Voluntary Force

By Ann Thompson

A womans fight for acceptance at a time when the military gave women no respect. The story is a battle of attrition with her winning by the smallest margin and leaving the battlefield with considerably fewer supporters than when she began.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462812820

Ann Thompson

Ann Thompson, a native-born European, spent her early years in northeastern France, where she dreamt of a life in the United States. She eventually graduated from UCLA with a Baccalaureate degree in English and went on to serve a six-year stint as an officer in the United States Army in the mid-seventies. Since then, she has had a twenty-year career in engineering technical writing. A writer with an excellent technical writing resume but no publishing credentials, four years ago she finally had the opportunity to do some creative writing, trying to find her writing voice and working on her first novel, Voluntary Force. She has had a diverse background and cultivated varied interests, foremost of which has been a life-long interest in the NASA Space Program. Ann and her husband Ralph, parents of two sons, have made their home on Florida’s Space Coast in Brevard County, site of John F. Kennedy Space Center and Cape Canaveral.

Book preview

VOLUNTARY

FORCE

Ann Thompson

Copyright © 1999 by Thompson Ideational.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail] 

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

For the silent women in uniform, the thousands of ordinary service women who struggled for acceptance in the military.

CHAPTER 1

Ashton Sparks quit her indecisive foray. The recruiter had never mentioned the details of the itinerary beyond this point. The information window in the airport terminal was closed. Giving an uneasy look at the sign, Ashton glided her hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. She imagined herself a feminist version of the seventeenth century mathematician Rene Descartes, enchanted by the romantic benefits of a soldiering sabbatical. Ashton believed that the beauty of a mathematical problem was not in its answer but in the methods of its solution; except that she had studied the subject long enough to know there exist problems in which the solution is finally determined to be no solution. Ashton wrestled with that awful feeling of endless exclusion. More than ever, she was inescapably caught up in the whirlwinds of her age. Young women having a driving need to belong, to fit in, to be accepted in the ranks of the military was all the rage as bicentennial fever swept across America.

Too tall to be petite, too short to be tall, her everydayness made her look much younger, but Ashton was twenty-five years old. Ashton had a curious, uncertain quality to her face, as if she was in awe of embracing the voluntary force that filled the room with her I’ll-regret-it-in-the-morning confidence. She knew better. Her grasp seldom matched her reach. How many times had she been certain of an explanation or solution only to discover a mistake? As a computer programmer, her worst dread was overlooking a step that might lead to an infinite loop, an interrupt, software jargon—a trap.

Ashton after a while approached her only co-passenger who had sat down, reading a paperback. Excuse me, Ashton asked, you’re in the Army, right?

His face notable for his disbelieving her question, the young black soldier smoothed his uniform before he said, Yeah, right.

So am I, said Ashton and mumbled, sort of. She was dressed schoolgirl style, penny loafers, plain white blouse, and blue jeans hugging her slim waist.

The soldier flashed a sympathetic smile. Yes, ma’am, he said, the Fort McClellan bus should be here soon.

Ashton thanked him, but didn’t smile or encourage any conversation.

A bus, painted olive drab, pulled up promptly at five o’clock. Ashton struggled with two large suitcases, overnight case, and her purse. The bus driver finally came to her assistance.

One of those new WAC officers, the uniformed driver said as Ashton showed him her paperwork.

Ashton remained silent during the noisy bus ride, lost in her thoughts. Ashton had sensed the isolation of her destination each time she had changed planes. The jumbo jet from Los Angeles to Atlanta reduced to a small jet from Atlanta to Birmingham, finally reduced to a propeller commuter from Birmingham to Anniston, Alabama. Once inside the main gate to Fort McClellan, the bus slowed to a crawl through streets lined with cement block buildings, all painted white with dark green trim. The bus stopped in front of one such building where her co-passenger hopped off.

The driver kept eyeing her in his rearview mirror, talking to her over his shoulder. The Army must have recruited you right out of Hollywood, he said. Where you coming from?

Ashton cleared her throat, Los Angeles, she said.

The driver babbled on about the extraordinary brownness of her eyes, about her flawless face, its clear complexion and high cheek bones.

Ashton maintained her silence.

Most people commented first about her eyes. Ashton most liked her shapely hands. Smooth, sensuous hands with long slender fingers tipped with strong, healthy fingernails, their natural pink sheen buffed to a high gloss.

For fifteen minutes the bus meandered through the streets.

Ashton began to wonder if she was the only one lost.

The bus stopped.

The boyish driver stood up. He muttered something just as he whirled around to lunge at her.

Ashton sprang out of the seat, shouting, Let me off right here! She collided with him in the aisle, let him maul her for several seconds, only until she could thrust her knee into his groin.

Stunned, the driver backed away. Walk! he gasped and went on to yell vulgar four-letter words at her.

Ashton slung the door open and leapt off the bus, leaving behind her luggage. She ran down the deserted road until she came to a wide four-way intersection.

Breathless, Ashton watched the bus approach and stop.

The driver lugged her suitcases off the bus and tossed the luggage in a heap on the grass. Good luck, ma’am, he said and jumped back into the bus which soon rumbled away.

Ashton sat on the suitcases, let out a sigh of relief. A vehicle whizzed past her, screeched to a stop. Ashton watched the military police sedan back up.

Waiting for a ride? The young MP asked.

Sort of, Ashton said.

Where’s your car? he asked.

Ashton replied, Recruiter said I wouldn’t need one here. Uncle Sam provided for everything. She hesitated, gave the MP a half smile and said, The Army bus driver got too friendly. Ashton stood up, slowly saying, Never mind.

I’ll drive you to your unit, the MP said.

Ashton watched while the MP hopped out of the patrol car. The name on his nametag had eleven letters, only two of which were vowels. He introduced himself as Sergeant Ski. His face radiated blatant anticipation while placing her luggage in the trunk. By the way, he said, I need to see some identification.

Ashton handed him her California driver’s license and military paperwork.

One glance, he saw some invisible trouble.

Ashton listened while the MP talked into the microphone. She was the victim. Ashton never before had any reason to go to a police station, had never ridden in a police vehicle.

So, the MP asked her, just as he put the car in gear, what kind of officer you want to be?

Military Intelligence officer, Ashton replied.

A spook? he asked.

If that’s what you call them, Ashton said.

Why? asked the MP.

Diversion, Ashton said.

Fun and adventure? I get it, the MP snickered, you’ll be the diversion.

The remark struck a nerve.

Ashton nibbled on her lower lip, annoyed. Shut up! she said.

Sergeant Ski didn’t speak for the remainder of the ride to the MP station. Once there, he whisked her into a tiny office where she sat alone. One hour after she submitted the written report, the same hulky MP came to question her.

No problem tracing down the bus driver, ma’am, Sergeant Ski told her, but not much we can do since he really didn’t break any laws—

Ashton blurted out, Attempted sexual assault!

Show me your ripped clothes, your bruises. The MP leaned closer, almost touching her.

She let her eyes slide away from his stare, I can’t, Ashton said. Anyway, she insisted, he should be fired.

No can do, Sergeant Ski quipped. No offense, ma’am, but you’re fighting a losing battle.

Really? Ashton replied. She let several seconds of silence mask her frustration, let her fingers slip through her gobs of long brown hair, finally she said, Last time I mistake a soldier in uniform for a knight in shining armor.

CHAPTER 2

Sparks? asked the uniformed woman at the desk, all the while her eyes scanned a list. She looked up, saying. Most trainees reported in yesterday or this morning.

I had a delay, Ashton said. The Army bus driver— You’re the last one according to this Student Officer Company roster, said the uniformed woman and then announced, You go to third platoon. She raised three fingers to someone across the room.

Are you Lieutenant Ashton Sparks? A soft voice asked from behind Ashton.

Ashton turned, came face to face with a young blonde, a stout woman in uniform.

That’s me, Ashton said.

"I’m First Lieutenant Green, your training officer here. Trainees are required to respond to their instructors with ma’am or sir, as applicable. Is that understood, Lieutenant Sparks?"

"Yes, ma’am!" Ashton said.

Lieutenant Green looked down at the roster on her clipboard. You’re in room two B with Lieutenant Kereluk, she said. Get her to fill you in on what’s going on ASAP. Green made a peculiar turn on her feet. Ashton watched her march down the hall.

Ashton entered a suite area with two rooms, marked 2A and 2B, sharing a common full bath. Room B looked as if a tornado had just passed through only moments earlier. No one was in the room. Ashton noticed a person in the adjoining room and walked in that direction.

Just at that moment a petite brunette blasted into the suite. Hi! She blurted, out of breath. I’m Valerie Kereluk. They told me that my roommate was here. Kereluk stopped for a second, her big chestnut eyes searching for a focal point. And I thought I had brown eyes! Anyway, she said with a sigh, I was getting worried that I’d end up without a roommate. Kereluk then asked in a throaty voice, You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?

Not much bothers me, Ashton said. But my luggage is still outside.

The bathroom was occupied. Ashton heard someone being sick in the bathroom.

Kereluk shrugged and explained there was a latrine up at the front entrance since she was going there anyway.

Ashton hauled her luggage into Room 2B. One side of the room was a mirror image of the other side, each side having an identical bed, nightstand, desk, armchair, chest, sink, mirror, metal locker and wall closet. The bed on Ashton’s side was a bare mattress on metal springs. It took twenty minutes for her to locate the government issue sheets, blanket, and a pillow, a flat lumpy pillow.

While Ashton made her bed, Kereluk scurried around the room arranging all her personal things to her side. Kereluk talked fast. Valerie Anne Kereluk born and raised in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, she said, where the worst flood in history killed twenty-two hundred people almost a century ago and now called the pothole capital of America. Kereluk explained she was from a middle class family, had a younger sister, her father had died when she was fifteen. A year ago she had graduated Penn State, psychology degree. Worthless degree without a Ph.D., she remarked. My husband, Ian, also has a degree in psychology and keeps toughing it out in school. One of us has to work. I’m lucky to be here. Kereluk stopped talking to light another cigarette, then said, You’re so quiet, Sparks, what’s your story?

I’m a single mother, Ashton said. She swallowed the lump in her throat before she went on to say, My son Aaron is eight.

Who takes care of your son? Valerie asked.

Maxine, Ashton replied, the same neighbor lady who’s taken care of him since he was about a year old. Ashton skipped to talk about herself, I graduated from UCLA, she said, computer science. I’m here because of opportunity, of sorts, but the challenge as a woman is more significant.

Are you one of those radical feminists, obsessed with woman power and who hates men? Kereluk asked.

Not at all, Ashton said, maybe obsessed—

Don’t you know? A Southern voice interjected. Time to get out of the foxhole and face the enemy.

It was Darla Barbie from the adjoining room.

When Darla Barbie walked into the room, the first thing Ashton noticed was how tall she was—almost six feet.

I’m feeling pretty puny right now, Barbie said. The blonde slender goddess with a long, sculpted neck and symmetrical facial features stuck out her hand, But I want to say howdy before I turn in for the night.

The soft sweet accent—the thickest Southern accent Ashton had ever heard—sounded contrived at first, but it was authentic.

Georgia? Ashton asked her while shaking hands.

Landover, Maryland, Barbie replied, just graduated from William and Mary, degree in chemistry. I’m from as far north as you can go and still be in the South.

God bless America! said a mammoth brunette as she entered the room and stood shoulder to shoulder with Barbie. Margo Poole was the same height as Darla Barbie, but double in girth, not fat but massive—with big breasts. Margo sashayed and shimmied across the room, flaunting an ankle-length yellow silk, low-cut dress.

You have a problem? Valerie asked.

I have a rattlesnake for a roommate! Margo exclaimed. Heathen from Texas, curses, grunts and burps. Repulsive! Margo didn’t speak with a twang or a drawl, but punctuated each sentence with a few dance steps, rocking and bopping around the room, even humming a few notes. Margo finally stopped, eyed her charmed audience and said, I’m looking for a snake handler interested in switching rooms with me.

The women in the room laughed.

No doubt about it, Valerie said, they played personality tic-tac-toe when they made our room assignments. Trait for trait, each room has its X and O.

Which is which? Margo asked.

Valerie said, It doesn’t matter, silly—

Darla’s roommate, Linda Mathers, a dishwater blonde having Ashton’s height but twenty pounds heavier and wearing flannel pajamas, peered into the room and yelled in a high pitched voice, Keep the noise down.

Oh, get a life, Valerie mumbled.

Lord knows, Darla whispered to Ashton, for me to say my roommate is a bit high strung is not an exaggeration.

Linda Mathers shrieked, "What you two whispering about

me?

I was telling Ashton you’re from Barstow, California, Darla said. How far from Los Angeles is that? she asked.

Ashton recalled stopping at a truck stop in Barstow. It had been long ago on a quick weekend trip to Las Vegas, its distance from Los Angeles about the same number of days of her marriage, a mistake she had yet to repeat.

Quick to be snide, Linda Mathers shouted, Millions of miles! Her carping voice tensed another octave higher. I’m a native Cali- fornian, not a transplant movie star wannabe. Linda turned and asked Ashton, Are you?

Ashton decided Linda’s disdain of her had absolutely nothing to do with her personally and so she simply replied, My birth certificate has Los Angeles. Ashton could count on one hand the times she had traveled away from the Los Angeles area. Ashton suspected Uncle Sam selected the two of them only because they were the only applicants from the State of California.

Ashton woke up the next morning to a radio blaring country western music. She jumped out of bed and waited for her turn in the bathroom. She dressed in silence and finished in less than thirty

minutes. She was faint from hunger. She heard a loud commotion of people in the hallway. Someone burst into the room ordering them outside to the parking lot for morning formation.

Her first formation commenced with the command, Fall in! Then they all stood in the cool damp dawn for an hour while two of the instructors demonstrated the desired procedure. The training cadre called out one hundred students’ names, one by one, positioning them in roster order in a formation for the half-mile march down the hill to the mess hall.

Breakfast proved to be another ordeal. Split second decisions were mandatory or, as Ashton learned, you did without since you could only pass through the line once. Ashton wolfed down everything on her tray, then sat back and watched the strangers sitting around her. Twenty minutes up, she heard a training officer order them outside to board a bus to the personnel center.

The morning was a bore of paperwork. Administrative in-processing from office to office, where they were told to hurry up and then they waited, in lines, not ordinary lines, but military lines where at ease meant standing aligned and rigid, in silence. Right away, Ashton’s preoccupation with the form, fit and function of the lines created friction with the training cadre. The specifics of instructions—all given out in military jargon—escaped her.

Lieutenant Green approached Ashton, saying, Your absent- mindedness must be controlled by self-discipline, and, if that doesn’t work, military discipline. Get my drift? Green asked.

Yeah, Ashton said and then added, First Lieutenant Green.

Yes, Lieutenant Green, ma’am! You don’t seem to catch on very fast, Sparks, and I know you’re not slow mentally. Lieutenant Green got in her face and yelled, so get your head out of your ass!

Ashton scorched with her embarrassment.

About mid-morning the platoon again boarded a bus and by the time she was getting off the bus, Ashton broke out into a cold sweat and her stomach felt queasy. She waited in line for a few minutes, entering the building and looking around for a latrine.

There wasn’t one in sight. Ashton bolted out of line to ask one of the many clerks. Ashton darted away in search of the latrine. Ashton retched for several minutes. She washed her face, glad she had earlier pulled her hair back into a bun.

Ashton reluctantly rejoined her platoon in silence.

Lieutenant Green observed Ashton’s disappearance and subsequent return without commenting. The platoon spent the entire afternoon in orientation classes. Most of the information had no immediate relevance to Ashton who assumed that military business was just a game of follow the leader.

Supper, like the other meals, lasted twenty minutes. The table conversation was a murmur of grumbles. Ashton thought the evening meal was served much too early at five, but it signaled the end of the training day, and after marching the half-mile up the hill to the billets dormitory, the platoon was dismissed for the evening to their rooms.

Most of the women just fell into a talking frenzy with anyone who would listen. Ashton sat in silence in her room, listening. She didn’t have the will or the energy to unpack. Ashton knew her old boyfriend Michael would welcome her back for the same reason she knew she’d never ask him. Ashton couldn’t remember having a worse day.

That evening, many women came to introduce themselves and to empathize with Ashton, including Margo Poole’s rattlesnake roommate in 3A, Helen Horowitz. She was a scrawny strawberry blonde, entirely covered with freckles. A native Texan and graduate of Texas A&M, Helen Horowitz held a degree in physical education. Horowitz spoke with a slow Texas drawl and used the foulest language Ashton had ever heard a woman speak. Eh, slut, fuck the Army, Horowitz said, slapping Ashton on the back and bouncing around jabbing her left and right fists into Ashton’s shoulders, saying, And never call me Helen unless you want to fight.

Ashton was caught off guard, but before she could react, Horowitz had moved on to punch on Valerie.

Valerie sat in her armchair, talking fast and slowing down only long enough to chain smoke. It’s a plan, Valerie said. Each day they’ll single one of us out for humiliation to incite our collective empathy. Us against them psychology, so we’ll fight for each other instead of against each other.

Group psychology was a new experience for Ashton.

Later that night, Ashton woke up, nauseated. She crept to the latrine at the front entrance. She didn’t know whether to sit or stand, her urge to expel out both ends was simultaneous. To make matters worse, she’d started to menstruate, ten days early, and the sanitary napkin dispenser in the latrine was out of order. She’d have to borrow one first thing in the morning.

The blare of country western music introduced another frantic morning, the second morning of fighting for bathroom priority for forty minutes. The women were grouchy. Ashton started retching again while she combed out her wet hair. All her roommates came running, offering their help. Barbie sent them all away before asking, Sparks, what do you want me to tell Lieutenant Green?

Tell her I’ll be late, Ashton muttered.

You poor thing, Darla said, I was feeling like that the other night, too. It’s just going to take us a little longer to adjust. Darla’s soft voice dripped compassion. There anything I can get you before I leave? asked Darla.

A sanitary napkin, Ashton answered. Her frequent retching had left her weak, physically drained. She heard Darla’s footsteps walk away and return.

I put some right in front of this door for you, Darla said. Unless you need me for something else now, I’m going out to morning formation.

Ashton heard Darla walk away.

The third day was government issue day. The platoon went through a huge warehouse in single file, stopping at each numbered point in sequential order. At the first point, Ashton was issued two duffel bags, one for field uniforms and one for field gear. At each subsequent point, she was handed another issue item, all olive

drab, all were stuffed into the two duffel bags. One at a time, Ashton struggled onto the bus with the cumbersome forty-pound duffel bags.

After she dragged her duffel bags to her room, Ashton suffered another anxiety attack and didn’t make lunch formation. She lay down on her bed, exhausted from physical labor and depressed.

Ashton questioned her will to continue.

After lunch, Ashton rejoined the platoon, more out of necessity than duty. The platoon had the remainder of the afternoon to purchase uniform items at the clothing sales store and personal items at the post exchange, the PX. Using the list provided, Ashton purchased regulation wardrobe accessories—three pairs each black boots, high heels and oxfords; purses, shoulder and clutch; hats, dress green, dress blue, black beret, ball cap; white gloves and various ascots. And most distinctive, the pin-on gold bars and Pallas Athena—rank and branch insignia—collectively called brass.

Lieutenant Green was on hand to make suggestions on the proper fit of the six styles of women’s uniforms—five of them in varying shades of green. Ashton slipped on a white cotton blouse with black collar tabs before trying on the coat/skirt, the dress uniform, or Army Green Class A uniform. Ashton looked in the mirror, the first glimpse of herself in uniform. Her eyes locking on her own bright-white smile, Ashton waited for Lieutenant Green’s approval.

You must have been the model for that size, Sparks, Lieutenant Green said. You’ll need three just like it.

Ashton thought the most figure-flattering of the uniforms was the work uniform, shirt/trousers, utility, or fatigues. Ashton methodically tried on the optional uniforms, the Army green pantsuit, the mint green dress. The seasonal uniform, or summer cords. And finally, the formal uniform, neither green nor blue but black, Army blue 450, or dress blues. Ashton left all the uniforms to have them hemmed and nametags, shoulder patches, and braid sewn on. The initial clothing allowance for new officers only half paid her total clothing costs.

After she finished shopping, Ashton decided to wait for her roommates. She sat on a bench outside with Horowitz. When some women came out of the barbershop, Ashton looked at them in open-mouthed surprise.

Pussies with short hair, Horowitz laughed.

Ashton stared speechless, incapable of an appropriate response.

Horowitz stopped laughing and changed the subject. Eh, slut, she said, let’s go ahead and haul this shit back to the billets. We can run straight up the hill behind here.

The PX was situated at the bottom of a steep wooded hill, directly below their billets. It was a typical hot, muggy Alabama afternoon, so Ashton agreed since running up the hill cross-country under tall shady pine trees cut off most of the half mile. Seeing their peers scrambling up the hill, most of the women also took the short-cut.

Ashton walked to her room—hot, tired and thirsty. She gulped several glasses of tap water and drank the antacid directly from the bottle. The homework for the evening was setting up the fatigues work uniform for morning formation. Various women passed through the room to ask a question or to chat about shining the brass insignia or spit shining the boots. She listened to those around her, taking those suggestions she thought had merit and ignoring those that sounded ridiculous or time-consuming. The atmosphere reminded Ashton of a large slumber party—the camaraderie sometimes made her forget about the inconveniences.

At the morning formation everyone wore the fatigues uniform and looked alike. Only those who were extremely tall or short stood out. Ashton took her position in the formation, awed by the sunrise through the tall southern pines. She watched as each platoon leader took her position in front of her respective platoon for roll call.

Captain Davis, the commander, marched to the front of the company formation. Davis, a slender brunette with a pleasing smile, wore the uniform with style. Ashton had heard she was a former

Marine who had taken an inter-service transfer to the Army to join her husband. After the three platoon leaders made their morning report, Captain Davis saluted and marched away, leaving the platoon leaders to conduct training.

Ashton watched the demonstration of instructions at the front of third platoon.

Barbie, Lieutenant Green barked, front and center.

Darla Barbie marched to face Lieutenant Green.

Barbie, Lieutenant Green said, using her loudest staccato voice, you are to demonstrate the military positions of attention, parade rest, and at ease. On my command, attention!

Barbie, now with short hair, wore her uniform well. She moved to the commands, with hesitation at first and then with precision. Anyone called after Darla Barbie was doomed to look like a klutz.

Lieutenant Green constantly barked the commands, walking past each trainee and observing the precision of performance and patiently making corrections when needed. Ashton never before gave a second thought to her body language. Now every little detail was scrutinized, her posture, the placement of her hands, feet, head and eyes. After ten minutes of repeated drill, even Ashton learned the moves for the three positions. When Lieutenant Green called her next victim, Ashton ran front and center without hesitation and waited for the next command.

Lieutenant Green introduced the salute.

Ashton, while listening to her talk about the history of the tradition, got so caught up in the topic that when Lieutenant Green initiated a salute, Ashton failed to respond. Green continued good-naturedly, explaining that such a slow response sometimes happened, at which time the officer must stop the inattentive, discourteous soldier. An officer has a right to demand the respect of a prompt salute, Lieutenant Green remarked. Rank has its privilege, officers initiate the salute only to another officer with higher rank. Forget this rule and expect to catch holy hell. You’ll only forget once. Green fell silent, listening to the snickers before speaking again. Lieutenant! Green barked, Get your head out of your butt and use your right hand for something other than picking your nose!

Ashton saluted as best she knew. When her hand approached her face, she touched her impeccable fingertips to her eyebrow and, remembering her previous errors, Ashton replied, Yes, Lieutenant Green, ma’am!

Green didn’t smile, but her eyes flashed approval as she returned a snappy salute.

Ashton resumed her place in formation with a sigh of premature relief. Marching with the platoon for the first time was beyond her expectations. Ashton understood the idea of keeping in step with the others while Lieutenant Green called out cadence, but hers was a real time problem. Ashton continued to fall out of step each time Lieutenant Green put her back into step. Ashton wanted to run away in frustration.

Damn lieutenant, Ashton heard a strange sharp voice yelling in her ear, get your ass out there on that road and stop that traffic, double-time move!

Ashton turned to see who was yelling, causing a pile up of marching feet. Ashton felt a forceful jerk of her arm, dragging her bodily out toward the intersection.

Goddamn it, lieutenant, Move it, now!

Ashton looked at her assailant, First Lieutenant Rabitsch, who looked more like a man than a woman, a different type of woman, one which Ashton had never before encountered. There was no softness to this woman, only pure steel. Her skinny arms flexed huge muscles. Her gaunt face with square jaw was set in a permanent scowl.

It’s not necessary for you to jerk me around, Ashton said unruffled, but, really, I don’t think it’s safe to run out into traffic, I could get hurt or cause an accident. Ashton fell silent, watching as the last of the trainees marched by her.

The ugly woman went ballistic. Goddamn prima donna! She raged, saying, You and your kind with your fancy degrees have no right to be in my Army. I hope your prima donna ass gets run over before you get a chance to fuck up my Army. Is that understood lieutenant?

The ugly woman’s tirade forced Ashton to accept defeat.

Yes, ma’am, Ashton yelled, unable to pronounce, Rabitsch, the name on the nametag. Ashton still didn’t know what to do. She must have missed it the other morning when she was late for formation. Would you explain the proper instructions? Ashton asked.

Doesn’t Lieutenant Green teach you airheads anything? Rabitsch asked and then smugly remarked, Green is nothing but a prima donna herself. Lieutenant Rabitsch boasted that she’d been enlisted, a true badge of merit, before she worked herself up to earn a commission. Ashton remained silent, just hoping the episode would end soon.

My job is to weed out broads like you who are on some big ego trip, Rabitsch snarled, almost nose to nose with Ashton. I get my jollies by stepping on your fat ego like a cockroach. I want you to hate my face as much as I hate yours. Rabitsch backed away and said, All right, Lieutenant Airhead, listen up and observe. With her metal boot heels and brisk movements, Rabitsch demonstrated the road guard position.

Now, haul ass to catch up with the others! Rabitsch said and took off in a sprint.

Ashton dutifully sprinted along side her, not winded or sweaty, but seething and uncomfortable with the binding of the heavy boots, until she resumed her place in the formation that had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the hill on the way to the mess hall for breakfast.

After breakfast, the platoon marched to an open field and did calisthenics by the numbers. Lieutenant Green demonstrated the correct technique for performing the push-up. Ladies, listen up, she announced, effective immediately, when I catch you making any error, you must immediately drop to the ground and perform the number of push-ups I, or any other training officer, may demand. The pain and humiliation of push-ups will make you think twice before you screw up again.

By lunch time, Ashton had done fifty push-ups. By the end of the training day, she had dropped to the ground in the hot afternoon sun to do another sixty, most of which she incurred during the one hour of basic precision drill. Ashton had no idea of the amount of physical pain she would have to endure or could endure. She returned to her room in silence and fell onto her bed, clumsily unlacing and removing her combat boots. She laughed at her olive drab wool socks. Must haves for any wardrobe, Ashton said, would you agree, Kereluk?

Yeah, I can see you’re a real trendsetter, Valerie said. Amazing you can still laugh after the hell you went through today.

The harder I tried, the more mistakes I made, Ashton said, and what was so frustrating was I knew I was doing it. The task was just knowing what to do and when. But once I learned a routine, there was always a delay period from time of command to its execution.

Valerie stopped puffing on her cigarette, We all have the same problem here, she said, the challenge is in reducing the length of the delay period.

Ashton shrugged her shoulders and whined, But marching and drill and ceremonies are new experiences for me. I don’t have the benefit of practicing the routines in private first, the whole world gets to watch me screw up.

I guess my four years with my high school marching band are finally going to pay off for me, Valerie said, taking another puff on her cigarette. I played the French horn. Listen, she said, I’ll be glad to help you with some of the movements.

Thanks, Ashton said, on the upside though, if I do survive the harassment, I’ll have the strength and muscles of a body builder.

God forbid, Valerie said, not like Lieutenant Rabitsch. No wonder they call her ‘raw bitch’. That’s the worst excuse for a woman I ever saw. Be careful, Sparks, she said, you’re on her shit list. Valerie sat back in her armchair, analyzed her smoke patterns in silence.

Ashton fell asleep.

Ashton felt someone shaking her arm and recognized the sweet Southern accent, saying, Wake up! You poor thing. Ashton stared up at Darla, dazed and then looked at her watch.

It’s after ten o’clock, Darla said. If you’ll get the uniform out for me, I’ll be glad to iron it.

Ashton got up, stumbled to her closet. But I’m up now, Ashton said, I can iron my own uniform. Thanks for waking me up, though. She looked around for her iron and noticed Valerie polishing boots, a reminder of her own scuffed up boots that were no longer beside her bed.

I have your boots, Valerie said. She took the cigarette out of her mouth, then kept talking, I did mine and thought I’d just go ahead and do yours while I had all my supplies out. I wanted to let you sleep, but Barbie thought it would be better for you to wake up, get yourself ready for tomorrow.

Darla sat down in Ashton’s armchair, We’re worried about you, Darla said. I wonder if they would just let you go home.

Ashton just smiled and left the room to iron her fatigues.

For Ashton, Friday was no better than her Thursday, marching, calisthenics, running and a lot of push-ups until midmorning when Ashton finally got her nerve up to request permission to talk to her platoon leader in her office.

Sit down, Sparks, Lieutenant Green said. "What can I do for you?

Ashton sat down, fingering the baseball cap in her hands. Her eyes met those across from hers. Do you think they’ll just let me go home? Ashton asked.

I think not, Lieutenant Green chuckled. Imagine the mass exodus they’d have.

What if I can’t adjust? Ashton asked.

The Army reserves the right of first refusal, Lieutenant Green said.

Ashton shifted uneasy in her chair and asked, I have to fail?

Fail here, and you serve your time as an enlisted soldier, Lieutenant Green said and then remarked, Leader or follower, your choice.

No choice, Ashton replied, deflated.

After the Friday evening formation they were dismissed for the weekend, were restricted to post, but they could go anywhere on post. Most of the women rushed to shower and dress to go to the officers’ club for happy hour. Ashton decided to spend the evening sleeping. She could barely move her arms and legs, her whole body ached. Ashton woke up when the raucous revelers returned. She pretended to be asleep. Valerie rudely turned on her bedside lamp and then disappeared into another room. Ashton heard Mathers scream for silence.

Ashton had a sudden urge to telephone home, just to hear Aaron say I love you, Mommy. Images of her son giving her hugs and kisses connected her thoughts to his, almost as if he were cuddling next to her as he did when he was a baby. She jumped out of bed, but stopped. She walked over to her locker and searched for the rosary Maxine had given her just before she left home. She got back into bed, almost in tears, holding the rosary and touching each glass bead until she fell asleep again.

Ashton woke up about seven o’clock Saturday morning. It felt late, but everyone was still asleep. She quietly went to her desk to write a letter to Maxine. She wrote in detail about current finances. Ashton had made out an allotment of a thousand dollars to be deposited monthly directly into their household account, that left about two hundred for her own expenses. Hopefully, they could survive on the tight budget without any infusions of cash from Michael, unless it was an emergency. Thank God for Michael. She finished a printed note to Aaron, then got up to drink several glasses of water.

Ashton ran into Darla as she came out of the bathroom, but hardly recognized her. Her face appeared ghastly, swollen and red.

Barbie, what’s happened to you? Ashton asked.

Poison ivy, Darla said, devil’s curse! My entire body is covered. I need calamine lotion quick before I go insane with the itching.

Ashton reached out to examine Darla’s arms covered with red blisters.

Don’t touch me, said Darla and jerked her arm away. It’s contagious!

I’m not allergic, Ashton said and continued to examine the blisters. Bet you came in contact with the poison ivy the other day, taking the shortcut up the hill through the woods.

Some fine soldier I’ll be restricted to the indoors, Darla cried, now what?

I don’t know, Ashton said, thinking it absurd for Darla to be distressed about her soldier image in her extreme discomfort. Let’s hurry to the clinic, Ashton said and rushed to get her wallet and the letters off her desk.

It was almost noon before Darla came out of the clinic. Worse case that doctor ever saw, said Darla and laughed. He gave me a bag full of calamine lotion, Benadryl to make me drowsy, and an antibiotic to stop any infection. I’m supposed to see the dermatologist Monday.

They headed back up the hill.

I’m hungry, Ashton said and stopped walking. Before I go any farther, she said, I’m going to the commissary. Can I bring something back for you? Ashton asked.

I need a bunch of things for next week, Darla said. I’ll go with you.

No, Ashton said, you look awful. I wouldn’t want you to run into prince charming, looking like an ugly stepsister. Let’s make a list of the things you need. Standing in the hot sun, Ashton jotted down the items.