Authors: Lyn Cote
“I didn’t mean to tell her,” Leigh whispered. “And not like that.”
“I know.”
“How will I ever face her again? Will she ever forgive me?”
“That’s up to her. Have you ever forgiven yourself?”
“I can’t. I tried. When you came into my life, I tried to accept that God had forgiven me, but it just didn’t feel real. And
it doesn’t change anything.”
“Why do you think you have to feel something to be forgiven? Why do you think you must be perfect? No one, no human is perfect.”
“I don’t want to be perfect. I just wish there was some way to blot it out.”
“Leigh, you can never blot out what happened. This conflict with Carly has got to stop. You’ve got to let go of the past.
You’ve got to make peace with yourself—and your daughter. If you had told her
all
the truth seven years ago, as you told me you were going to, all this conflict might not have happened. How long are you
willing to let this grind on?”
Leigh turned in his arms to face him—nose to nose, lips to lips. “Let’s not talk anymore. Make love to me.” And then she kissed
him, obviously trying to distract him from the truth.
Bowing to this, Nate gathered her closer against him and began a long, thorough kiss. He felt as if he was wooing his wife
all over again. Maybe they had moved too fast seven years ago and married too quickly. Maybe they should have settled more
issues before they began their life together. But he knew he’d do the same thing again. He’d never felt for another what he
felt for this woman. “I love you, Leigh,” he murmured against her soft lips. “I always will—no matter what.”
“I know you do. I just don’t know why.”
July 23, 1990
In her dress uniform, Carly got off the van that had picked her and the other privates up in the small-town bus station. The
three of them, headed for the same post, would begin training in their MOS, military occupational specialty. As she gazed
out at her new post, Carly felt her stomach doing jumping jacks. Within a short time, she and one of the other privates had
been dropped off at the huge warehouse-type garage where she’d been told to report to her direct supervisor, a Sergeant Haskell.
Carly walked inside and looked around the large metal building filled with vehicles—some on hoists, some on jacks. The aromas
of motor oil and gasoline filled the air.
She and the other private, Bowie Jenkin, a tall blond guy with a heavy Southern accent, paused inside and looked around for
someone to report to. “Do ya think the sergeant has an office here?” Bowie asked.
Carly shrugged.
A few soldiers who were working on a camouflage-painted truck had noticed them. One of them shouted, “Hey, Sergeant, we got
a couple of visitors!”
Within minutes, a short man with white-blond hair and a sunburned face marched out.
Carly and Bowie began walking toward him. They handed the man their papers and waited for him to peruse them.
Haskell glanced up at Carly. “What are you doing here?” he growled.
“I’m reporting for duty, just as my orders say,” Carly replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Carlyle Sinclair Gallagher.”
“Is this a joke?” he snapped.
Carly looked at him, dumbfounded. “I beg your pardon.”
“Your name really is Carlyle Sinclair Gallagher?” he asked with dripping disbelief.
“Yes, I’m Carly Gallagher.”
He swore.
She blinked. What could she have done wrong already? And what didn’t he like about her name, of all things?
I
don’t want any women in my platoon. What were they thinking of? Women don’t know diddly-squat about engines.”
Carly stared at her new sergeant’s red face. The words he’d just said were unbelievable. Could he get away with saying sexist
stuff like that? The temptation to snap back swept through her, but she repressed it. What would Grandma Chloe or Aunt Kitty
say? She decided a polite but succinct reply would do best. Breaking the vibrating silence that followed his tirade, she said
calmly, now the center of attention, “Well, the army thinks I can. And I’m willing to try.”
The man exuded waves of hostility that Carly felt break over her. But her reply had left him without anything to say. If he
replied with anything negative, he would be speaking against the army, not her. He continued to glare at her but held his
tongue.
Reprieve trickled through her, cool and welcome. Carly tried not to take a deep breath. She didn’t want him to sense any sign
of relief or weakness from her. The staring contest continued. Carly kept her face impassive and respectful, but unyielding.
“Head over to your barracks!” he barked. “Women’s quarters are down two blocks, turn left, and then four more. You’ll report
to class tomorrow morning after PT—that’s physical training.” Then he smirked and turned away.
“What about me?” Bowie asked.
“Hang around here and the guys will fill you in.”
Carly turned and started for the wide open doorway. She was left to ponder why he’d smirked at her. In short order, she found
the entrance hall to the women’s quarters: a single two-story barracks. She put down her duffel and waited. Within a few minutes,
a female private first class, a young African-American woman with dark hair and eyes and wearing camouflage BDUs, showed up.
“You the new soldier?”
“Yes, Gallagher, Carlyle—Carly.”
“I’m Greene, Marla. Come with me. I’ll show you your room.”
“Room?”
Marla grinned at her. “Yeah, not too many women score high on mechanical ability. That means there aren’t too many of us here,
so we all have private rooms. But there are only two bathrooms on each floor, so it’s not exactly the Hilton.”
Marla’s friendly manner did a lot to settle Carly’s nerves. But her mind still buzzed with her new sergeant’s un-welcome welcome.
Up the flight of concrete steps to the second floor, Marla ushered her into a simple room painted stark white with a bed,
a desk with chair, and a closet. It reminded Carly of the many college dorm rooms she’d seen on campus tours with her mother
the year before. But a room all to herself—
heavenly. Carly heaved her duffel onto the single bed against the wall and beige vinyl bolster. “Looks like the Hilton to
me.”
Marla sat down in the chair. “You got Haskell for your sergeant.”
The young woman’s confiding and sympathetic tone let Carly know that she wouldn’t stand on rank with her. Carly still didn’t
want to blurt out what she was thinking. After all, Aunt Kitty had always taught her not to say anything about someone unless
it was something she wanted the person discussed to hear. Carly opened her window, letting in the warm breeze and the sound
of distant voices. She dropped onto the bed, suddenly feeling very tired.
“He’s a tough old bird,” Marla confided, glancing at the closed door. “He sees no place in the army for women except as nurses
or as secretaries to generals.”
Carly nodded, remembering what Bette had told her about her war work as one of the few women on Bermuda. And Haskell had white
hair. Was he close to her grandmother in age? “Still fighting World War II?”
“More like Vietnam. Don’t let the white hair fool you.”
“Any advice?”
“No, a warning. So far he’s managed to get rid of every woman assigned to him.”
Carly’s stomach clenched. “How?”
Marla shrugged. “I think he made life so miserable for them that they all finally gave up and asked for reassignment.” Marla
rose. “Get settled in here and change into your BDUs, then come down to room 105. I’ll walk you around the base, and then
we’ll head to mess.”
Carly nodded. “Thanks.”
The door closed behind Marla. Carly rose and unzipped her duffel and began unpacking her BDUs, underwear, and toiletries.
As she put things away, her mind played back the scene in the garage. She went over and over what Haskell had said to her.
Could she have handled it any better? After several minutes of thought, she decided that she’d probably done the best she
could.
Still, Marla’s saying that no woman lasted long with Haskell began tolling in her mind like a mocking death knell. She’d been
told that she would spend two years there learning to maintain and drive all types of military vehicles, and then she would
be transferred to a base where she’d put her training into use. What would happen to her if she didn’t last there? If she
couldn’t make the grade, would it be a mark against her—not Haskell?
July 24, 1990
The next morning, at the first glimmer of a hot, muggy dawn, Carly rose and dressed in her lightweight gray knit top and shorts.
Reporting for physical training at six o’clock sharp, she found out what Haskell’s parting smirk the day before had meant.
Evidently, he’d decided to start his campaign against her during daily physical training. She didn’t think his plan would
work. Though everyone knew that most women couldn’t do as many push-ups, say, in a single session as most men, Carly knew
that she was able to do more than the average female.
So Haskell poured on the push-ups in vain. Carly kept her face impassive, but she was still doing measured, rhythmic push-ups
after two of her fellow soldiers, both males, had dropped facedown into the dirt. A visibly disgruntled Haskell ordered them
to run laps around their physical training area.
Carly settled into the easy lope she’d learned in high-school track, which she could keep up for miles. She let the men pass
her, sensing that Haskell would go for distance over speed. Both men and women could achieve speed, but Haskell probably hoped
to wear her out with laps. Pretty soon, it was very obvious that the other soldiers were unhappy about the added distance
they were being forced to run. They kept glancing at her and over at Haskell and frowning. A few grumbled to each other as
they jogged, sweat starting to pour down their faces, their shirts sticking to their backs.
Carly felt perspiration springing out all over her and she swiped her forehead with the back of her forearm. Two more laps
and the other soldiers were glaring not at her, but at Haskell. Still, she loped around the training area. She felt her muscles
heating but she knew she could run much farther before they began to burn. The breeze created by running evaporated her perspiration,
cooling her body pleasantly. Still, she made sure she kept her expression neutral and her gaze away from anyone’s eye.
As three of his men slowed and fell to the rear of the platoon, Haskell brusquely called the run to a halt and released them
for showers and breakfast. Carly didn’t even break stride. She jogged away toward her barracks.
Bowie, the other new private, caught up and ran alongside her. “Hey, you can really run.” He sounded impressed.
She gave him a grin. “I lettered in track in high school. I used to run marathons.” Then she sped up. She had farther to go
to her shower and didn’t want to be late.
Bowie called after her, “See you at breakfast.”
She waved in response. In replying to Bowie’s admiring comment, she’d purposefully raised her voice just enough so that Haskell
could hear her if he were listening. It might do him or at least her fellow soldiers some good, cut them a break. Personally,
she loved a good early morning run.
After breakfast, she and Bowie, along with ten other privates, took seats behind well-worn desks in a classroom on base where
an instructor began to teach them the rudimentary anatomy of a spontaneous combustion engine and a guide to the different
types of military vehicles. Carly was temporarily appalled by the number of them and the fact that she’d be expected to know
the engine parts of each one and how to maintain said parts for all of them.
She recalled her mother’s scathing remark about if she’d only wanted to be an auto mechanic, she could have just gone to mechanics’
school. It was immediately clear to Carly that at the end of her training, she’d be much more than an auto mechanic. She felt
like sending her mother a copy of her syllabus. But it would be a waste of time.
Carly liked the theory instructor right off for his businesslike manner and obviously excellent grasp of how to convey his
subject and even make it interesting. She decided to be sure she ranked at the top of these classes to offset whatever Haskell
did. Then she got caught up in the instructor’s fascinating lecture on the history of military vehicles.
After lunch the next day, she and Bowie headed over to the huge garage. Carly had no expectations of the hot, breezeless afternoon
going well, not after she’d foiled Haskell’s efforts for the past two days to exhaust and/or humiliate her in PT.
He’ll have something unpleasant planned for me today
.
Unfortunately, Haskell didn’t disappoint her. He was waiting for the privates just inside the wide doorway. “You two better
figure out that being on time in the military means being early. I don’t want you two making any side trips. Your schedule
for the next eight weeks will be physical training”—he gave Carly a disgusted look—“breakfast, classes, lunch, and then the
rest of the day here in the garage. Today, you two are going to watch what’s going on. And you’d better be on your toes. At
any time I’ll expect you to be able to tell me what anyone is working on and how the task should be done.”
Bowie openly gaped at the sergeant. Haskell turned his gaze to Carly as if waiting for her to speak.
Carly gave nothing away. Being forced to say, “I don’t know” wouldn’t bother her. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.
She refused to let Haskell intimidate her. On the other hand, the sheer, overwhelming size of the vehicles she was supposed
to become expert at was beyond anything she’d ever been close to. They made civilian vehicles look like toys.
At Haskell’s gesture, Bowie and she edged close to two privates, one white and one black, in BDUs smudged with black grease.
A nearby transistor radio softly played “La Bamba.” Haskell hovered behind Carly as if waiting for a chance to hit her with
a question. She tried to figure out what the two soldiers were doing. But she’d never even looked under a hood before. Haskell
finally walked away.