no!” she yelled, flecks of toothpaste catapulting toward the mirror. “I’m a Minute Caller! I’m supposed to be out there!” She spat into the sink and wiped her mouth on the shoulder of her Gym Alpha. “Where’s What’s-Her-Name? Oh, why didn’t she come by? Why didn’t you remind me?” She tossed her toothbrush into the sink and scurried for her running shoes.
“Sorry, Gab,” I said. “I forgot, too.” I chewed on my lip, feeling helpless.
Yesterday First Sergeant Stockel had assigned each new cadet an official duty. I got Laundry Carrier, and Gabrielle got Minute Caller. Later, while Gabrielle and I were putting a final spit shine on our shoes, we had heard a frantic rapping on our door. A female new cadet from Second Platoon, whom I’d never met, burst into our room. She slumped against our door and blew down the front of her shirt before saying a word to us. “I’m Nina Abrams,” she said at last. “Since my last name starts with an ‘A-b’, I get to be the Head Minute Caller this week. Lucky me.” She squinted across the room at the names on our shirts.
“I’m a Minute Caller,” Gabrielle said, dropping her shoe on her desk. “What do I need to do?”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. Your job is to count down the minutes for every formation, starting at ten minutes before. You have to stand under, uh—hold on . . .” She reached into the back pocket of her trousers, pulled out a wilted pad of paper the size of her hand, and flipped through it. Gabrielle glanced at me.
“. . . under the clock in the middle of this hallway”—she jabbed the air over her shoulder with her thumb—“wearing the proper uniform for the formation.” She ripped a piece of paper out of her notepad and thrust it into Gabrielle’s polish-smudged hand. “You have to memorize this tonight.”
Gabrielle nodded.
“Tomorrow morning go to your clock, stand at attention facing the clock, and wait. And then at exactly ten minutes to six—because P.T. formation’s at six—” She looked at Gabrielle. “You following?”
Gabrielle nodded.
“Give yourself plenty of time to get out there.” She looked at her pad again. “Okay, so you’re at your clock. At ten till, call that out.” She pointed to the piece of paper in Gabrielle’s hand. “There’ll be two other new cadets at the clocks at either end of the hall. You’ll all be yelling this in unison.” Nina shoved the notepad back into her pocket. “Try to stay together. Okay?”
Gabrielle nodded again.
“All right.” Nina wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand. “You have to do the same thing at five, four, and three minutes before formation. But don’t go back to your room between minutes. Just wait in the hall, facing the clock.” She moved closer to Gabrielle and pointed at something on the piece of paper. “When the two-minute bell sounds, yell this. It’s a little different. Okay? And oh, since the uniform for P.T. is Gym Alpha, you say that here.” She pointed to the paper again. “Okay?”
Gabrielle stared at the paper and licked her lips.
“After you finish the two-minute call, book it like crazy to formation. If you’re late, we both get fried. Okay?”
“I think so. I don’t . . . I mean . . .”
“First Sergeant Stockel said if there are any screw-ups, he’ll chew my butt so bad, I’ll get medically discharged.” She sighed, then stared at her watch. “It’s almost Taps. Look, I’ll try to come by here around 0535 tomorrow morning to make sure that you’re all squared away. Let’s synchronize our watches.”
But Nina never showed up, and even though Gabrielle had lain awake whispering her lines after Lights Out, we had both forgotten. I rinsed off Gabrielle’s discarded toothbrush and placed it in her medicine cabinet. I hoped she didn’t blame me.
“How in the world did we forget?” Gabrielle looked close to tears, and her hands shook as she picked up her shoes. “I could see, maybe, if we overslept. But forget? This really, really sucks, Andi. An unbelievable amount.”
“I know, Gab. I should’ve remembered.” I began to pace around the room, frenetically straightening and tightening—needing to do something, anything, but stand still. I’m so lucky. All I had to do this week as a Laundry Carrier was collect the upperclass cadets’ barracks bags of dirty laundry and haul them down to one of the sally ports for pickup. Then later in the week, I’d deliver the cleaned laundry back to the rooms. No way could that be as bad as calling minutes.
“I guess I was so worried about the stupid P.T. test we have this morning that I couldn’t think about anything else.” Except for cross country team tryouts this afternoon. Actually, the two running events had been the only thing on my mind since last night, when Cadet Daily made his final appearance of the day at Lights Out. “Remember, Davis, tomorrow’s your big day,” he had said. “Tryouts for Corps Squad and the P.T. test. Thought you’d like that little piece of information to spice up your dreams tonight.” After I was sure Gabrielle was finally asleep, I had crept out of my bed to stretch—trying to psych myself up, trying to visualize my pace, trying to relax. I just had to make the team.
“I’m really sorry, Gab.” Please don’t be mad at me. I had just started to believe that maybe she considered me her friend.
“WHERE’S MY MINUTE CALLER?” Some cadet’s voice boomed in the hallway. “OH, MINUTE CALLER! WHEREFORE ART THOU, MINUTE CALLER?”
Gabrielle and I froze. “That sounded like Cadet Aussprung,” I whispered, as if the cadet could actually hear me. “The hugest haze in—”
“I know who Cadet Aussprung is, Andi.” Gabrielle struggled with her shoes, hurling curses at the floor. “I can’t get these stupid things on!”
I crouched beside her. “Try untying them, Gab.”
“No, Andi! Get my brush!”
Her brush? Brushing hair at a time like this would’ve been the last thing on my mind, but I rushed back to the sink and grabbed it.
Gabrielle was standing, her shoes now on, pulling up her socks. “Come on! I can’t go out there looking like this!”
I tossed her the brush, and she yanked out her bun. Then she raked the brush through her strawberry frizz before twisting her hair back into place. Was she crazy? “Gab, just get out there! Don’
t worry about how you—”
“HO! HO! HO! SOMEONE’S HEAD’S GONNA ROLL!”
“Quick!” she squeaked. “Give me a dress off!”
I sprang behind her, snatched the brush from her, and threw it on her bed so our hands would be free.
“I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead!” She pulled the waistband of her shorts away from her tailbone. “I’m going to get kicked out, Andi! I just know it.”
I grabbed the excess T-shirt fabric from her sides and folded it toward her spine. “Okay . . . now!”
She snapped her waistband back in place. “Why does my last name start with ‘B’? Yours starts with ‘D.’ That’s why you didn’t get Minute Caller. It’s not fair!”
Now she was whining. Like that helps anything. She just needs to shut up and get out there! I did some final tucking. Her T-shirt was wrinkle-free. “Done.”
She sprinted out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
I put her brush away and chewed my thumbnail, listening.
“WELL, WELL, WELL! NEW CADET BRYEN! SO GLAD YOU COULD COME TO MY PARTY. BUT, MY, MY, MY. AREN’T WE FASHIONABLY LATE THIS FINE MORNING?” Then silence followed. Silence, that is, except for the quick footsteps of new cadets pinging down the hall and the music of the “Ballad of the Green Berets” blaring over the PA system:
Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America’s best,
One hundred men we’ll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.
Third Squad had to be standing against the wall in front of Cadet Daily’s room at five minutes before formation. I checked my watch. That gives me one minute, forty-three seconds. I gave myself a dress off and stared at the doorknob, waiting.
“Attention all cadets!” Gabrielle shouted, battling the Green Berets for superiority of the airwaves. Her voice sounded shaky and thin. “There are . . . six? and a butt minutes until assembly for Physical Training. The uniform is—”
I winced. Oh, Gab. That’s wrong! It’s Physical Training and Reveille Formation. Listening to Gabrielle practice last night, I had learned the lines, too.
