by Amy Efaw
“Understand,” he went on, “this is totally voluntary.” He held up his hand. “It’s highly encouraged, mind you, but if you really don’t want to do it, we won’t hold it against you.” His lips twitched. “Too much.” He paused, watching me. “So what will it be, Davis—Go or No-Go?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Go, sir!” My name was at the top of their list!
He grinned and slapped me across the back. “Didn’t doubt it for a second.”
I stopped myself from smiling up at him. I had to act cool. Not too excited. As if I’d expected it all along.
“Our Athletic Officer, Cadet Barrington, will be meeting with you sometime tomorrow morning to give you the details, but basically, what you’ll be doing is swimming out and back to this raft that’ll be in the middle of Lake Frederick. Then, as soon as you hit the beach, you’ve got to knock out fifty push-ups—”
Fifty push-ups? I cringed inside. Great. I’ve never done fifty push-ups at one time in my life!
“—and fifty sit-ups as fast as you can, and finish up by running a couple of miles around the lake. Piece of cake.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’ll be counting your push-ups and sit-ups, okay? But we’ll talk about all that tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cadet Black stretched to his feet, and I stood with him. “We’re expecting big things out of Hardcore, Davis. We’ve got an awesome team. We’ve got this guy from Fourth Platoon, Ziegler—he’s a nationally ranked swimmer—and some water polo player from Second Platoon named Fritz. And then there’s Valente from First Platoon. You probably know him, Davis—he’s a recruited track guy.”
I shook my head. “No, sir.”
“Well, supposedly he can run the mile in 3:58 or something. But we”—and I thought I saw him wink at me then—“haven’t been able to try him out in the Black Group because he’s been on a no-running profile most of the summer.” He shrugged. “Looks like he’s got some recurring heel injury, and your coach doesn’t want to take any chances with it. Tomorrow will be the first time he’s run all summer.”
I nodded. A 3:58 miler? A nationally ranked swimmer? Suddenly I didn’t feel so excited anymore. How could I be at the top of their list with those guys on it, too?
“Oh, yeah!” He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We are going to kick some serious butt, Davis!” He laughed, shaking his head. “The rules say that each company has to have at least one female on its team—”
At least one female? I felt my heart collapse in on itself and sink into my stomach.
“—and well, in our case, Davis, that was clearly a no-brainer. For obvious reasons.” He slapped me across my back again. “Get some decent sleep tonight, Davis. After the movie, of course. We’ll need you nice and rested up for tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.
“Have a good one, Third Squad!” he said. And he was gone.
I sank back into the grass, feeling numb. And stupid. At the top of their list. Yeah, top of their female list, he meant. I should’ve known—Hickman was right. Why . . . how could I have expected anything else?
Gabrielle nudged me. “Hey, Andi, what’s wrong? Bummed you won’t be lounging under the sun with me tomorrow?”
“No, Gab.” I sighed. I didn’t have the heart—or energy—to go into it now. “Just tired, I guess.”
“No, that’s not it,” Kit said. “It’s what Cadet Black said about needing at least one female on the Iron Man team. You think that’s why you got asked to do it, don’t you, Andi?”
I looked at him, not being able to read clearly what his face said in the dark. Was I that transparent? I always thought I’d been so good at hiding things at home.
“No way,” Gabrielle said, shaking her head. “Cadet Black said picking Andi was a no-brainer.” She leaned closer and peered into my face. “That is what’s bothering you! I don’t believe it.” She crossed her arms and huffed. “Andi, sometimes you are so . . . weird! So what if they needed a female on the team? What’s the big deal? I mean, what are you trying to prove, anyway? That you’re a guy or something? Well, guess what, Hon?” She reached behind me and snapped my bra. “You’re not!”
I glared at her as I adjusted my bra, then looked down at my hands. “Look, guys. It’s not that big a deal, okay? It’s just that . . . well, it would’ve been nice to be asked just because . . . I can do it, you know? Like the three other guys were asked ’cause they can do it? Everyone’s just going to think that the only reason I’m out there is because I’m a female, not because anybody seriously believes I can win the thing.”
“If that’s what you think, Andi, then you’re just going to have to prove them wrong,” Kit said, “and smoke everyone. You know, beat ’em at their own game.”
Beat ’em at their own game? I hadn’t thought of it like that before. But . . . maybe I could.
“You’ve only been doing it all summer,” Gabrielle said.
Then I noticed the new cadets around me were turning their attention to the screen at the edge of the field. The image of an American flag filled the entire screen, almost glowing in the night. A buzz of conversation came over the sound system, and then a commanding voice boomed over the buzz, “ATTEN-HUT!” And all was quiet, over the sound system and in the field in front of the screen, except for the muffled click of footsteps, moving closer. A man in uniform rose up from the bottom of the screen as if he were climbing a flight of stairs into it. First the helmet appeared, black with four silver stars emblazoned across its front. Then the face, stern and unsmiling, looked at us out of a pair of narrowed eyes. Then the chest, covered with medals and sashes and braids, and gleaming black riding boots completed the picture. A trumpet fanfare announced his presence—a ramrod-straight, crisp, military figure superimposed over the flag.
“Be seated.” The figure on the screen paused for the sound of shifting chairs to cease. “Now, I want you to remember,” he continued in a gravelly voice, “that all this stuff you’ve heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of horse dung!” The man slowly paced back and forth as he spoke, punctuating his words with a riding crop he held in his hand but never taking his eyes off us. “Americans traditionally love to fight. All real Americans love the sting of battle.”
“HU-AH!” cried the new cadets around me. I glanced at Kit beside me. He was clutching his hurt shoulder, but he was leaning forward, his eyes locked on the screen.
He’s really getting into this! For some reason Kit’s intensity surprised me. I’d just been grateful to have something—anything—take my mind off the Iron Man Competition. But now I turned back to the screen, intrigued.
“When you were kids,” the soldier went on, “you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, big league ball players, the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser! Americans play to win all the time! I wouldn’t give a hoot in Hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war. Because the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans.”
Kit leaned toward me, his eyes still on the screen. “That’s why,” he whispered, “you got picked for the Iron Man Competition, Andi. Not because they needed a female, and not because you were the best they could get. But because you’re that kind of person.” He nodded at the screen. “You’re a winner. And everybody knows it.”
“Shhh!” Gabrielle hissed at us. “Can’t you see I’m trying to watch a movie here?”
SUNDAY, 8 AUGUST 1430
The sun was bright and hot overhead, causing little waves of heat to shimmer over the surface of the lake. The air was soaked with heat, but more suffocating was watching the tense faces of my competitors as they prepared themselves for the race, bouncing and stretching on the strip of silty, rocky sand that bordered the water.
I stripped off my Gym Alpha as the King of Beast had instructed over the bullhorn, then began to warm up, wearing
only my swimsuit. I stretched my quads and hamstrings, and I ran in place, all the while sneaking glances at my competition, thirty-six of us in all. Most of them were guys; I had expected that. I counted only nine females, including me—one from every company, and no more. One of them I recognized—the girl with the Asics I had seen at the Field House during track tryouts earlier in the summer. We hadn’t run in the same group that day, but I remembered watching her lope across the finish, easily nailing her mile time at 5:30 on the dot.
I shook out my arms and faced the water, trying to choke down my mounting nervousness. Doesn’t mean she can swim. Most runners sink like rocks when they hit water. Plus she’s not a guy. The guys were the ones I was really concerned about. Kit had clarified my mission last night. Beat ’em at their own game, he had said. And that was exactly what I’d set out to do—prove that I wasn’t out here just because I was a girl. I couldn’t worry about another girl beating me, too. I’d go crazy if I did.
I watched two upperclassmen swim out to the raft in the middle of the lake. The King of Beast had said they’d be there, watching us. “You may use any stroke or combination of strokes to get there,” he had said during his prerace briefing, “but you must touch the raft before returning to the shore. Anybody who fails to do so will be disqualified.”
Most of the guys around me looked like swimmers—stocky, big upper bodies, strong legs. It only made sense; they also had the kind of arms that could crank out push-ups forever. But it doesn’t mean they can run.
I played my strategy over in my mind. I would get a decent start during the swim, struggle through the push-ups somehow, then make up time during the sit-ups and the run. Especially the run.
“All new cadets participating in the Iron Man Competition, fall in at the start line at this time!”
Cadet Black scooped up my running shoes and Gym Alpha from the sand at my feet. “I’ll be looking for you when you exit the water, Davis,” he said. “Go get ’em!” And he was gone before I could say, “Yes, sir.”
In a few seconds it’ll be all over. Once it started, I knew my nervousness would leave me. My body would take over then, and whatever would happen would happen. I moved with the others to find a spot in the front rank between the two orange cones that marked the starting line.
I stared out at the water. I’ll swim mostly crawl. It’s fastest. I chewed on the inside of my lip. I don’t know . . . the water looks pretty murky. And there’s going to be lots of people, too. Lots of splashing, lots of waves. I let my breath out slowly. Maybe switch off between breast stroke and crawl . . . probably more breast than crawl since I’ll need to see where I’m going. Then it struck me. See where I’m going! A panicky feeling flared up in my gut. I’ve got contacts in! If I lose them in the water . . .
Without contacts I couldn’t see past the tip of my nose. I’d never be able to find my way out of the water, let alone make the run. And if I don’t make the run . . .
I frantically scanned the bystanders for Cadet Black. Maybe he’s got goggles! But I knew the thought was idiotic. Why in the world would he have goggles? And even if he did, who says they’d let me wear them? Goggles weren’t part of the prescribed uniform, and exceptions never happened during Beast.
Come on. Just calm down. You used to lifeguard all the time with contacts in. Just deal with this. I turned back to the water, drumming my fingers on the sides of my legs. I’ll just have to swim lifesaving strokes, with my head out of the water most of the time. It’s almost as fast. I knew the thought wasn’t very convincing, but it was all I had.
The King of Beast was standing off to the side of us now. “Remember what MacArthur said, New Cadets: ‘Upon the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that upon other fields, on other days, will bear the fruits of victory.’”
MacArthur’s Opinion of Athletics. I had memorized it out of Bugle Notes two weeks ago.
“Only one of you can be the victor, so have fun.” And the buzzer on the bullhorn went off.
Only one can be the victor. I sprinted down the sand and into the lake, already churning from the others around me. I plunged forward, attacking the water with strong thrusts of my arms, my head above the waves with eyes fixed on the raft before me. The water was warm, like sweat.
Bodies were pulling ahead of me. I knew I couldn’t keep the pace I had set much longer; doing this modified crawl stroke was anaerobic—my lungs felt like they were about to explode. I changed to breast stroke until I recovered my breath, then switched back, alternating between the two. Come on! Come on! Come on! Push it a little harder!
After I had slapped the raft with the palm of my hand and was on my way back, I realized that swimming the modified strokes was slowing me down. More people were passing me, it seemed, than I was passing. So I squeezed my eyes shut and stuck my head under the water, counting out six strokes of crawl before coming up for air. Then I’d do three strokes of modified breast to get me heading in the right direction, and dunk my head again, counting out six more strokes. At last my fingertips touched bottom, and I was stumbling out of the water and up onto the sand, my lungs clamoring for air. Blood pounded in my ears.
“Davis! Davis!”
Cadet Black was running toward me, my shoes in one hand and the rest of my clothes in his other. “Get into the Leaning Rest, now! You’re the third female out. Let’s go!”
Third female? That’s it? I collapsed into the Leaning Rest position, heaving lungs full of air at the ground. “What . . . about . . . overall? Sir?”
“I don’t know . . . upper third, maybe? Come on, Davis! Knock ’em out! Every second counts!”
Upper third. I clenched my teeth and started pumping out push-ups. I’ve got to do better than that!
“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .” Cadet Black counted.
My arms and legs were trembling from muscle fatigue. I pushed my rear end upward, keeping my arms fully extended, and rested for a few seconds. Then I dug my hands deeper into the sand and hit it again.
“Ten . . . eleven . . . twelve . . . you’ve gotta break the plane, Davis . . . fourteen . . .”
I felt like I had a hundred-pound ruck on my back, pushing me into the ground. “Can I go . . . down . . . on my knees . . . for a second?” I gasped. I was at twenty-five, halfway there.
“Yeah, sure,” Cadet Black said. “It’s allowed.” But he sounded disappointed.
I sank down on my knees and shook out my arms. My hair, matted and sandy, had fallen across my face. Sand coated my arms up to the elbows. I looked around, pushing my hair aside. Some of the guys were already on the sit-ups. I forced myself back into the Leaning Rest and squeezed out more push-ups, two and three at a time. Muscles I never knew I had burned.
“You’re at forty, Davis. You’re lookin’ good. Don’t stop. Just ten to go. One female’s already on the sit-ups. You’ve gotta hustle now.”
Come . . . on now! After . . . it’s all over . . . you won’t . . . even . . . remember . . . the pain!
Somehow I cranked out the rest, one by miserable one. Then I flipped over on my back for the sit-ups.
Cadet Black grabbed my feet to anchor them. “All right, Davis. Hit it!”
Soon my ears were filled with my rhythmic breathing. Now’s the time to start making your move. I shut my eyes and concentrated on hammering them out. Push it! Push it!
“Good to go!” Cadet Black said. “Now you’re cooking, Davis. Just like a machine. Forty-nine . . . fifty! Now, get those shoes on. Every second counts!” He thrust my socks into my hands.
I looked around me, panting, as I crammed my sand-covered feet into my socks. One by one, guys were staggering out of the sand and heading for the trail around the lake, but the Asics girl was nowhere in sight. Thank God! I licked my lips and crunched sand between my teeth.
Cadet Black shoved one of my shoes on my foot while I tied the other shoe’s laces. My hands shook.
“One female’s just started the run, Davis!” he yelled
as I scrambled to my feet. “Go get her!”
And then I was gone, chasing down the bodies in front of me. Three events down, one to go. This last one’s got to count.
The trail consisted of dirt with a few rocks and tree roots to trip over, and it was narrow, barely wide enough for two running abreast. But as my feet pounded over it, I felt good. It reminded me of the trails I had run in cross country races. I started to relax and got into a rhythm. The King of Beast had said that the trail around the lake was just under three miles, so I adjusted my pace. Even though my body was tired, I felt energized. I was running! It had been over a week since I’d run.
I easily caught the only girl ahead of me and said, “Good job! Keep it up!” as I passed her. She was short and had arms that would’ve been big for a guy’s. A swimmer.
Then I got to work, picking off the guys in front of me, one by one. Just keep it controlled. Don’t rush it.
Every so often new cadets and upperclassmen standing in twos or threes lined the trail, cheering us on.
“Way to go!”
“Keep it up!”
“You’re the number one female, Miss!”
The lake was always on my left, with an occasional cluster of trees blocking my view of it. I knew I’d be able to tell that I’d hit the halfway point when I saw the beach area, rows of bodies in black swimsuits sprawled across white towels over the sun-fried grass. Even during free time new cadets congregated in uniform rows. I guess that’s what happens after six weeks of Beast.
The sun was really beating down now, causing streaks of grimy sweat to run into my eyes and down my arms. At the same time, the sun had dried my swimsuit, which, I noticed with irritation, started to ride up on my rear. But the biggest discomfort I had to deal with was my chest. The Lycra of my swimsuit was just not matching the performance of a Jogbra.
