Military Girl

Chapter One

Chapter One

“I, Eleanor Price, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me, God.”

I opened my eyes. I had been up all night, my muscles burning in a way that did not even let me move.  The clock next to my bed silently vibrated with neon lights flashing 0500. Arbitrarily, I made laid the white sheets perfectly over the small mattress, took out my PT uniform, and briskly hurried to brush my teeth. 

I sighed, staring into my bloodshot eyes, ran my fingers through my shoulder length hair, and wiped the remaining dried blood that had been left there from my nose bleed the previous day; I was prone to them.

I had been here at Fort Jackson, as a prep for West Point, which is one of the few Basic Training locations that has gender-integrated training, for eight weeks, three days, and supposedly six hours. The day that I had walked in, away from my past, was the day that hell ended and as well began.

I believe that the first time that I had truly felt renewed was when the choppy metal blades had been quickly and hurriedly swung through my hair, as a machete through weeds. The only part that my mother seemed to love about me was my hair, odd as it sounded. The only affection she would show when sober was a hand through my hair, or a tug from my ponytail. It felt anomalous to be suddenly relieved of the weight of my black hair that had swung, as dead as my eyes, to my elbow. The same feeling to be suddenly gone from the past.

I never had thought that anguish had a taste, yet the bitter snap that filled my mouth proved me wrong.  

I have been tested beyond my physical limit, expected to do better than the men that I compete against because I am female, and my mental state has collapsed too many times. In some ways more than one, the Drill Sergeant hates me with a fiery passion. He yells when my M16A4 rifle swing is too low, when it is too high, I have wiped my boot clean to hard, I haven't wiped it enough, I had tightened the sheet too much, it is suddenly not tight enough, a pushup is too low to the ground, or my elbows aren't bent enough. Every mistake earns me a spitting raged Sergeant. 

"Price! Where is my dog tag?" came a sharp voice. My open-bay barrack roommate marches in, her piercing dark gray eyes, a unique yet intimidating color, and buzzed brown hair came nose to nose with mine. She was a forehead shorter than me, tall for a girl, but still an acceptable size. I was too tall to even be considered pretty. Even with her buzzed hair, her feminine features were still certainly recognizable. With her small, button nose, surprisingly large eyes, and relatively full lips, she was no doubt feminine. I remember us two walking in the same recruiting day. She had spat at the woman cutting our hair, ordered to have it cut as short as the men. I believe she thinks that she is, for lack of a better word, cursed to look so feminine. Unlike my long, narrow nose and thin lips, and square jaw, I looked like an exceptionally skinny boy; broad shoulders and lacking chest. 

I remember my mother constantly spitting remarks about my build. "Look at you!" "You're a man. You have nothing to look at on your chest!" "Your chest is broader than a table. How could you even be my daughter?"

"Anne, I do not have the slightest clue. Have you checked the hamper?" I replied. I quickly slipped on my beige t-shirt, feeling uncomfortable in only a sports bra. 

"Oh, please," she drew out, narrowing her eyes. "We have seven minutes to meet Sergeant Malington for the formation. We are not leaving until I find my dog tag."