Battle Dress (31 page)

I frantically scanned the bystanders for Cadet Black.
Maybe he’s got goggles!
But I knew the thought was idiotic.
Why in the world would he have goggles? And even if he did, who says they’d let me wear them?
Goggles weren’t part of the prescribed uniform, and exceptions never happened during Beast.

Come on. Just calm down. You used to lifeguard all the time with contacts in. Just deal with this.
I turned back to the water, drumming my fingers on the sides of my legs.
I’ll just have to swim lifesaving strokes, with my head out of the water most of the time. It’s almost as fast.
I knew the thought wasn’t very convincing, but it was all I had.

The King of Beast was standing off to the side of us now. “Remember what MacArthur said, New Cadets: ‘Upon the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that upon other fields, on other days, will bear the fruits of victory.’”

MacArthur’s Opinion of Athletics.
I had memorized it out of
Bugle Notes
two weeks ago.

“Only one of you can be the victor, so have fun.” And the buzzer on the bullhorn went off.

Only one can be the victor.
I sprinted down the sand and into the lake, already churning from the others around me. I plunged forward, attacking the water with strong thrusts of my arms, my head above the waves with eyes fixed on the raft before me. The water was warm, like sweat.

Bodies were pulling ahead of me. I knew I couldn’t keep the pace I had set much longer; doing this modified crawl stroke was anaerobic—my lungs felt like they were about to explode. I changed to breast stroke until I recovered my breath, then switched back, alternating between the two.
Come on! Come on! Come on! Push it a little harder!

After I had slapped the raft with the palm of my hand and was on my way back, I realized that swimming the modified strokes was slowing me down. More people were passing me, it seemed, than I was passing. So I squeezed my eyes shut and stuck my head under the water, counting out six strokes of crawl before coming up for air. Then I’d do three strokes of modified breast to get me heading in the right direction, and dunk my head again, counting out six more strokes. At last my fingertips touched bottom, and I was stumbling out of the water and up onto the sand, my lungs clamoring for air. Blood pounded in my ears.

“Davis! Davis!”

Cadet Black was running toward me, my shoes in one hand and the rest of my clothes in his other. “Get into the Leaning Rest,
now!
You’re the third female out. Let’s go!”

Third female? That’s it?
I collapsed into the Leaning Rest position, heaving lungs full of air at the ground. “What . . . about . . . overall? Sir?”

“I don’t know . . . upper third, maybe? Come on, Davis! Knock ’em out! Every second counts!”

Upper third.
I clenched my teeth and started pumping out push-ups.
I’ve got to do better than that!

“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .” Cadet Black counted.

My arms and legs were trembling from muscle fatigue. I pushed my rear end upward, keeping my arms fully extended, and rested for a few seconds. Then I dug my hands deeper into the sand and hit it again.

“Ten . . . eleven . . . twelve . . . you’ve gotta break the plane, Davis . . . fourteen . . .”

I felt like I had a hundred-pound ruck on my back, pushing me into the ground. “Can I go . . . down . . . on my knees . . . for a second?” I gasped. I was at twenty-five, halfway there.

“Yeah, sure,” Cadet Black said. “It’s allowed.” But he sounded disappointed.

I sank down on my knees and shook out my arms. My hair, matted and sandy, had fallen across my face. Sand coated my arms up to the elbows. I looked around, pushing my hair aside. Some of the guys were already on the sit-ups. I forced myself back into the Leaning Rest and squeezed out more push-ups, two and three at a time. Muscles I never knew I had burned.

“You’re at forty, Davis. You’re lookin’ good. Don’t stop. Just ten to go. One female’s already on the sit-ups. You’ve gotta hustle now.”

Come . . . on now! After . . . it’s all over . . . you won’t . . . even . . . remember . . . the pain!

Somehow I cranked out the rest, one by miserable one. Then I flipped over on my back for the sit-ups.

Cadet Black grabbed my feet to anchor them. “All right, Davis. Hit it!”

Soon my ears were filled with my rhythmic breathing.
Now’s the time to start making your move.
I shut my eyes and concentrated on hammering them out.
Push it! Push it!

“Good to go!” Cadet Black said. “Now you’re cooking, Davis. Just like a machine. Forty-nine . . . fifty! Now, get those shoes on. Every second counts!” He thrust my socks into my hands.

I looked around me, panting, as I crammed my sand-covered feet into my socks. One by one, guys were staggering out of the sand and heading for the trail around the lake, but the Asics girl was nowhere in sight.
Thank God!
I licked my lips and crunched sand between my teeth.

Cadet Black shoved one of my shoes on my foot while I tied the other shoe’s laces. My hands shook.

“One female’s just started the run, Davis!” he yelled as I scrambled to my feet. “Go get her!”

And then I was gone, chasing down the bodies in front of me.
Three events down, one to go. This last one’s got to count.

The trail consisted of dirt with a few rocks and tree roots to trip over, and it was narrow, barely wide enough for two running abreast. But as my feet pounded over it, I felt good. It reminded me of the trails I had run in cross country races. I started to relax and got into a rhythm. The King of Beast had said that the trail around the lake was just under three miles, so I adjusted my pace. Even though my body was tired, I felt energized. I was running! It had been over a week since I’d run.

I easily caught the only girl ahead of me and said, “Good job! Keep it up!” as I passed her. She was short and had arms that would’ve been big for a guy’s.
A swimmer.

Then I got to work, picking off the guys in front of me, one by one.
Just keep it controlled. Don’t rush it.

Every so often new cadets and upperclassmen standing in twos or threes lined the trail, cheering us on.

“Way to go!”

“Keep it up!”

“You’re the number one female, Miss!”

The lake was always on my left, with an occasional cluster of trees blocking my view of it. I knew I’d be able to tell that I’d hit the halfway point when I saw the beach area, rows of bodies in black swimsuits sprawled across white towels over the sun-fried grass. Even during free time new cadets congregated in uniform rows.
I guess that’s what happens after six weeks of Beast.

The sun was really beating down now, causing streaks of grimy sweat to run into my eyes and down my arms. At the same time, the sun had dried my swimsuit, which, I noticed with irritation, started to ride up on my rear. But the biggest discomfort I had to deal with was my chest. The Lycra of my swimsuit was just not matching the performance of a Jogbra.

“Go, Andi, go!”

It was Kit, standing with Cadet Daily and Ping along the trail. They had come all the way out here just for me. In all my years of running, my own dad had never managed to do that.

“You’re number thirteen, Davis!” Cadet Daily yelled as I passed them.

Thirteen?
I felt my stomach tighten.
That’s not good enough!

“Those guys are flaggin’ up there! Take ’em!”

“Do it, Andi!” I heard Ping yell. “Do it!”

I glanced over at the water. The rows of black on white were directly across now.

Halfway. Gotta pick it up.
I turned up the pace a notch. Slowly I increased my speed, like winding up a spring, until the moment I’d start my kick. Then I’d let everything go.

I focused on my breathing, keeping it steady. I fixed my eyes on the bare back of each guy ahead of me, passing one . . . two . . . three. I vaguely remember thinking,
That’s interesting!
when I passed Hickman and Gabrielle, standing together, cheering me on. I passed another guy and another. The rows of new cadet sunbathers came into view.
Okay—now!
I started kicking it toward the finish, though I couldn’t see it yet. The trail, now lined with shouting new cadets, widened into the stretch of sand that bordered the water.

“Finish strong, Davis!” I thought I heard Cero’s voice booming above the others.

The orange cones stood about two hundred yards away, looking like tiny fluorescent triangles in the distance. One more guy was within reach.
You’ve got to give it everything!
I started sprinting faster, faster. The cones were getting closer. One hundred and fifty yards . . . one hundred . . .

I blew past the guy and kept cranking toward the finish. Fifty yards . . . twenty . . . ten . . .

I saw Jason in the crowd, red-faced and yelling, his fist pounding the air. “Go! Go! Go!”

And then some guy out of nowhere came from behind and lunged across the finish before me, landing facefirst in the sand.

I slowed to a trot, then doubled over, nearly collapsing on the ground myself.

“Gotta keep walking, Davis,” Cadet Black said, draping one of my arms over his shoulder.

Jason ran up to us and took my other arm. “Way to go, Andi! You did great!”

“Awesome,” Cadet Black agreed, nodding his head. “Awesome. You came in eighth, Davis. Almost seventh. If that guy hadn’t dived across the finish right at the end . . . Anyway, you beat all the females. None of them even came close. You’ve done Third Platoon proud.”

Eighth.
My throat tightened, pressing against that growing, aching lump. I took deep breath after deep breath, trying to choke it down, but it remained.
Eighth.
I could feel tears settling in the corners of my eyes. I hadn’t done what I had set out to do. I hadn’t won.

“Davis! Way to kick some butt!” I looked up. Three bodies were running toward us. One of them, his arm in a sling, lagged behind the other two as they wove through the cadets clustered near the finish line. Then I heard Cero’s voice behind me. “You were flying, Davis!”

And before I knew it, all of Third Squad was with me at the finish—surrounding me, congratulating me—as if I
had
won, after all. It didn’t seem to matter to them that I wasn’t the best. I had done
my
best. And that was enough. For them.

I pulled my arms away from the shoulders that had supported me and swiped my hand across my eyes.

“Thanks. I think I can walk on my own, now.”

And then I smiled. It was enough for me, too.

CHAPTER 16

MONDAY, 9 AUGUST 0520

Your left, your right,
Your left, your right.
You’re out of sight,
You’re dynamite.
And it won’t be long,
Till you get back home.

—U.S. ARMY MARCHING CADENCE

B
ESIDES THE STARS and a sliver of moon, the sky was black. This morning beams from hundreds of flashlights and the
clink-clank
of entrenching tools had beaten the sun in driving the crickets from the field. It was too early for conversation, and even if it hadn’t been, I doubted anyone would have felt much like talking, anyway. In just a few hours, when we had marched back from Lake Frederick, Beast would be over.

Gabrielle and I dragged our gear out of our tent and uprooted the tent pegs that anchored our tent in the ground. Then we stood, staring at the canvas collapsed on the grass.

“Tonight we get to sleep in a real bed,” Gabrielle whispered.

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Can’t wait.”

We looked at each other. The thought, we both knew, wasn’t entirely comforting. We’d be back in the barracks, which would be filled with upperclassmen we’d never met. And their mission: to make our lives miserable.

Fifteen minutes later H Company was all formed up and standing at attention, wearing Kevlars and LCEs, our rucks at our feet and M-16s on our shoulders.

First Sergeant Stockel stood before us, our guidon waving atop its staff, stuck into the ground behind him. And beyond lay Tent City, now nothing more than an empty field.

“H COMPANY, STAND AT . . .
EASE!
” First Sergeant Stockel waited as we shifted into position.

“Six long weeks ago you stumbled through West Point’s gate as dirty, nasty civilians, shuffling behind your mommas and daddies. Today you’re going to march through that very same gate as soldiers. You’re gonna have a pack on your back and a weapon in your hands and the most miserable summer of your lives behind you. So hold your heads high, Hardcore. This is your victory march.”

“HU-AH!” we yelled in response.

“That’s right, Hardcore. You’ve earned it.” He nodded his head slowly. “But remember, one decisive battle doesn’t win the war.” He paused. “You’ve come a long way, Hardcore. But you’ve got even longer still to go. If you think because Beast is over, the worst is over, think again. It’s
never
over, Hardcore. Not today. Not after Plebe Year. Not even when—if—the day comes that you get to stand in front of a formation like I am, now. At West Point, it’s . . .
never
. . . over.” Then First Sergeant Stockel came to the position of attention. “Just a little something for you to ponder while you’re marching back. H COMPANY—”

“PLATOON!” bellowed the four platoon sergeants.

“ATTEN-
TION
!”

And in one solid movement the one hundred and twenty members of H Company snapped to attention, head and eyes to the front with heels locked.

“The following individuals, report to the front of the formation!” First Sergeant Stockel yelled. “New Cadets Valente, Fritz, Davis—”