Battle Dress

by Amy Efaw

  Ping took a spot across from me. “So, what’s the deal? What’d he say?”

  “Nothing,” Cero said. “Just walked on by us and crawled into his tent.”

  “He looked bad, guys,” Gabrielle whispered. “Really bad.” She raked her fingers through her hair, still damp from the shower we’d taken before dinner. “I just can’t believe they sent him back out here. If he really had a dislocated shoulder, that’s . . . unconscionable!”

  Ping shrugged. “That’s the Army for you. Can’t miss any of that ‘good ol’ army training,’ you know.”

  “ ‘Good ol’ army training.’” Gabrielle snorted. “Tomorrow’s our last day out here. We’ve—he’s—already done all the hard stuff. What’s to miss?” She shook her head. “It’s ridiculous.”

  Bonanno cleared his throat. “But Cadet Daily said we’re having introductory map reading all morning tomorrow. Reading a compass and all—sounds pretty important.”

  “And don’t forget about that stud competition goin’ on tomorrow afternoon,” Hickman said. “Sure would be a shame if he missed out on that.” He spat onto the toe of his boot and rubbed it in with his brush. “Muscle heads on parade.”

  Gabrielle sighed. “Oh, Hickman! Are you ragging on the Iron Man Competition again? It’s so obvious that you’re jealous, ’cause you know you’ll never get picked to represent Hardcore.” She looked up from her boots and raised an eyebrow. “An Iron Man you are not.”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone except Hickman.

  Hickman glared at Gabrielle. “Har. Har. You are the funniest.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Gabrielle continued, “but I’m looking forward to it because Cadet Daily said that all the nonparticipants—practically everybody—get to watch the competition from Lake Frederick’s beach in our swimsuits.”

  “Did you say ‘beach,’ Bryen?” Cero laughed. “Now where I come from, there are beaches.”

  Gabrielle stuck her nose in the air. “Hey, I’m not picky. If it’s got sand, water, and sun, Andi and I are there, working on our tans.”

  “The only sun Andi’s gonna get, Gab,” Jason said, “will be while she’s out winning the Iron Man Competition. That is, if the sun can catch her.”

  I bent over my boots, feeling my face grow warm. “I don’t think so. I mean, no one’s even asked me to do it . . . and it’s tomorrow, so—”

  “Sure you’ll do it,” Hickman said, spitting onto the toe of his boot again. “They have to have a female represented on every team. Gotta have that equal representation, you know. They just haven’t gotten around to asking you yet.”

  “Like Andi wouldn’t be asked to do it, anyway,” Jason said. “I know she can kick my butt. What about you, Hickman?”

  “You know, Gab’s right,” Ping said, frowning, his mind obviously on things other than tan lines and Iron Men. “They could’ve cut Bogus some slack. I mean, it serves no purpose making him come back out here. Sleeping on the ground, getting no rest. He’s just going to be miserable!”

  “No kidding!” I shook my head, relieved the subject had changed. “Just remind me never to get injured anywhere near here, okay?”

  Hickman snorted. “If you were the one that got hurt, Davis”—he narrowed his eyes—“you wouldn’t be out here. Because you’re a female. They would have kept you in a nice cushy hospital room instead.”

  Because I’m a female? I looked at him for a second, confused. What did all that have to do with Kit coming back out to the field? “I don’t understand. What difference—”

  “Here we go again.” Gabrielle rolled her eyes at me. “Dr. Hickman’s great female-conspiracy theory.”

  “It’s no conspiracy, it’s reality!” Hickman said, glaring at her.

  Gabrielle rolled her eyes again. “I’m so tired of hearing about this.”

  “Well, Gab,” Jason said, taking an unusual interest in the tongue of his boot. “I think all he’s saying is . . . most of the people on profile are females.”

  Gabrielle turned to glare at him. “So?”

  He was right. And once again I felt myself siding with the guys.

  “So,” Hickman said, “don’t you think it’s kinda strange that there are three girls to every guy on profile, but only one girl to every ten guys at West Point? And what do they go on profile for? Shin splints. Pulled muscles. Stupid period cramps. It’s weak!”

  Bonanno laughed. “Yeah, guys would never go on profile for weak stuff like that.” Then his face got red. “Uh . . . I meant the, uh, shin splints and pulled muscles, not the other . . . thing.”

  Jason shrugged. “Guys are different. It would be like admitting they’re total wimps or something. So they just suck it down and hope for the best. Most guys, at least.”

  “So do most of the girls,” Gabrielle said, pulling one of her boots over her foot.

  Hickman leaned forward. “No they don’t! Most girls have no problem running to the medic about stuff that every guy puts up with. Because they know if they whine loud enough, they’ll get out of the stuff they don’t want to do. And it’s all legit—a doc signs off on some piece of paper, they’re handed a pair of crutches, and they’re golden.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Gabrielle said, yanking at her laces. “I didn’t go to the medic when I hurt my knee the other night. And I probably should have—”

  “So you’re the exception to the rule, Bryen.” Hickman clapped his hands in mock applause. “You’re one cut above Often-slacker. Congratulations.”

  Gabrielle looked at Hickman, then dropped her eyes to her boots and tied her laces, saying nothing.

  I couldn’t believe he’d said that! What a total jerk! I looked at the rest of Third Squad—Jason, Cero, Bonanno, and Ping. Everyone was suddenly engrossed in his boots, except Hickman, who was messing with his watch, a smug expression on his face.

  So why isn’t anybody saying anything? Do they think Hickman’s right? That Gab’s just “one cut above Often-slacker?” I refused to believe that. At times they might have thought—as I had—that she acted too much like a “girl”—whiny, maybe even slightly on the wimpy side—but never like Often-slacker. And it made me mad that they wouldn’t defend her now. That they’d just let Hickman humiliate her like that after she had tried so hard.

  If I hated one thing, it was labels; I knew how easy it was to become what you were called.

  I turned back to Hickman. This was one conflict I couldn’t back away from. Gabrielle was my friend, and she didn’t deserve this. I just couldn’t let myself blend into the squad, where it was safe. I had to say something.

  “That was really low, Hickman,” I heard myself say. I took a deep breath to steady my voice, and then the words came, fast. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Gab’s knee has been killing her all week, but she hasn’t tried to get out of anything. Everything that the rest of us have done, she’s done. And she hasn’t complained about it one time, not even to me.” I glanced at Gabrielle, who was watching me intently.

  “I know how bad her knee hurts because every morning when she crawls out of her sleeping bag and into her BDUs, I see what it looks like. She won’t go to the medic because she’d rather put up with the pain than be called a profile get-over like Often-slacker. But I guess she shouldn’t have bothered, because the bottom line is, no matter what any of us females do around here, people like you, Hickman, are always going to think we’re all just one cut above Often-slacker anyway. If we’re lucky.”

  Everyone’s eyes were off his boots now and on me.

  “Whoa!” Hickman laughed, slapping his hand over his heart in mock surprise. “Davis is fired up!” He looked around at the rest of Third Squad. “Now, really, guys. Did I say that? What she said?”

  They glanced uncomfortably at each other, unwilling to take sides. I knew what they were doing; it was what I’d always done until now—played it safe. I didn’t blame them for not speaking up, but I was glad that I had, and I could tell Gabrielle was, too. She knew me b
etter than anyone here. She knew how hard this had been for me.

  “Just checkin’. ’Cause I didn’t think I said that.” Hickman turned back to me. “Why should I be impressed that Bryen didn’t go running to the medic for a profile? Huh? You just said she’s been doing everything with the rest of us, right? All that proves is she doesn’t need a profile. If she’s got a bone sticking out of her skin or a gaping chest wound or her eyes hanging out of her sockets, fine. That’s a different story. She deserves a profile. And that goes for everybody—it makes no difference if they’re male or female. But tell me, how many of those people who fall out to the rear of formation every day fit into that category? When I look at those people, all I see is get-over, ’cause that’s what most of them are—profile get-overs with a piece of paper excusing them for being weak. They kick back in the shade while we beat ourselves up all day. They chill out in the barracks while we run P.T. They ride in a truck while we take our forty-pound rucks for twelve-mile walks. Those people didn’t even have a Beast. They make me want to puke!”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Hickman,” Ping said, “you’re always going to find people who’ll try to weasel out of things by going on sick call for piddly stuff. But the docs write up the profiles. They issue the crutches. So”—he shrugged—“who’s to blame?”

  “The losers who go on sick call in the first place! If they didn’t have some kind of weakness to begin with—”

  “Shut your stupid mouth!” Cero hissed. He jerked his head toward the next tent over, and we turned to look. There, sitting a few feet away from us, just outside the opening of his tent, was Kit, staring at a wrinkled piece of paper in his hand.

  A cold prickle started between my shoulder blades and rushed up the back of my neck. He heard! I closed my eyes. Kit, please don’t think that we think that . . .

  Then Kit looked up at us slowly. “My weakness excuse,” he said, looking back down at the paper. “With a doc’s Johnny Hancock and all.”

  We all looked away, exchanging miserable glances in an awkward silence that I could almost feel.

  Cero broke the silence. “Well, I don’t think you’re weak, Bogus.”

  We all jumped in then, echoing Cero. “So, are you hungry?” Gabrielle blurted out. “You look hungry. Did they feed you dinner at the hospital?”

  Kit shook his head and started moving toward us, lugging his M-16 by its sling. I scooted closer to Gabrielle to make room for him, and he dropped down beside me.

  “You sure missed a good one here, Bud,” Jason said. “Roast turkey and gravy, mashed sweet potatoes—”

  Gabrielle frowned at Jason.

  Kit reached down into the cargo pocket of his pants. “I’m not real hungry.” He pulled out a bottle of pills and shook it. “Anyway, I’ve got these.”

  Kit’s voice was more drawn out than I had ever heard it.

  “What’d they give you?” Ping asked. “Tylenol III with codeine? Or—”

  “Nope.” Kit rubbed his eyes under his TEDs. “Just Motrin.”

  “Motrin?” Ping asked. “You did have a dislocated shoulder, didn’t you?”

  Kit nodded. “Yep. Sure did.”

  “And they gave you Motrin.” Ping shook his head in disbelief.

  “Yep.” Kit shoved the bottle of pills back into his pocket.

  “So—” Jason said, glancing at the rest of us. “Tell us. What happened?”

  “They put my shoulder back in.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it,” I said quickly.

  Kit closed his eyes. “Nope. I got a feeling that this is a story you’ll all want to hear.” He let his breath out slowly. “Well, I got to the emergency room, and this orthopedic surgeon kinda looked my shoulder over for a couple seconds, and then started yelling, ‘Get that stricken look off your face, New Cadet! It’s just a dislocated shoulder. It’s not like you’ve got a sucking chest wound or something. ’ ”

  I saw Hickman’s gaze slowly sink down to rest on the boot brush in his hand.

  Good. The irony of that statement’s similarity to his own wasn’t lost on him. And he seemed to actually feel bad about it. Or at least he had the decency to act like it.

  “You’re kidding!” Jason said. “A doctor said that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Kit said, his eyes growing more animated at our reactions. “And then he said that I should’ve had the intestinal fortitude to put my shoulder back in myself.”

  “That man,” Gabrielle said, narrowing her eyes, “should not be a doctor.”

  “So, what did you say?” Cero asked, leaning forward.

  Kit pulled at his sling. “The ol’ standby—‘No excuse, sir!’” He gritted his teeth as he shifted around, trying to get comfortable.

  Bonanno grinned. “Good answer, Bogus!”

  Kit shook his head. “Apparently not, ’cause that’s when he really went off. He said, ‘No excuse is right, New Cadet! What are you gonna do when you’re in combat and your shoulder goes out? You gonna wait around for some doctor to help you out? Well, there’s not gonna be a doctor out there beatin’ the bushes with you. You’re gonna have to put it back in by yourself or get a bullet in your brain waiting.’”

  I winced. Poor Kit! If it hadn’t been for me and my stupid idea . . .

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, wishing I could reach over and pat him on the back like my sister did to me when I was hurting. But I couldn’t. Not at West Point. So I just looked at him instead, hoping he’d understand.

  I was surprised to find him watching me. Our eyes met briefly, and then he nodded, a slight smile on his lips, before turning back to the rest of the squad.

  It only took a second, and he hadn’t said a word. But he’d let me know that he didn’t blame me.

  Jason snorted. “Gotta love his bedside manner.”

  “‘What are you gonna do when you’re in combat?’” Gabrielle mimicked. “Sometimes I really hate this place.”

  Kit sighed. “I don’t know . . . maybe he had a point.” He moved one leg, then the other, straight out in front of him. “He showed me how to do it, but it wouldn’t work.” He shrugged, then winced. “So he started pumping a bunch of drugs into me and had a whole passel of nurses hold me down. And then he shut the door. When he did that, I knew it was really going to hurt. And it did.” He looked around at all of us. “And here I am. End of story.”

  Nobody said anything for a while. The group of card players a couple of tents away, I noticed, seemed to have gotten louder.

  “Hey, Bogus,” Hickman finally said, still staring at his boot brush. “I just want to say that, uh, well—” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you heard, you know, earlier, but I hope that you don’t think that, uh, we—” He cleared his throat again. “I mean that I was talkin’ about you or anything. ’Cause I wasn’t, okay? I was just makin’ a general statement about—”

  Kit waved his words away. “Don’t sweat it, Tommy.”

  Then the conversation changed, just like that—to the Patton movie we’d be watching later that night in the field beyond Tent City to favorite pizza restaurants to the rules for playing spades. Hickman took out his cards, and he and Jason played a hand against Gabrielle and Kit. I held Kit’s cards for him, and he told me what to play. And before we knew it, the sky was black, and we were walking down the line of tents to the outskirts of Tent City.

  2115

  It was like being at an old drive-in movie without the cars—the screen was about that big, set up near the wood line at the edge of the field. Or like an outdoor concert without a band—people everywhere, sitting on the grass with an excitement in the air that was almost electric.

  “I don’t believe it,” Cero said. “A movie during Beast. The upperclassmen must be getting soft.”

  “Soft?” Gabrielle shook her head. “Leave it to this place to provide entertainment, and what do they come up with? The Patton movie. I don’t call that soft, Cero. That’s hardcore indoctrination.”

  “Third Squad!”


  The voice behind us made us jump to our feet in a conditioned response and yell, “YES, SIR!” New cadets nearby stopped talking and eyed us nervously.

  Cadet Black walked around to our front, shaking his head. “Glad to see your motivation level’s still high, Third Squad, but this is recreation time. Sit down, sit down.” He waved toward the ground, and as we resumed our positions on the grass, he sat with us. “So tell me.” He smiled. “You guys ready for a good dose of Old Blood and Guts?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “Glad to hear it, Third Squad. General George S. Patton is a big hero of mine, ever since I saw the movie during my Beast. It’s kind of a tradition around here, to get you all fired up about being American soldiers. And George C. Scott, may he rest in peace, did a pretty decent job playing him, so enjoy.”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “Well,” he said, checking his watch, “I do have one order of business to take care of before this thing kicks off.” He looked at me. “Davis, Cadet Daily says you’re a swimmer. That right?”

  “Well, sir, I . . .” I swallowed. “I’m not a swimmer, exactly. I worked as a lifeguard for a couple years, taught little kids how to swim and stuff, but I never swam competitively or anything, sir.”

  Cadet Black nodded. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not gonna sink on me, Davis.” He leaned closer. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m sure you’ve been hearing noises about the Iron Man Competition that’s going on tomorrow afternoon.”

  Jason reached over Kit, sitting next to me, and jabbed my arm.

  I ignored him. “Yes, sir.”

  “Every company needs four individuals to represent them in the competition,” Cadet Black said. “And Hardcore’s entire chain of command—from the squad leaders on up to the Company Commander and First Sergeant—had a little powwow this evening and came up with a list of names. And yours, Davis”—he leaned closer—“was at the top of our list.”

  Me? At the top of their list? I looked down at my hands, not really seeing them. Everyone was talking about me? All the squad leaders, platoon leaders, and platoon sergeants—even First Sergeant Stockel? I looked up at Cadet Black, and all I could do was nod.