Battle Dress

  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

  BESIDES 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—”

  Me?

  “—and Ziegler, front and center!”

  I saw a new cadet from First Platoon, then one from Second Platoon, step away from their squads and hurry to the front of the formation.

  Oh! They’re the guys that did the Iron Man Competition with me! But why—

  “Go !” Ping whispered beside me.

  I scurried through the narrow space between Third and Fourth Squads, and up the aisle in the center of the formation to the front. The other three new cadets were already there, standing in a row facing First Sergeant Stockel. I slid into line at the end.

  “Okay, New Cadets,” First Sergeant Stockel said to all of us. “About, face!”

  We spun around. The entire company stood before us—four platoons, neat and square. My eyes jerked toward Third Platoon. I spotted Cadet Black first, out in front, then Cero, way back in Third Squad, his head sticking up above all the others in the platoon.

  First Sergeant Stockel stepped around in front of us, our company guidon in his hand.

  “Just as the battle flags of the Civil War bore their units’ scars, this guidon wears your history. I know it hasn’t been shredded by bullets or sullied by blood, but the rain has stained it, the wind has worn it, and the sun has faded it. It’s been with you at every formation and on every P.T. run. It’s marked where we camped and flown before you when you drilled on the Plain. It’s been your rallying point for six weeks, Hardcore. And today, it’ll le
ad you home.”

  His words gave me goose bumps. Home. Yes, West Point was a great place to call home.

  “Traditionally, a unit chose its guidon bearer by his character. Only the most courageous and honorable man was entrusted with protecting the guidon, because to the soldiers in combat, their guidon was more than a piece of cloth hanging off a pole. It was their standard, the heart of the unit, the rock that everyone clung to in the thick of battle. And so the guidon bearer was charged to defend it, even if it cost his life.” He paused, turning to look at the four of us, standing behind him. “Our guidon needs soldiers worthy of carrying it. Your four classmates here have demonstrated that they possess the physical strength and mental toughness to carry out the job. They proved themselves during the Iron Man Competition yesterday, and they won’t let us down today.”

  H Company roared its approval.

  They’re cheering for us . . . for me! I could feel the pride and excitement bubble up inside me, warming my heart and prickling my skin. I was experiencing something close to what I’d always imagined gold medalists must feel at the Olympics when the Star-Spangled Banner unfurls and the anthem is played. It was the most awesome feeling in the world. I peeked over at Third Platoon again, and a smile started at the corners of my lips. Be military. Don’t you dare smile! I forced my eyes to stare past the formation, at the horizon. The sun was working its magic, slowly changing the night into day. Streaks of pink wove in and out of the thin gray clouds, causing everything hidden by the darkness to become visible.

  I wondered: If my parents were here now, would they be cheering for me, too? But I let the thought go. I knew, deep down, that my parents’ seeing me now wouldn’t change a thing. To them I’d be the same Andi I’d always been; it was unrealistic for me to expect anything else. But I knew different, and that’s all that counted now.

  First Sergeant Stockel had disappeared behind us. “New Cadets,” I heard him say, “about, face!”

  We turned to face him.

  He nodded. “All right. When I say, ‘Post,’ I want you to render a salute and move out.” He took a step back and fell into the position of attention. “POST!”

  I saluted with the others and hurried back to my spot in Third Squad.

  I can’t believe it—I’m going to carry the guidon back!

  “SICK CALL, FALL OUT AND FALL IN BEHIND CADET BARRINGTON AT THE REAR OF FORMATION !” First Sergeant Stockel bellowed.

  Down our squad on my right, I saw Kit reach for his ruck at his feet.

  Kit’s not marching back with us. The realization of that fact hit me—hard—for the first time. If I could’ve carried all his gear and his M-16 in addition to my own so he could make the march back with us, I would have done it. But it was impossible—West Point had its rules, and I wasn’t strong enough.

  Kit’s face looked strained as he heaved the ruck over his one good shoulder, trying to hide his pain. Then with one unsteady step backward, he was gone.

  I couldn’t whisper good-bye or even nod as he passed behind me. I could only stand there, staring blankly at the stubble on the back of New Cadet Monroe’s neck. Then I scooted my ruck and myself one space to the right with the rest of Third Squad, and the void that Kit had left behind was filled.

  When the injured new cadets had disappeared behind the formation, First Sergeant Stockel ordered the platoon sergeants to conduct safety briefings, then turned the company over to them.

  “Okay, Third Platoon,” Cadet Black yelled. “You’ve got twelve miles to go today, so I want to see you emptying those canteens. You get three short breaks, so make the most of them. We’re gonna take a slightly different route back. We’ve got this little detour through Camp Buckner to break up the monotony.” He grinned. “That’ll be a rush, Third Platoon. Those yearlings will be watching you, seeing what you’re all about. Remember, they just finished spending a year in your shoes a couple of months ago, so they’re gonna be hopping in their little booties to see somebody else on the bottom of the totem pole.”

  A whole year of this. I could hardly imagine life past this formation, let alone all the way to next summer.

  “First Platoon!” I heard First Platoon’s platoon sergeant yell. “Right . . . face!”

  I turned my attention to First Platoon in front of us. The new cadets, hunched from the weight of their rucks, wobbled and bumped into each other as they turned ninety degrees to the right. “Guidon bearer, post! Columns from the left, forward . . . march!” And First Platoon started across the field in double file. New Cadet Valente sprinted to get himself in front of them, his ruck bouncing on his back, and the guidon, held in his hands, waving above his head.

  That’s going to be me soon. I couldn’t wait.

  Then I heard Cadet Black say my name. I snapped my eyes to his face.

  “You’ll get the handoff after the second break.”

  “Yes, sir.” The guidon.

  “Second Platoon!” shouted Second Platoon’s platoon sergeant. “Columns from the left! Forward, march!”

  “Get it up and get it on, Third Platoon!” Cadet Black yelled at us. “Let’s go!”

  Hickman asked me to hold his M-16 for him while he hoisted his ruck onto his back, then he held mine for me. And before I knew it, I was one cog in a long, camouflaged marching machine that stretched across Tent City and into the woods.

  0610

  The first part of the march was mostly downhill, and the canopy of branches overhead dimmed the woods, making the march seem almost effortless. My mind slipped into neutral as I watched the ground in front of me pass beneath my boots. It was almost like sleepwalking. Only my aching arms and shoulders from yesterday’s competition reminded me that I was, indeed, awake.

  We took our first break in a large clearing, stopping barely long enough to top off canteens and check feet, then scrambled down a rocky path to a dirt road, out of the shade and into the sun. By then the morning was stifling, and as we marched, lining either side of the road, clouds of dust kicked up under our feet, choking our lungs.

  Cadet Daily stayed close to us during most of the march, striking up short conversations to pass the time. I heard him behind me talking to Ping about how he had spent last summer, working with a bunch of drill sergeants at a place called Fort Jackson. He talked to Hickman in front of me about major-league baseball players. I even heard snatches of the discussion he had with Gabrielle about Philadelphia cheese steaks. But before he got to me, the column halted.

  “Okay, Third Squad,” Cadet Daily said. “Camp Buckner’s just ahead.”

  I squinted. Up ahead new cadets were abandoning the edges of the road to make a formation in the middle.

  “We’re gonna march through that place like we own it. But no gazing around, you got that? You don’t want those yearlings to think discipline was slack this summer. Do you?” He smirked. “I don’t think so. First impressions are lasting impressions, Third Squad. It’s trite, but it’s oh so true. Now, move out to the road and get in platoon formation. Let’s go!”

  We formed up and started moving down the dirt road, Cadet Black marching to our left, calling cadence. “YOUR LEFT, YOUR RIGHT. NOW KEEP IT IN STEP. YOUR LEFT, YOUR RIGHT, YOUR LE-E-EFT!”

  My heart started pounding in my chest just from the thought of seeing the yearlings looking at us. We marched up a hill, across a hardtop road, and through an opened gate. A weathered metal sign with a West Point crest stood off to one side: Camp Buckner.

  Cadet Black looked at us as he marched. “Now, I want three things outa you. I want you standing tall. I want you looking good. And I want you sounding off. You got that, sports fans?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  We marched past a steep hill that rose up sharply on our left with long tin trailers stuck into its side, like stair steps, to its rounded top. Bodies in BDUs streamed out of them.

  The yearlings!

  The road curved to our left. I could hear the boom of voices from the other companies ahead of us, growing louder. As the ro
ad straightened out, we were suddenly flanked on both sides with yearlings in BDUs. Waving, cheering, some grinning, others scowling, but all looking at us, a river of camouflage flowing forward, for as far as I could see.

  “ALL RIGHT, THIRD PLATOON!” Cadet Black shouted over the roar. “SEEING US ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH. I WANT THEM TO HEAR US!”

  I could hear the excitement in his voice, and it was contagious.

  “I’M A STEAMROLLER, BABY!” Cadet Black sang. The veins of his neck bulged and his arms flexed at his sides, reflecting his effort.

  “AND I’M ROLLIN’ DOWN THE LINE!”

  I could feel Third Platoon’s tension mounting all around me. I peeked at the throng of upperclassmen watching from the sidelines. They don’t look any older than we do! When I looked at the Beast cadre—First Sergeant Stockel, Cadet Black, Cadet Daily, the King of Beast—in my mind I knew they were only three or four years older than I. But they seemed ancient, like they’d been around forever, had seen the world, and had come back again to disclose its secrets to us.

  “SO YOU BETTER GET OUTA MY WAY, NOW—”

  No gazing around, remember? I stared dead ahead, with the most serious, military, “Don’t mess with me!” look on my face that I could muster, belting the phrases back.

  “’FORE I ROLL ALL OVER YOU!”

  “Way to go, Third Platoon!” Cadet Black said after we had gone through Camp Buckner and pulled off into the woods for our second break. “You looked great out there. Now, fall out and take a load off.”

  I changed my socks and leaned back against my ruck, the sling of my M-16 wrapped around my leg. “Wake me up when it’s time to go,” I mumbled to Gabrielle and closed my eyes.

  “Davis!”

  My eyes flew open. Cadet Black was standing over me, the guidon in his hands.

  “You’ve got a job to do, Iron Woman.” He raised the guidon above his head and drove it into the ground between his feet. “Get on your ruck and report to First Sergeant Stockel.”

  I pushed myself to my feet and grabbed my gear. “Yes, sir.”