BT: A Rite of Passage

The hot Alabama air slapped our faces like a soggy wool blanket as we got off the small plane at Anniston airport, aggravating my day-old laryngitis and wilting my lungs. Straining for air, I struggled to lift my suitcase into the U.S. Army bus. There were no kindly Southern gentlemen offering to help and there would be none for the next eight weeks.

Other young women soon materialized through the steam and clambered aboard. We stared at one another, groping for words, hopeful, fearful, but not wanting our emotions to show too much. I thought about my departure that morning. Because I had some college credit I had been given an automatic promotion to PFC and put in charge of three young enlistees from Illinois who had never been to an airport before. On our way through the airport, a monk in pink, gauzy robes draped over silk long johns grabbed one of them by the arm. The boy was on the verge of giving a five-dollar "donation" for a book on Hari Krishna before I realized what was happening.

"Let's go," I croaked, indicating he shouldn't buy it. “Are you going to let a woman tell you what to do?" taunted the monk, the furrows in his reddened forehead straining against his topknot. "Yes, why not?" came the innocent answer. He had probably had women, from his mother to his teachers, telling him what to do all his young life. I was relieved to get out of an unpleasant situation so easily. Only years later, after giving orders to many men, did I come to appreciate his simple acceptance of my authority.

It was hard to tell how long we waited for the bus. Everything appeared as if in a dream. Finally, we were taken to the Reception Station, a term referring more to the processing of new recruits than to any hospitality, for we were never treated very politely. Even the small power the clerks and medics there held over us corrupted them.

Precisely what we did or how long we waited there that evening will always remain dim in my memory, but we were issued scratchy, olive drab blankets, white sheets, and prison-striped pillows. It was still light outside when two very masculine looking female drill sergeants escorted us to our permanent barracks. The men were taken to a different part of the post. The more masculine looking of the two women turned out to be quite friendly. She told us her name was Sergeant Chandler and we would be her last group of trainees before her departure to Officers Candidate School. The shape under her neatly starched male fatigues seemed stocky and firm, the only clue to her true gender were the small, rounded shapes at the breast pockets. Carefully rolled sleeves conformed snugly to her biceps. The green pants were neatly tucked into mirror shiny black boots. In the coming weeks we would try vainly to imitate that shine.

Although her figure appeared more feminine, SGT. Gibson had a less attractive face and demeanor. Her air of menace never gave way to screaming, no matter how angry she became. Her uniform was older, faded, and not so carefully pressed.
They both wore eggshell colored hats with chinstraps, which strongly resembled those, worn by Australian soldiers. One side of the wide brim was turned up and attached to the crown. The only adornment was a brass disk pinned to the front of the crown. We would soon discover that the Enlisted Women's hat brass, with its intricate eagle design and cut out areas, was very difficult to polish. We spent hours with toothpaste and dental floss, scrubbing brass cleaner from the crevices.
The equivalent male brass had no open areas.

That evening we were housed in a large white cinder block building. We sank gratefully onto cots scattered around the huge bay and let clothes and baggage lie where they fell. It would be the last evening we would be allowed to indulge in the luxury of disorder. A nagging cough kept me from sleeping and I lay staring at a ceiling tile, keeping my mind a blank, trying to stem the rush of dread and panic.

The injury of being rudely awakened by a distant bugle blowing reveille was closely followed by the insult of being nudged, shaken, and yelled to attention. We were given five minutes to dress and be downstairs, quite a shock to young women used to taking an hour to get ready.

We were shown how to line up for formation and trudged, trying to follow unintelligible drill commands, down to the Uniform Issue Point, or UIP. It was the first of hundreds of acronyms I was to learn. They form a secret tribal language into which I was initiated by the rite of passage known as BT- Basic Training. We pulled on large, stiff fatigue pants, forcing a series of buttons at out hips through small slits: a relic of a time when zipper flies were considered unfeminine. We learned to save time by unbuttoning only one side when the need arose.

The jacket was easier to manage. It buttoned down the front and fell loosely over the hips, effectively disguising any feminine curve. Later we were forced to disguise our femininity even further by being instructed to march in a manner that kept our hips from wiggling.

The finishing touch was an olive drab baseball cap, referred to as our "cover," which we were expected to wear at all times while outdoors. Why we had to cover our heads outdoors, I've never known. It was just another rule among many which we learned to follow without question.

Much of our so-called free time would be spent ironing so much starch into the fatigues that they could stand up in a corner. We eased into the stiffened legs and penguin walked to inspection so as not to "break starch," only to have them go limp an hour and half later in that Alabama sauna.

We giggled at each other and our images in the mirror, playing at being men, being soldiers. Our ill-fitting clothes were dubbed, "pickle suits." The bored seamstresses stuck us with pins to deflate our levity.

About four weeks into training I discovered through a chance meeting with some male soldiers at the post exchange, that the male trainees wore permanent press uniforms, which they had cleaned, at the post laundry. I couldn't understand why we women had to work so hard starching our uniforms when the men didn't. I asked one of the male drill sergeants why. He shrugged and said women's uniforms were different from the men's.

It took an additional fifteen minutes to lace the big, heavy boots. Then we were off, by bus to the reception station for our first day of hurry up and wait.

More important than any uniform was the U.S. Armed Forces Identity Card, the magic key to all military facilities. It told the world and myself who I was. Without it one becomes outcast and must do penance to get it replaced. It became so much a part of me that years later I felt pangs of withdrawal when I had to give it up.

The card issued me on that day showed a pale, listless, young woman with swollen lips and hastily tied disheveled dark hair. The clerk at first refused; then after some discussion, it was agreed Army regulation would allow them to type in my true eye color of hazel rather than the brown to which they were accustomed. "How silly," I thought, not yet realizing that this would be the most minor and least disturbing absurdity of military life I would encounter.

Shortly after receiving the card, I realized my paleness was due to having started my period (the only one I would have for the next two months). I had to get to a bathroom in a hurry or my new uniform would become stained. The sergeant at the door of the auditorium refused to let me by without an explanation. What excuse would he accept? The idea of actually telling a man I was on my period was just too embarrassing. It had been a point of pride in high school not to let even other girls know about my time of the month.
He studied me and then seemed to have figured something out. "It's okay, you can tell me. I'm a married man." Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that any man would understand about these things. It must be great to be a man and never have to make such a personal confession.

It was such a luxury to be allowed a few moments of privacy to attend my needs. With spirits revived a little, I rejoined my group, who were now waiting outside the mess hall, some leaning against a wall, some crouching. The cigarette smoke hanging in the air made me long to be able to taste or smell one. All longings were quickly extinguished by the approach of a small figure with a deep frown, striding swiftly toward us, Aussie hat bobbing. He stopped short. His amber eyes bored holes through us.

"At ease, soldiers! What the hell do you think you're doing? Put that cigarette out. Who gave you permission to smoke? Don't you know what to do when a drill sergeant approaches?" I was still trying to figure out why he had yelled, "At ease," when we were already relaxed when a boy croaked, "Yes, ma'am" and stepped on a butt.

"I'm not a ma'am. I work for a living. Pick up that butt, soldier. Who told you to litter on my sidewalk? That's what a butt can is for."
He must be the biggest fool in the world; calling that drill sergeant a woman, I thought, expecting another high-pitched scream to erupt through that angry mouth. It didn't happen. I studied the sergeant, searching vainly for any feminine trait. There was just a hint of bustline. Later I learned that the only way to tell for sure was the hat. The male drill sergeants wore large, brown, forest ranger hats nicknamed "Smokey the Bear." I became suddenly fearful. Oh my God, was the Army going to make a man out of me, too?

The drill sergeant ordered us into a line, marched us into the mess hall, and screamed, "Parade rest!" to us as we waited in line. I was totally confused. We weren't in a parade. I discovered from watching the others that the command means one is to stand with the feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind the back and look straight ahead. In order to move up in line, it was necessary to come to the position of attention, take a step or two, then resume the position of parade rest.

It didn't make sense. Why couldn't we just take steps forward without assuming and recovering from this silly position over and over? Not yet satisfied, the drill sergeant bullied us throughout the meal. I ate so fast that for the rest of the afternoon the food threatened to come back up every time I burped. Since that day I will not to eat if I have to rush.

We spent a total of three days in the reception station. The only other experience there I can recall is the day when we stood in line to receive a hundred-dollar advance for buying underwear. We were greatly relieved as we imagined the Army version of a bra would be an OD green monstrosity with five hook fasteners and cups like the nose of a B-52.

The less fortunate male recruits had to make do with Army issue outmoded boxer shorts which tended to creep up the legs with every movement.

The cashier's cage was guarded by a young woman in a black beret, a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, whose shape was echoed by a black tab beneath it, and the forest green dress uniform. She firmly grasped the rifle sling draped over her right shoulder, suspended the M-16 down her back, and stood at attention, staring straight ahead. She was rather pretty, with long black hair tucked into the round felt beret, which more closely resembled that of a Girl Scout than a warrior.

She seemed poised, confident, and comfortable with the rifle. I couldn't stop staring at it and at her. First her, then the rifle, then her. Sure I'd held a rifle and even shot some skeet, but I'd never felt at ease with one the way she seemed. If I did something crazy like grabbing the money and running, would she shoot me in the back? The sudden certainty that she would do just that, that a woman could be my enemy, made me shudder as though a ball of ice had just been fired into my stomach.

The next weeks merged into a blur of physical training and endless pushups, weapons firing and grenade throwing, bivouac, road marches, marathon sessions of late night barracks cleaning, never enough sleep, and low-crawling through a combat course cradling an M-16. I was a figure of fun because I couldn't stop the flood of mucus running from my nose and keep my weapon off the ground at the same time. Not even eating was a comfort, as Sunday morning weigh-ins kept supplies of Ex-Lax low and anxiety levels high.

I survived, the laryngitis disappeared after two weeks, but fears of contagion kept me isolated from other trainees in a situation where having a partner would have made life a lot easier.
One effect of the stress was a missed period. For certain I wasn't pregnant, so it came as a real blessing. What came as a shock was to catch sight of myself in a latrine mirror one morning and discover my appearance had changed drastically. My face, neck, and lower arms were baked rusty red into what is known as a "GI. tan." The white skin usually covered by clothing was dotted with bruises, from hitting the dirt while wearing weapons and equipment and jumping into foxholes. I ran my hands over my arms, shrunken breasts, stomach, and hard, muscled legs, feeling as if I were touching someone else's body. Only men felt this firm. Was I really being turned into a man? At that moment, I wouldn't have been astonished to discover a budding penis.

Near the end of the training cycle, we were issued dress uniforms, which looked more feminine than our fatigues. I received my own black beret, which would later be the occasion for inquiries as to whether I was a stewardess or attending a Catholic girl's school. I was very proud of my appearance in the wool gabardine jacket and A-line skirt. The eagle design on the brass shank buttons echoed that of the hat brass. It took a bit of skill to snap the tight Peter Pan collar into place. Black "granny" oxfords were the issued footwear. Rather than wear them, many of us would suffer the discomfort of the optional black pumps, just to wear something stylish.

Drill sergeants Chandler and Gibson, in addition to making us into soldiers, had the duty of ensuring that our uniforms were properly fitted. During the past six weeks of our eight-week training cycle, Chandler had been friendly, cheerful, supportive, but firm. She looked like a man but didn't act like one. She gave us rousing pep talks when our morale sank and we respectfully admired her as a big sister. Gibson had been cold and remote; all business. She seemed to derive a real joy from making us do many pushups for minor infractions and bugging us about our weight. Whenever I had to drop for pushups she'd say with an amused tolerance, "Private, you look like an accordion. Are you an accordion?" Even at the risk of being ordered to do further repetitions, I smirked and laughed at this absurdity.

One steamy hot afternoon when asphalt pavement was gooey as taffy, SGT. Gibson informed us we'd be standing inspection in our winter wool pants suits. We thought she was crazy, but having no choice, we tried our best to place our collar brass according to regulation: centered and one inch above the line dividing collar and lapel. We carefully placed our nametags and marksmanship medals to the left and right of the top jacket button, adjusted to individual body conformation, or as SGT. Gibson elegantly put it, "Don't let the medals hang from your tits."

At one o'clock we lined up in platoon formation standing at arms length from the next soldier on all sides, enabling the Lieutenant Colonel more easily to inspect us. We waited twenty minutes in that position for the LTC to arrive. Sweat trickled down my neck and from under my arms; dampening my blouse and making me itch. It was all I could do to suppress a violent urge to reach up and pull the sticky clothing away from my sides.
The pavement burned the soles of my low quarters. I alternately scrunched up my toes and lifted my heels in a vain attempt to escape the discomfort without being noticed.

SGT Gibson, who had been standing at the front of the formation facing away, craned her torso around to examine us and barked, "Stand at Ease!" An almost audible sigh expressed our relief at being allowed to move slightly and stand with our feet shoulder length apart. It didn't help for long. I concentrated on a tree in the distance, trying to lessen the sensation of pain by putting myself into a light trance. Heat waves shimmered, blurring the blue horizon. My body began to sway slightly with the tree.

SGT Gibson peered intently. "Relax, don't' lock your knees. If you lock your knees you'll pass out." At that moment I heard the thud of a body hitting the pavement, sending swaying ripples of motion through the platoon. A few women surrounding the fallen soldier moved to lift her and were immediately ordered back into position. SGT. Chandler and a medic moved her to the shady grass. We closed ranks to fill the gap, just as if she had never been there.

The heat boiled my digestive juices and I could taste the bile of resentment. It would be so easy to let myself pass out; so nice to lie in the grass. SGT. Gibson looked around again. "Don't you dare pass out!" I didn't know whether she was addressing me, but I had never passed out in my life and wasn't about to now.

The LTC finally arrived forty minutes late and we stood there a total of an hour and a half. She thought we looked good, but our uniforms weren't fresh anymore and our blouses didn't look starched enough. Christ, I guess not- after an hour in the sun.

Sick from the heat, I returned to the bay, baffled and a little bitter at this nonsense. Could there have been a good reason for this? I wanted to think there was but didn't really believe it. At the time I still had a childlike insistence that the world be logical. Even now, I want it to be.

After the inspection, the last two weeks of training were relatively easy. We marched in parade as part of the graduation ceremonies and received the Women's Army Corps collar brass, which depicted the head of the goddess, Pallas Athene, in profile. SGT. Chandler solemnly informed us that we were the last women to receive it. From that day on there would no more WAC. We were to be part of the regular Army with no special status. Supposedly, that would put us on the same footing with men. As men and women have never been the same, the Army erred in taking that noble goal much too literally.

On graduation day, I felt proud to be part of the WAC tradition. I thought that all the women who had worn the brass before me had done the rough work of proving women could be soldiers. It made me feel the endurance contest I'd just been through was worth it.

The day of our departure, we said a tearful goodbye to SGT Chandler and wished her luck at OCS. I was certain she'd make as fine an officer as she was a sergeant. SGT Gibson showed no emotion. I had the feeling she was looking forward to time off when we left. She sat in her office making a small paper replica of her drill sergeant hat for her kitten. Nevertheless, she and the kitten saw us off at the bus stop.

As I boarded the bus, SGT Gibson told me her father had died at the beginning of our training cycle. I immediately regretted thinking that she was ever cold. She had been concealing so much emotion. I stared, not knowing what to say to her so I simply said goodbye. My last memory of basic training is the view from the bus window, of the kitten walking down the sidewalk, Aussie hat bobbing.