Authors: Lyn Cote
“What in the heck did you do that for?” her DI yelled into her ear.
Carly couldn’t even look at her. The world was still kind of undulating beneath her. And the sour taste in her mouth threatened
to push her into the dry heaves.
“Someone spit onto her plate, and she ate it anyway.”
Carly opened her eyes and saw that the blond recruit with a bashful face had spoken.
“What did you say, recruit?” The DI switched her wrath to “Dolly.”
“Someone spit onto her plate, and she ate it anyway,” the blonde repeated.
“You expect me to believe that?” the DI demanded.
The blonde recruit shrugged.
The DI turned back to Carly. “Did someone spit onto your plate?”
Carly didn’t know whether to say yes or no. Again, all the rules of conduct had changed. In the reception hall, she’d been
punished when Alex-somebody had tried to trip her. What would the sergeant do to her about this?
“I asked you a question, you piece of garbage!” the DI yelled an inch from Carly’s face.
Carly nodded but refused to look up at her. Caught between conflicting impulses, she stared at the ground away from the reeking
contents of her stomach.
“Miss Stick-My-Nose-into-Other-People’s-Business, drop and give me twenty!” the DI ordered.
Carly watched in shock as the sergeant punished the blonde for telling the truth. What would the DI have done if Carly had
pointed an accusing finger at Alex-somebody?
The DI dragged Carly up by her collar. “Get into formation! In the army, you may have to do something worse than eat someone
else’s spit! Don’t you dare faint on me or I’ll drop the whole platoon!”
Feeling drained and desperate, Carly walked as if moving through Jell-O to her place in formation. She reached deep down inside
herself and dragged up strength and will. Over and over, she silently chanted,
You can do this. You will not faint
.
The blonde finished her push-ups and was ordered back into formation.
The DI glared at all of them. “Now whoever spit into 89236108’s food, step forward.”
Silence. No one moved. Carly found she could barely breathe. Waves of nausea still buffeted her.
“I said, whoever spit into 89236108’s food, step forward!”
Again, no one moved. Carly’s heart pounded in her ears and a cold sweat covered her. She stiffened her quaking knees.
“The army is all about the team, all about becoming a unit. Now, for the last time, whoever spit into 89236108’s food,
step forward!
”
No one moved. Carly stared straight da>, willing herself deeper into self-control.
“All right, then,” the DI said in a voice pregnant with malice. “We were going to take just a short eight-mile hike this morning,
but I think this refusal to speak up means that you’re all ready for a ten-mile. About-face!”
Carly wondered if she would last for a ten-mile hike. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. And as problems went, the main
one before her was not merely how to survive today; she had an unexpected enemy. Why was this stranger, Alex-somebody, targeting
her? What did Alex-somebody think she could gain? What was she trying to prove?
I
n the dark and quiet night, a thread of sweat trickled down Carly’s back as she struggled to keep her eyes open.
Exhausted
didn’t even come close to describing how she felt. And she wasn’t alone. Nearly three weeks of basic had pretty much mowed
down all of the recruits. That night they’d been awakened after about an hour’s exhausted slumber to do perimeter duty. They’d
been ordered to don full combat gear within ten minutes—all to guard baked dirt and rocks. Or that’s what it seemed to Carly.
After an hour’s duty, they’d been marched back to their barracks, where they undressed and climbed back into their beds, ready
to sleep the night through.
But within an hour, they’d been yelled awake for a second hour of perimeter duty. Carly trembled with fatigue. The 8.8-pound
M-16 she clutched had never felt heavier. The breezeless, muggy night pressed close and wrapped around her like warm, wet
papier-mâché. How long would this torment last?
Carly felt herself sway as her knees tried to fall asleep on their own. A bead of sweat slid down her nose and dripped to
the ground. She made no move to wipe it away.
Not just her platoon, her whole company had been called out for this ridiculous, mind-numbing torture. In the ranks across
from her, Carly could just see the top of Lorelle’s helmet under a yard light. She tried to make herself recall everything
she could about Lorelle’s family—a mental exercise she hoped would keep her awake. It failed.
Someone nearby cleared her throat. Carly knew everyone in her barracks so well that she easily recognized the sound. It was
Alex Reseda—the girl who hated her for no discernible reason. Alex’s pursuit of her and vendetta had continued. With all the
trouble Alex had caused Carly, she couldn’t collapse now, couldn’t call more attention to herself.
In one of their few free moments, Carly had discussed Alex with Francie Rains, the petite blonde who had told the DI about
Alex’s spitting in her breakfast. Francie hadn’t been able to come up with a reason for Alex’s nastiness either. Ever since
that morning, whenever possible, Carly made sure to put as much distance as she could between her and “Crazy Woman,” her private
name for Alex.
Over the intervening days after the memorable first breakfast, Francie stuck protectively close to Carly, which was a little
funny since Francie didn’t look as if she could do more than shout for help. Now, in the hushed darkness filled with human
silence and the clicking and droning of insects, Carly’s mind brought up Francie. A country girl from Kentucky, she possessed
an endearing cheerfulness that made her stick out. So far those precautions—keeping away from Alex and Francie’s hovering
as a witness—had worked. There hadn’t been another incident between her and Alex. The DI still watched both her and Crazy
Woman more closely than the other recruits. But so far the sergeant had had no reason to punish them more than the others.
She dished out plenty of that for everyone.
Carly figured she could do a hundred push-ups now without much sweat. What an accomplishment. She’d written a paper in high
school about treatment of POWs in the Vietnam War, and she had noticed an unpleasant correlation between the methods used
by the Vietcong—intimidation, sleep deprivation, public humiliation, total loss of control—and those of her drill instructor.
Carly’s eyes slid shut of their own volition. She took in a deep breath and forced them open again.
How much longer, how much longer? Dear God, don’t let me fall asleep and collapse
. Her M-16 started to lower, and she straightened her spine.
Don’t give in. Don’t give in
.
Again, she turned her mind back to the one who hated her. What would Nate tell her to do in this situation? What would Nate
do about Crazy Woman? She asked him in her mind, and she heard his answer loud and clear.
Don’t make waves—whatever you do
. And that seemed to sum up her total lack of control. She was no longer in the ordinary world; she was in the army, a GI,
government issue.
“Atten-tion!”
Carly, along with all two hundred of their company, snapped to attention.
“About-face!”
Salvation had come. They could go back to bed—for at least another hour’s sleep.
Dear God, don’t let them make us do another hour out here. Please make them let us sleep.
Two afternoons later, Carly sat at one desk in one row of desks in a crowded classroom, staring da> at the most boring film
ever made and trying to stay awake. Failing to do so was a fate not to be contemplated. And to make matters worse, though
she’d tried to maneuver herself away from Crazy Woman, Alex sat right in front of her. But then Alex hadn’t looked very pleased
to have Carly at her back.
Good. Let Crazy Woman feel exposed.
Carly’s mind wandered to another unpleasant shock that had come just before dawn that morning. She’d wakened before the DI
and since everyone was still snoring, she’d counted the buttons on her mattress and pulled up the one over her earrings. Since
that first night in the barracks, she’d been so busy, and never alone, that she hadn’t checked on them. So, just making sure,
she’d felt around in the predawn gray for the tiny diamond earrings. They had not been there.
Then the DI had shouted them all awake and she’d popped the button back into the mattress and leaped to her feet. Had someone
come in and switched their mattresses around? Why? Had someone seen her put the earrings into the mattress? That didn’t seem
possible.
Carly’s eyelids slipped down and shut. She blinked rapidly, fighting her body’s deep fatigue. Once again, she was fighting
the sleep demon. Two nights in a row, she’d been allowed around four hours of sleep, but not four consecutive hours. An hour
here. An hour there. How could sleep become such a huge thing in a life?
On the screen, the nondescript man with a mesmerizing voice in the ancient black-and-white 1950s film droned on about how
to read a topographical map.
Map! Just set me free, and I don’t need a map to lead me to my bed!
Carly glanced sideways at Francie, who sat at the desk just to her left. Her head was nodding, nodding. Carly slid her boot
sideways. As soundlessly as possible, she tapped the side of Francie’s combat boot—once, twice. The DI was walking around
the room, looking, looking.
Carly bumped Francie’s boot hard.
Wake up, Francie!
Francie’s chin snapped up, her eyes blinked open.
The man in the film began discussing what could happen to a soldier who misread a map. This was slightly more interesting
because it actually talked about something that sounded as if it might be important someday. When a squad of ten soldiers
was out on its own during a battle, bad stuff could happen if no one knew how to read the map—
especially with night maneuvers. Soldiers could die. Carly listened with interest to the experiences of soldiers in World
War II and Korea.
Then she heard it—nearby incoherent mumbling. She glanced around, then realized the sound was coming from right in front of
her. Crazy Woman must have fallen asleep and was having a dream. Fear for Alex zinged through Carly.
But why do I care? Crazy Woman hates my guts
.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Francie nodding her head toward Alex.
No, no way am I waking her up
. Francie gave that little nod again.
Not a mean bone in her body. Not a brain in her head
. Carly gave the slightest shake of her head. When she saw Francie lift her hand as if she were going to actually lean over
to prod Alex, Carly poked Crazy Woman’s back once, hard.
“No!” Alex shouted, jumping in her desk. “Don’t touch me!”
The lights snapped on, but the gray, nearly invisible man droned on. The DI glared at Alex. “What in the heck?”
“She poked me!” Alex accused, spinning around to face Carly.
Carly glared at Alex, hoping that Francie wouldn’t speak up in her defense.
“You two separate!” the sergeant roared.
Carly leaped up and hustled to the front of the room where a vacant seat remained. She waited for the punishment to come.
But the lights clicked out and the film hummed on. Was this over or was punishment just delayed? For a moment Carly pondered
Alex’s nightmare and the fact that her own bad dreams had become few and far between. Was it because of sheer exhaustion or
something else?
The June Sunday afternoon sun shone clear and sizzling. At the end of week four, Carly and her platoon had been given a blessed
three-hour break. So she hefted her duffel, filled to bursting with every piece of clothing she wasn’t wearing. With the letter
in her pocket, Carly took one last longing look at her bunk and then staggered out of the barracks and down the few steps
on her way to the laundry. Having to wash her own clothes had been an unpleasant surprise.
There was a centralized laundry where they could turn in their clothing, pay, and then later pick up their clothes. But the
laundry was sent off base to a contracted laundry service, and the DI had suggested they keep their clothing on base. The
service was famous for sending back single socks without partners and for losing laundry. It wasn’t as if Carly didn’t know
how to do laundry, but this chore seemed just one more thing the army hadn’t included in its attractive, glossy enlistment
brochures. She headed off for the laundry.
Arriving there, Carly saw two of the eight heavy-duty washing machines were empty and raced to them. She stuffed her whites
in one and her colors in the other, poured in powdered detergent, and slid quarters in. She sighed happily as the warm water
gushed in. She shut the lids with contentment. She planned to go and sit in the corner and read the letter again. But she
turned to see a special surprise walking in the door. “Lorelle!”
They met in the center of the long narrow room and in spite of the other recruits looking on, the two hugged. “How are you?”
Carly asked.
“The same as you.” Lorelle, with her creamy tan complexion and her short curly hair, grinned back. “I figure it will probably
take us one full week of sound, uninterrupted sleep to make up for all the hours we’ve lost in the past four weeks.”
“Oh,” Carly moaned, “let’s not talk about it. Talking about sleep makes me tired.”
Grinning, Lorelle led her outside onto the shaded top steps. Carly sat down beside her friend and sighed deeply. It felt so
good to have a little time off and to talk to Lorelle, someone she’d known all her life and who would understand what she
was going through. “Four weeks down and four to go.”
Lorelle nodded. “We’ll make it. I hear you have some ditz in your platoon that’s always on your case.”
Carly made a face. “Let’s not waste any time talking about Crazy Woman.” The unexpected letter in her pocket seemed to call
to her. “Who wrote you?” Carly asked nonchalantly, referring to the first permitted mail delivery the previous week.