HARD CORPS ORDER NOW! CHAPTER ONE - Hell Week There was mud everywhere. Mud in my nostrils, mud in my hair, mud in my panties. Before I could wipe away the ooze dripping into my eyes, Brady was on me again. We wrestled, gripping and holding each other, trying to find a weakness, as we fell, in slow motion, back into the pit. We twisted as we fell, and he landed with a thwack on top of me, knocking the wind from my body. We were in what they call the demolition pit. It's an oblong pit, about 100 feet long and maybe 15 feet deep, filled regularly with water to create a slimy mud bath in the bottom. Strung across it were two heavy, three-inch-thick ropes anchored by poles on both sides. "All right, toads! You've had your fun. Get out and make room for the next two victims." Sergeant Sinclair, our drill instructor, barked through his bullhorn. His voice blasted through the pit, and I resisted the impulse to cover my ears. We scrambled up, gripping the ropes, and hauling our mud soaked bodies out of the muck. As I maneuvered to the side rope, Brady had already managed to climb out of the pit. He extended a hand to me, which, naturally, I ignored. I'm no pussy. Well, technically, I suppose I am. I'm a girl, you see. A woman, I guess I should say. I was 18 then, and a freshman at Patton Military Institute. I had signed on for this. I had worked my ass off in ROTC in high school to get to the Institute. This was my second week here. We'd had an easy first week, getting to know our way around the campus, finding our classes and getting settled in our barracks. They have barracks here, at least for the underclassmen. Makes it more authentic, I guess. But this week was Hell Week and the name was apt. It wasn't boot camp. We'd already had six weeks of that the summer prior to school starting. Compared to this, boot camp was summer vacation at the lake. This was one week of pure, unadulterated hell. To top it off, I was one of thirty entering female freshmen who were contributing to 'ruining' the Institute. Patton had been co-ed for just five years, and though the standards are higher than ever, try telling that to the male contingency. To them, we weren't just toads, as they fondly referred to the incoming cadets. We were 'bitch toads,' an unofficial but much used title, though no one would have admitted it to the outside world. And we were going to pay for our impudence in infiltrating the system. As two more cadets hurled themselves into the pit, I ran to the barracks to shower and change. My body was aching from the day's arduous events. We had gotten up at 5:00 that morning, to the deceptively sweet voice of Sergeant Roster, our 'den mother' as she liked to call herself. "Wake up, Remy, darling," she'd said, leaning her head close to mine. "Five minutes to shower and dress, dear." I've never been very good at getting conscious in the morning, and today was no exception. She sounded like my mother, who used to wheedle and cajole me into rising for school each day. I think I was actually confused for a moment and thought I was back home, because I said, "In five minutes, mom." "Mom?" Roster's laugh rang out. I came fully awake at that laugh. Suddenly, she pulled out some kind of plastic gun with a large reservoir on top. She yanked back my covers and sprayed me with ice-cold water. I screamed, scrambling to my feet, trying to avoid volleys of spray that were soaking me to the skin. "Next time," she hissed, her face right up in mine, "I won't be so easy on you, toad. When I say wake up, I mean it. Got that?" "Ma'am, yes ma'am!" I managed to croak, shivering. For a moment, I hugged myself, covering my wet form with my arms. A glare from Sergeant Roster, and I quickly dropped my arms to my side and thrust out my chest, standing at attention. I could feel her eyes raking my body. I didn't dare make eye contact; that would have had me on the ground, doing fifty. I stared straight ahead, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. My nipples were stiff from the cold. The sergeant stood so close to me that I could smell the sour coffee on her breath. Her starched uniform brushed my soaked nightshirt; I could feel the rough fabric against my breasts. I wanted to pull back, to cover myself. As the sergeant leaned forward, I suddenly felt a sharp pain; she had reached up, her body covering her action from the others, and savagely twisted my right nipple. Shocked, I let out a small scream. "That's for failing to stand at attention, slime bucket. Next time show some respect," she hissed in my ear. No one else had seen what happened, or if they had, they certainly weren't going to draw attention to themselves. I was too stunned to respond, but just stood there, my nipple on fire, my face red with humiliation. Roster grinned and then stood back to address the group. "Five minutes, children. And then five more to clean up this mess. I'll be back in ten." She swept out of the room, while everyone rushed to showers. I followed after some seconds, still in a mild state of shock from her actions. Sergeant Roster came back in precisely ten minutes. I was dressed in the Hell Week uniform, white undershirt, dark green fatigues and an orange baseball cap with the initials PMI emblazoned on it in black. My hair was tucked up with bobby pins and of course I wore no makeup. As Roster passed my bunk, she suddenly jerked back the covers, pulling out my perfect military corners as she did. "Remake it, slob. Those sheets are all wrinkled up. Then hit the floor and give me twenty." Quickly I remade the bed, though I didn't see any wrinkles. I'd gotten on her bad side this morning, and I was determined to get back on the good side, if I could. Done with the bed, I dropped and executed the push-ups quickly. Twenty was nothing for me; I could do forty without working up too much of a sweat. Then I jumped up and stood at attention. She ignored me, which I guess was a good thing. "Breakfast, and then report to your assigned stations. As you know, today begins your week of hell." Sergeant Roster laughed a low, almost musical laugh that seemed incongruous with her words. "You all worked hard to get here. Well, look to the left of you. Look to the right. By the end of this week, some of you won't be here. This is a tough course, and they aren't planning on making it any easier for you, just because you're female. I know your records, and you are a good group. Make me proud today, girls. Don't let me down." I wouldn't, not if I could help it. Though I wasn't doing this for her. My father was army, my mother was army, and I was an army brat. I was their only child, and it just seemed natural to me to choose this path. I had always wanted to be an officer and Patton was an excellent school. If I could make it through this week, the rest would be easy sailing. Or so I thought. After breakfast, we stood in the large asphalt covered courtyard they call, simply, the Yard. Silently standing at attention, there were 135 of us, scrubbed, uniformed, nervous but eager. The rest of the class, which totaled 540, was scattered about the campus at different locations for obstacle training, distance swimming and other tortures. While we were waiting for the drill instructor to show, I noticed a tall, lanky upperclassman standing in the shadow of the building next to the Yard. He was dressed in an upperclassman's service dress uniform. The starched pants and blazer outlined his long lean form. His face was in shadow, but something about him struck me as sure, somehow; as confident without being cocky. 'Mr. Cool,' I thought to myself, wondering who he was. For a moment he leaned out of the shadow and I saw his face. He seemed to be looking right at me. I cocked my head a bit, trying to see him better, but he leaned back into the obscuring shadows. Before I could even wonder about it, though, the drill instructor, Sergeant Sinclair, strode out of the building and stood in front of us, hands behind his back. Sinclair explained the day's schedule and then blew his whistle for the first whistle drill of the day. If an instructor blew his whistle once, the students had to dive to the ground, cover the back of their heads with their hands, and cross their legs to simulate the position they would take with an incoming artillery round. Two blows of the whistle, the students would begin crawling toward the sound. Three blows of the whistle, they would stand. We dove to the ground and waited. Two blows and we were off, crawling along the asphalt toward the sergeant. Three blows and up we jumped. I thought we had done pretty well, it being our first time since the summer. "That sucked!" the instructor screamed. "Do it again, toads. Do it right this time!" He blew and down we went. For what seemed like hours, but was probably more like 30 minutes, he blew and we jumped, fell, crawled and jumped up again. Up. Down. Crawl. Up. Down. Crawl. My knees were scraped and my joints were aching, but on we went. Finally, he seemed satisfied, and we ran to the obstacle course. Hell Week had begun. For the rest of the day, with brief breaks to eat and five minute 'rest breaks,' we clawed walls, balanced on beams and ran, ducked and dragged ourselves through mazes of wire and mud, poles and concrete until we were dripping in sweat and panting with exertion. At each new obstacle another drill instructor, fresh and rested, stood ready to torment and humiliate us for our pathetic attempts to run the drills. Panting, and soaked with sweat and caked-on dirt, we ran, slithered and jumped through the various hoops invented to test our endurance and our character. The sun was already low on the horizon when it came time for the pit. At first the cool mud was a relief from the heat and dust of the day. But when Brady tackled me, and my muscles turned to jelly with the effort of wrestling in the thick slime, I considered giving up for a moment, and letting him win without a fight. Then I heard a hiss from above. One of the other cadet's remarks reached my ears just I was about to sink down in defeat. "That bitch toad can't even wrestle. What the fuck is she doing here, anyway?" The derision, the disdain, made my blood boil. I would show him, and all the assholes who didn't think women had what it took to make it here, that not only could I wrestle, I could beat the shit out of any cadet there. My bravado gave me just enough energy to put up a good fight. Mercifully, Sinclair called it quits just before I gave out completely. On my way back to the barracks, I noticed Mr. Cool again. He seemed to be watching me, which was disconcerting, but somehow exciting. I toyed for a moment with the daydream of walking over and saying hi, but of course, as an underclassman, I wasn't permitted to do that. When I looked up again, he was gone. Back in the barracks, someone was already in one of the shower stalls, covered with soap. The whole bathroom was steamy. I pulled off my filthy fatigues, my whole body aching for that hot water. "How'd you make out?" a voice called out, as she turned off her shower. Out stepped Jean Dillon, from behind the little plastic curtain. Her compact little body was wrapped in a large white towel, her thick dark hair hanging wetly down her shoulders. She smiled at me, but somehow it came out as a grimace. Jean seemed a girl with a chip on her shoulder. From the moment we had arrived at school, she had been finding things to complain about and ways to insult the people around her. She always seemed to be looking for the worst in everyone. But then, I tended, and still do, to jump to conclusions about people, so I decided to try to be friendly, and to quell my own suspicions that she was trouble. "Great," I lied, never wanting to admit defeat. "I whipped his sorry little ass." "Oh," Jean said, her mouth twisting into an unpleasant smile. "Well, you saw how I did. I think that asshole Graham broke my arm, for God's sake. I don't think it's fair that they put us with the guys. They should put us with each other, even up the score a little." For the moment I forgot my well-intentioned plan to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Oh, grow up, Jean. This is Patton Military Institute, not Miss Priss University . If you want to compete with other girls, go to a girls' school. Be glad they're treating us like equals." I was naked now, and standing under the luke-warm tap, trying to scrub the mud from hidden cracks and crevices in my body. "Fuck you," Jean hurled back at me, her voice changing from whine to snarl. "I've been watching you, Harris. You think you're so tough because you can fight like a guy and do the drills like a guy. I think you're just a big dyke, if you want to know. So do the other girls." I flushed at her remark. Not that it's true. I'm not a lesbian, though I certainly have nothing against them. But the vehemence of her response caught me off guard. I turned away from her, with no smart response of my own to put her in her place. I don't know why her remark stung so much. I'd been called a dyke, a lesbian, a cunt lapper - every name in the book, ever since I'd hit puberty and failed to trade in the baseball for the hair ribbons. But I guess I didn't expect it from her, an entering freshman woman in one of the most sexist institutions in the country. She knew what it took to get in here, and to stay in without going insane. I felt anger start to overtake the hurt feelings. "Why don't you go to hell." I shot back, finally. It was lame, I admit it. I couldn't believe I was fighting with this girl over nothing. "Dyke bitch," she snarled back. I turned away and stuck my head under the shower. My first enemy and it was only the second week of school. This was going to be a long year. I didn't have much of an appetite that night - I had overexerted and felt nauseated. When lights out came, I thought I would have a hard time falling asleep on the thin, hard mattress, but all too soon we were being screamed at to rise and shine, as a trash can lid was banged on the floor for emphasis. At breakfast I realized that I was ravenous. I heaped my plate with scrambled eggs, stacks of pancakes, ham, bacon, grits, a cup of milk, a mug of hot cocoa and some coffee. Along with the rest of the cadets, I hurried to the table and began to wolf down my meal. Brady, my mud wrestling partner, sat down next to me, his tray as laden as mine. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He crossed his wrists on the table for a moment and looked at me. It was almost as if he expected me to respond somehow. There was no talking in the dining room, so of course I didn't. "What was that about?" I wondered, as we jogged to the Yard for day two of hell. But I had no chance to ask. Students in green fatigues and orange caps poured onto the concrete. Sinclair was there, whistle in hand. "Oh God," Brady moaned softly, next to me. As the veins bulged in Sinclair's neck from blowing so hard on the damn whistle, down we went. Day two had begun. Tim e became meaningless as we stretched ourselves to our physical and emotional limits. My entire goal became to make it through without collapsing. I didn't care if I finished with honors, or even with dignity. I just wanted to get through it alive. It was now midnight on the final night of Hell Week, and the whole lot of disheveled, exhausted freshmen sat slumped on benches in the mess hall, nursing hot cocoa and eating cookies. Except for those who didn't make it through the program. Several had been disqualified as a result of broken bones or sprained joints. They would be allowed to return to classes, of course, but there was a certain honor inherent in completing the week that they would never know. One fellow really lost it; he sat down smack in the middle of an obstacle course on the fourth day and just started crying. Nothing, not the sergeant's threats or cajoling or the encouragement or scorn of his classmates could stop the poor guy from sobbing. He was assisted off the field and was never seen again. Notably, not one of the dropouts was a woman. We'd just finished a two-hour forced march with full gear. Hell Week was over and thank God for that. Brady was next to me again; I'd begun to notice that he always seemed to be near me. About 5'9", with a wiry, though muscular frame, Sam Brady wasn't really my type. He had carrot red hair and pale skin, scattered with freckles. He wore glasses that were forever slipping down the bridge of his nose. We walked out of the dining room together and he turned to me. "So, Harris. We did it. We're full-fledged toadies now." He grinned happily and I grinned back at him. A lot of the freshmen boys had taken their cue from the upperclassmen, and treated us girls as if we were intruders who didn't belong. At least Brady treated me as an equal. "Yep. Now we get the honor of being treated like shit for the rest of the year by a bunch of asshole upperclassmen. But at least we get to sleep all day tomorrow." "Yeah, well, not me. I've got more important things to do." Without further explanation, he said good night and headed toward his dorm. I did the same, wondering what could be so important for a toad to do during his one Sunday off since we'd arrived. Despite my best intentions, I couldn't sleep the day away. I did sleep in until 10:00 , rising slowly, feeling the ache in every muscle from the grueling week that had passed. I stood in the shower until there was no more hot water; that took about seven minutes. Toweling off, I thought about how to spend my first free day. It was a perfect, breezy day, slightly overcast - just right for a bike ride. And I figured that would stretch my sore muscles, too. We had been given the whole day off, and that was not likely to happen again for a long time. We were even permitted to wear 'civvies' for the day, and go about on our own, rather than marching in tight little groups of two or four, as we did on our way to classes and drills. So, donning my favorite faded T-shirt and bike shorts, I headed for the bike racks. I decided on a ride through the park near the school. There was a long, winding bicycle path through the tall pine trees. Even though it was September, autumn had yet to arrive in Georgia that day. I rode slowly, watching the path, not thinking about much of anything. After about 45 minutes, I stopped to rest near a little stream. I sat against a tall pine and leaned back, closing my eyes. "A cyclist. That explains those long, perfect legs." My eyes flew open. There he was, right in front of me. Mr. Cool also dressed in civvies - a white button down shirt and black slacks. He still looked rather formal, but it was certainly better than olive drab. I noticed he was holding a bottle of Coke, which made me realize I was thirsty. "Oh! Excuse me. I didn't realize there was anyone here." I started to get up; toads aren't supposed to sit in the presence of upperclassmen without express permission. "Oh, please. Sit down. It's Sunday and we're not even on the campus. Take it easy." As he spoke, he eased himself down next to me. I wrapped my arms around my knees, waiting to see what came next. "So, how's it going?" he asked, his voice low and pleasing. "You survived Hell Week, I see. No permanent scars?" Mr. Cool looked at me then; his eyes raking my body, making me feel very self-conscious. I huddled to myself even more, as I mumbled something about still being intact. I blushed then, as his grin made me conscious of the double meaning of my remark. What was going on here? I'm usually very self-assured around guys, even older ones, mainly because I don't give a damn. My tastes at the time, at least in theory, ran to older men; men who had been around a bit, who had experienced something of life. I looked for someone who could take control, someone who wasn't too easy to wrap around your finger. Even upperclassmen like Mr. Cool usually left me indifferent. But there was something about this guy. It wasn't just that he was very handsome, with dark, wavy hair and blue, almost violet eyes. There was something about his expression, his bearing, that I couldn't quite pinpoint. Something intriguing; something dangerous. "What's your name, toad?" His tone was suddenly formal, demanding. I sat up straighter, reminded again of his status. "Harris, Sir. Remy Harris." "Remy, huh? Unusual name." He relaxed back into informality, stretching his long, lean form out on the grass. "My mother is a Francophile. She loves everything French. It's a French name." "I know. It's derived from the town of Reims . I've been there. My dad was stationed in France when I was in high school." No one had ever heard of the name before, much less known its derivation. I was suitably impressed, but said nothing. He smiled again and held out the bottle. "Like a swig?" he offered. I started to say no, but for some reason, held out my hand and took it. As I drank the cold soda, I was reminded that I hadn't eaten since the midnight rations of the night before. "Hey. Don't drink it all." I stopped at once, looking over to see if he was angry, but he was still grinning. Mr. Cool looked at his watch and said, "It's about lunch time. Wanna come with me to the Pub for a bite to eat?" The Pub was for seniors only, unless by invitation. It was a place for them to meet for lunch or dinner, or just to hang out. I was surprised at his invitation. I didn't dare refuse. Not that I wanted to. "Well, thanks! That would be great, I guess. Maybe I should know your name first?" He stood, his smile like a sunburst across his features and said, "Jacob. Jacob Patton, at your service." He held out his hand to help me up, but of course, I didn't take it. Jacob had ridden his bike too, which I now saw, leaning against a nearby tree. He retrieved it and together we rode back to the campus. Over a lunch of cheeseburgers and onion rings, I finally asked the question that had popped into my head the minute he had introduced himself. "So, are you related to 'Old Blood and Guts' himself?" He laughed, throwing back his head as he did so as if the question were hilarious to him. "I admit it, though I had nothing to do with it. He was my great-great uncle. Real whacko, so the family lore has it. Stone cold crazy. But I hope to follow in his hallowed footsteps, or at least make it through graduation at this damn place. Then my army stint, and I am a free man." "Sounds like you aren't really into this, then. Did your family force you along the military path?" "You could put it like that. Let's just say that I chose the lesser of two evils. Or so I thought at the time." He grinned at me, but said nothing else. Of course I was dying to ask more, but I didn't dare. As friendly as he was, he was still a senior, and as such, my superior officer. "Well, well, well." Another upperclassman sauntered over to our table. He was a short, heavyset guy, with dark, curly hair and a jutting brow line that was positively Neanderthal in proportion. There was a sneer on his face and I was at once on my guard. "What have we here, Patton? Slumming for toadies again?" I looked down, controlling my impulse to slap him. He focused directly on me then. "Stand up, toad! You are before two senior upperclassmen! Where are your manners, cadet?" I jumped up, my hand automatically finding my forehead for a quick salute, my eyes straight ahead. I was cursing myself for having dropped my guard around Jacob. He had seemed so friendly and relaxed that I had forgotten my position as a toad in senior territory. "Excuse me, Sir." I mumbled. I stood a good two inches taller than the Neanderthal as he edged in close to me. He pressed in so that my breasts were touching his chest. I resisted my urge to pull back. "No. I won't excuse you. Hit the floor and give me thirty, bitch toad." I thought of appealing to Jacob, but I didn't dare look at him. There was nothing he could do anyway - to question the orders of another senior would be decidedly bad form. I hit the floor. Technically I could report the Neanderthal for using foul language, but I wasn't about to make trouble. As I rose from the floor, palms flat and body straight, I felt his shoe against my ass. He pushed down and I lowered myself to the floor. Each time I rose to complete a push-up, his foot was there to press me back. I was flushed with exertion and fury by the time I completed the thirty. When I stood up, breathing hard, the Neanderthal laughed cruelly. "Not bad, bitch toad. Not bad for a stupid bitch." He turned to Jacob. "At least you picked one that can pass muster this time, Patton." His eyes were small and close together. He reminded me of a police artist's recreation of a criminal. He was bad news. Jacob made no reaction; it was as if the Neanderthal didn't exist. "Get up, Remy," He said softly. I stood, shakily, wishing I could disappear. Dazed, I saw that quite a little crowd had gathered around us. They all seemed to be staring at my body as if I were a slice of beef that they needed for their sandwich. Jacob was the only one sitting. He was looking at me, his face impassive. Then he stood slowly, and held his hand out to me. "Come on, Remy. Let's get out of this dump." Not sure what else to do, and hoping desperately to escape the leering eyes around me, I took the offered hand. He led me from the Pub, still seemingly oblivious of the Neanderthal, who was glaring at us both with pure hatred. Enemy number two. What next? ORDER NOW! | Read The Reviews | Back To Book