Battle Dress by Amy Efaw

what was said to me. When Cadet Daily said, “low quarters,” I knew that he meant the black shoes worn with White Over Gray—shoes that only a dead person would be caught dead in. I shoved my right hand deep inside one of my combat boots and started scrubbing. Diluted black dye ran from my hands, down my legs, and into the drain.
    It hadn’t taken me long to learn that the days at West Point varied very little. The routine was already imprinted in my mind:
    0530: Wake-up. Reveille and P.T. Formation. P.T. Shower. 0800: Breakfast Formation. Breakfast. Military Skills Training classes. 1300: Lunch Formation. Lunch. Drill Practice on the Plain. More classes. Mass Athletics. Shower. 1800: Dinner Formation. Dinner. Squad Leader Time. Boot- and shoe-polishing time. 2200: Lights Out. Taps. Sleep.
    Even the Fourth of July would be no different.
    I secretly liked the sameness, though I’d never admit it to anyone. People would think I was crazy to like West Point, but here at least life was consistent. Predictable. So different from my life at home.
    The pace hadn’t let up one bit, though, and that took some getting used to. Every minute was packed with an almost frenzied busyness. I had no time to escape, to get away from everything and just think. Only a scant ten minutes ago, Third Squad had stood on the Plain, clutching M-14 rifles and wearing Battle Dress Uniform Under Arms—fatigues, Army-green pistol belt with a bayonet fastened over the left hip and a quart canteen of water over the right.
    Now we were dressed for the pool and scrubbing like washerwomen while Cadet Daily sloshed around us in his flip-flops and swimming trunks, inspecting our work.
    As the water continued to spray over me, I realized I was beginning to feel self-conscious in my swimsuit. But not like Gabrielle; I knew I didn’t look fat, and wearing a swimsuit didn’t bother me. After all, I’d practically lived inside one for the past two summers, lifeguarding at my local YMCA. Standing out and getting noticed was a necessary part of my job then. But now I just wanted to blend in. My problem was, standing here in my black Speedo, surrounded by seven half-naked guys in the shower of the male latrine, I knew I was doing anything but blending in.
    I scrubbed the boot harder to erase the thought.
    Besides, the only difference that I could see between the male latrine and the female latrine was four urinals. Everything else was laid out exactly the same. The wall of bathroom stalls. The row of sinks. The locker area. The large tiled room, where we stood now, with shower heads all around and no privacy curtains. And everywhere the smell of new cadet-issued Dial soap and Johnson’s baby shampoo, mixed with sweat, clung to the damp air.
    No difference at all. But I wasn’t convinced. Deep down I felt like I didn’t really belong here.
    “Relax, Knuckleheads!” Cadet Daily’s voice disrupted my thoughts. “This is Squad Leader Time.” He stopped splish-splashing around and stood in front of Ping, to my left. “Let’s get to know each other,” he said. “You’re first, Combat . State your full name, where you’re from, what you’re famous for, and why you’re here. In that order. Do you think you can remember that, Bonehead?”
    “Yes, sir,” Ping said.
    Real relaxing. I bit my lip and globbed more saddle soap on the boot. I’m next. Great. Famous? I’m not famous for anything. And why am I here? What in the world am I going to say?
    “Sir, my name is George Ping—”
    “You’re not telling me , Knucklehead. I already know everything about you. You’re telling your squadmates.”
    He knows everything about us? About me ? I scrubbed harder.
    “Yes, sir. I’m George Ping. I just came from the Prep School at Fort Monmouth. Before that I was stationed at Fort Bragg, as a medic with the 82nd Airborne. But originally I’m from Phoenix.” Cadet Daily remained in front of Ping, studying him. Ping looked directly at him and said, “And