by Amy Efaw
“Now, I know the pace isn’t too fast. Nobody’s here by accident. Each and every one of you ran under thirteen minutes on last week’s P.T. test. Correct?”
“YES, SIR!”
“Okay, then. A 6:30 pace isn’t too fast.” He crossed his arms. “So I can’t think of a good reason why you’re not sounding off. Can you?”
“NO, SIR!”
“You’re not like the common riffraff in the Gray Group or the lead butts in the Gold Group. You’re the Black Group—no pun intended—because you’re H Company’s top runners. You need a challenge, and it’s my job to give it to you.
“Okay. Time to step down from my bully pulpit. Today we’re gonna do my famous Chapel Run.”
I heard a soft groan sweep through the squads. I remembered our long, hot climb up to the Chapel last week, and I almost groaned myself. It was a tough hill. I’d have to work extra hard to keep up my reputation.
“It’ll take us up to the Chapel, past Lusk Reservoir and Michie Stadium. Then down the nice, long hill to Thayer Gate. From there I’ll release you to run the last mile back to the barracks on your own.” He glanced at me. “As fast as you want. The finish is at Eisenhower Statue. And don’t worry about getting lost.” He smirked. “Just look for me at your front, Fourth Class, ’cause I’ll be there.” He stood directly in front of me and said, “No one’s gonna beat me to Eisenhower Statue.”
I stared at the ground between my feet. It was a challenge. We’ll see about that, sir.
“Hey, Andi,” Boguslavsky whispered behind me. “Take it easy on us mortals, okay?”
I stretched my arms over my head and smiled. I was glad that McGill and Boguslavsky were in the Black Group with me. The looks that I got from some of the other Black Group guys weren’t the friendliest at times, especially when we were running up a hill and I was the only one with enough wind for sounding off. But Jason and Kit’s presence was comforting. We were the only Third Squad new cadets who were fast enough for H Company’s Black Group, and even though I was a girl, I knew that they were glad to have me here. At least they acted like it.
McGill glanced over at Cadet Black, now sitting on the ground and stretching his calves. “You gonna take Cadet Black up on his challenge?”
I pretended innocence. “Challenge?”
He looked back at Cadet Black again. “You know. When he releases us to run back on our own. You gonna smoke him?”
I raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
0710
Cadet Black had pushed me, hard, that last stretch of Thayer Road along the Hudson. But the real race began as soon as the barracks were in sight. As we tore down the corridor of towering granite buildings toward the Plain, I felt myself easing away from him. He fell back one stride. Then two. When Eisenhower Statue was about a hundred yards straight ahead, I knew I had him beat. My body geared up for the final surge.
And then . . . I looked back. Cadet Black was there—a good fifteen feet behind me. Head back, a grimace wringing his face. Legs and arms pumping. Seeing him straining so hard, my desire to beat him dissolved. Instantly. I realized that it was one thing for me to beat my peers. That Cadet Black found amusing; it was a joke we shared. But I wasn’t sure he’d be so amused if I beat him, too. I knew a delicate balance exists between impressing someone and threatening someone. And I’d learned a long time ago that threatened people could turn ugly, just like that.
So at the last second I made the decision—I’d save his ego a thrashing. I held myself back, and we finished together.
When we had trotted to a stop, Cadet Black threw back his head and laughed. He raised his right hand and shouted, “Put it here, Davis!” I hid my smile as I returned his high-five. “Man, Davis,” he said, walking in circles with his hands behind his head. “You can run! You ever lose a race?”
“I just did, sir.”
He looked at me knowingly. “Yeah, right.” Then he shook his head. “You sure are something else, Davis. The Army Team’s gonna love you.”
I grinned up at him. I couldn’t help myself—I felt too good.
He frowned. “Smirk off, Davis! You know better than that!” But as he turned to watch the rest of the Black Group come in, I saw his lips twitch.
It’s gonna be a great day!
1405
“WHAT’S THE SPIRIT OF THE BAYONET?”
“TO KILL, SIR!”
From where he stood in the center of the P.T. stand, an upperclassman with more muscles than Superman glowered down at H Company. Stretched across his biceps and pecs was a yellow T-shirt with a dagger and the word BAYONET emblazoned on its front.
We stood straight and still before him like rows of camouflaged dominoes, our M-16s in our hands. The upperclassman raised his M-16 over his head with one hand as if it were a mere Wiffle ball bat and roared again, “WHAT MAKES THE GRASS GROW?”
“BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW, SIR!” we yelled, our voices rising in the heavy air.
“That’s right, Hardcore. Thick, red blood makes the grass grow green. You got a motto there, Hardcore?”
“YES, SIR!”
“Let’s hear it!”
We took in one huge, collective breath before we shouted, “HARDCORE H, BEST BY TEST. WE DON’T CARE WHO’S SECOND BEST. WE’RE ROUGH! WE’RE TOUGH! WE GO ALL NIGHT. WE SHOOT TO KILL WITH ALL OUR MIGHT! DRIVE ON, HARDCORE. DRIVE ON, SIR!”
“All right! Today, Hardcore, you’re gonna learn the meaning of those motivating words. Fix bayonets!”
“HU-AH!”
I slammed my M-16 on the ground between my feet and, with all the other H Company new cadets, snapped my sheathed bayonet onto the end of my weapon.
Before marching out here to Clinton Field, I’d spent the entire morning cooped up in a silent auditorium with a number 2 pencil, a booklet of multiple-choice questions, and hundreds of other new cadets. And after that, lunch with my hands in my lap and my eyes on my plate. But now that we were finally out here, I was psyched. Yelling and stabbing imaginary bodies and acting crazy was exactly what I needed. Nothing got the blood pumping better than a good session of bayonet drills.
“READY STANCE, MOVE!”
Together, we brought our M-16s diagonally across our chests and stood poised for action with our legs flexed like a quarterback at the line of scrimmage, ready for the ball.
“BUTT STROKE TO THE HEAD, MOVE!”
“HU-AH!” I took a giant step forward and slammed the butt of my weapon upward as if I were smashing an imaginary enemy soldier in the face.
“SLASH SERIES TO THE CHEST, MOVE!”
“HU-AH!” I stepped forward again, slicing the space in front of me diagonally from left to right. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cadet Daily moving his way down my rank. He leaned into each Third Squad new cadet as he passed, yelling something about blood and guts and killing. The sun poured out of a cloudless sky. Sweat oozed from every pore of my body. My weapon was slick with it. I felt great!
“WHAT’S THE SPIRIT OF THE BAYONET?” the upperclassman bellowed again.
Cadet Daily was getting closer. I gripped my weapon harder and stuck the most murderous, bloodthirsty look on my face that I could muster. “TO KILL, SIR!”
“SMASH SERIES TO THE KNEE, MOVE!”
“HU-AH!” As I took out my imaginary opponent’s knee with one barbaric stroke of my M-16, I screamed louder than I had all day, hoping Cadet Daily would hear me and be impressed.
Okay, get ready. Here he comes! My heart started to beat faster.
“THRUST!”
“HU-AH!” I lunged forward to skewer my invisible enemy, and—NO! My M-16 flew out of my hands and clattered to the ground, just missing the new cadet in the rank in front of me.
Cadet Daily was in my face before I could even move to pick it up. “Davis! What’re you doing? Are you spazzing out on me?”
“No, sir!”
“NO?” he roared.
I licked my lips and tasted salt. So much for impressing him.
“SMASH SER
IES TO THE HEAD, MOVE!” yelled the muscle-bound upperclassman.
I moved for my M-16. “I’m not through with you, Davis! You trying to blow me off?”
I jumped back. “No, sir!” Sweat trickled down my back. I swallowed. My mouth felt dry and pasty, like I’d been sucking on a glue stick.
“Drop!”
I stared at him. Push-ups? Now? But what about my M-16? The rest of H Company were now bashing the air with the butts of their weapons and screaming for blood. Except me.
“I said, ‘Drop,’ Davis! Now, move!”
New cadets everywhere were stealing sidelong glances at us. I knelt in the grass and got into the Leaning Rest. The muscles in my arms quivered.
The commands came fast and furious from the P.T. stand, and battle cries ripped from the throats of my classmates in a frenzied response.
Cadet Daily bent over me and shouted above the noise. “Low crawl over to your weapon and secure it. And don’t take all day! MOVE OUT!”
Low crawl? Here? In front of everyone? But I had to obey. I plunged to the ground and slithered on my elbows and knees over the ten feet of grass to my weapon as fast as I could. I was mortified. I had become more than just a distraction; I was a one-woman vaudeville show with Cadet Daily as director, producer, choreographer, and prop man. And right now I hated him for it. It reminded me of the times my mother had humiliated me in front of my team-mates after track practice, barging into the girls’ locker room and calling me names that prison guards reserved for their worst inmates, because I had made her wait for me in the parking lot a few minutes longer than we had arranged.
I crawled back to Cadet Daily, dragging my M-16, and stopped at his feet.
“Now get back into the Leaning Rest and knock ’em out till I get tired!” he shouted. “Hold on to your weapon at all times, Davis. And after each repetition I want to hear, ‘I will not drop my weapon!’ Execute!”
I hesitated, staring at my M-16. How in the world can I hold my weapon and do push-ups?
“Today, Davis, today! I told you to do push-ups on your weapon, not kiss it!”
I wound the sling around one hand and then the other, pulling my weapon to lie over both. Then I lowered my chest toward the ground and pushed myself back up. “I will not drop my weapon.”
“Louder! And get your gut off the ground!”
I did another push-up, trying hard not to sag. “I will not drop my weapon!” I clenched my teeth. Jerk! It’s not like I did it on purpose or something.
“WHIRL!” commanded Mr. Muscles from the P.T. stand.
“I will not drop my weapon!”
I kept squeezing out push-ups, one by one, gasping and grunting and trying to ignore all the slashing and stabbing around me. The grass beneath me grew slippery with my sweat, and my arms became so tired, I could barely go down at all.
“On your feet,” Cadet Daily said at last. “I’m tired, Davis. Tired of watching your miserable carcass writhing around on the ground.”
I sank to my knees, then staggered to my feet, using my M-16 as a crutch.
“Treat your weapon like a boyfriend, Davis. Respect it, care for it, develop a meaningful relationship with it.” I felt my face burn, but not from the sun overhead. I didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a guy. And he probably knew it, too. “Never abuse it. It may save your life someday. Be faithful to it, and it’ll be faithful to you.”
Cadet Daily turned around, and I resumed the Ready Stance.
“BUTT STROKE TO THE GROIN, MOVE!”
I gritted my teeth, and taking a giant step forward, I drove the butt of my weapon upward with one particular enemy soldier in mind. “HU-AH!”
1520
When bayonet drills were over, Cadet Daily gave us thirty minutes of free time. Well, sort of. We were to use the time to turn in our M-16s, check our mail, change into fresh brown T-shirts and spit-shined boots, drink a canteen of water, write a letter home, and get into Battle Dress Under Arms—pistol belt, bayonet, full canteen, white gloves, and M-14 rifles, cleaned—for drill. Any time remaining after accomplishing all that would be considered our free time.
A few minutes after we had turned our M-16s in to the weapons room and had visited the mailroom, Gabrielle and I were at our desks, sitting in fresh brown T-shirts, and chugging water from our canteens.
“I’m so hot!” Gabrielle said between gulps. “I can’t stop sweating. This T-shirt is almost as soaked as the one I just took off. And look!” She walked over to me and lifted the bangs away from her forehead. “I’m breaking out all over the place! I have more red on my face than on the top of my head!”
“It’s not that bad, Gab.” I put my drained canteen on my desk and started fanning myself with my four pieces of mail. Gabrielle exaggerated everything.
“Easy for you to say.” She yanked her bun out of her hair and sank back into her chair. “You don’t have any. You sweat like a beast but never get zits. It’s not fair.”
Talking about my looks made me uncomfortable; it reminded me of my mother. She loved to comment on my looks, too, but never in a remotely positive way. I changed the subject. “So, did you get any mail?”
“Yeah. A letter from my mom and dad, and one from Sherry.” She smiled, holding it up. “I’ve told you about Sherry, haven’t I? My best friend?”
“Yeah.” I felt a little stab of pain. What about me? I glanced over at Gabrielle. She had already ripped open the envelope and was reading the letter with a huge grin on her face, raking her fingers through her damp hair. I turned away and looked at the four letters in my hand, feeling stupid. Of course you’re not Gabrielle’s best friend. I knew that those few nights we managed to stay awake after Taps, whispering about home and guys and West Point fears, couldn’t compete with years of friendship. Years full of slumber parties and shopping trips, phone calls that lasted half the night, and ditching class to just hang out—things I never did. Life in my house was totally incompatible with having a best friend, so I never had one.
Gabrielle giggled and slid the letter into the top drawer of her desk. “Sherry’s great. She writes the best letters. She’s getting ready to leave for school at the University of Pennsylvania. But it’s not like she’s going away away. I mean, she lives just a few streets from me in Philadelphia, you know.”
“Yeah, I remember. You told me—”
“We had it all planned, Sherry and me. We were going to be roommates, I was going to play tennis for Penn, and—”
I nodded. “Oh, yeah. You got recruited there, too.” I started picking at one of my envelopes. Listening to her talk about Sherry made me feel strange inside, but I couldn’t name the emotion. I felt insignificant and intimidated and a little bit jealous, all mixed together.
“You’ll just have to meet her sometime, Andi. You’d love her.”
I sorted through my letters. Two from my mom, one from my sister, and one from a credit card company with big print on the outside saying I was preapproved for a $3,000 credit limit.
Gabrielle pulled her second letter from its envelope. “Sherry might be coming up with my parents at the end of the summer. You know, that day Cadet Daily told us about? After Beast, when we can spend the whole day with our parents?”
“Yeah? Maybe I can meet her then.” I had no idea if my own parents were going to come. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted them to. But there was one thing I did know: Just the thought of introducing them to Gabrielle made me sweat. I pulled out the letter from my mom, the one with the oldest postmark.
Dear Andi,
Finally you wrote. We are making up our minds if we should come all the way to West Point at the end of the summer. It is 1000 miles, you know. When you never bother to write, it doesn’t make me feel like we should bother to come. Next week is Randy’s birthday. He will be thirteen. A teenager already. We are going to have a nice party for him, but only family. I don’t want any of his bratty friends around.
That ugly, skinny boy from your running team came over the other day, t
he one that asked you on dates but you were smart enough to avoid like the plague. He came over to hear how you are doing. He’s a nice boy, but nothing special. You should find one of those West Point boys. They are a much higher caliber and smarter, too. You wrote that you made the running team. That’s crazy. You won’t have time for running in college! You don’t even get a grade for it, do you? But you never listen. You’ll run yourself right out of West Point. You’ll see. And for what? You should join the band. We spent all that money on that clarinet and all those years of lessons. That would be more productive than running, that’s for sure.
Do you eat and sleep enough? Write, okay? It’s not easy when your kids go away. I told you I’d write to you every day, didn’t I? And I have kept that promise. How many other mothers write every day?
Love, Mom
I didn’t know which I wanted to do more—scream or cry. What did you expect? Something nice and encouraging? I looked back in the envelope for a note from my dad. Nothing. Typical. I dumped the letter in the trash can and stashed my mother’s second one in my desk without opening it. Then I opened the letter from my sister.
Dear Andi,
Congrats on making the cross country team! Mom thought it was stupid, and Dad said nothing as usual, but I think it’s great!! I can’t wait to tell Coach Wolf. He’ll be so excited!
Things are about the same as always. I went to the library almost every day this week. It’s too hot to stay in the house (Mom won’t run the a/c when Dad’s at work). Plus Mom’s been in a really bad mood ever since we got back from West Point. I think it’s ’cause you’re gone. But you know me, I just stay out of her way.
Five more weeks till school and counting.
