Drafted

Chapter 3

        A harsh pounding on the barrack door effectively jolted a very exhausted, very sore Delainie Trenelli from her peaceful sleep. At first, she was content to ignore the intrusion, but, as the volume and force increased, she figured she best wake herself up. Halfway through her wakeup routine—which included rolling over, slowly opening her eyes, stretching under the blankets, and finally exposing herself to the chilly morning air—she was rudely interrupted by a harsh screaming that effectively removed the last vestiges of sleep from her person.

“Wake up you sissies!” the drill instructor bellowed outside. “If I have to, I’ll come in there and slap your sorry asses awake.”

And, on that pleasant note, Instructor Trevor moved on to the next building, the repeated process slightly muffled. 

Delainie moaned as she pushed the covers off, hastening to throw on a relatively clean set of clothes. Shortly after she’d begun to lace her boots, Julia, her bunkmate, dangled her bare feet off the top bunk, one whacking the changing girl on the head. 

“Watch it,” Delainie snapped half-heartedly, rubbing her sore forehead and giving the offending appendage a light smack. “C’mon Julia, you’re going to be late again.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s 5:57 already and you don’t even have your socks on.”

“Shit!” Julia swore angrily as she realized how behind she was. “Throw me my jacket, would you?”

Carefully tossing said camo jacket onto the top bunk, Delainie looked around at the young women around her. Over the past 25 days, they’d been put through the wringer, challenged with everything from army crawling under barbed wire through thick mud, five mile runs up and down the various hills that covered the campus, and long swims through the freezing waters of picturesque Lake Raleigh, a manmade creation set next to the forest.  Then, tired, sore, and soaking, they’d learned how to use just about every weapon the United Army had in its arsenal and studied tactics until they knew them as well as the lyrics to any pop song. 

Her cabin, a dozen young women like her, had gone from prospective collegiate athletes to soldiers within a few days. It was remarkable how well they were prepared for the discipline of the army; they’d all agreed to treat boot camp like a high-performance athletic summer camp. Without the evening breaks, socializing, and excellent food (of course). 

However, they did have an hour every evening to clean, prepare for bed, and talk amongst themselves. The first day, talk had been limited, constrained to “Who knows how to crack a back?” and “Anyone got any ice?” and “I’m dying.” However, by the end of the first week, they’d all been able to help each other with the injuries they were familiar with from their sport. Delainie, a rower, was an expert at treating blisters and bleeding hands. Katerina, a hockey prodigy from Russia, knew exactly how to care for severe bruising. Magdalena, a volleyball player, could wrap ever form of sprained wrist or ankle. Julia, a swimmer, knew exactly how to massage out any sort of sore muscle. 

In addition to injury care, they’d shared their homesickness, their favorite stories, their personal hopes and dreams. Well, their hopes and dreams before the war had taken that possibility away. Now that spoke of home as the elderly might speak of childhood, stories slightly glamorized and taken out of context to reveal only the funniest, saddest, scariest, and best. And, when someone had finally broken down and begun to cry in their sleep, at least three girls had flocked to their bedside, curling up against them, taking their hand, stroking their hair, singing them into a more peaceful unconsciousness.

Now, nearing the end of their four-week crash course in military life, the young women were practically inseparable, relying on each other for everything from providing cover fire to talking out the feelings of homesickness that emerged every so often. And Julia O’Connor, a spunky, defiant girl, had become Delainie’s new best friend.