Battle Dress (22 page)

Okay, just act like you can see, and he’ll never guess you don’t have inserts.

“Seven seconds . . .”

Somehow, by the time Cadet Daily said, “Cease work, Davis,” the nine seconds were spent, and I had donned and cleared my mask. Cadet Daily moved closer and checked it. Then he thumped me on the top of my head. “You’re a ‘Go,’ Davis. Drive on.”

I did it! Thank God!
I pulled the hood over my head. Then I unbuckled my LCE and shrugged it off, letting it drop to the ground. I stumbled to my pile of MOPP gear and snatched what I hoped were trousers off the top, holding them close to my face.
Pants! So far, so good.
I struggled to get them over my combat boots.
Now—the jacket.
Sweat trickled down my neck, and steam from my face fogged my mask, further blurring my vision. I took my time with the jacket, making sure that I didn’t mismatch the snaps. By the time I finished, I felt like I was standing in a sauna dressed in a triple-thick sweatsuit with a plastic bag over my head.

“YOU’RE AT FOUR MINUTES, THIRD SQUAD,” Cadet Daily yelled.

Now—the overboots.
I bent over, hard to do with so much on, and, like a drunk trying to fit a key into a lock, I fumbled to get those floppy, one-size-fits-all rubber boots over my combat boots. Lacing the overboots was even worse: looping the laces through this eyelet and back through that one, inside to outside, letting my fingers do the seeing since my eyes couldn’t.

“THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING!”

Only thirty seconds?
I looked up. I didn’t see much movement in the haze.
Great. Is everyone done already?

I dropped to my hands and knees, groping the ground for my gloves.
Oh—come on! Where are they?
Squinting didn’t help.
Okay—just calm down. You’ll find them....

My fingertips touched rubber.
Yes!
I scrambled to my feet and pulled the gloves over my hands. Then I slapped my Kevlar on my head.
Done!

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . CEASE WORK!” Cadet Daily yelled. “Okay, Third Squad, let’s see how you did.” Cadet Daily traveled around the circle until he reached me. “I think I’ll start with you, Davis.” He looked me over, from foot to head, then stepped behind me. “May I touch you?”

Something’s wrong.
“Yes, sir!” I yelled through my mask.
Please don’t say I’m a No-Go again. Please.

I felt him tugging at the bottom of my MOPP jacket. “You failed to snap one of the three snaps that connect your jacket to your trousers.”

I wanted to clobber myself.
Idiot!

“But I’m a reasonable guy, Davis, so I’m gonna make a deal with you. You make the correction in five seconds, since you had five seconds to spare, and you’re a Go. If you don’t . . .” He smacked his lips. “I guess Third Squad will get to see your encore performance of ”—he now stood facing me—“blindman’s buff.”

He knows. He definitely knows.
I was thankful for my mask just then. I held my breath.
Okay, go ahead. Haze me. I deserve it.

“Make the correction.”

I stood there, shocked that he had shown me mercy for the second time today.

“Who are you, Davis? Helen Keller? I said, ‘Make the correction!’ ”

“Yes, sir!” I found the snaps along the back hem of my jacket and made the correction before he changed his mind.

When I looked up, Cadet Daily was gone. He had moved on to Hickman and, I was amused to hear, was correcting him for the same mistake that I had made.

After he had inspected each of us, Cadet Daily said, “Okay, Third Squad. Let’s get those pores opened up and those lungs cranking. I want you to get the full benefit of today’s training. Double-time in place. Ready . . .
begin!
”

He made us run in place. He led us through fifty repetitions of the Side Straddle Hop. He made us run in place. He dropped us for push-ups. He made us run in place.

“Bring those knees to your chest, Third Squad! What’s the matter? You stay up all night or something? Put a little pep in your step!”

Pep in my step?
I felt like I was slogging through wet concrete up to my waist. And I was unbelievably hot.

“Looks like Third Platoon’s ‘in the door,’ Third Squad,” Cadet Daily said, pointing across the site toward the tent. “See? First Squad’s going in . . . right . . .
now
!”

I peered out of my mask’s fogged-over eyepieces, seeing nothing.

“And Second Squad’s standing by. It’s time for you to join the fray. Put on your LCEs and line up behind Hickman. Then double-time over to the tent. QUICKLY!”

I felt the ground around me with my feet for my LCE until I kicked it. I snatched it up and jumped behind Hickman. I fumbled with my LCE, untwisting its suspenders and snapping its buckle, and tried to catch my breath as the rest of Third Squad pushed and stumbled their way into a single-file line.

“What are you waiting for, Hickman?” Cadet Daily yelled. “An engraved invitation? Move out!”

I jogged behind Hickman, squinting at the ground; its browns and greens rushed under my feet like a treadmill.
Just don’t trip. Keep moving, but whatever you do, just don’t trip!

I heard a lot of yelling as we neared the olive-drab blur that was the tent. I squinted. On one side I could make out a line of new cadets shuffling in. On the other side new cadets staggered out, their masks in their hands and their arms flailing. Upperclassmen holding—
canteens?
—had formed a sort of corridor just outside the exit, greeting the new cadets with faces full of water as they burst outside.

“Come on! Keep the line moving, New Cadets!”

“Oh, yeah! It’s a good day to be a soldier! HU-AH!”

The scene wasn’t a pleasant one.
I don’t want to do this.

“Veer to the left of the tent, Boneheads!” yelled an upperclassman. “And double-time in a circle. I don’t want you resting while you wait!”

Hickman curved us to the left, and soon Third Squad was trotting around and around like circus elephants.

“Keep moving, New Cadets!” the upperclassman yelled.

I tripped along behind Hickman for what seemed like forever.

“Okay . . .
you!
” The upperclassman grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the tent. “Go on inside. The rest of you, follow him.”

Follow him?
For a moment I was confused.
He did mean for
me
to go in first, didn’t he?
Then I realized—MOPP suits made us sexless.

I stepped forward and batted the canvas with my hands.
Oh—come on! Where’s that stupid door flap?

A Third Squad member banged into me from behind, and I was inside. I blinked, trying to adjust the little sight I had to the dimness. My chest rose and fell, and my ears filled with the sound of my own breath.
Well, this is it—no turning back now.

“Don’t just stand there, Dip Wad!”

I snapped my head in the direction of another blur—an upperclassman, standing in the center of the tent. He was dressed in MOPP Four, waving me in.

I stumbled forward, running my rubber-gloved hand along the wall of the tent to guide me. The rest of Third Squad crept inside like they were expecting a ghost to pop out at them.

“Hustle it up, New Cadets! What are you waiting for? Christmas? Let’s go! My old granny moves faster then you!”

I took cautious, shallow breaths.
Okay. This isn’t going to be that bad. It’s really hot in here, but—

“Welcome to my humble abode, New Cadets,” the upperclassman said. His voice came out slightly muffled through his mask, as if he were speaking with a hand clamped over his mouth. “Anyone feel a burning sensation? Or smell something like burned rubber being shoved up your nose?” He paused. “No? Good. Looks like everyone has a good seal. Believe me, you’d know it, otherwise.”

I took another breath.
No burning. No smell. Good seal. Relax. This isn’t so bad....

“Now, when I say, ‘All clear,’ you will remove your masks . . .”

I squinted over at the exit, judging the distance.
Okay, just hold your breath till he says we can go. You can swim the length of a fifty-meter pool without coming up for air. You can do this.

“. . . and immediately begin reciting the national anthem, starting with the second verse—loud and in a motivated manner.”

The national anthem?
Reciting it wasn’t a problem—I knew it. It had been part of Week Two’s knowledge. Reciting while holding my breath, however,
was
a problem. But I’d do it. Somehow . . .

“For those of you who got hippopotamus lungs and think you can hold out on me, think again. I’m a very patriotic guy—I
love
the national anthem. So if you make it through the second verse, keep on going and recite the
first
verse. ’Cause your only ticket outa here’s that coughin’ sound. Understand?”

I was going to have to breathe the stuff.

“YES, SIR!”

He paused. I waited with the others. One breath . . . two breaths . . . three breaths . . .

“ALL CLEAR!”

I gulped, filling my lungs with air, then pulled off my mask. The fiery slap that hit my face almost made me suck in again.

Together we started to chant the second verse of the national anthem at triple speed: “Oh, thus be it ever when free men shall stand Between their loved homes and wild war’s desolation; Bless’d with vict’ry and peace—”

My face burned and itched like it did whenever I’d come into my warm house after running in a subzero wind chill. But much worse. Suddenly someone tall doubled over, then whipped around for the exit.
Was that Kit? Gone already?

“. . . may the heav’n-rescued land Praise the pow’r that hath made and . . .”

Another fled.

“. . . preserv’d us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just . . .”

Another bolted. The smallest person in the tent—
Gabrielle
—staggered after him, clawing at her eyes.

Don’t look!
I squeezed my eyes shut—they were starting to tear. Snot leaked out of my nose, ran down my chin . . .
Hold on!
I really did not want to breathe that stuff.

“. . . And this be our motto: ‘in God is our trust!’ And the star-spangled banner . . .”

I opened my eyes. Besides the upperclassman, only one other person and I remained. He was huge.
Cero?
I was reaching my limit; my air was almost gone.

“. . . in triumph shall wave . . .”

I clenched my fists. Blood pounded against the inside of my skull.

“. . . O’er the land of the free and the home . . .”

No!
I had taken a breath during the natural pause of the verse, just like I would’ve if I’d been singing. Dry, scratchy air, like super-concentrated car exhaust, rushed in. Mucus spewed out. I sucked in again.
I’m drowning! No—my throat’s on fire!
I wasn’t in an Army tent, I was in an airtight phone booth with a thousand chopped onions. I scrambled for the exit and, waving my arms wildly in front of me, found the opening in the canvas.

“. . . of the brave.” Cero had finished the verse. Alone.

Sunlight and cold water struck my eyes simultaneously. Shouting faces hovered above me. Hands pushed me forward. Water drenched my hair, my face, my neck.

“Keep moving forward, Davis!”

“You’re doing okay!”

“No stalling! Someone’s right behind you!”

More snot than I ever imagined my body could produce covered my face and MOPP suit. Thick lines of drool hung from my mouth to my waist. No sunburn, not even the one I got on my first day of lifeguarding two summers ago, had ever fried my face like this. I bent over and coughed until I was sure that I’d see foamy chunks of lung fly out of my mouth.

Someone’s hand came down on my shoulder, hard.

I reeled around.
Cero.
His eyes were red. His face, covered with slime. His MOPP jacket dripped water and goo.

“Davis! Just wanted to say . . .” He turned away from me and spewed mucus out of his mouth. “I just wanted to say . . . I’m glad you left when you did.... I couldn’t . . .” He started coughing, then cleared his throat and spat again. “. . . hold out . . . much longer.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Man! That stings! That MOPP suit really . . . soaked up that stuff.”

I shook my head. “Hold out . . . much . . . longer?” My words came out in wheezy gasps.

“Yeah.” He held his mask under his arm and peeled off his gloves. “I just wanted . . . to be the last guy . . . out of the tent, that’s all.” He paused to take three raspy breaths. “You know, to really . . . experience the stuff.”

“
Experience
the stuff, Cero?” I shook my head again. “Not me! I just didn’t want to
inhale
, that’s why
I
stayed in so long.” I coughed, then swallowed. Coughed, then swallowed. And finally spat. “Procrastination, I guess.”

“Man, I thought you guys would never come outa that fiery furnace!” I turned around. Kit was standing behind me, a canteen in his hand. “I was starting to think you were doing a Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”

“A
what?
” I squinted at Kit and started coughing again. “Kit, sometimes . . . I think . . . you belong . . . on another planet . . . or something.” I wiped my mouth on my shoulder.
Ouch!
My lips burned like I’d smeared them with Tabasco sauce.

Kit winked. “What can I say? I’m just a pilgrim traveling through. Here.” He handed me his canteen. “You look like you need a drink.”

I took a swig, swishing the water around my mouth before I swallowed. “Sorry, but I think the gas has affected both your brains, guys.”

“Me?” Kit wheezed a laugh. “I wasn’t in there long enough, Andi. I took my obligatory breath, and I was outa there. I figured, why prolong the misery? But this guy”—he pointed at Cero—“just admitted that he
wanted
to experience the gas. Now tell me who’s killed some serious brain cells!”