Battle Dress

  “So?” Jason said, looking at his watch. “Is there some kind of problem, Andi? Or can we get on with this? We’ve only got about five minutes left!”

  For the first time all summer Jason actually looked annoyed with me. And it made me nervous. I tried to smile. “Uh, no. I mean, yes—go ahead. Forget it. It was . . . nothing.”

  Jason shook his head and reached the barrel over the sawdust to Gabrielle.

  “Wait!” Gabrielle screamed, her hands fluttering between one end of the barrel and the rope around its middle. “Don’t let go, Jason! I don’t have it yet. Oh, where should I grab it?”

  “How should I know?” Jason yelled. “Am I there with you? Just grab it!”

  “Grab the rope around the middle, Gab,” I yelled, pointing. “Then pass it to Ping—quickly!”

  “Okay, okay, okay!” Gabrielle grabbed the rope with both hands. “It’s . . . way . . . too heavy! I’m going to drop it! Somebody help!”

  “Ping!” I yelled.

  “I’m on my way!” Ping crawled over Kit from his post near the wall.

  “Put it down on my back, Gab,” Cero said. “I can take the weight for a couple of seconds. Just keep it steady so it doesn’t roll off.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “All right, Gab,” Ping said, now straddling Cero’s back behind Gabrielle. “Scoot over. I’ll take it from here.”

  Gabrielle cautiously edged around the barrel. Then she crouched over Cero’s calves. Ping had taken her place, the barrel between them.

  Ping quickly unwrapped the excess rope from around the barrel, then looked up the wall at Hickman. “Hey! Catch!”

  Hickman nodded, and Ping tossed the end of the rope up to him, underhand.

  I chewed on the inside of my lip. That’s what I wanted to do! Why didn’t I say something? Jason had unnerved me. But I knew that was just an excuse.

  “Now, Hickman,” Ping said, “on the count of three, I’m going to push the barrel toward the wall. At the same time, you’ve got to pull like there’s no tomorrow and get that barrel up there. We probably should’ve done this in the first place.” I noted a tone of aggravation in his voice. It was slight, but it was there.

  “Well . . .” I cocked my head and smiled, trying to make everyone like me again. “I had thought of that, guys, but—”

  “Thinking about it,” Hickman said, “doesn’t count for squat.” Then he nodded at Ping. “I’m ready when you are.”

  I blinked, like I had just been smacked across the face. Well, what did you expect? A “That’s good, Andi! It’s the thought that counts”? Well, Hickman’s right. You didn’t trust yourself, and you blew it. I focused on the barrel, wishing I were anywhere but where I was.

  Ping looked at Gabrielle over the barrel. “I could sure use some help pushing this thing from your end.” Then he turned back to Hickman. “Okay, ready? One . . . two . . . three!” Ping and Gabrielle pushed the barrel, and Hickman pulled the rope. The barrel slammed against the wall, then bumped its way up, inch by inch, until it stopped, dangling at the end of the rope about three feet from the top.

  “Ping,” Hickman gasped, “give me . . . a hand here . . . will you?”

  Ping scrambled back to his original position on Kit’s shoulders. Steadying himself against the wall, he stretched upward until he was just able to tap the barrel with his fingertips.

  Then it happened, quick as a camera flash. But to me the few seconds took hours to play out, stretching before me in slow motion, frame by frame.

  I saw Ping’s upward shove and Hickman’s tug, the barrel clearing the top of the wall. I saw Hickman grab the rope around the barrel’s middle and shout, “Yes! I’ve got it!” before he twisted around, lowering it down to Bonanno on the other side of the wall. I saw Ping throw his arms back, giving Hickman a thumbs-up, then stumble, his left foot slipping off Kit and slamming onto the padded chain held between Kit’s hands. I saw the padded chain move forward, Ping lurching with it, and Kit collapse, slipping between the chains. I saw Kit’s face hit the sawdust, his feet shoot upward, smashing into Cero’s face, then catching on the chains. I saw Cero rear his head back and yell. Blood from his nose ran down Kit’s boots and drip . . . drip . . . dripped onto the sawdust below.

  And then I heard heavy footsteps charging through the sawdust, and Cadet Daily, with Cadet Tooley right on his heels, yelling, “Don’t anyone move! Davis, talk to me! What happened?” But all I could do was think about Kit, moaning beneath the obstacle, and Cero, his blood darkening the sawdust.

  “Sir . . . I”—I waved weakly at the obstacle—“Kit, I mean . . . Bogus, sir . . . and Cero—”

  Kit dragged himself out from underneath the obstacle and staggered to his feet, holding his right arm tightly against his chest.

  Cadets Daily and Tooley turned away from me and rushed over to Kit. “I thought I said, ‘Don’t move!’ ” Cadet Daily yelled. Then his tone softened. “What’s with the arm, Bogus?”

  “Sir . . . it’s my . . . shoulder, sir. It hurts. Bad.”

  “Where?” yelled Cadet Tooley. “Which one?”

  Ping sprang from the obstacle. “Let’s get his shirt off, sir. I’ll bet he’s got a dislocated shoulder. The way that chain flew forward . . . I bet it yanked his arm right out of its socket.”

  I heard Jason swear under his breath.

  Kit’s arm . . . yanked out of its socket? I closed my eyes. This can’t be happening!

  “Dislocated shoulder?” Cadet Tooley yelled. “That’s serious stuff! We need to get a medic here ASAP!” He glared at Ping. “And just what do you think you’re doing, Bonehead? Get back on the obstacle where you belong!”

  “Relax. We already have a medic here,” Cadet Daily said, nodding at Ping. “New Cadet Ping. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize the Combat Medical Badge on his chest. Looks like you need to review your Bugle Notes, Tooley.”

  “Wasn’t exactly looking for it,” Cadet Tooley muttered, shuffling over to Cero on the obstacle.

  “Besides your shoulder,” Ping said, helping Kit out of his shirt, “do you feel pain anywhere else? Like your head? Or dizziness? You feel dizzy at all?”

  Kit shook his head. “No . . . I don’t know! All I can say . . . is my shoulder’s . . . killing me!”

  Ping nodded. “Okay, Kit. Take it easy. Now, this is what I want you to do. Try to stand at attention. Okay? Just drop your arms to your sides, sl-o-o-w-ly . . .”

  Kit winced. “This . . . is . . . the best . . . I can do.”

  “You did just fine,” Ping said, staring intently at Kit’s limp arm and drooping shoulder. “Well, sir, I’d say it’s definitely dislocated. See how one arm looks longer than the other, and how his skin is stretched here?” He pointed to a hollow area where the curve of Kit’s shoulder once was. “And the head of his humerus bone here?” He tapped the sickening bump under Kit’s stretched skin.

  I averted my eyes, staring instead at the back of Ping’s helmet, feeling weak.

  Ping shook his head. “He’s going to have to be medevacked, sir.”

  Medevacked? What in the world does that mean? I looked down at my hands; they were shaking.

  “I could try to put his shoulder back in, sir, but I’d feel more comfortable letting the emergency-room personnel handle it. Shoulders can be pretty tricky.”

  The emergency room? I took a step back and hit something solid with my heel. Suddenly, I realized where I was. I had been slinking away from the obstacle, step by step, the entire time. And now I could feel the ridges of the corrugated partition digging into my back. Kit has to go to the emergency room, and it’s all my fault! My brilliant idea—making a human bridge. What was I thinking? I reached behind me and squeezed one of the aluminum ridges.

  “Don’t sweat it, Ping,” Cadet Daily said. “I wouldn’t put that kind of responsibility on you. That’s what the docs at Keller Army Hospital get paid the big bucks for.” Then he looked around. “Let’s see . . . Bonanno. You’re over the obstacle already. Go and light
a bonfire under those medics’ butts. Tell them we have an emergency here and need an ambulance. Move out!”

  “Yes, sir!” And I watched Bonanno disappear down the dirt road, wishing I could follow him.

  “Okay, Cero,” Cadet Daily said, elbowing Cadet Tooley aside. “What’s up with you? It looks like someone beat you with an Ugly Stick.”

  “Bloody nose,” Cadet Tooley answered. “Possibly broken. We’ll need a medic to check him out, too.”

  Broken nose? The hot afternoon air seemed to be pressing down on me.

  Cero shook his head. “The bleeding’s stopped, sir. I’m okay.” Then he smiled, dried blood smeared from his nose to his chin. “It’s not the first boot that’s met my face, sir.”

  “I could’ve told you that, Zero,” Cadet Daily said. “You’ve never been pretty to look at, that’s for sure. But we’ll get you some ice, anyway.” Then he smacked his hands together. “Okay, Third Squad. The excitement’s over. Cadet Tooley, what’s the clock say?”

  “I stopped the clock”—Cadet Tooley checked his watch—“at four minutes and eleven seconds.”

  “Four minutes and eleven seconds?” Cadet Daily grinned. “That’s enough time to get in one serious power rack session and clear the obstacle! Okay, Third Squad. Except for Bogus, who’s about to take a little tour of Keller Army Hospital, I want everyone to resume their positions on the obstacle—”

  Resume our positions on the obstacle? But how can we when Kit . . . I swallowed. He’s kidding. He just wants us to think we’re going to . . . I pulled at the hem on my BDU shirt, twisting it between my fingers, and looked over at the obstacle, at Third Squad. Some studied the ground, some glanced at each other, some eyed Cadet Daily uneasily. But nobody moved.

  “—and drive on with the mission,” Cadet Daily said, turning to leave the sawdust pit. “Cadet Tooley, start the clock!”

  Drive on with the mission? He really wasn’t kidding. But what about . . . I glanced over at Kit. He was slumped against a tree, holding his arm tightly against his body, an empty, defeated look in his eyes. See what happens when I’m in charge? My lips started trembling. I can’t do this leader stuff—my ideas are stupid . . . and I get people hurt. I don’t belong here.

  Cadet Daily spun around, facing me. “Didn’t I just say, ‘Drive on with the mission,’ Davis? You are the leader around here, aren’t you?” He stared at me with narrowed eyes, then followed my gaze to Kit. His jaw flexed.

  “Yes, sir.” I swallowed, pushing myself away from the partition and into the position of attention.

  He whipped back around toward the obstacle, his face turning red. “And didn’t I say resume your positions on the obstacle? That wasn’t a request, Third Squad! So why are you just standing there, looking like a pack of whipped dogs?” He flung his arm with disgust and growled, “Stop the clock, Tooley! I’ve got a little attitude adjustment to make. These lamebrains seem to have forgotten everything I’ve taught them this summer!”

  He stirred up the sawdust as he paced back and forth. “You think that because you’ve got a casualty, the mission stops? Is that it? You think that because this is ‘just a scenario, ’ because this isn’t ‘for real,’ you can just hang it up and go home? Well, think again. Because your performance in combat one day will depend on scenarios just like this one. Lots and lots of them. And someday these scenarios will come back to you and give you strength!”

  I took a deep breath, listening to Cadet Daily.

  “I’m not as cold and heartless as you think, Third Squad. I know it’s no fun to see a buddy get hurt. But guess what? You’re lucky today. Because he’s still alive. But what are you going to do, Third Squad, when the bullets are flying? When you look to your left and there on the ground are pieces of skull and a pile of mush that seconds ago was your platoon sergeant’s head? Tell me! What are you going to do? Sit down on the ground and cry? No! You’re going to grit your teeth and drive on, because the lives of your soldiers depend on you. Because leadership is not just about making plans and executing them. Leadership”—he stopped pacing, his eyes meeting mine—“is about leading!”

  Then he stomped out of the sawdust pit. “Cadet Tooley, as you were. Start the clock.”

  Leadership is about leading! I looked at Third Squad, trying to read the expressions on the faces that looked back at me. What are they thinking? That I’m weak? That my plan was stupid? That Kit’s shoulder is all my fault? That I suck as a leader? I bit on my lip. How can I lead these guys if they’re thinking all those things? What am I supposed to do?

  “Grit your teeth and drive on,” Cadet Daily had said. But I felt exhausted. Inadequate. Weak. Not at all like the leader—the soldier—he demanded I be.

  Let someone else take over, I wanted to say. I just don’t have what it takes.

  But then something deep inside kicked in, and scenes from the past six weeks began to replay in my mind. Scenes of when I’d felt exhausted, inadequate, or weak and had, somehow, pulled through. Standing in the gas tent, reciting the national anthem . . . leaning in a foxhole, propped up with sandbags, a loaded M-16 in my hands . . . performing the Manual of Arms on the Plain . . . making West Point’s Track and Cross Country teams . . . running the P.T. test and beating the guys . . . surviving West Point—the inspections, the hazing, the memorizing, the pinging, the sleepless nights, the early mornings, the ruck marches, the minute calling, the Four Responses, the meals in the mess hall.

  Then older scenes, scenes from back home, forced out the recent ones. Facing the kids at the bus stop on mornings after the cops broke up a fight at my house . . . waking up to shattered dishes and slamming doors . . . coming home from school to find my trophies and medals smashed, littering my bedroom floor . . . hearing all the promises, then watching them break . . . surviving all those years at home—the fighting, the threats, the pain, the guilt, the pretending, the crying without tears, the hope that someday things would change and fearing that they would.

  “And someday,” Cadet Daily had said, “these scenarios will come back to you, and give you strength!”

  Suddenly, I knew I could be the soldier Cadet Daily wanted me to be. The soldier I needed to be. The soldier I’d always been.

  I stepped up to the red piping. I didn’t drop my eyes or chew my nails or cock my head to one side. My time for approval seeking was over. It was time to take charge. I looked at Third Squad, looking back at me, and said, “Anybody know exactly how much time we’ve got left?”

  “THREE MINUTES AND FORTY-SIX SECONDS!” Cadet Tooley yelled.

  I nodded. “Let’s do it, guys! Ping, take Kit’s place on the chains.”

  Ping nodded and moved to cover the vacant spot.

  “And, Gab, once Ping’s set, crawl over him and climb up the wall. Then I’ll go”—I pointed at Jason—“then McGill, then Cero, and finally Ping.” I looked up the wall at Hickman. “And Hickman, just be ready to give a hand to whoever needs one.” I shrugged. “I know I will.”

  “Me, too,” Gabrielle said quickly.

  The next few minutes unfolded like we’d spent all summer practicing the obstacle. And only after Ping had touched down in the sawdust, with nineteen seconds to spare, did I realize that the ambulance had arrived. Two medics were helping Kit into the back of it. And a dull ache tugged at my heart.

  But as I returned all the Third Squad high-fives and received the countless thumps across my back, I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

  Yes! It’s over! We did it!

  I had made the plan. I had executed it. And I had led.

  CHAPTER 15

  SATURDAY, 7 AUGUST 2015

  You must understand men . . . .

  Study their habits, impress upon them and be

  impressed by them,

  Until they realize that you not only possess

  More book knowledge than they,

  But that you equal, if not surpass them,

  In all qualities of manhood.

  —GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN, WEST P
OINT CLASS OF 1840

  “HEY, GUYS,” Jason said, pointing his boot brush at a figure moving toward us up the line of Third Platoon tents. “Kit’s back.”

  Jason, Gabrielle, Bonanno, Cero, and I looked up from where we sat together on the grass in front of my tent, brushing Kiwi on our boots. In the fading daylight the figure looked like a silhouette against the twilight sky. No facial features, no mannerisms that I could see distinguished him as Kit. Just a body in BDUs, plodding forward. Both his M-16 and his unbuckled LCE were slung over his left shoulder, looking like they might slip to the ground at any second. But when he got closer, I knew it was Kit. I saw his face, with eyes looking large and dark behind his TEDs. And a sling—blue and white against the browns and greens of his BDUs—binding his right arm against his body.

  “He looks terrible,” I whispered.

  “Hey, Kit,” Gab called out. “How’re you feeling?”

  And then the others called out their greetings:

  “You’re back already? Good to go!”

  “You okay, man?”

  “What’s with the sling? They fix you up?”

  Kit vaguely glanced our way as he walked past. “What’s up?” he mumbled. Then, dropping his gear in front of his tent, he crawled inside.

  We looked at each other, then went back to blackening our boots, saying nothing. As the sky grew dimmer, conversations started to pick up around us. A couple of tents away four Second Squad guys were getting a game of cards going. A debate about baseball teams was heating up behind us. And somewhere somebody said the punch line to a joke, and laughter erupted.

  Seconds later Ping and Hickman ran up to join us, their boots and polish in their hands and their M-16s on their shoulders. “We saw Bogus,” Hickman whispered, jabbing his thumb toward Kit and Jason’s tent.