Battle Dress (9 page)

“Good. Third Squad,
move out!
”

I rushed along the wall and made it down the stairs. When we reached the sally port, Cadet Daily led us out toward the Plain, where we had marched for our parents only twelve hours ago. The sun was just beginning to splash color across the sky, and the outlines of the granite buildings were starting to emerge out of the darkness. The air was cool but damp.

“H COMPANY, FALL IN!” yelled an upperclass cadet as we scurried to our places.

In unison four other upperclassmen each bellowed at their platoons.

Cadet Black was one of them. “THIRD PLATOON, FALL IN!” Cadet Daily had told us yesterday that Cadet Black was our Platoon Sergeant. He was the guy whom everyone in Third Platoon, including the squad leaders, would answer to.

“THIRD SQUAD, FALL IN!” Cadet Daily yelled. “Into the position of attention!” We hustled into the spots we had been assigned before Dinner Formation yesterday. The four squads of Third Platoon lined up in four rows, one behind the other, facing Cadet Black. The four squad leaders stood in the far right position, anchoring down their squads. We new cadets stood in height order. In my squad New Cadet Cero, the tallest, stood beside Cadet Daily. Gabrielle, the shortest, was on the far left end. My spot, next to Ping, was somewhere in between.

H Company with its four platoons now formed a giant square, divided into four equal parts—two platoons in the front and two in the back. Two cadets stood facing us at the very front of the formation. One held the guidon—a yellow flag with a black
H
—hanging from a tall staff. The other was our First Sergeant, Cadet Stockel. I recognized his peach-fuzz-covered, wire-framed head. Just the sight of him made my armpits sweat.
Please don’t see me.

Cadet Black saluted his squad leaders as each reported how many new cadets in their squads were present—and how many were not. When all the platoons were ready, First Sergeant Stockel received each platoon’s attendance report. Then Cadet Haywood, our Company Commander, walked briskly to the front of our formation. He exchanged salutes with First Sergeant Stockel, who left for the rear.

From my spot tucked inside Third Squad, Third Platoon, I felt my skin tingling as I watched all the precise movements around me. All the squads were straight. All the platoons square. Everything was perfectly organized. It reminded me a little of standing in the center of the football field with my high school marching band during the halftime show. Only this was a hundred times better. Mr. Rodwell, my band director, would’ve killed for us to look this good.

“RE-PORT!” called a lone cadet from the center of the Plain, his voice drifting toward us across the grassy field.

One by one, the company commanders answered:

“Alpha Company, all accounted for!”

“Bravo Company, all accounted for!”

“Charlie Company, one unaccounted for!”

When it was Cadet Haywood’s turn, he saluted and yelled, “Hotel Company, all accounted for!”

“India Company, all accounted for!”

From some distant corner of the Plain a bugle pierced the morning air, sounding like a call to battle. Then a cannon fired. For one still second all of West Point seemed to hold its breath. Cadet Haywood broke the silence. He shouted at us over his right shoulder, “H COMPANY, PRESENT—”

“PREE-
SENT
—” echoed the platoon sergeants.

“—ARMS!”

And everyone, cadet and new cadet alike, raised their right hands to salute the flag as it climbed the flagpole, formally declaring that June twenty-ninth was a new day.

0615

After marching into North Area, we did stretching exercises and calisthenics to the commands of the bellowing cadets standing on what looked like an oversized collapsible card table. We did repetition after repetition of familiar exercises with new names, like the Side Straddle Hop (jumping jacks) and the Turn and Bend (toe touches), and a few new ones like the Standing Long Sit and the High Jumper. And all the while, upperclassmen circled around us, spewing corrections and insults.

When we finished, First Sergeant Stockel ordered the platoons to line up in reverse height order behind the squad leaders.

“Stretch on your own, Third Platoon,” Cadet Black said. “Get ready for the run. I’m setting the pace, and you’re gonna get smoked.”

I felt the prerace jitters coming on. I stretched my quads and eyed Cadet Black, sizing him up like I did my competitors before a race.
He looks pretty strong.
His legs were long and lean, but muscular—definitely a long-distance runner’s legs. I watched the other new cadets twisting and bending around me.
How fast can these guys run?
I bent over at the waist without bending my knees and touched my palms to the ground. I noticed that the other companies in North Area were assembling for the run too.

“What do you have, Davis? Rubber bands for legs?”

I snapped to the position of attention, but Cadet Daily had already passed me on his way to stand at the front of the platoon with the other squad leaders.

“HOTEL COMPANY!” yelled First Sergeant Stockel. “FALL IN!” He waited until we all stood at attention, then shouted, “QUICK TIME, MARCH!” We walked with quick, long strides. I felt more like I was bouncing than marching in my springy running shoes. “LEFT. LEFT. LEFT, RIGHT,” he called, his voice amplified three times louder as we marched through a sally port. “DOUBLE TIME—
MARCH!”

And we were off, trotting at a pace of about eight and a half minutes per mile.

Cadet Black took over the commands for Third Platoon.
“LEFT. LEFT. LEFT, YOUR RIGHT, LE-EFT!”
he called in his singsong voice.

We passed a statue and the Plain on our right.
“A WHOLE LOT OF LEFT! LEFT, YO’ RIGHT, LE-EFT!”
On our left stood two mansions, and behind them the brick gymnasium where the bus had dropped us less than twenty-four hours ago.

“WHEN THAT LEFT FOOT HITS THE GROUND, I WANT TO HEAR THAT CLAPPING SOUND!”
sang Cadet Black. He ran to the left of our formation, looking at us as he ran.

“Okay, Third Platoon! When I say a phrase, you repeat it back to me. Loud and in a motivated manner! It’ll keep your mind off the running and keep you in step! If you can’t hang with the pace, exit the formation! Someone will drop back to police up your sorry carcass!” Then he really let loose. “BUT WE WON’T HAVE ANY FALL-OUTS IN THIS FORMATION. WILL WE, THIRD PLATOON?”

“NO, SIR!” we yelled back.

“LEFT! LEFT! LEFT, YO’ RIGHT, YO’ LE-EFT!”
he sang on. I sang back as loudly as I could. I felt great. The pace was too easy, but at least I was running. I felt more relaxed than I had since my dad had driven the Volvo through West Point’s gate yesterday morning.

“LEFT! LEFT! KEEP IT IN STE-EP!”

Ping was running in front of me. I watched his feet, making sure I stayed in step. He seemed to have good rhythm—he never messed up once. We hung a left. Huge, identical brick houses with enclosed porches and manicured lawns lined the street.

“OKAY, NOW, THIRD PLATOON. LISTEN UP!” yelled Cadet Black.
“C-130 ROLLIN’ DOWN THE STRIP—”
he sang.

I echoed his phrase with the other new cadets, having no idea what I was singing about. I accidentally stepped on the back of Ping’s shoe. “Sorry,” I whispered.
He must think I’m totally uncoordinated.

“SIXTY-FOUR TROOPERS ON A ONE-WAY TRIP!”
Cadet Black really did have a great voice. And not too low—I could sing with him.

“STAND UP, HOOK UP, SHUFFLE TO THE DOOR—”

Some of the guys in my platoon were struggling with the pace.
I’m barely breathing! They must
really
be out of shape.
And I was surprised to see that the companies ahead of us had already dropped people. New cadets littered the sidewalks beside the road—one here, two or three there—bent over or trotting along, trying to catch their breath. Most of them, I noticed, were girls.

“JUMP RIGHT OUT AND COUNT TO FOUR!”

I looked over Ping’s head for Gabrielle. She was hanging in there, her red bun bouncing, behind Cadet Daily.
Just keep it up, Gab. Don’t drop out!

“IF MY ’CHUTE DON’T OPEN WIDE—”

I could hear the loud chanting of the platoons in front of and behind us.
I’d sure hate to live on this street, being woken up at 6:30 in the morning.

“I’VE GOT A RE-SERVE BY MY SIDE!”

A “ree-zerve”? What’s a “ree-zerve”?

“IF THAT ONE SHOULD FAIL ME, TOO—”

I repeated after him, wondering what came next. It was like listening to a story.

“LOOK OUT BELOW, I’M COMIN’ THROUGH!”

A couple of guys made a loud, guttural noise in response: “Hu-ah!” Cadet Black grinned and started singing about two old ladies lying in bed, wanting to be Airborne Rangers, whatever that meant. And after that, something about a granny meeting St. Peter at the Pearly Gates and making him do push-ups.

I was really getting into it now, and so was everyone else. And we were loud, actually having fun repeating these crazy songs.
But what about the people who live on this street? They must hate us!

I looked at my watch. We had run for nine minutes. Another company, with its gold-and-black guidon leading the way, ran toward us on the other side of the street.

“SOUND OFF, NOW, THIRD PLATOON!” hollered Cadet Black, punching the air with his fist toward the oncoming company, passing by on our left. “LET’S LET INDIA COMPANY KNOW THAT
WE
OWN THIS ROAD! LISTEN UP:
HOLD YOUR NOSE AND BOW YOUR HEAD—
” he sang, and we repeated after him.

“WE ARE PASSING BY THE DEAD!”

Then Cadet Black directed all the insults he could muster at them: “HEY YOU! ON THE LEFT! SICK CALL! LOOKIN’ WEAK!” And after every phrase we yelled our loudest. I could see the open mouths of India Company’s new cadets as we passed, giving it right back to us. I felt the energy building all around me. It was like being at a pep rally. And suddenly I was proud, proud to be in Third Platoon. We were the loudest and the best. Who cared about the sleeping residents of this street? We
did
own this road!

CHAPTER 6

THURSDAY, 1 JULY 1510

These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do.
If all you’re doing is markin’ time,
They’ll walk all over you.

—U.S. ARMY MARCHING CADENCE

W
ATER STREAMED OUT of the shower heads, drenching me, the seven other new cadets of Third Squad, and Cadet Daily. Wearing a one-piece black Speedo swimsuit and flip-flops, I stood at attention in the shower room of the male latrine. New Cadets Boguslavsky and Ping stood beside me in their black swimming trunks. Gabrielle, on the far side of the shower, was next to New Cadet Cero. The way she pulled at the elastic around her thighs seemed to scream, “I look fat in this stupid suit, don’t I?”

“Grab a boot in one hand, your nail brush in the other,” Cadet Daily ordered. His voice filled the room, tiled from ceiling to floor. “Cover the boot with saddle soap”—he pointed to the cans at our feet—“and scrub every inch of the boot until all the bluing comes off. Got it?”

“YES, SIR!”

“You’ve got to get the bluing off so the boots can breathe. The last thing you want on a road march, Third Squad, is waterproof boots. They’ll turn your feet into a mess of blisters and you into a haze magnet with crutches.” He crossed his arms. “When you finish with the boots, do your low quarters. Understand?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Good. Then, work!”

I’m getting this West Point talk down.
After making it through three complete days of new cadet life, I could now understand about half of what was said to me. When Cadet Daily said, “low quarters,” I knew that he meant the black shoes worn with White Over Gray—shoes that only a dead person would be caught dead in. I shoved my right hand deep inside one of my combat boots and started scrubbing. Diluted black dye ran from my hands, down my legs, and into the drain.

It hadn’t taken me long to learn that the days at West Point varied very little. The routine was already imprinted in my mind:

0530: Wake-up. Reveille and P.T. Formation. P.T. Shower. 0800: Breakfast Formation. Breakfast. Military Skills Training classes. 1300: Lunch Formation. Lunch. Drill Practice on the Plain. More classes. Mass Athletics. Shower. 1800: Dinner Formation. Dinner. Squad Leader Time. Boot- and shoe-polishing time. 2200: Lights Out. Taps. Sleep.

Even the Fourth of July would be no different.

I secretly liked the sameness, though I’d never admit it to anyone. People would think I was crazy to
like
West Point, but here at least life was consistent. Predictable. So different from my life at home.

The pace hadn’t let up one bit, though, and that took some getting used to. Every minute was packed with an almost frenzied busyness. I had no time to escape, to get away from everything and just think. Only a scant ten minutes ago, Third Squad had stood on the Plain, clutching M-14 rifles and wearing Battle Dress Uniform Under Arms—fatigues, Army-green pistol belt with a bayonet fastened over the left hip and a quart canteen of water over the right.

Now we were dressed for the pool and scrubbing like washerwomen while Cadet Daily sloshed around us in his flip-flops and swimming trunks, inspecting our work.

As the water continued to spray over me, I realized I was beginning to feel self-conscious in my swimsuit. But not like Gabrielle; I knew I didn’t look fat, and wearing a swimsuit didn’t bother me. After all, I’d practically lived inside one for the past two summers, lifeguarding at my local YMCA. Standing out and getting noticed was a necessary part of my job then. But now I just wanted to blend in. My problem was, standing here in my black Speedo, surrounded by seven half-naked guys in the shower of the male latrine, I knew I was doing anything but blending in.