Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(28)
The camp, which they’ve been told is named Camp Maron, consists of a series of long wooden barracks that, judging by the smell of pinewood and paint, have been slapped together within just the last few days.
But this new construction is mirrored by an older, more run-down version of itself called Camp Szekely, which is just across a sluggish, green, reed-choked stream. No bridge crosses the stream, so to move from Camp Maron to Camp Szekely you have to leave by the front gate of one, drive half a mile down an orange clay road, and enter the other camp. It’s a mile away by road, but you could throw a rock from one camp to the other.
The colors here are green, gray, and orange. Green trees—hemlock, beech, and oak, but more shaggy, unsteady-looking pine than anything else. Some of the hardwoods are hung with Spanish moss, a sort of gray garland that gives everything an aged and mournful look.
The cleared areas are startlingly orange. Wet red clay holds shapes well, so the roads and bare fields are patterned by the big tires of deuce-and-a-half trucks, jeeps, graders, tractors, and, most basically, boots.
The first mosquito appears within twenty seconds of Rio climbing from the bus.
“Parade rest. That means you widen your stance and link your hands behind your backs. NO! Not with the soldier next to you, goddammit! Your own hands! Now, listen up, men,” the sergeant says in a perturbed but not-unfriendly voice. “You will pick up your gear and fall out to the barracks you see on your . . . Not now, you fugging ninnies, you fall out when I give the order! Sweet suffering Jesus in a chicken basket!”
The few who went running to their bags and shabby suitcases piled up outside the steaming bus quickly hop back in line.
“You will fall out to the quartermaster to be issued your uniforms and gear. Then you will proceed to your assigned barracks. And there you will find your new home. One barracks—and only one—will be shared by male and female recruits; we do not have the luxury of separate facilities. So there is a curtain that will be drawn across to separate you. Women bunk on the north side, men bunk on the south side of that line. Get squared away and be ready in one hour. Atten-HUT! Dismissed!”
Rio and Jenou trot back to search for their bags—they’ve been told to bring nothing but a few small personal items and a change of clothing. One of the men offers to carry Jenou’s bag for her, and Rio can see that she’s just about to consent.
“She can carry her own bag,” Rio says. “Thanks just the same.”
Jenou gives her a wry look, but Rio has an instinct born of the long train ride and the bus ride with male recruits. Her instinct tells her that the way to survive here is to take nothing from anyone.
The quartermaster occupies a long, low wooden structure with trucks parked in back and jeeps in front. Inside, the sexes are sent in different directions, women following a tacked-up piece of paper that says “Ladies.” Rio wonders if the quotation marks are meant to be a smart-aleck commentary.
A female corporal with a clipboard repeats, “Strip to your panties, put your things in a box, label the box using the grease pencils, advance.”
They file mostly naked into the hallway, which has blessedly been blocked by a hastily attached curtain. But they must pass a window en route, and a pair of soldiers are leering in at them, pointing and making inaudible comments.
Rio’s face burns red, and she clutches the box to her chest protectively, while Jenou winks at the soldiers and half-lowers her box teasingly before sticking out her tongue.
They advance to a waist-high counter. A female private behind the counter looks Rio up and down with the quick professional glance of a woman who was, until three months ago, a clerk at Carson, Pirie, Scott department store in Chicago. “Twenty-four waist, thirty-four length, and a medium blouse.” She reaches into the cut-down cardboard boxes behind her and produces two olive drab uniforms and a set of fatigues. These she slaps on the counter.
Rio starts to move on.
“Wait.” The clerk produces three undershirts, three pairs of men’s boxer shorts, three pairs of socks. “Shoe size, cup size?”
“My pumps are size six, but—”
“Size seven.” Boots appear.
“Cup? Come on, honey, you’ve bought a bra before, haven’t you?”
“Thirty-two B.”
“Sure, if you say so.” The private reaches into a box clearly labeled Brassiere, OD, Size: A Cup. “The strap’s adjustable. You’ll get used to it. Move along.”
Rio is on the point of arguing, but there isn’t much a person can say standing there in panties. So she piles her new clothing up, slides her arms beneath the pile, and staggers back to the converted closet where women and girls chat noisily and begin a process that will not end before the war itself: complaining about the army.
“What are these things supposed to be?” A woman holds up her new olive drab bra with far more buckles and straps than usual.
“These socks itch like crazy.”
“This is definitely not my size. Who sewed this blouse? Just look at this stitching.”
Rio dresses and waits for Jenou to catch up. Both breathe a sigh of relief when they are fully covered, though nothing fits quite right.
It’s the boots that feel strangest. They are undeniably masculine, brown leather, laced up to above the ankles. They are heavy and solid and the leather squeaks as Rio walks in them, trying them out.