Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(29)
For the first time, Rio and Jenou step out into the world wearing a uniform. These are not their first trousers—Gedwell Falls girls generally do some sort of physical labor at some point that requires overalls or dungarees—but it is the first time either of them by their dress have announced themselves as belonging to something. Being something other than just two high school girls.
They walk, terribly self-conscious, to the barracks.
The barracks is a very simple affair, one long room with metal frame cots in rows on each side, near but not precisely aligned with tall windows, eighteen bunks on each side, for a total of thirty-six soldiers. At the foot of each cot is an OD-painted wooden locker. Against the wall is a rack with four wooden hangers and a rickety shelf above. The floor is polished linoleum, cream and maroon squares. The walls are tan-painted wood paneling. Artificial light comes from eight bare lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling on cords. At the south end of the barracks is a large latrine area. A stenciled sign reads Male.
The heat and humidity inside the barracks are enough to steam rice.
At the north end is a separate room the size of a small bedroom, with a stenciled plaque that reads Sgt. Mackie. Across from this lone bit of personal territory is a smaller latrine labeled Female.
“So, this is home,” Jenou says.
“I guess so, for the next thirteen weeks.” Rio feels at once excited and lost. The hurried good-bye with her parents did not go well. There were tense, angry words and threats, in particular a threat to march Rio down to the intake center and tell them that she was not yet of legal age.
“It’s no good, Father,” Rio said after several heated exchanges. “It’s either now or when you can’t stop me. But if I go now I may be able to stay together with Jenou. I’d rather have a friend with me; we can look out for each other. But one way or the other, I’m going.”
Jenou’s parents did not bother to show up at all, but Jenou’s family is not as tight-knit as Rio’s. In fact, if Jenou is to be believed—and Rio does believe her—it’s barely a family at all. It was irritating being cross-examined by her tearful parents, but Rio preferred it to the cold indifference that sent Jenou off to join the army.
“What do you think, Jen?”
“I think this is my cot. You take that one.”
Rio looks around, wondering why this particular cot has attracted Jenou. Then she sees that the curtain separating the men from the women will be drawn right next to Jenou’s cot.
“I’m not sure your mind is completely focused on protecting and defending the Constitution of the United States of America,” Rio says.
Jenou grins. “I swore to protect and defend the Constitution of the US of A from all enemies, Rio. They didn’t say I couldn’t have fun while I was at it.”
“Listen up.” The voice is not loud, but it is authoritative, and to Rio’s surprise it belongs to a woman. Rio’s first impression is that Sergeant Mackie looks a bit like Rio herself. The sergeant is tall and has that hard-to-define quality that is the mark of a life spent largely out of doors. Her black hair is cut short, almost as short as a man’s. Her eyes are blue like Rio’s but a great deal more intimidating. She wears no makeup of any kind. The creases in her uniform are so sharp she could carve a roast beef with them. There are four gold stripes on her shoulders, three up-pointing darts and one smile-like arc beneath, and a handful of tiny, colorful rectangles on her chest. Her boots could almost be patent leather they’re so shiny.
Sergeant Mackie is trim, fit, vibrating with physical energy, and shows no trace of emotion, fellow-feeling, or sympathy. She stands at rest, feet planted wide, and there seems to be around her a sort of invisible fence that makes the very thought of being close to her, let alone of touching her, an impossibility. She is a person who, deprived of uniform and dressed in a church-day frock, would still look like a soldier.
Sergeant Mackie has the effect of making Rio feel deeply, profoundly inadequate—inadequate, soft, weak, silly, and hopelessly inferior. All this before Mackie has spoken more than two words.
“When you are called to attention you will stand at the end of your cot on the right-hand corner, by which I mean that your left hand should point directly down at the edge of the frame. Atten-HUT!”
Men and women alike do their best to comply, but not without confusion accompanied by a certain amount of horseplay and wry looks and winks, especially from some of the younger males.
Sergeant Mackie seems at first not to notice the mirth. Then she walks—strides, really—in measured steps, her mirror-polished boots so steady and slow as to be almost sinister, to a tall, beefy male of maybe nineteen or twenty years who is among those laughing. He’s got buzz-cut light-red hair, a forehead that wants to crush the dark eyes beneath, and a determined, angry mouth, though at the moment he’s still stifling a giggle as he stands at an insolent, unimpressed attention. Mackie squares off before him. He is taller than she by a head, so she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes with an expression that is mystified, as if she can’t quite make out just what she’s seeing.
“What’s your name, Private?”
“Me? I’m Luther. Luther Geer.”
“Well, Private Geer, do you know how to do a push-up?”
“I reckon I do.”
“Then drop and give me twenty-five.”