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. |
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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