The Game to Honor |
Issue 15
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General Order 1: TO TALK TO NO ONE EXCEPT IN THE LINE OF DUTY.
We went because we were supposed to go, that’s what everyone did. Conformity breeds obedience and thus honor they said, even if we didn’t agree with it… but I had some idea what they meant. The collective “we” pulled up through the rusting gates of the San Luis Obispo Army Base in California, watching as the dirt from the suffocated ground whipped up a frenzy from the tires. The buildings in the distance were like the color of the sand, tan, soulless, uniform, intimidating, just like they wanted it, they wouldn’t settle for anything less. Recruit training in the summer of 2011 was a test for all of us in The U.S. Naval Sea Cadet Core to see if we would rank up to remain. I had originally joined up for one reason, because I wanted to play in the military band, the only one under the umbrella of this organization. But to play music, I had to first play this game. We were 14- to 17-year-old kids who had never been away from home before, except for a sleepover or two. This scene scared me… but not as much as Hawaii. Here, the orders and apparent harassment were clear and transparent. I wasn’t planning on making friends. Before we left our respective units, we were told if you were anyone, coming here in the 85-degree heat of the Central Coast Region was the right of passage to show your honor, courage, and commitment to the program, as if that was the only way. Scores of Sea Cadets came through here, first names and anything linking you to individuality always left abandoned in the car with your parents who were already questioning leaving you in such a desolate place. I watched from the car window as every single pair of young impressionable eyes gazed up from the back seats of the rows and rows of cars at the men and women in U.S. Navy uniforms yelling at the kids who dared to get out, their dress whites flying around in the dry wind trying to escape their small adolescent shoulders. Getting out of the vehicle, my newly fifteen-year-old self grabbed my too heavy green sea bag, suddenly second guessing signing my name away to this program. Seven months ago, when we transferred over to this organization, I had no idea what I was getting into. I was an empathetic, intuitive, and energetic kid who always had trouble fitting into molds that were not my own. Even now, looking like everyone else, I still wasn’t convinced I would be accepted as a star cadet… and that intuitive kid was long gone. Ever since coming back from that band trip of a lifetime, I possessed a certain anger that I couldn’t place, a certain confusion and feeling of betrayal. Whatever it was, here I was forced to put that all aside. Despite being sensitive, I had a stubborn side as well. If I left, I would be kicked out of the program and the inability to play music wasn’t an option. Within seconds, a superior officer ran up and yelled my name and a letter. For my time here, I would be called “Seaman Recruit Gemmer, Company C,” or recruit for short. I was then the lowest rank of the Sea Cadet level you could possibly go, and they made sure we knew it. Now they were going to put us through a series of tests to see if we cracked, if I cracked. In that moment, out of the corner of my eye I saw my parents get back in the car and drive away, realizing then all I needed to do was make it and retain my individuality, I had to win. General Order 2. TO WALK MY POST IN A MILITARY MANNER, KEEPING ALWAYS ON THE ALERT, AND OBSERVING EVERYTHING THAT TAKES PLACE WITHIN SIGHT OR HEARING. The next part of the game of being a Sea Cadet was stripping you down of the person you knew yourself to be. Before we knew it, we had hauled our green sea bags into the great hall, our dress whites blurring into one mass, all looking identical to each other, or so we thought. Over on the other side of the room, rows of black stools had been placed strategically, as if someone was ready to put on a stage play, but of course, none of this happened here. We knew we were here to observe and learn. Then four large military men stepped into the room, their eyes glancing at all of us in suspicion or casual indifference. “Male cadets get in a line! Move!” they barked. Quietly the males’ eyes widened in confusion as they lined up by the stools, usure of what was going to happen next. “If your home unit has not properly cut your hair to the military standards that we keep here at San Luis Obispo, then you will be getting it buzzed cut today, if you want to opt out, you can leave, but don’t come back,” the commander said grabbing barber tools from a blue bin. Us female cadets were ordered to “keep seats” in formation on the cold linoleum floor, unable to leave. A few of them snickered behind hands and chattered quietly as we watched the males sit on the stools four across, shaking like leaves. In horror I watched as the sound of razors began to fill the room behind every male cadet. Within seconds, their hair began to fall from their ears and neck like soft feathers floating to the floor. Some cried, tears running down their cheeks, but others just sat there frozen much like me, being forced to watch this spectacle, or stripping of individuality. “You females stop laughing or you’ll be up there next!” snarled someone behind us. Their purpose was to teach us the first lesson for a military life- the superiors owned you. This type of humiliation was common and accepted because this is what you would get once you “joined up,” after you turned 18. I knew this is what they were doing, because I had seen this type of heinous behavior before from my own superior officers in my home unit. I watched, glaring at the officers, hating the smirks on their satisfied faces. After that event, we were instructed to our barracks for orders by the company. Walking into the room I saw hot sunlight pouring into the paned windows settling on the white walls. Rows and rows of regimented cot soldiers and wardrobes sat there waiting for us. Observing the one at the front, I realized it was curtained off from all the others. (who’s is that?) I wondered, probably a superior officer. Sitting on one of the white sheeted beds, I watched as a few girls walked over and introduced themselves with their title, last name only. Suddenly hearing dress shoes tapping on the shiny floor, we went ridged, standing beside our metal beds at attention, staring at nothing, not even the person who walked in the room. “Welcome to San Luis Obispo, my name is Chief Kherson, you may call me Chief is that understood?!” “Yes Chief!” We yelled in unison. Chief Petty Officer was the highest rank you could attain in the Sea Cadets and automatically earned her respect, much unlike us. I had never seen a Chief before, and I had no idea what to expect, but after seeing how the other superiors treated the boys, I was terrified to think of how the women would treat us next. I knew too well how evil they could be. In her dress khakis, she walked up and down to look at her new company, smirking a bit, brown eyes not matching the severity of the situation. I had no idea how old she was, but old enough to make our lives miserable If she wanted to. She stopped right in front of me, her cropped brown hair side swept from her freckled face. I had this happen to me before, and It never ended well. Fear and anger welled up inside like a hot energy wishing I could back away, but my feet somehow refused to move. Without saying a word, she reached over frowning, fixing my lopsided dark blue neckerchief. I could feel my hands sweat in panic as resisted the urge to push her away, but instead, I contained myself, staring past her out the window feeling like the odd man out. “You all look scruffy! An embarrassment to your home units! But hold no fear, I’ll fix you right up. The first thing you need to learn, is to make your rack,” and she began her lesson. The more I watched her from a distance throughout the afternoon, the more I began to realize how different Chief was from all of the other superior officers I had known. She wore the Navy uniform, but also laughed at herself, talked in different voices, and danced around the barracks with glee. The Chief was only firm when she needed to be, never yelling except as a last resort. I wasn’t used to this type of behavior, but I respected her for it. She at least treated us like human beings. That night, “lights out,” was at 22:00 hours, or ten o’clock. With the sun having set, there wasn’t anything left they could do but let us sleep. Concealed in the moonlight in our perfectly made racks, I pulled up the scratchy green blanket up to my neck, hearing the sniffles and sobs of the girls around me, no doubt thinking of home or their pets they had just left not even a day earlier. Sadness as it happens is contagious. But I couldn’t cry because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop. Recruit training was nothing but a test that you had to beat, but at least the rules were clear. Turning over to make sure to have one eye on what was the Chief’s personal barracks before falling asleep dreaming of anything other than this. General Order 3. TO REPORT ALL VIOLATIONS OF ORDERS I AM INSTRUCTED TO ENFORCE. “Alright recruits up up up! Three minutes to dress and get outside for PT (physical training) on the double!” and with that we were off. The POD or plan of the day was simple and was to be followed very carefully: 0500-0600 PT, 0600- 0630 chow, 0700-01100 class, and so on. There was no downtime or opportunity to think about home or the decisions that you had made in your young life to make it here, the point was to rid us of anything but the basics of military training without mistake and without complaint, so we were locked in. I understood very quickly that everything the officers were teaching us was meant to help us become “one company,” this was what they considered winning. We ate together, cleaned together, marched together. Nothing was done as an individual. If one of us messed up, then we would all be punished. This didn’t surprise me all that much; I was used to it. I also knew of the mal effects it could have on someone’s individuality. If you were in sync enough, your brain became a kind of “hive mind,” where all the thinking was done as one unit, with no time to think about yourself. I found this to be quite ironic, since conforming seven months ago hadn’t done me any favors. I was singled out anyway… would I be this time? Later that morning, we had class that would last at least three hours. But before entering into the classroom building that looked more like an airplane shed, they distributed one small spiral bound notebook each. “This is your brain for the next two weeks!” Chief bellowed as we glanced at it. Some of the kids snickered in mockery at the suggestion. “You think this is funny, do you? Well, it’s true! You as recruits have nothing in your head, so this notebook will help think for you! There are general orders on the back to which you will memorize and recite on command, am I clear?!” “Yes Chief!” we yelled in unison. Reluctantly, I stared at the white notebook, insulted by its presence. I knew I already had a brain, and there was no way they could control what I thought about and when. Many other kids would have conformed to whatever they wanted them to do, but I could tell when an organization was trying to indoctrinate me into their way of being. I began to hate how they were treating us. This wasn’t what I signed up for, so I decided to keep fighting a little at a time, just enough so no one would notice me not following the rules. All through class we were given two pencils and a chair at a table and a reminder to never talk to one another, or you could be kicked out. Our “brains” began to be filled to the brim with uniform regulations, grooming standards, naval history, and ranking systems. At the end of each unit there was a test, like a simulation you had to beat. At the end of each unit, ranking systems would be put up on the board for a healthy dose of competition. The more my brain filled up however, the more distracted and disgruntled I became, frustrated by the regurgitation of information that was plaguing me, and if I succumbed to this, they would win. Flipping in the back of my notebook I began a secret stash, writing little stories for myself, about a girl who was a rebel, who defied everything and everyone and finally escaped the fence of conformity for good. I wanted to beat this game they were playing, and the only way to do it was to break out of the mold, little by little until I too could escape. Lena was hidden in plain sight. Later that day we returned to the barracks to write letters home to our families. Right as we entered, I knew something was wrong. Walking into the room, I saw a woman I had never seen before. Her jet-black hair was pulled perfectly into a military bun and every crease in her Navy Working Uniform was put just right into place. The sight of her made my stomach turn. We knew then, she was going to be a hard ass, but one of the most valuable skills we learned in this environment, was how to hide and how to lie. As far as I could tell, there was no real logic to their actions. Apart from trying to make seasoned Navy cadets out of children, these officers never looked deeply into anything as long as it had the appearance of looking perfect, so that was what I decided to do, look passable. As an organization, they were so busy trying to keep order that they were unable to look past their own major flaws. All of this I understood all too well, but I couldn’t worry about that just now. Steely dark eyes scanned the room suspiciously daring us to look right at her. “Attention recruits! Inspection will begin now! Any items that I don’t find to my liking will be confiscated. You will not move or talk unless you are told to.” She started at the front room, opening the first girl’s wardrobe. I could hear her pawing through clothes and drawers until she was satisfied, leaving the recruit to clean up her violation of privacy. One by one the closer she got the more afraid I became. Even if you knew you didn’t have any contraband, you were the guilty party until proven innocent. This I knew, but I was not used to having someone pawing through my things like they were a worthless extension of myself. So, at that moment, I decided to separate my mind from my personal belongings, just until she was done. If I did that, I would win this round of hazing. Finally, in what seemed like hours, she got to me, smirking her way into my space. She wanted to make us squirm. With teeth clenched I knew every single drawer and cabinet she was opening, and what she would find. “About face recruit!” There was no way I was going to make her see my fear. Turning around I scowled at her, defiantly. “What are these?” she demanded, clutching two yellow legal notepads. “They’re my notepads, just in case I needed them for class, Ma’am,” I hissed locking eyes. “Technically they are contraband, why should I let you keep them?” I could feel every single pair of eyes in the female barracks on me as I dared to answer. “I am a writer; writing makes my life fulfilling. I want to keep them, they’re just paper and I don’t think it’s harming anybody, Ma’am.” “You aren’t a writer, you are a brainless recruit who should be present here and accounted for, but I’ll let it slide, this time. If you are caught using them, you’ll have me to answer to. You pass.” Tossing them aside, she went to her next victim, breath now able to release from my chest. (Watch me). General Order 11. TO BE ESPECIALLY WATCHFUL AT NIGHT, AND, DURING THE TIME FOR CHALLENGING. TO CHALLENGE ALL PERSONS ON OR NEAR MY POST AND TO ALLOW NO ONE TO PASS WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORITY. More quickly than I learned my general orders, I learned nighttime was safe. During my first 0200 hours or 2am Firewatch, I got out of bed and grabbed my notebooks, the yellow color almost glowing neon in the moonlight rays spreading across the floor. Walking up to the recruit I was supposed to relieve, I saluted, and they handed me the log and I watched, and I waited. Firewatch was exactly what the name suggests- making sure your fellow shipmates are safe from any dangers or intruders that might dare to come by logging movements on a clipboard. Ironically, I believed the danger and intrusion were already here, within the walls. The officers, the hazing, the yelling. Looking out at my blissfully sleeping comrades I decided I was their guardian. No officer would pass by these doors without getting through Lena first to disrupt their dreams. With that in mind, I clicked my pen, the only survival tool I had against my contraband and began to melt away into a world entirely my own, finally able to relax in my thoughts. The night was quiet, healing. Writing had always been a place I could escape to, blocking out the reality around me, absconded in my fictional protagonists who fought everything coming their way. Here I could shed the military mask I had been holding all this time… or could I? Something had changed in me since arriving here, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. It was like every day that passed, I became more and more used to the military life, and I didn’t want to get used to it, because that is exactly what they wanted. Every day was a fight to sustain a piece of my individuality. It was exhausting, but I didn’t want to give in. Maybe it was the organization of my wardrobe, or the way I carried myself, head held high, that made me uneasy. In some capacity I would undoubtably become them. The military life was rubbing off on me even if I didn’t want it to. No respect had been gained from any adult here, they all had an agenda, and I could see right through it. Other cadets didn’t seem to mind they were brainwashing us, giving their individuality away to the highest bidder. I had never fit in anywhere, much less here, but something told me I was beginning to just by existing in this environment. Suddenly, I heard a bed creak. Looking up from my imagination, I saw someone from the Chief side of the room get up, her short hair a pixie silhouette in the darkness. Prior experience told me I was going to get singled out… Prior fear told me she might want something… that would include me walking over to her bed…why else would she be getting up like this in the middle of the night? There was no rhyme for this logic, no reason for me to suspect her of any maltreatment towards me…. but the last time I was around a young woman of her age in a military uniform, it hadn’t ended well. In that moment, I never wished to be just like everyone else. I got up from the floor and began to look busy, checking my watch log for accuracy. Walking under the emergency light in the doorway, she looked out at me with tired eyes. “Gemmer, what are you doing?” she groggily asked. “Nothing Chief!” I whispered, taking a few steps back into the wall. There was something about her that told me she wasn’t going to punish me…. But I still wasn’t sure. With her brown hair sticking up all over the place, she took the watch log from me. Quaking in my boots she stood in the dark silence, pursing her lips. “I saw you writing something… that wasn’t this.” “Yes Ma’am. I’m writing a story, I can do both watch and write.” “Uh huh, let me see.” Reluctantly, I gave over my notepad, convinced I was going be kicked out…. or worse. Looking at my writing, I saw her smile, as she often did unlike the others. Giving it back to me, Chief seemed satisfied and meandered back to bed, the night quiet again, never asking me a thing. General Order 5. TO QUIT MY POST ONLY WHEN PROPERLY RELIEVED. It was graduation before we knew it. July 14th, 2011, seemed to never get here fast enough for some but arrive too soon for others. Waking up that Sunday in our racks we could now make it perfectly, everything seemed to take on a new brighter shape. The end was now in sight and the end of the game was near. We girls chatted easily that day behind the barrack walls but kept a more engrained military decorum. What used to be a struggle like memorizing general orders or facts about a navy uniform was almost automatic, like nothing else was residing in our brains, just like they said. This was an undeniable fact that indeed, the training had changed in us in the way it intended to do. The reality wrangled me, for it happened so gradually, I barely knew it was happening. But there was something that they hadn’t taken away from me. I sat on my rack and pulled out my notepad again, re-reading my stories that had manifested in a silent rebellion. I hadn’t completely turned into these angry cruel officers, but I also embodied their teachings, so who had won the game? Out in the open field in military formation ordered by company, with the parched grass underneath our perfectly polished shoes, the hot metal bleachers filled with smiling parents in civilian clothes holding their disposable kodak cameras for good measure. I stared straight ahead, not even wanting to look for my parents because I was convinced if they saw me, I would break the military mold and run to them wanting to jump the fence before the ceremony and I couldn’t do that, still trying to settle the score within myself. As the commanding officer stood in front of the companies, his gold banded cover glinting in the dry heat reading off the USNSCC: “Our mission of the Sea Cadets is to build leaders of character through the core values of honor, courage, and commitment. You should be very proud of the young people behind me here folks, they are going places.” As we were dismissed, I detached myself from the symbiosis of my unit, realizing whatever had conspired throughout these last two weeks was never going away, even after stripping off my immaculate dress whites. But at the core, I realized I could remain the person I had always been, someone who knew how to fight, and eventually win, sustaining the individuality that no one could ever take away. I guess this time, I won. |
LENA N. GEMMER won 1st Place of the Non-Fiction Writing Contest. She is a multimedia artist originally from the quiet foggy town of Montara, CA. She received her BA in English and History from Allegheny College in Meadville PA, and her MFA in Writing from University of New Hampshire. Her work has been published in Wild Roof Journal, Burningword Literary Journal, The Bangalore Review, among others. When she is not in graduate school pursuing a PhD in English CW at SUNY Binghamton, you can find her taking photographs or scolding her Norwegian Forest cat, Mitchy.
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