Every morning, from March 3 through May 18, 1988, at an ungodly 3:45 a.m., I would awaken to the smell of paste wax and wool blankets. The view from my bunk was of the mattress and springs on the underside of the bunk above me. I would pull myself out of the regulation-tight sheets and 
blanket, and immediately fold, pull, and tuck the bunk back into its presentable appearance for room inspection. On my trek across the buffed floor down the corridor, I would make my way to the latrine for the call of nature, passing my bleary-eyed platoon-mates on the way. There was another full schedule for the day, just like the day before, and the day before that, and accordingly, all soldiers had to be up before the sun. Fort Never-Leave was a grudging endearment for a place known more exactly as Fort Lee, Virginia. The tag came from the time that most recruits spent there in Advanced Individual Training (AIT) for the U.S. Army. Since it is a Quartermaster School, most training cycles lasted from eight to twenty-two weeks, a time-frame which could easily seem unbearably endless for those without the proper focus.
The stay at Fort Never-Leave was spent in much the same atmosphere as a Basic Training environment, although the recruits are allowed to have some obligatory freedoms. This freedom was probably in place to discourage would-be deserters, and was based on two kinds of hierarchies: one, was the hierarchy of military rank. The chain of command is crucial to the operation of the military itself. At Fort Lee, the Sergeants were in charge of nearly everything, with the Captains making appearances about once a week. The Drill Sergeants were the motivating force, and the staff sergeants took care of all the administrative details that kept the system running like a well-oiled machine. The next hierarchy is an informal one, understood solely by word-of-mouth. Each Newbie (as new recruits are called) must be mindful of who is in charge on that baser level. The Platoon Leader and Squad Leaders are given a certain amount of control and authority over the day to day operations within the group. It is really these people who can make life miserable for you.
The base was a mini-metropolis, with all the basic amenities of normal life. There was a PX (the facsimile of a large department store), a movie theatre, a library, a Burger King, taxi cabs, and a plethora of old and new buildings and landmarks. When the weekends rolled around and we were released from the more restrictive environment after the fifth week of our "incarceration," we would all flee to the comfort and relief of our favorite hotel. It was almost easy to forget that that freedom was merely a furlough. Come Sunday night, there was always a formation of all personnel, including Whiskey Company, of which I was a part. We were all expected to be in uniform and up to snuff, or pay the consequences by long hours of busy-work designed to teach us to be more careful next time.
My room contained six bunks, stacked two high, and there was very little space in which to move. We each had a tall, double-door locker where we kept all our worldly goods, sometimes in pristine military fashion, and sometimes not. The times we did not always seemed to fall on the day of surprise inspection. Once, when I was certain that the inspection-bug was in the air, I took great pains to see that my locker and bunk were in tip-top condition. I removed everything from my locker, scrubbed it until it shone, and then I replaced my belongings in military precision back inside. My uniforms were hung in perfect sequence, all the outside sleeves folded just-so, the hangers an exact inch apart. My socks and underwear were all rolled and placed in the top drawer in perfect rows. My personal drawer was neat and organized, and my T-shirts were rolled smoothly and nestled in the bottom drawer. On top of the three-drawer dresser, fastened to a large index card, were my service ribbons, Expert rifle, bayonet, and grenade badge, and the various and sundry brass pins--just as they would appear on my dress uniform. I reported for the unexpected formation outside with complete confidence that my locker would meet with the approval of Drill Sergeant Huguely. Much to my chagrin, I was failed on my inspection when he found, there on the top of my chest of drawers--horror of horrors--a stray bottle cap. I suffered through a sound military chastisement in front of my comrades, and later was struck with the idea that perhaps I had been sabotaged by one of my bunk-mates.
There was one who had displayed an obvious dislike for me. Later, when my suspicions were confirmed by an overheard conversation, I made sure that her bunk was in shameful disarray when the next inspection rolled around. Due to her obvious disregard for military pride discipline, she was sentenced to Nut-Guard. This duty consisted of guarding a specified number of pecans which Drill Sergeant Huguely had gathered and placed in a pile beneath a tree. The rub was that Fort Lee was home to some incredibly bold red squirrels, who would literally fight a soldier for that pile of nuts.
As was usually the case, the bottle-cap saboteur returned from her duty knowing she had lost some of her nuts. She was further punished by one hundred push-ups and latrine duty for the next week. I was never a victim of her treachery again.
Each morning, after we completed the cleaning process-- ourselves and our barracks--we were allowed a few precious moments for breakfast. I usually had coffee, biscuits and gravy, eggs, and bacon, and hurried out to the smoking area to enjoy a cigarette in the crisp Virginia dawn before platoon formation. The frequent emergence of officers from the billets kept most of us from actually finishing an entire cigarette, since we had to snap to attention and drop whatever we had in our hands. Many of us learned to just pick the cigarettes back up and continue after the officer said, "As you were." When Lady Whiskey, as 5th platoon was called, gathered outside the smoking area and began the march around barracks to the formation area for Whiskey Company, we always chanted our favorite cadence on the way, just to let the other men and women of the company know that we were proud to be the women in the sector. The cadence began with a crescendo into a count, accented by guttural noises after each number, and finally launched into the words of "Mighty Fifth Platoon," our breaths making tiny wisps of fog, like a herd of camouflaged buffalo on stampede:
"Your ma, your pa, your dirty, greasy grandma;
Your ugly cousin, your sister, too,
Lady Whiskey gonna stomp on you.
Say, `who dat?' say, `who dat?' say `who dat talkin' `bout you?
The mighty, the mighty, the mighty Fifth Platoon!"
As we split into two lines and merged, in a zigzag fashion with each other, we were a bold display of drilling grandeur. The other soldiers in the company always watched us and seemed at least a little chagrined that their marches were less flamboyant. I was lucky enough to get into the most envied platoon, but this Lady Whiskey Fifth also had the best record for performance and excellence. I discovered it's much more difficult to hold a place at the front of the race, than to catch up with the leaders from behind. Thus, Lady Whiskey was not only enthusiastic, but usually trying to mask their extreme fatigue from the other platoons.
The company march to our classrooms was always a highly aerobic journey. We traversed sidewalks, lawns, and blacktop streets, our voices ringing in cadence, our spit-shined boots clamping in synchronized rhythm with cadences called by the Drill Sergeants prancing alongside us. Although I had sustained a spinal injury in Basic Training and often had to fall back in the march, or even ride the "woos wagon" to class, when I was able to march with my company, I was over- whelmed with a feeling of power, teamwork, and patriotism. When May 18 rolled around and the graduation ceremony was over, I hurried to pack the last of my belongings, anxious to be free of this hell that had somehow managed to touch my heart. I got into the cab and the cabby pulled away from Whiskey Company for the last time, finally leaving Fort Never-Leave. I experienced an odd displacement, much like a dream, a profound loneliness, and a sense of loss at those friends and memories which I would no longer share. I tried to recall the details--tried to file them away in that sentimental portion of my brain.
I lit a cigarette and settled back against the cool seat of the taxi, glancing down at the AIT ribbon added to those already at my chest, and I knew my life was changed forever; I knew I'd never settle for less than my best again. As the flowering dogwood trees whipped past the window beside that two-lane backroad to the Richmond Airport, I knew I was up to the challenge.
Fort Never-Leave
