Authors: Lyn Cote
As Carly lay down on her bunk, she wondered what the punishment for fighting on base would be. She laid her head on her pillow.
Her last conscious thought was,
I don’t care
.
But after breakfast the next morning, Carly admitted to herself that she cared very much. After turning in her empty tray,
she approached her drill sergeant. An ingot of solid lead was slowly sinking through Carly’s stomach. Was she supposed to
tell her DI that she had to go to the company commander’s office? Or would the drill sergeant order her to go?
Her drill sergeant stared at her. “Do you remember where the company commander’s office is?”
So she did know. Carly couldn’t speak through her dry mouth, so she nodded.
“After your appointment,” the DI said, “you will be brought out to join us at the firing range. Be sure to bring your weapon
and be prepared for practice.”
Stiffening her spine, Carly refused to be intimidated. No matter what the outcome was, she had done nothing wrong. Her chin
up, Carly turned on her heel and marched out of the dining hall. Operating on pure bravado, she headed for the company commander’s
office, which lay in the center of their area of the base. She heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind her but did not turn
her head.
Alex must be behind me
.
Unhappily, Carly thought she could predict what would happen at the upcoming meeting. She had heard of Article 15. It was
what the army used first to discipline soldiers who failed to obey their drill sergeants—without advancing all the way up
to the military justice system. The injustice of having to report to the company commander and perhaps be threatened with
an Article 15 punishment galled her.
It’s not fair. I’ve tried everything I could to fit in and to succeed. What could I have done differently, when it was always
Alex who started something?
Frustration burned inside her breast as she approached the company commander’s door. Up three steps, Carly opened the door
and entered. Alex had caught up with her and went through the door right behind her. The company commander’s secretary greeted
them and asked them to sit on the black upholstered chairs along the wall in the wonderful air-conditioning until the commander
could see them.
Carly kept her eyes straight da>. She didn’t trust herself to look at Alex’s face—no doubt Alex’s sneering face. Certainly
her self-elected tormentor must be gleeful now. What she had evidently wanted since the very first day was happening: Alex
had finally gotten Carly into deep trouble.
The door to the inner office opened. A tall woman wearing the insignia of a captain stared at them. “Gallagher, Carlyle? Reseda,
Alex?”
Belatedly Carly jumped to her feet and snapped off a salute to the officer. Beside her, Alex did the same.
“Inside, please.”
Carly entered the room, tightening her defenses, prepared to face and survive a humiliating interview.
I will show no emotion. I will not disgrace myself
. The two of them, she and Alex, stood at attention, facing the commander who had taken her seat behind an imposing, absolutely
neat desk. The first sergeant of their company, a thin, middle-aged woman, also stood beside the commander’s desk.
“This is an unpleasant task,” began the commander, an attractive woman with red hair pulled back in a tight bun. “You two
have been under close scrutiny since you arrived at the reception hall. Your drill instructor has discussed both of you with
the first sergeant repeatedly and a certain disruptive pattern has become evident. Your drill instructor tried to force the
two of you to make peace by making you battle buddies. This strategy has failed. Both of you have also been punished with
extra physical training in an attempt to persuade you to cooperate. This, too, has failed.”
Carly was a bit confused. She had expected to be reprimanded over the fight the day before in the laundry. Learning that her
drill instructor had been discussing her behavior in the past four weeks was distinctly disturbing. The awful thought that
she might be facing more than an Article 15 breathed through her like a cold chill. Perhaps she faced military charges or
being discharged from the service. The thought brought a cold sweat to her brow. She’d survived four grueling weeks of boot
camp. Would it all be for nothing? The thought made her nauseated.
No!
“Private Reseda,” the captain said in a stern voice, “for some unknown reason you have chosen to carry on your own private
war against Private Gallagher. This must end.”
Carly felt her mouth drop open.
“But yesterday she jumped me in the laundry!” Alex accused.
“Quiet!” the first sergeant ordered.
“Private Reseda, among many incidents,” the commander said, looking down at a list in front of her, “you have spit into Private
Gallagher’s food. You have tripped her on various occasions. And yesterday you threw her clean clothes to the laundry room
floor—direct provocation. Do you think we did not see what was going on here?”
Carly closed her mouth. She tried not to look too happy. Gloating, Nate had taught her, was always unattractive. Besides,
it was still too early for gloating. Time after time, she had been disciplined for situations Alex had created.
“Private Gallagher, it has been noted that you obviously have had track and serious martial arts training.”
“Yes, ma’am. Nearly seven years.”
“It would appear, Private Reseda,” the commander said, looking directly into Alex’s eyes, “that you chose the wrong individual
to harass. Private Gallagher can outrun you, outfight you, and has displayed extraordinary fortitude in the face of your harassment.”
“The rich witch wins again,” Alex sneered. “I’m not surp—”
“Shut that smart mouth, soldier,” the first sergeant snapped.
The company commander tapped a stack of papers on her desk top. “Fighting is not permitted on base. And for violating that,
Private Gallagher will be disciplined. But Private Reseda, you will be scheduled for counseling sessions over the next four
weeks. Also you will be encouraged to visit the chaplain to discuss how you can change your self-destructive behavior. It
is not our goal here to end military careers. Our goal is to train soldiers for successful military careers.”
“But—” Alex objected.
“Silence!” the officer commanded. “This meeting is finished. If there are any further incidents between the two of you, Private
Reseda, you will be facing an Article 15. You two, return immediately to your barracks, get your weapons, and join your platoon.
Dismissed.”
Both Carly and Alex saluted, turned, and exited the room. Carly didn’t want to speak to or look at her adversary. She began
jogging toward their barracks. Alex began running too. Carly increased her speed. Alex followed suit. Carly poured on the
gas. She left Alex far behind.
“You witch!” Alex called after her, “I hate you!”
Carly raced to the barracks, intent on reaching the firing range before Alex. Even though she still faced punishment for fighting,
vindication was sweet, very sweet. But it left a sour aftertaste. Why did any of this have to happen in the first place?
A week after the incident at the laundry, Carly, along with her platoon, waited in a large gymnasium to go into the gas chamber.
She couldn’t remember a time when the mood of the whole group had been this tense and somber. Even Alex, who always tried
to appear unconcerned, looked petrified. And why not? They’d just endured a full-day training session on biological and chemical
warfare. Carly hadn’t been aware of all the horrible means people had devised to kill other humans.
Each of them in the platoon had been given an NBC—a nuclear biological chemical defense suit. It was a two-piece suit that
felt rubberized, with gloves, boots, and a gas mask that made her feel as if she had been trapped in a nightmare. Fortunately,
they hadn’t been ordered to wear the full defense suits there in the heat of the day. Each of them carried merely the mask.
That was bad enough. Carly tried to keep a distance between Alex and her. She didn’t want to think what Alex might try if
they hit the gas chamber at the same time.
“Now,” the DI barked, “in small groups each of you will enter the gas chamber. The door will be shut behind you. Tear gas,
CS, will be released in the chamber. On command, you will remove your gas mask—”
Carly’s mind stuttered at this.
Remove my mask?
They were going to gas . . . to gas them?
“You will remain in the chamber until the door opens and you are ordered to leave.”
Well, even though Carly had scrubbed her whole barracks bathroom with a toothbrush, her true punishment for fighting had come.
And in a way, it was more dreadful than she could have predicted. Surely the gas chamber test was intended for more than instruction;
it had been designed to defeat her. Just donning the gas mask panicked her. She tried to think why this was true, tried to
protect herself.
Get a grip
.
The first group, the one in front of Carly, was herded into the room that had windows so she and everybody else could see
what was going to happen to them.
Great
. Panic reared its ugly spiked head.
I’ll go crazy
. Wouldn’t that look good on her record? What would they do if she just ran out of the room screaming? She clenched her fists
at her sides, trying to stiffen her resolve to conquer this new test of her fortitude.
Carly stared with unbelieving eyes into the small chamber da> of them as another drill sergeant, also wearing a gas mask,
leaned over and uncorked a canister. She saw the gas, like a white angry cloud, begin to fill the chamber. She heard the muffled
command to take off masks. The brave souls inside obeyed. Within seconds, they were all coughing and gasping.
Carly’s throat tightened sympathetically.
Open the door. Open the door
. Her pulse raced in empathetic panic. Now she knew why the gas mask and chamber were shaking her so much. The scene was so
similar to the amorphous, shadowy menace of her nightmares. The door opened and the first group staggered outside, coughing,
gasping, sobbing, gagging.
“Next group,” the DI ordered from the doorway through her gas mask, “don masks.” Each group in turn went in and came out,
and Carly kept working her way to the back of the platoon.
“Last group, don masks.”
Carly froze in place, but the remaining group around her moved her forward, crowding together as if for protection. She stumbled
and caught herself. With numb fingers, she pulled on the mask, positioning it so that she could see what she was going to
suffer. The group carried her along into the gas chamber.
Why is this so frightening?
she asked herself. It was just a rubber mask and a few moments of tear gas—nothing more. But Carly felt as if she were smothering
and gasping already. In her mind, she felt again the sensations that she had felt the day she had been kidnapped, pulled into
the car by strange men. Someone bigger had roughly taped her mouth shut and her eyes shut. The gas chamber exercise stirred
the same horrible helplessness she relived in each nightmare. A scream, a plea for help stuck in the middle of her throat.
She was ten years old again—without her mom and without hope.
“Masks off!” the DI shouted.
Carly tried to pull off her mask, but she couldn’t force herself to obey. Her arms felt like overcooked spaghetti. The DI
reached over and yanked off her mask. Carly gasped for air, and suddenly her lungs were on fire. She wheezed and choked. She
pushed her way toward the door that the DI barred. Her last bit of control and caution stopped her—just before she screamed
incoherently, before she shoved the DI out of her way. Then the DI stepped aside and opened the door. Carly charged out and
fell to the ground, gasping, shaking, tears pouring from her eyes. Her skin tingled and her throat burned.
All around her, her fellow soldiers swiped their streaming eyes. Most were still standing, but they were bent over with their
hands braced on their knees. Carly looked up into Alex’s red eyes. “That was awful.”
Bent over, Alex nodded, wheezing.
“Now,” their DI explained, “you can have confidence that your gas mask will protect you from whatever poison might be emitted
into the air. Those of you who kept your heads, stayed calm—you minimized your contact by breathing as little as possible.
Those of you who are experiencing a marked reaction to the CS should learn from those who handled the situation better.”
Carly stared at the woman and hoped that never again would she be in the situation where she would have to put on her gas
mask. It was too much like all her childhood fears tied up into one terrible lump. But pride flickered for a moment. She hadn’t
had a bad dream for weeks, and today, she had survived. Once again she’d survived.
Carly couldn’t believe that basic training was coming to an end. In another week, she and her fellow soldiers would take their
end-of-cycle tests. If they passed, they would go through their graduation ceremony and become E-2s—real soldiers. The big
event they all looked forward to now was seeing their families at graduation and having a few days off before they reported
to their MOS, military occupational specialty. But first, they had to survive their final test, night infiltration training.
Two days before, they’d moved out of their unair-conditioned barracks into the sweltering field for their bivouac—setting
up tents, eating field rations or MREs, and sleeping on the ground. Deep summer with its muggy heat, mosquitoes, and chiggers
had done its part to make it a challenging expedition.
The final night of the bivouac, the air began to cool down. While standing in tight formation, the recruits listened to their
drill sergeant’s instructions: “Tonight, you will work together in ten-person squads. You will be in full battle gear, carrying
your weapon. Your squad will cover an obstacle course laced with barbed wire. You will wear your flak jacket because live
ammunition will be fired overhead. This exercise will test your abilities to work as a team and to make it through battle
conditions. Any questions?”