Beyond the Point(51)
She could do this. If she could survive four years at West Point—if she and Tim were going to survive the next two years apart—then she could survive a little hand-to-hand combat.
At least she hoped she could.
“I’LL GIVE YOU one more go. But after that, we’ve got to call it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she said to Moretti. “Just give me a second.”
Stepping outside, Hannah placed one finger against her right nostril and blew air through the left. A rocket of blood and mucus flew to the ground. She did the same for the other nostril, and then wiped the rest of the blood on her shirttail, exposing a strong, toned stomach. It wasn’t very ladylike, but at this point, Hannah didn’t care. She didn’t care whether or not these men thought she should be here. She just wanted to achieve the clinch with Private Stanton and get the hell out of this place.
“All right then.” Moretti turned to the men waiting in the gymnasium once Hannah had returned. “Set it up, Stanton. She’s coming back for more. Don’t let him make you his bitch, Nesmith. Get in low and punch up.”
Hannah knew what she had to do. This was her last chance to prove she was worth the investment the Army had already made. That four years at West Point were not in vain. That everything she’d already survived wasn’t a fluke, and everything she was about to face she was capable of overcoming. That Tim wouldn’t have to worry about her in Afghanistan, and that nothing could hold her back from coming home to him. Stanton’s face blurred into nothingness. The walls of the gymnasium fell away and she focused on his chest. Then Hannah lurched forward, one last time.
THREE DAYS LATER, Hannah sat among three rows of men, all of whom were wearing desert-colored fatigues. A general delivered a speech. Someone projected a video onto a large screen with clips from their weeks of training overdubbed by heavy metal music. The video elicited plenty of oohs and ahhs from family and friends who’d made the trek to Missouri for the ceremony. But when Hannah’s parents, Bill and Lynn Speer, had asked if she wanted them to fly up for the graduation, Hannah had insisted they save their time and money. In the Army, goodbyes were far more important than congratulations.
These days, when Hannah mentioned going to the field or breaking her nose in hand-to-hand combat, her mother barely flinched. Injuries, deployment, weaponry—it was as if she were talking about what she was making for dinner. Hannah looked around the room and had a depressing thought. All these parents would have to say goodbye soon enough. Then they’d know what all this was really about.
“Second Lieutenant Hannah Nesmith!”
Master Sergeant Moretti called her to the podium, where he reached out, shook her hand, and then saluted her.
The Army was organized into two distinct hierarchies. Officers, like Hannah, held college degrees, and could climb in the ranks from second lieutenant all the way to general. Soldiers, like most of Hannah’s cohort at Sapper School, could enlist right out of high school and hoped to advance from the Army’s lowest rank, private, to sergeant, first sergeant, or, like Moretti, master sergeant status. Because Moretti was a noncommissioned officer, it didn’t matter that he had been in the Army for nearly as long as Hannah had been alive. Simply because she held a college degree—simply because she was an officer—she outranked him. For the weeks of Sapper School, Moretti had been her instructor, but now that was over, and protocol pushed Hannah immediately back into her rightful position as his superior. After his salute, she returned the gesture.
The small green patch in his hand looked like something her mother could have sewn onto her Girl Scout uniform when she was a kid, only this one was lined with rough Velcro. Hannah turned to the side and stood at attention.
“Sappers lead the way,” Moretti said proudly. He attached the tab to the fuzzy patch on Hannah’s left uniform sleeve. Then he saluted her again. Hannah saluted back.
“Sappers lead the way.”
WHEN THE CEREMONY ended, Hannah lingered by the table of refreshments and twirled her wedding ring around her finger. She smiled and shook hands as people passed and introduced themselves, but on the inside, she felt like she’d swallowed poison. She tried to tell herself she shouldn’t feel depressed. She’d just accomplished something incredible! Only nine other women in the history of the universe had graduated from Sapper School! Certainly they hadn’t felt this crummy afterward. Hannah shook her head and took a swig of weak lemonade. Was it that she was alone? Or was it that having the patch didn’t make her feel any more ready for what was ahead?
“You know, the Army doesn’t love you back,” Wendy Bennett had said to Hannah one night at her house.
It must have been Firstie year—around the time that Hannah was trying to decide which branch of the Army to choose. She’d been on a run around campus when she found herself surrounded by the trees and redbrick homes in Lusk Area. The Bennett’s house was lit up, and despite her sweaty appearance, she decided to drop in to say hello. Maybe deep down, she’d known she needed a cup of coffee and some advice more than she’d needed the run.
“You and Tim are both really ambitious,” Wendy had said knowingly. “But the Army will take everything you have to give. Uncle Sam rarely says thanks.”
Just then, Hannah felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned around, it took her a moment to place Private Stanton. He smiled so wide and so kindly that he hardly looked like the same menacing force that just three days ago had broken her nose. He stood next to a stout woman with dark braided hair and a large bosom.