Battle Dress by Amy Efaw
I know you have enough junk to worry about, but I thought you should know that last week Dad moved all the stuff out of your room and put it down in the basement. I guess since you’re not living here anymore, he figured he’d use your room for an office. He said when you come home for Christmas, you can sleep on the couch downstairs (unless he’s on it, of course!). Anyway, when they were moving your stuff, Mom found one of your diaries and, of course, read it. Then ripped it up in a million pieces. I guess she didn’t like how she was portrayed in it? So it’s gone. So are all your race trophies. I was able to hide the one you won at Sectionals last year, though, before she got to it.
Your boss from the Y called and asked how you’re doing. That’s about all the excitement from here. Miss you.
Love, Amanda
I laid my head down on my desk. Could this day get any worse? I walked over to the trash can and shredded the letter. Then I walked back to my desk, yanked open the top drawer, grabbed the unopened letter from my mother, returned to the trash can, and shredded it, too.
Gabrielle was watching me. “Do you always destroy your letters?”
I shrugged and started putting on my boots. I didn’t feel like talking right now—to her or anyone.
I could actually feel the silence in the room. Gabrielle finished lacing her boots, then walked over to her wardrobe closet and started rummaging around. “Uh, Andi,” she finally said, “I’m going to fill my canteen with the cold water from the drinking fountain. You know how I hate tepid water. If you want, I’ll fill yours, too.”
I quickly wiped any trace of tears out of the corners of my eyes and looked at her over my shoulder. “Thanks, Gab. My canteen’s on my desk.” I smiled a little. “I still have to write that letter home.” That was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was an order, and Cadet Daily would check. I knew my nose was red; it always got red when I tried not to cry.
But Gabrielle didn’t notice, or pretended not to. She snapped her pistol belt around her waist and got my canteen from my desk. “We only have like”—she checked her watch—“four minutes to be on Daily’s wall, you know.”
“Yeah. I’ll keep the letter short and sweet.” Real short. When Gabrielle had left, I pulled a piece of paper and a matching envelope from my box of West Point-issued stationery, grabbed a pen, and scribbled:
Dear everyone,
I’m still here.
Love, Andi
1705
“Davis, what is your major malfunction?” Once again, Cadet Daily stood inches from my face. I stared at the gold West Point crest on his black plastic helmet, so I wouldn’t have to look in his eyes. “The rest of Third Squad is squared away. Look at me, Davis, when I’m talking to you!”
“Yes, sir!” I stared at his green eyes and chewed on the inside of my lip, trying to think of pleasant things.
“You like being the weak link in the chain, Davis?”
“No, sir,” I croaked.
Third Squad had spent the past hour roasting under the afternoon sun while practicing the Manual of Arms—a series of complicated movements with M-14s, done in perfect unison and snappy precision. Movements tricky enough for right-handed new cadets to master, but almost impossible for someone left-handed, like me. I might as well have been manipulating the M-14 with my feet, as coordinated as I felt.
Cadet Daily stepped away from me and rubbed the back of his neck. The black helmet on his head and the saber hanging from his waist reflected the blazing sun overhead as he paced before us.
“As you know, Third Squad, Drill Competition is next week. As you also know, Third Squad, H Company has won the Cadet Basic Training Drill Streamer Award for the past three years. We intend to continue our tradition of excellence. I will not, I repeat, WILL NOT allow my squad to hold H Company back. H Company has a reputation to protect. Do I make myself clear, Third Squad?”
“YES, SIR!”
“And I will not, read my lips, WILL NOT allow any bonehead to make Third Squad look bad. I have a reputation to protect.” He glared at me. “Do I make myself clear, Davis?”
“Yes, sir!”
He stepped in front of me. “Glad to hear it. Continue to rest in place, Third Squad, while I give Davis here a little of my undivided attention. DAVIS, ATTEN-TION!”
I snapped to attention, holding my rifle flush against my right leg and my left arm at my side.
Cadet Daily moved closer, silently studying my face. I held my breath, the pulse in my temples pounding out the seconds. Finally he dropped his gaze to my feet. “Why isn’t the butt of your weapon in line with the toe of your boot?”
“No excuse, sir!”
“Make the correction. This is basic stuff, Davis!”
“Yes, sir.” I looked down at my feet. It’s only off a half inch! What’s his problem?
“Attention to detail, Davis. Sloppy soldiers get troops killed. RIGHT SHOULDER, ARMS!”
Right Shoulder Arms—from the ground to your shoulder in four steps. I can do this! I took a deep breath. One thousand one. I snapped the M-14 up and across my body with my right hand. At the same time, I crossed my left arm under my right, catching the center of the rifle. One thousand two. I jerked my right hand, uncrossing my arms, to hold the butt of the rifle in the palm in my hand. So far, so good. Now for the hard part—one thousand three. I flipped the M-14 around ninety degrees and winced, anticipating the barrel slamming into my right shoulder. With my left hand, I guided the rifle farther up my shoulder . . .
“CEASE WORK, DAVIS! You will keep all inappropriate facial contortions to yourself. You are a military machine. You are not paid to feel.” His eyes left my face. “AND WHAT IS THAT?” He pointed to my left hand. “The fingers of your left hand should be extended and joined, with your palm facing your body. Like a salute, Davis. Easy stuff. And the first joint of your index finger should be touching the rear of the receiver group.”
The what? What’s he talking about? My throat was aching, throbbing, feeling like it would burst. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry!
“Now look at your weapon, Davis.”
I directed my eyes downward.
“It’s canted. No, not merely canted, Davis. It’s practically lying flat against your chest! The movement’s called Right Shoulder Arms for a reason!”
The brown wood of the handguard and the black steel of the barrel blurred into the camouflage pattern of my shirt. I blinked.
“This is unacceptable, Davis! ORDER, ARMS!”
I shakily brought my weapon back down to my side.
“Do it again, Davis. RIGHT SHOULDER, ARMS!”
Cadet Daily stopped me before I even got the rifle halfway across my body. “ORDER, ARMS! DO IT AGAIN!”
Over and over he shouted those two commands—Right Shoulder Arms and Order Arms. With my every mistake, he grew more incensed, and with his every correction, I became more flustered, until his face was red and my body shook.
“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, DAVIS? I’ve been holding your hand for the past ten minutes, taking you by the numbers through something you should already know by now, and all I have to show for it is a migraine headache and a squad of thirsty boneheads!” He put his hands on his hips and said with disgust, “What do you have to say for yourself, Davis?”
My lips were trembling. I pressed them together and swallowed. “No excuse, sir.”
“That’s right, Davis. There is no excuse for your pitiful performance today.” Then, barely above a whisper he snarled, “Well, I have something to say. I’m profoundly disappointed in you, Davis.”
His words opened wounds that a bayonet never could. I took a deep breath, trying to quell my frustration and shame, rage and pain from exploding all over my face. Tell him about being left-handed! Then he’ll understand this isn’t my fault and take it back!
“Sir, may I make a statement?” I blurted.
“What?” he snapped.
“Sir, I’m left-handed.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY, DAVIS?”
I
Silence. Silence. And more silence. Finally Cadet Daily spoke with terrifying calmness. “Third Squad, atten-tion! Be on my wall ten minutes before dinner formation. This training session is over.” Then he opened his mouth and roared, “POST!”
In unison, Third Squad, with New Cadet Cero leading the way, scurried in single file for the nearest sally port and pounded up the stairs. Gabrielle was in front of me. In my hurry to get to my room, I was afraid I’d plow right over her.
And then I heard his voice, filling the stairwell. “YOU’RE HISTORY, DAVIS!”
He bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time.
“WHAT ABOUT IT, DAVIS? READY TO KISS THIS PLACE GOOD-BYE?”
He shadowed me. Up the flight of stairs, across the landing, then up the next.
What was I thinking? I had opened my big mouth and brought this on myself.
“WANNA PACK YOUR BAGS AND CALL HOME TO YOUR MOMMA?”
I clenched my teeth and willed my eyes to stare dead ahead. Do not look at him! But I could see him out of the corner of my eye—his twisted lips, and his red face, and those stupid, bulging veins.
“YOU CAN TELL HER YOU COULDN’T HACK WEST POINT BECAUSE YOU’RE LEFT-HANDED!”
I had now reached the third floor and my hallway. I checked the room numbers. 311 . . . 310 . . . Gabrielle was moving out, along the wall in front of me as if she were trying to keep Cadet Daily’s rage from engulfing her, too.
“Poor, poor New Cadet Davis,” he whined in a mocking voice. “Being left-handed is just so unfair! And to think—Napoleon was left-handed, too!” I could feel his breath on my face, he was so close. “Make my day, Davis. Let’s see some big, fat, salty tears.”
309, 308 . . . Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
“Too proud to cry, Davis? Is that it? Come on. Prove what everyone already thinks about you—”
307 . . . 306 . . . Faster, Gab!
“—That you’re weak, Davis, and you don’t got what it takes to make it here!”
I felt like I had been shocked with 1,000 volts. It was Cadet Daily’s voice, but my mother’s words. That’s not true! I do have what it takes! I do! You don’t know anything about me! I felt that stubborn, crybaby lump again, throbbing so hard in my throat that my teeth ached.
305! Gabrielle darted across the hall for our room.
Bang! She flung the door open and scurried inside. Seconds later, I crossed the threshold and . . .
BANG! I slammed the door behind me.
Gabrielle gasped. I looked back at her with horror. Did I really do that? I was dead.
BOOM!
The door flew back open, sending our trash can rattling across the floor and leaving a trail of shredded paper behind. Cadet Daily filled the doorway.
“Enter, sir!” Gabrielle squeaked in a voice an octave higher than normal.
“I already have,” he said between clenched teeth, his eyes boring into me. “Miss Bryen,” he hissed, barely above a whisper, “post. I want to talk to Davis. Alone.”
“Yes, sir!” She placed her M-14 in our weapons rack and bolted out the door.
The latrine. That’s where I would go. It’s a great place to hide.
Cadet Daily stared at me. I tried to stare back just as furiously, but my vision was blurred. And my lips were trembling so violently that no amount of lip biting could stop them.
Then his expression softened. “Sit down, Davis,” he said, nodding toward my bed.
That trace of compassion was enough to break the little resolve I had left. I collapsed onto my bed and those big, fat, salty tears that Cadet Daily had hoped for came—fast with gasping sobs. He walked slowly toward me, took my rifle from my hands, and put it in its slot in the weapons rack. Then he pulled my chair over to the side of my bed and sat down, facing me.
“All right, Davis. What’s up?”
“Sir . . . I . . . don’t want . . . to . . . be . . . here,” I said between sobs. There, I’d said it. Now everyone would be happy—Cadet Daily, my mother . . . especially my mother.
“Yes, you do, Davis.”
“No, sir . . . I don’t,” I gasped.
“Homesick?”
I shook my head from side to side. “No . . . sir . . . It’s . . . too much . . . like home.”
Cadet Daily stood up. He walked to my window and looked outside, rubbing the back of his neck.
Calm down. Calm down. You look like a fool.
Still looking out the window, Cadet Daily said, “That’s fine, Davis. Leave. And every day for the rest of your life, you’ll look in the mirror and hate yourself.” He spun around and his anger was back. “Listen to me, Davis. Four years from now, worthless trash like Miss Offenbacher will march into Michie Stadium, collect her diploma from the President of the United States, and become a second lieutenant in the United States Army. And where will you be? One insignificant name among thousands on a list of graduates from some no-name institution? Is that what you want, Davis? Knowing what you could’ve been?”
“But . . . sir . . . I c-can’t do . . . anything . . . right here.” I let out a huge, involuntary sob. “I’m the weak . . . link in . . . the chain.”
He turned away from me and faced the window again to let me cry.
“I—I’m not . . . crying because . . . I’m sad or . . . anything . . . sir. I . . . j-just hate . . . it when . . . I can’t do . . . something . . . right.”
“Don’t worry about it, Davis. No one leaves this place without crying at least once.”
I sniffed. “You said . . . that I . . . don’t have . . . w-what . . . it takes.... And . . . everybody . . . thinks so.”
“I don’t think that, Davis,” Cadet Daily said, now leaning against the window ledge.
“But . . . you s-said . . . that you were . . . disappointed in me.”
“I was!” He stomped away from the window and sat back down in the chair. “You were sloppy and unmotivated. That’s not typical Davis behavior. Yeah, I was disappointed in you.” He pulled off his white gloves and shoved them into his black plastic helmet. “Look, Davis. I think you have what it takes. I know you’re head and shoulders above most of your knucklehead classmates in H Company. I wouldn’t waste my time with you if I didn’t think so. I’d dog your butt until you broke, then FedEx the pieces to your front door. But you, Miss Andrea Davis from Lake Zurich, Illinois, you have to believe that you have what it takes.”
I wiped my tears on the white gloves that I clutched in my hands. Nobody had ever told me I had anything before. I was always stupid and ugly and ungrateful. I sniffed again and tugged at the tag on the inside of my glove. Size 4.
“You have the raw materials—brains, talent, drive. But that’s not enough to make it through this place. A thousand kids walked through Thayer Gate four weeks ago, with the same stuff that you have. But guess what? Not all of them are here today! And you know why? Because this place is hard, Davis. It takes more than a high SAT score and a varsity letter. It takes self-discipline. Not the rules that West Point puts on you, but the rules you put on yourself. That’s what character is all about. Slamming doors when you’re mad isn’t self-discipline. Making excuses for poor performance, even when they’re true, isn’t self-discipline. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t self-discipline.”
“Yes, sir.” I started to feel a little better. This place, I realized, wasn’t anything like home. Here, all the name calling and yelling had a purpose, a purpose aimed to give us character, not to hurt us.
“I can’t imagine you being a quitter, Davis. But if that’s what you want, I can’t make you stay. But I can make you think about it.” He checked his watch and stood up, his helmet under his arm. “All right. ’Nuff said. Police up your roommate. You’ve got twenty minutes to be on my wall in White Over Gray.” Then he smiled, and it wasn’t a nasty smile. “Drive on, Hardcore.”
“That’s right, Davis,” I heard Cadet Daily answer from somewhere in the hallway. “Never surrender.”
CHAPTER 10
MONDAY, 2 AUGUST 0510
Here we go again.
Same old stuff again.
Walkin’ down the avenue,
In a column, two by two.
One more week and we’ll be through.
I’ll be glad and so will you.
—U.S. ARMY MARCHING CADENCE
THE SKY WAS BLACK, the air foggy and damp, and the morning much too early for the boom from the Reveille cannon. H Company was silent, except for the muffled clink of equipment as we trudged through West Point’s sleeping streets, up the hill past the Cadet Chapel, behind Michie Stadium, and into the woods. Marching in columns, two by two, like the long animal procession to Noah’s Ark, we resembled odd, prehistoric creatures ourselves. Wearing Kevlar helmets and web gear, and slightly hunched from the weight of our rucks, we gripped our M-16s and moved toward our destination, Lake Frederick. In about four hours we’d be twelve miles from the only home we’d known since the beginning of Beast, five weeks ago.
I was thinking of nothing in particular as I marched, but I had a lot on my mind. I thought about what Cadet Daily had told us yesterday. “I’ve got you for one more week, Third Squad,” he had said. “After that, you’re on your own.”
On your own. It was a scary thought. I couldn’t imagine life at West Point without Third Squad. I’d gotten used to the routine, to my squadmates’ and Cadet Daily’s constant presence. I didn’t feel ready, not yet.
I thought about what I’d feel like a week from now, marching back from Lake Frederick, with Beast finally behind me. I wouldn’t be a new cadet anymore; I’d be a plebe. An accepted member of the United States Corps of Cadets. All the cadets from the upper three classes would be back from summer training then and, as Cadet Daily had put it, would be “ready and waiting to steal your lunch money.”