The War Librarian, page 4
When I was dismissed, I scanned the crowd for a flag with a 5 on it. The flags were bright yellow and triangular, and fifteen of them rose above the crowd. So many companies and so many men, but so few women.
Five, when I found it, was no different. A dozen or so men stood around the flag, and I pushed my way toward it.
“So it’s true.” One of the plebes, a blond-haired guy who looked fresh out of high school, stepped forward. “They really are letting girls in.”
“Now, now.” The upperclassman with the flag, a firstie based on his uniform, stepped forward. “Welcome to Company Five. I’m Officer Howe, the Plebe Summer detailer for the company.”
“Kathleen Carre, sir.” I turned back to the blond who’d spoken first. “And you are?”
“Robert.”
I stuck out my hand, but he didn’t take it. “Nice to meet you,” I said anyway. The man was in my company; I had to be civil. “Nice to meet you all.”
The other men introduced themselves with varying degrees of hostility. Mark seemed neutral, David smug, Pat friendly enough. Tom’s eyes turned toward me appreciatively, taking in my red high-waisted pants and bright yellow buttoned shirt. I’d dressed in bold colors to show the men I wasn’t scared of being here—but now it felt like I was just drawing attention to myself when what I needed was to fly under the radar. I made a note to remember that even as I couldn’t help noticing that Tom wasn’t bad-looking himself: clean-shaven with dark hair, no sideburns. But when he grinned at me, I merely nodded back. The rules about dating were hazy, but I wasn’t going to risk my professional appearance here for anything. I wasn’t here for an MRS degree.
Several more boys introduced themselves, and then a second girl joined our group. “Linda,” she said. “Burr.”
I watched as the boys reacted to a second woman in their midst. Some of them seemed less shocked this time around; several even angrier.
Linda came to stand next to me, already blushing. “What platoon and squad?”
We exchanged information and learned we were in opposite platoons and different squads.
“Figures.” Linda pursed her lips. “There are only eighty-one of us, six percent. Some squads won’t even have one girl. Let alone two.”
“At least they won’t be grouping us by sex,” I said. “God forbid we be our own ‘special’ company.”
By the time our company swelled to its full eighty plebes, one final girl had joined. She had short dark hair and introduced herself as Susan Silver before coming to stand beside Linda and me. All three of us, we found, were in separate squadrons.
Officer Howe instructed us to remain with our company as we lined up for processing. Uniformed upperclassmen checked our permission to report papers and then warned us: last chance to dispose of any contraband. I couldn’t imagine anyone stupid enough to have brought drugs or alcohol into the field house. Once the upperclassmen had taken what we didn’t need—civilian clothes, perfumes, and other non-essentials—they gave us our copies of Reef Points. Though the booklets were small, they were thick, and I knew they contained thousands of naval sayings, facts, expectations, and traditions. We were expected to know everything in the book by the end of the summer, and quizzing would start almost immediately.
I opened Reef Points while standing in line for the next processing station. I reviewed the five basic responses, the expectations for saluting, and how to “chop” rather than walk, then tucked the book into the waistband of my pants as I saw the men do when I got to the front of the line.
At the attendant’s orders, I breathed into the red tube of a Breathalyzer and watched the foil bag expand. The upperclassman clipped the tube, inspected the numbers, and moved me along with a nod. Next was a doctor, who checked me for tattoos and piercings while conducting a general health screening. “All good,” he said gruffly. “Now, just for the pregnancy test.”
“The pregnancy test?” I nearly yelped.
The doctor raised his bushy eyebrows. “You have a problem with that? Something to hide?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
What kind of fools did the academy take us for? I knew I wasn’t pregnant, couldn’t be pregnant, but still my cheeks burned as I peed into the vial. I walked out of the restroom with my fingers curled protectively around the glass, terrified that the men would judge me on my walk of shame.
At the doctor’s station, the man shook the test tube, labeled it, and put it aside. “Results will be back within two hours,” he told me. “You’ll be alerted only if there is a problem.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” There wouldn’t be.
The next station was a vaccine in my shoulder. I kept my face carefully impassive as I felt the sting of the needle; I couldn’t afford to look any less brave than the men.
We continued to the vision screening, check-ins with the chaplain, and questions with the alumni association. Then, a thrill ran through me as I approached the final two stations. Linda had tears in her eyes at the thought of cutting off her hair, and Susan’s was already short. But I couldn’t wait to have my long, straight hair chopped off at the ear. I would fit in better with my hair shorn. There was something ritualistic about it, and even the girls who already had short hair went through the line.
The cut itself was unceremonious. My hair was trimmed straight around from my chin in the front to the base of my skull in the back. Short enough that it didn’t graze my collar—the requirement—but long enough that I could still pull it tightly back.
“Thank you,” I said as I left. I had no idea what my hair looked like; the stylist was the same for the men and the women, and the haircut had been done in a matter of minutes. But I was grateful even if I looked like a cabbage, because what mattered was that I was beginning to look like I belonged.
Men and women were separated at the final station. Linda, Susan, and I filed into a line to select standard-issue white underwear to accompany our uniforms. Any bras or panties we’d brought would be mailed home.
“Size?”
Linda bit her lip. “Maybe if I just pointed . . .”
“Size,” the woman repeated.
“36D,” Linda whispered.
I gave Linda a sympathetic look as I took my own 32Bs and my white cotton underpants and moved on. Here was the part I’d been craving: the real uniforms. The Navy might have made me pee in a cup and announce my bra size to the world, but I’d look the part now.
We put our uniforms into the large knapsacks we’d received at the beginning of processing and rejoined the men in our company. Officer Howe informed us it was time to split into squadrons, and I nodded to Linda and Susan as we parted.
Another upperclassman marched down my squad of ten. “I’m Midshipman Ensign Michael,” he announced.
“You will call me and all other officers and upperclassmen ‘officer’ or ‘sir.’ ”
I clenched my toes. There would be no women in the upper classes. Many a “sir,” never a “ma’am.”
Midshipman Ensign Michael led us through the parade rest and facing routines, which we practiced several times. I concentrated to make sure I turned on the correct toes and heels, at just the right degree—and thank God. One man put his weight on the wrong foot and received a lengthy verbal bashing. Only Tom got a compliment.
When Midshipman Ensign Michael was satisfied with our performance, he led us outside. The material of the sack slung behind my shoulder scratched my skin in the heat, but I worked to keep my face neutral. Don’t show any weakness, I reminded myself. You’re in the Navy now.
“Welcome to Bancroft Hall,” Ensign Michael said. The building was impressive, with stone columns and dormer windows. “All midshipmen live in its eight wings.”
The man next to me, Pat, leaned over and whispered, “I heard it has its own zip code.”
“Barry!” Ensign Michael spun on his heel and faced Pat. “You do not speak out of turn in formation!”
Pat’s face flushed deep red. “No excuse, sir.”
“What did you say?”
“No excuse, sir!”
Ensign Michael nodded. “I do not expect you to make that mistake again.”
“Sir, no, sir.”
The officer surveyed us all. “I do not expect any of you to make that mistake again.”
We chorused our response, and Ensign Michael led us up the marble steps and through Bancroft’s grand entryway.
My shoes clicked across the pink and black floor as we ascended a marble staircase. “Memorial Hall,” said Ensign Michael. A sparkling, domed skylight cast rays of sun across the wood-paneled floor, and a collective sigh of appreciation came from our squadron.
JFK had spoken here in 1963; he’d said there was no more rewarding career than this one. I shivered to be in the spot where he’d been and fixed my eyes on the don’t give up the ship flag across the lobby. Below it was a large plaque dedicated to fallen midshipmen, and I made a promise right then to memorize it. Dedicated to the honor of those alumni who have been killed in action defending the ideals of their country, with immortal valor and the price of their lives—
“Carre!”
I jumped. “Sir?”
“You failed to salute the flag.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” But I couldn’t let him think I was incompetent. “I was under the impression that we saluted outdoors only, sir.”
“That rule applies to the saluting of officers,” he snapped. “The American flag is saluted at all times.” Arms clasped behind his back, he marched up to me. His heels clicked with rhythmic precision on the wood floor. Deck, I corrected myself. It wasn’t called a floor here.
“And you do not respond to a question with an excuse, Miss Carre.” His miss dripped with condescension. “You respond with ‘No excuse, sir.’ So I will ask you again. Why didn’t you salute the American flag?”
I swallowed my pride. “No excuse, sir.”
“Will you make this mistake again?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“What did you say?”
I consoled myself with the fact that Pat had received the same treatment for his mistake; this was not because I was a woman. I took a breath and shouted louder. “Sir, no, sir!”
“Good.” The officer turned stiffly on his heel. “Because it’s going to take a lot to convince me you belong here.”
Not the same as with Pat, then. My knees trembled as we marched up to the fifth deck.
“Room 201,” Ensign Michael called out. “Crawford, Skinner. Fall out.” The handsome Tom and hostile Robert obeyed. “Room 202. Barry and Gleeson.”
The other men peeled off one by one and two by two, those on their own to be joined by boys from other squadrons in Company Five. Each door was marked with their black name plates and graduation year, and I couldn’t wait to see my own name beside the ’80 like a promise.
When I did, it was on a white placard that differentiated our room from the men’s. Burr, ’80, Carre, ’80, Silver, ’80. Linda, Susan, and I would be three to the room.
I nodded thanks to Ensign Michael and stepped into the room. The space was small and bare, and I took it all in in a matter of seconds: three beds crammed into space for two, three shelves, three desks in the center of the room.
The door opened again before I’d moved from my spot between it and the sink. I stepped sideways to make room and found myself practically inside the shower.
Linda staggered into the room under the weight of her knapsack, her big blond curls trimmed short. “Kathleen, right?”
I nodded.
“How was your day?” She let her bag slump to the ground.
I laughed. “No ‘was’ about it, I’m afraid. We’ve still got plenty to do after lunch.”
She groaned. “I’m starved. They should give us two lunches when our day goes so long.”
“If only.” I ran the calculations in my head. “Seven hours left, right?”
“Exactly. We’re not even sixty percent of the way through!” Linda moaned. “Much less two-thirds.”
I snorted. “I thought I’d studied the schedule.”
Linda bent to pick up her bag, hiding her face. “It’s the way I think,” she said. I could see the red in her cheeks despite her crouching to hide it. “In numbers. It’s not usually so obvious, but I get obsessed with it when I’m nervous. Keeps me calm.”
I shrugged. “That’s what running does for me. Will math be your major?”
Linda nodded, her face clearing of color. “What about yours?”
I sighed. “Naval architecture and ocean engineering, or operations research.” I hated coming in undecided. “It’s hard to decide when we don’t know if we’ll be allowed in combat.”
Linda scrunched up her nose. “We aren’t allowed.”
“I know. But we weren’t allowed at the academy a year ago, and that changed. I suspect combat won’t be far behind.”
It had been World War II’s women who’d gotten the Women’s Armed Services Integration Act passed decades ago, but it had been a false victory. Section 502 of the act forbade women from serving on Navy or Air Force aircraft, ships, submarines, or any other vessels that might engage in contact.
But as Bob Dylan said, times were a-changing.
We could enter the academies now; soon enough, they’d have to let us engage in combat. That was the entire point.
The door swung open again.
“Susan!” Linda turned.
Susan entered the room unchanged, though her short hair no longer stood out in a crowd. She gave a quick wave as she heaved her bag to the ground. “Girls.”
I gave her a mock salute, and she laughed.
“How were y’all’s mornings?”
I was surprised to hear her southern drawl. Somehow, I’d pictured her the New York type.
“Overwhelming,” Linda confessed.
“And about to get a lot more overwhelming,” I said, pulling out my uniform and getting the first good look at its pieces.
Linda and Susan turned and gasped. “Heels?”
“Looks like it.” I dangled the black pumps from my fingers. “These are the only shoes in here.”
Linda grabbed the left shoe and pressed her thumb up against its heel. “Three inches.”
“There’s no way!” Susan cried. “They expect us to march around the grass in heels? I won’t do it.”
I set my mouth in a firm line. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
We pulled on our uniforms piece by piece. The new white cotton underwear and bras, the tights. The white pants with wide waistbands and jackets with thick, crisp collars. And then, finally, the heels. When we were all dressed, we looked at each other’s outfits in disbelief.
“This is ridiculous,” Susan grumbled.
I agreed with her, but I wasn’t going to let anything slow me down. “Could be worse.”
“I don’t know,” Linda moaned. “I’ve never been good at walking in heels.”
“At least they’re not stilettos,” I said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
“You didn’t see me at prom,” Linda countered. “Total disaster.”
The two of us laughed, but Susan didn’t crack a smile. “I still think it’s ridiculous.”
A knock came at the door before we could respond. Time for lunch.
“Think they’ll give us the same food the boys get?” Susan raised her eyebrows as we filed out. “Or will they give us the skinny versions?”
I snorted. “Bleu cheese for the boys, pink cheese for us?” This time, Susan did laugh, and we all three set out down the hallway, or, in Navy-speak, the passageway. I was painfully aware of our heels clicking, singling us out from the men.
“There are three hundred and two tables in the mess hall,” Linda told us as we walked in. Then she winced. “Sorry. Not relevant.”
“Hey.” I turned to her. “Don’t cut yourself down like that. Memorization is critical in the academy. Have you seen how thick Reef Points is?”
Linda didn’t relax. Her shoulders threatened to swallow her neck, they were so high up toward her ears. “It’s hard not to be nervous.”
“Sure.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “But we can do this.”
“Thanks.” Linda gave me a shy smile and then shook herself off. “Anyway, do you girls see your parents?”
I grimaced. “I came out here on my own, so no.”
Susan nudged me. “My mom didn’t come, either. She hates that I’m here. Come sit with my dad and me?”
I glanced at Linda, who was waving across the room to another blond-ringleted woman who had to be her mother.
“Are you sure?”
“It’ll ease the awkwardness, honestly.” Susan laughed. “He’s tried to be supportive, but he doesn’t much know how to talk to me. He alternates between pretending I’m a boy and asking me bizarre questions about clothes and makeup.”
I chuckled and followed Susan through the crowd as she searched for him.
“There he is.” A dark-haired, burly man waved at Susan through the mass of bodies. He was about three times Susan’s size but looked as awkward and nervous as Linda.
“Told you,” Susan hissed. “He’s not quite sure how to act without my mother around to whip him into shape.”
Susan rolled her eyes, but I imagined having a mother that whipped people into shape with envy. My mother didn’t even have her own shape, I thought sometimes. She was amorphous. She never called from the same phone twice, and she was always talking about some new hobby or new purchase or new group of friends.
“Dad, this is Kathleen.” Susan introduced me to her father, who shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he replied.
“And you. Susan said you wouldn’t mind if I sat with you two for lunch?”
