Janey Got Her Gun
It sounds pretty pathetic to admit it after all of the hell I’ve been through, but I really didn’t join the Red Army for any noble reasons. Coming home after the war, you’d think I was some sort of hero. It’s embarrassing, really. The medals and the fanfare are annoying. Because honestly, I don’t deserve any of it.
I am told that they make an interesting conversation piece. My fellow flatmates tell me as much quite often, while they ooh and aah at the Hero of Socialist Labor medal on my dresser. They tell me it’s something to be proud of, but looking back, my memories of the event almost don’t seem real, like it was something I read out of a book rather than lived it.
We were all lauded as heroes when we returned from the war. And it’s true, we served the cause of the world revolution as best we could. But every heartfelt congratulations only ever reminds me of the many men and women who served under my command that never made it home. The Army shrinks call it “survivor’s guilt.” I suppose it’s true enough, but some days it seems like the real me died out there with my comrades, and all that is left is a husk waiting to pay the ferryman.
Yeah, yeah, I’m a bit of a downer. The young men at the bar tell me that a lot; “A broad as gorgeous as you shouldn’t be so down in the dumps all the time,” they say. The other veterans, man and woman alike, just shake their heads with disgust and return to their beers. And they’re right to. They are the children that Wilfred Owen spoke of, “ardent for some desperate glory.” God-willing, they won’t ever have to learn through painful experience. I’m really not about to explain to them what it feels like to be covered in gore that was until a moment ago your still intact best friend’s face.
Hey, you asked. But this isn’t really supposed to be a pity party. You wanted to know what it was like to be in the army, and why on Earth I decided to join. Unfortunately, you’re going to be disappointed by the answer. I mean it. It’s a serious anticlimax. I joined because of a boy. Not to chase him, you dope. Jeesh, what’s wrong with you? Didn’t they teach you in high school about the gender segregated units in the 30s and early 40s? I joined the military to get away from him, and the heartbreak he caused.
I’m not the first person who volunteered for military service because of heartbreak, and I’m sure I won’t be the last. And in 1935, it was the easiest way out from everything I had ever known. It certainly beat going back to Brooklyn when our term in the Armed Masses Militia was over. Social Service was a bit different back in the 30s, though. They moved us around a whole lot less than they do the young’uns these days. Essentially, it’s still the same basic idea: one part universal military training, one part basic higher education, and one part seeing a broad picture of the country, doing socially necessary labor with people from all walks of life.
So soon after the revolution, there was a greater sense of urgency. We lived with the expectation that we might be mobilized any moment to quell an insurrection or fight off a reactionary invasion. But the essence was the same: we all learned the basics of military life: the nature of military discipline, how to work and fight as a team, how to shoot a rifle, throw a grenade. And lots of PT. Can’t forget that. I’ve heard it likened to the old pre-revolution basic recruit training, though obviously modified for a more democratic military. I’m pretty sure much hasn’t changed.
In the 30s, we all believed the enemy was the British Empire. The war would come soon, and they’d start it. We’d have to finish it though, and with Britain’s crack divisions mobilizing on the Canadian border, it certainly was a rational fear. In the end, fate conspired to make us allies rather than enemies in that historical moment.
So when my six month tour spent drilling for war, doing soil conservation work and occasionally helping kindergarteners learn how to read and write was done, and we had our going away party at our group’s hostel in Ohio, somehow a group of us got it in our minds to join the army.
It was our first time really drinking, so we were making damned fools of ourselves. I was one of the youngest and hadn’t quite turned 19 yet, though everyone seemed to think I looked mature for my age. I guess a tomboyish cut of red hair, and fair skin shocked with freckles does that. I was tall for the girls in our unit, standing about 175, though the guys loved to call me “Shorty” for some reason.
“I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re one of the guys to them, Janey,” my friend Anna said, in between sips of lager. She’d heard me complain about it a million times before. Drunk-Anna and Sober-Anna seemed to think the same reason.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” I was slowly losing control of the volume of my voice with each passing drink. Not that I noticed then. The local lager we were drinking was both strong in taste as well as alcohol content, and I had long since stopped noticing the bitterness of the hops or the fruity back end at this point.
Anna and I had come from the same neighborhood in Brooklyn, and had known each other since we’d taken shelter from fascist air-raids in the same subway. We were thick as thieves ever since and next to him , she was probably the closest friend I had growing up.
“Don’t start this again,” she scolded. Anna wobbled over to me as I sat pouting on the bottom bunk. Unsteady as she was from all the drinking, she managed to make it without a serious accident, and sat next to me. “Quit pouting like that.”
“No! You can’t make me!” I said with a huff, crossing my legs ‘like a proper lady’, and turned away from her.
“I’m gonna make you stop pouting if you don’t quit.”
“I ain’t a proper lady, but that doesn’t mean I’m a guy.”
“You sure act like one unless you’re upset. Then you cross your legs and try to act all dignified.” One thing was for certain, she knew me all too well. “Look Janey, you know what I meant. You’re taller than the rest of the girls, and taller than some of the guys even. You get along with the guys well, and you’re a tomboy. That’s all I meant.”
I finished my beer, slamming the glass bottle down on the end-table. In hindsight, that was a bit too masculine for my protests, but I obviously wasn’t thinking straight. I tried ignoring Anna for a while, but I found myself peering at her out of the corner of my eye. Then I shot my mouth off.
“Tomboy is just another way of calling a girl ugly.” Seeing the look on her face, I instantly regretted saying that: her mouth hung open and her eyebrows narrowed like I had just stabbed her through the heart.
Anna was a lot prettier than me, and I think in a lot of ways, I kind of resented her for that. She had gorgeous black hair, with the kind of natural wave that artists just loved to paint, whether on billboards or movie posters. She didn’t wear makeup very often, but she still had luscious eyelashes and a great complexion. And full lips: the kind that didn’t even need lipstick to get everyone’s attention, and became even more alluring with it. How could a frumpy old tomboy like me compare? I was jealous, and I hated myself for it.
At least this time I hadn’t been the one to start the fight. She slapped me hard across my left check. My guilt disappeared pretty quickly, and I slapped her right back. Then the pankration training took over, and suddenly it was a sloppy drunken wrestling match. We kicked at each other and tried our best to punch each other’s ribs while we grappled and tumbled off the bunk onto the wooden floor.
We got in a few good hits and chokes, plus knocked over a dresser and lamp before our comrades separated us. Julius, a burly but gentle giant from New Orleans pulled me off Anna and pinned my arms behind my back while Anna’s friends Saul and Esther held her back from rushing at me.
“Jeepers! What’s gotten into you Shorty!?” said Julius.
I struggled against his grip for a moment. He was a full head taller than me, and probably had at least 20 kilos of muscle on me. Eventually, I had the good sense to give up.
“Hey, get your black hands off her!” someone shouted from the other side of the room.
You know that feeling of being shocked back to sobriety? Yeah, that did the trick. There were a couple of likely suspects, but I was a bit too dazed from drink and blows to the head to pick it out. But those ugly words stuck with me, gathering bile. It was rather rich that they’d suddenly be concerned for my well-being after treating me like damaged goods for having a tryst with Jules.
“Stay out of this, Bob,” Saul shot back. “I don’t know what started this fight, but we’re just stopping it.” Bob and Saul were about the same size, though they looked almost nothing alike. Bob was classically Nordic in looks, though from what I remember him telling me, he was French and Spanish by nationality. Saul, on the other hand, was a wiry Italian, with swarthy skin and kinky black hair. Though his parents were both good Catholics, his name and his looks made everyone think he was a Jew.
“Eh, let ‘em fight it ought,” said Avram, “My friends and I got into a fight over a girl, we’d just end up fighting it out and making up.” Avram was German-Jewish like my family, and spoke Yiddish as a first language, totally unashamed of the accent it gave him. Avram had stepped in between Saul and Bob, hoping to stop a boxing match from breaking out between the two, who had never gotten along well.
“Look how well that turned out for you, Avram,” teased Liz.
I kind of resented that he was implying that this was over a boy. But when it came down to it, it was kind of about him , though not in the way that Avram seemed to imply. I guess we got distracted by what was going on around us, because slowly Anna stopped seething and relaxed, and I started to calm down.
When we ceased to be interesting, the rest of the unit went back to making merry. Bob rejoined his friends acting out their favorite bits from the plays they’d seen or done. Avram fixed the position of the pieces on the chessboard that his cheating opponent had switched during the distraction (this was a common affair. When I asked them about it, apparently this was all part of the game for them). Liz resumed flirting with the college kid she’d invited as a guest.
Julius whispered in my ear, “Are y’all gonna play nice now?”
I nodded, careful to not actually make eye contact with Anna.
“Good. Now go kiss and make up.”
He shoved me towards Anna. She caught me before I lost my balance, and we ended up awkwardly hugging each other, waiting for the other to admit they were wrong first.
I guess I lost my nerve first. “Hey, I’m sorry I said that. That wasn’t nice of me. You’ve been a good friend to me, always, and I shouldn’t have doubted you like that.”
Anna blushed a little. We were back on eye contact terms now, and at this point I could see that amidst the sound and fury of our scuffle she’d been crying a bit. “I guess I shouldn’t have slapped you.” She hugged me close, and gave me a friendly kiss.
“Aww, they do love each other,” said someone from the peanut gallery. It earned an unfriendly glare from both of us in that general direction. Still, normal service was resumed.
A hot new song started on the radio by some up and coming cat named Francis Sinatra. It had a good swing to it, so Anna and I made up by dancing a bit. It wasn’t as much fun as a live band, but it was still nice. The radio reception was good that night, and we danced like it was going to be our last night on earth.
The music died suddenly a few songs later. An announcer for IBF News came on the radio; the refined transatlantic accent that was still the standard in arts, culture and even the military gave it away instantly. “Good evening comrades,” he began, “We apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this important news bulletin. We have just received word from the Foreign office that Nazi-Fascist troops have begun crossing the German border into Austria. Sources in the Foreign Secretariat believe that Germany’s intervention in the Austrian Civil War so soon after the signing of the Anglo-German Naval Treaty indicates collusion and a prelude to further military actions against the interests of the workers of all nations. This has been a broadcast from IBF News’ Overseas Desk. Good night and good luck.”
After a bit of AM static, the music returned. But I didn’t feel like dancing anymore. Neither did Anna. Then she got that look on her face. It was the look I’d seen many times, and had been dreading seeing again. It was the “we really need to talk” look. And it looked like I wasn’t getting out of it this time. So I had a shot of brandy with the guys, and snuck out with Anna while they amused themselves singing a rowdy chorus of “Which Side Are You On?” They must have been angry at the news too.
It was fairly cool outside. Our hostel was a fairly new building on the outskirts of Toledo. It had a pueblo style, with tan stucco adorned here and there with a few murals. The dorms were organized in a radial pattern around a central cooking and living area. We followed the boardwalk for a ways to a nearby park. The worst of the drunken haze seemed to evaporate in the cool night air, but at any rate we were still pretty sloshed.
Anna playfully beckoned towards the swing set, and I somewhat reluctantly agreed. We sat next to each other, casually swinging back and forth for a few minutes, not saying anything to each other.
Anna looked great in the moonlight. It highlighted her lightly tanned skin well. Somehow, she managed to look radiant even in her work denim. “Anna, you look lovely…” Oh god, that slipped out. “I’m sorry, that was kind of weird…forget I said that.”
“Janey, you don’t have any reason to be jealous. You’re a lot prettier than you give yourself credit for.” She smiled at me, thinking she knew why I was feeling awkward. Unlikely, because then even I didn’t know why. Her smile tugged at my heart some more. It was a tingly feeling I didn’t quite understand. All I knew was that it reminded me of how I felt with him.
“If you say so, Anna,” I replied, staring at my shoes as I idly kicked at the ground.
“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” I winced as I said it. She always knew me so well.
“I guess it’s natural. We will be starting on our way home in a few weeks. It’s the changing of the guard in the Militia brigades soon, and he’ll undoubtedly be going home too.”
“I don’t think I can face him, Anna. I figured some time away running around the country might give me a chance to move on. But it hasn’t. Damn it, I was such an idiot.”
“Did I give you permission to talk bad about yourself?”
“What does that—”
She cut me off, covering my chapped lips with her index finger. “Just don’t, Janey. You’re too hard on yourself.”
I tried to push her hand away, but she held onto my hand, squeezing gently. “Anna, I ruined a perfectly good friendship by falling in love and thinking he could love me back. Look at what all that heartbreak it has brought me: he can’t stand to be around me, and now he’s engaged to that thing.”
“You really need some perspective, girl. You’re not the only girl to get your heart broken, Janey. You just happen to be the only girl I’ve ever known to try to do something about it. Everyone else laid subtle hints and baits to catch the man’s attention, and then wilted when he went elsewhere. You actively pursued him, and had the courage to confess to him. That’s why you’re my hero, girl.”
I didn’t know what to say. I blushed with embarrassment (even more than I already was with the alcohol).
“You still don’t think you can face him?”
“No, I really don’t.” I bit my lower lip, puzzling over whether or not to tell her about what I’d been thinking. She noticed, and patiently waited for me to gather up the courage. “I was thinking about joining the Army. Like the professionals, not just the Organized Reserve of the Militia.”
I had expected her to laugh or be angry. Even with the propaganda showing proud women soldiers from the revolution onward, it was still considered taboo for women to volunteer for military service. My mother and grandfather would flip their wigs if they heard the suggestion. Dad, if he were still alive, would probably not want his only daughter taking up arms like he did.
Instead she seemed to be proud. “You’re not going without me, dummy.”
“You don’t have to just because I am, Anna.”
“I meant what I said: we’re best friends for life. Besides, I think it’s kind of romantic, trying to forget a heartbreak by dedicating your life to the world revolution. I think I’d like to be a part of that story.”
I really had no idea what I was getting us in to. When we returned to the hostel, Anna decided to tell the rest of the troop our plans amidst another round of brandy. Rather than take our train back home, we’d visit the local recruitment office and volunteer for the army.
I think we really cheapened the guys’ masculinity. A few of them were rather opposed to us doing it. A couple others declared if we were volunteering they’d volunteer too. This turned into a debate about whether or not women actually ought to volunteer for military service even if they’re allowed. To be honest, that kind of solidified my desire to join. Nothing makes me angrier than being told I can’t do something because of what’s between my legs.
When we went to the recruitment office, a significantly smaller number of our comrades decided to actually go through with it. Anna and I went, as did Esther, another girl from our neighborhood. That was kind of surprising, actually. Julius and Avram came along as well. The rest probably didn’t remember their pledges, to be honest. They had been drinking a lot, and making rather merry.
The lines at the military soviet headquarters were rather long. Recruitment’s always biggest right around the “graduation” of a new class of Militia cadets, since it’s a prerequisite for joining the professional military. We weren’t the only ones who wanted to get away for a bit longer, or do our revolutionary duty. I guess that’s heartening.
They provided interviewers to help steer people towards a branch that fit them best, but since we were all dead set on joining the army, we were able to jump forward through that process. We were, after all, a bunch of landlubbers, and the navy always preferred to recruit from those who had prior sea experience. The Workers’ and Farmers’ Revolutionary Army was the prestige branch anyway. They’d been the sword of the revolution, and in any future revolutionary war, they’d take up that task again. When we finally made it to the front of our queue, they broke us up and split us with different interviewers.
My interviewer was an Army Air Forces reserve officer who introduced himself as Dick Nixon. Like the rest of the deputies on the city’s military soviet, Nixon was here to help with rush week recruitment. He had kind of a rough appearance, like a bulldog, but he was quite friendly as he asked me a few questions. He had my militia file available, since my troop had been in the district.
“Well, miss, I like your test scores here,” he said with a smile, “You’ve excelled academically in high school as well as in the Militia, and you’ve shown considerable initiative in work and training. While I’m quite happy to see you were the best rifleman in your troop, I do have one important question.”
“What’s that, comrade?”
“Why join the army? With this kind of aptitude, you could go to any university in the country and study whatever you like.”
I’d been dreading this question. I hate lying. I’m absolutely terrible at it, and something about the way Nixon carried himself like a boxer preparing for a tough match up made me think that not only was he a pretty good liar when he needed to be, he knew how to sniff out one pretty well. The truth, then.
“To be honest, it’s kind of selfish.”
Nixon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with some measure of smug satisfaction. “This ought to be good,” he remarked, not caring whether I heard him or not.
“While I do want to do my part for the revolution, I chose the army specifically…well…because I don’t want to go back home. Not even once. I don’t think I could face him if I did. I understand if this means you don’t want me in the military, comrade.”
He asked a few clarifying questions. When I answered, he smiled thinly. “Miss, you’re not the first person to join the army out of heartbreak.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Now, miss, this is a big decision. Are you sure you don’t want to think it over some?”
“I’m certain.”
Nixon had me read over the basic contract, and he explained my rights and duties after formally being inducted: how to deal with problems, the reasons I could file for early discharge, participation in the soldiers’ soviets, and the standing reserve I’d be a part of for four years after leaving active duty. I signed on the dotted line dutifully, and he sent me out through the back door to the nurses’ station for a basic physical.
I blanched a bit stepping on the scale. It’s hard to get over worrying about your weight and your figure, even when you’re running ten kilometers every day. 70 kilos…not as bad as I’d feared. The nurse assured me that it was muscle, but to still expect to lose a bit of weight in AT.
I could do without a grilling of my non-existent sexual history though. I understand why they don’t want pregnant women in the army, but I really wish there was just an easy test to do for it. They reserve the tests for those who might be determined to be at risk of being currently pregnant.
The gynecologist examined me, and seemed to believe me. So in went the IUD. That was…uncomfortable…to say the least. He told me to take it easy for a few weeks, and to expect a heavier period and more discomfort for the next few months…hey, don’t look at me like that. I know guys just get the heebie jeebies when women talk about their reproductive health, particularly their periods, but this is important. It’s a natural bodily function, quit being so down about it.
After that, it was really kind of a blur. Anna, Esther and I were assigned to the same training station, as we’d all opted for assignment to a rifle unit. Esther had wanted to get into nursing later, so she hoped to get a position as a corpsman. They shipped us up to Grand Rapids with a bunch of other female recruits for advanced infantry school. Somewhere along the way, I managed to get a telegram home to my mother explaining my choice, and of course ordering my little brother to take care of things while I’m gone.
The instructors were all were all women NCOs, all of them as tough as shoe leather. Apparently, we were the first class of female recruits to have the privilege of being taught by female instructors. They had all fought in the Civil War, and we benefited greatly from their experience. It wasn’t really surprising to find out that they were even sterner taskmasters than the male instructors.
They told us only at the conclusion of the course that the intimidation, the constant drills, live-fire exercises, and rigid discipline were designed to simulate war time discipline levels. A conclusion course would teach us how to work as a self-managed, democratic military unit outside of combat zone discipline. We were expected to show initiative and individual creativity, and work as a collective unit, not merely to follow orders passively. To be honest, that was harder than the combat discipline.
If I could use any words to describe my short time with the 113th Infantry Regiment, it would be “disaster on stilts.” As I quickly found out, the Revolutionary Army had…mixed opinions about women in the combat branches. Some, particularly the pre-revolution Careerists, considered it little more than a political stunt.
When I arrived fresh out of infantry schooll, the 113th was basically just male cadre officers and NCOs. We were to be the formless mass they’d shape into an infantry combat unit.
As I quickly found out, this amounted to punishment for political unreliability. From Colonel Jackson on down, they all viewed the task as beneath them, and us as invaders into their sacrosanct military fraternity. They certainly never let us forget that.
The leaders of F Company, 2nd Battalion were either vicious or incompetent, and sometimes both. They made certain that “shit rolled down hill” on us. I didn’t learn how much until much later, but I’d rather not talk about that right now because I’m in a good mood. You wished to find out how I got to where I am today.
After all, any idiot can join the Army. It takes a special kind of idiot, like yours truly, to really try to be all she can be. So it’s a surprisingly cold summer day in early August 1936 I think, at Camp Beale, California. I’d recently been promoted to platoon sergeant for 1st Platoon. It might sound pretty rapid, having only been with the regiment for five months, but it really wasn’t under the circumstances. The Amazon units were being created out of whole cloth, and there was a dire shortage of women NCOs. All it took to become one was to be a competent rifleman willing to put up with the additional hazing that came with the position.
After completing PT that morning, showering, and changing into the standard khaki service trousers and Pershing jacket, I found myself summoned to my platoon leader, Lieutenant Jacob Mance’s “office.” I finished lacing up my boots and headed out from the barracks.
The lieutenant’s “office” was a cramped closet where he did his clerical work, which he shared with several other officers. When I arrived, the door was open as always. I knocked on the wooden frame. “You wanted to see me sir?”
Mance looked up over his reading glasses at me. “Ah yes, Sergeant Schafer. I was just finishing up some work. The Captain wanted to brief us on new equipment coming down the pipe from Stavka.” He stretched his stout frame before standing.
Mance was an imposing figure, tall and burly like a lumberjack. His wavy brown hair had started to gray at the temples, even though he was barely thirty. His square face was chiseled and clean-shaven. He pocketed his spectacles, and led me to one of the camp’s rifle ranges.
As it was, I’d lucked out and gotten maybe the only officer and gentleman in the whole company. I’d been Lt. Mance’s platoon sergeant for about three weeks at this point. Before, I really only knew about him by reputation. The other officers and male NCOs called him Lt. Nancy, but never to his face. Which probably saved their lives, because Mance loved two things with equal enthusiasm: men and a good scrap.
Mance was always professional with me and the other women in the company. His leadership of the platoon was always on point, and he’d impressed me as a solid tactician and soldier. He was still only a LIeutenant at his age, even with the rapidly expanding army, because he was as queer as a three-dollar bill and would not let anyone hold it against him.
“So how are those sergeant’s chevron’s treating you Schafer?” He said as he ducked under the low doorframe.
“Just fine sir. Still getting used to the job, but nothing I can’t handle.”
He led the way quite proudly. I followed about a pace behind to his left. “Excellent. If you have any problems, you let me know.”
“Understood.”
“So where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I was still getting to know Mance at the time, and I didn’t know yet if I believed the rumors about his sexual proclivities, so I felt a little wary about his sudden interest. It didn’t take a genius to realize that male officers might have less than honest intentions towards female subordinates. I wasn’t that stupid. “Berlin, Germany, originally. But my family lived in Brooklyn since I was little.”
He chuckled something about being a long way from home.
“Well, right now this is my home. The only one I’ve ever known.”
“Relax, I didn’t mean anything by it. Sprechen Sie Deutsch? ”
“Yes. I grew up speaking it alongside Yiddish. Learned conversational Russian that way too. My extended family were all party members.”
As we left the administration complex, Mance donned the peaked cap he’d had tucked under his arm. Old habits die hard, and the peaked cap was still in that awkward in between point where it was seen as old-fashioned but not yet hopelessly reactionary. It was like two armies cohabitating at that point; the old bourgeois army with its peaked caps, and the revolutionary army with its pilotkas.
There were several units drilling on the parade ground as we marched are way down the foot paths to our assigned rifle range. I knew the marching cadences by heart and had to stop myself from humming along.
“Good. Work on your Russian if you have the time. I’ve a feeling it will prove to be useful.”
“Why’s that, lieutenant?”
“Call it a hunch. I think we’re so focused on preparing to fight the English trouble is liable to brew up elsewhere when we’re not prepared for it. I don’t think the Germans and the Russians ever really settled matters from the Great War.”
It seems obvious with hindsight, but Mance’s speculations were rather out in left field even in late 1936. It wouldn’t be until the Czechoslovak War that we started to see Germany as a serious geopolitical threat, and even then it took some time before the brass regarded them as anything more than Britain’s catspaw on the continent.
We arrived at the rifle range with little fanfare. The skies were overcast with thick gray clouds this afternoon. But the wind was quiet for now. Chief-Lieutenant Dewitt was waiting under a pavilion with the rest of the platoon leaders. The table they had gathered around was draped with a thick tarpaulin.
We reported in with the customary salute. The captain was quite evidently displeased at my presence. “I don’t believe my orders requested the presence of platoon sergeants,” he said curtly.
“I’m sorry if I presumed sir, but I requested Sergeant Schafer accompany me, and your orders did say I should use my best judgment in how to brief the men under my command. Since Sergeant Schafer is one of the best riflemen in the company, I wanted her input as well.”
“The men under your command,” said Dewitt. “Very well lieutenant. If you think your platoon will benefit from playing house, I don’t see the harm.”
I certainly didn’t appreciate his sarcastic tone, but had the good sense to pretend otherwise. The captain, at the very least, tried to keep up the pretense of being a professional. The other platoon leaders watched me with thinly concealed contempt.
A rifle company hasn’t changed much since then. It’s composed of three rifle platoons and a weapons platoon, each lead by a lieutenant. We were only now approaching our authorized full strength of one hundred sixty. While it wasn’t the military we know now, it wasn’t the brutal pre-revolution army everyone has seen from the period dramas. As a non-commissioned officer, I had certain rights and privileges, especially concerning the wellbeing of the enlisted men under my supervision.
I bit my tongue, though I knew I was well within my rights to speak out. I had learned to pick my battles. While the other lieutenants sneered, Dewitt began rolling up the canvas, revealing an array of weapons and gear that I would become intimately familiar with in time, but at present were completely alien to me.
“Gentlemen,” said Dewitt, his eyes flitting back to me, “welcome to the new army.”
Second Platoon’s CO, Lieutenant Hiram Jones, whistled approvingly. “Well this is certainly a welcome change of pace. After a decade of begging for scraps we finally get something new.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Jones was in his thirties. He’d made it out of West Point just in time to see some action in the First World War. He’d been lucky enough to stay in the military during demobilization, and had made it to a captain in the Organized Reserves. He’d been busted down a notch to Lieutenant for ‘knowingly following unlawful orders’ in legalspeak. Many other White officer defectors had left in disgrace, but not Jones. The tall, wiry Texan had clung to the military like a barnacle, probably because he didn’t know how to do anything else.
“Don’t kid yourself, Jones,” said Fourth Platoon’s CO. “You know we’re going to be last in line for the new equipment. I barely have enough Springfields for my platoon. It’ll be a new decade before we see the Garand rifle in our inventory.”
“I wouldn’t be so pessimistic Andrews,” said Mance. “Supposedly they’re already making almost a thousand of them per day at the arsenals.”
Andrews and Mance got into yet another one of their on-edge discussions that I was certain were just smokescreens for personal vendetta. And to be honest, I didn’t care enough to remember what it was over this time.
Robert Lee Andrews had still been a cadet at the Virginia Military Institute during the Civil War. By the time he’d graduated, General Patton had just liberated his old alma mater. Andrews was the new union’s awkward birthing pains personified. A consummate nostalgic for the old order he’d never had a chance to serve, he was never going to fit in the new army. I might have felt sorry for him had he not become such a complete son of a bitch.
Amidst the banter, Dewitt watched with faint amusement, while Third’s CO, Sublieutenant Morgan Hitch, remained as taciturn as ever behind his wooly handlebar mustache. He looked more at home on the cover of a dimestore western then in the Revolutionary Army.
“Well, if you’re all quite finished, I’d like to continue with the briefing,” scolded Dewitt.
After a round of apologies, Dewitt ordered me to present the Garand rifle for his briefing. Since being a prop at least let me have access to the new equipment, I complied readily. I grabbed the Garand from the table, locked the slide back and held it for inspection.
It felt heavier than the M1903s I was used to. But it felt like a natural evolution of the old standard, lock, stock and barrel.
“This is the Rifle, 7 mm caliber, Model 1,” said Dewitt, “It is a self-loading rifle chambered in the new seven by fifty-one millimeter cartridge, and it is the rifle of the future. Besides reliable semi-automatic sustained fire, this weapon boasts a ten round internal magazine.”
All I could think, as he paced around me, was that he must have memorized some army cue cards.
“As you can see, besides the full stock, the rifle has lugs to attach bayonets or rifle grenade launchers, ensuring reliability in both close quarters as well as fire support.” He held up an ammunition clip in front of me. “The weapon is quickly loaded by these ten round en bloc clips. Sergeant, would you please demonstrate by loading the rifle.”
I was familiar with the basic idea of an en bloc clip, but I’d never actually used it. The M1903s and M1915s had optional stripper clips, but those had been hard to come by, and we mostly used loose cartridges. I took the clip from his rough hand as he watched stoically.
It seemed simple enough. There was a little guide to ensure the smooth insertion of the clip. So I held the forearm of the stock with one hand while I inserted the clip with my free hand. I pressed it in with my thumb until I heard a click. As I quickly found out, this was the wrong way to perform this operation, because as soon as the clip was locked in place, the slide slammed forward and caught my thumb.
I bit my tongue to not shout out. I saw the sadistic grin on Dewitt’s face while the lieutenants save Mance laughed.
“Thank you, sergeant, for demonstrating how to not charge an M1.”
I tried to hide my displeasure as I locked the bold open, and resolved to try this again the right way. It didn’t take long to find the release for the clip. I noticed the charging handle had a curved surface in the front. It looked like it was in just the right place to be held open with the same hand inserting the clip.
I tried it and it worked splendidly. When the bolt released, I had plenty of time to get my thumb out of the way. It smoothly racked a shell in to battery. I double checked to make sure the weapon was still in safety.
“Very good,” said Dewitt, “As you can see, easy as pie. So simple even a woman can figure it out.”
The rest of the briefing was pretty formulaic. Hitch briefly grumbled his objections that the new “stubbly little 7mms” wouldn’t have the same stopping power as the longer .303s. Dewitt managed to turn the advantage of smaller, lighter ammo and more manageable recoil into yet another indictment of women’s fitness as soldiers. They mostly seemed impressed by the MG-5 test-type; everyone seemed to view it as a phenomenal improvement over the heavy water-cooled Browning M1915s, and the perceived unreliability of the air-cooled version. Most had fought for the bad guys in the Civil War, and each related their experience of how important volume of fire was in a fast-paced, mobile conflict.
So they seemed happy that the table of organization and equipment was being overhauled, and each rifle squad was getting a machine gun team. They seemed a bit more ambivalent about the M6 Pistol.
“Looks just like a 1911,” Andrews remarked as he studied it.
“That’s about the size of it,” said Dewitt. “Modernized and improved by John Browning and others, so they tell me. New high power 10mm cartridge. Supposed to have better muzzle velocity and fits five more in the double column magazine.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Why would you replace the entire inventory just to do that?”
“From what I read, Ordnance pulled the trigger on this because they wanted a new machine pistol to replace the heavy and expensive Thompson, and decided that the forty-five didn’t have the range they needed. Change one, you gotta change the other.”
Andrews picked up something that looked like a slightly refined grease gun mounted on wooden furniture. “I suppose this is the end result.”
“Machine Pistol 3, or MP-3 for short. I suspect it’ll be some time before they get it into service since they’re still working out the kinks. This one is a limited production test type they’ve been passing around like a party favor. I like the thirty round mags, and it seems to have good range but I’m still not convinced.”
Mance tried on the big steel pot helmet. “Call me crazy, but I think the new helmet is the best change. It fits much better than those awful Brodies we’ve been using, and should protect the head better.” To demonstrate his point, he shook his head while wearing it. The olive painted helmet stayed pretty snug.
I was an instant convert. The Brody helmet had been first fielded by the Brits in the Great War, and the AEF had ended up predominantly using it or an American produced copy. We’d been using the dinner plate styled helmets since then, and no one liked them. It probably survived only because it was better than nothing, and by the time we got the gumption to try to change it the Great War had already ended it, and the army had demobilized down to a shell.
While we continued discussing some of the other equipment, particularly that mammoth 14.5 mm anti-tank rifle, an Army Studebaker rolled to a halt outside. Dewitt’s eyebrow cocked as I heard doors clanging shut. He set down the massive box magazine, and snapped to a salute.
We quickly followed suit. I saw a steely eyed young lieutenant colonel striding towards us. He grudgingly returned the salute while mumbling something about bourgeois bullshit. “At ease, comrades.”
“Commander Gracchus,” said Dewitt, “we weren’t expecting you so soon. I was just demonstrating the modern army to the platoon leaders.”
I’d heard of Marius Gracchus before. Even in the thirties he was somewhat of a legend in the Army. He’d fought with distinction with the Haymarket Brigade in the Civil War, and earned his accolades fighting in the Battle of Chicago. He’d gained a reputation during the Mississippi Campaign serving with the Nat Turner Column as a model officer adept in the practice of maneuver warfare and combined arms tactics. Like many Spartacists, his given name had long since fallen by the wayside. Most of the serious militants adopted noms de guerre before the revolution.
“No need to worry, Chief-Lieutenant, I’ve only just arrived. I’ll let you make the introductions.”
I must admit, it was amusing to watch Dewitt strain to maintain his demeanor as a Southern Gentleman now that his commanding officer was black. Dewitt seemed to be talking through gritted teeth as he introduced Gracchus as the new commander of the 2nd Battalion.
Gracchus was tall and fit. His sable skin was freckled on his cheeks. His short, wiry hair was starting to gray at the temples. A pencil mustache lined his stern lips.
He instantly noticed me and suddenly I felt so out of place. “I see there’s only one NCO here.”
Dewitt jumped to answer all too quickly. “Yes sir. My orders made no mention of platoon sergeant’s being involved in this briefing. Lieutenant Mance insisted she be brought along.”
Gracchus regarded Mance impassively. “Indeed. Why is that lieutenant?”
Mance replied coolly, “I believe that close cooperation between NCOs and commissioned officers is vital to the performance of our duties, sir. We have far too few experienced female soldiers. Sergeant Schafer has been exemplary in the performance of her duties, but I believe that if we are to go into combat, she and other women NCOs need all the experience they can get.”
“That is an excellent answer lieutenant.”
Dewitt seemed to break out in a cold sweat as he tugged at his collar. Andrews, formerly his ever-faithful toady, inched away.
And it’s rather fortuitous you brought her along. It means I can deliver some news in person.” He looked at me again and smiled thinly. “It’s no secret, gentleman, that most of you regard being billeted to a women’s unit as a sort of punishment.”
I fought back a chuckle. It was a welcome change to see them squirming for once.
Gracchus paced as he lectured. “Indeed, it’s why I’m here at all. They’d kept it quiet until now, but I suppose you all deserve the news. I’ve been sent here by Stavka to assume command of this battalion because my predecessor took his own life.”
Dewitt turned pale as a sheet. “My god…”
“My condolences Dewitt. I know he was a friend of yours. I’d only heard myself when I boarded the plane for California this morning. Now, back to my point. You all believe that this posting is your punishment for following what you believed to be the lawful orders of your commanding officers. I’m here to tell you that isn’t true. If they wanted to punish you, you’d be in Alcatraz with the rest of the counterrevolutionaries. You’ve been put here to prove yourselves and your loyalty to the people.
Save for the whistling wind, the whole range was still and silent.
“Lieutenant Mance is absolutely correct. You will not benefit by excluding or looking down on your women NCOs. And you may end up losing one of your best ones.” Gracchus pulled an envelope from his pocket. “This came down from regiment. SecDef has opened up the military service academies to women for the coming year. To jumpstart female admissions, each women’s battalion was supposed to nominate one soldier. Sergeant Schafer was at the top of Second’s list.”
When I’d first joined the Army, neither the academies nor OCS had been opened up to women yet. My recruiter had remarked about what a shame it was, and seemed to think I was officer material. At the time, I wasn’t sure what the hell he was talking about. I got good grades in school, so what.
I’d spent the entire afternoon thinking about it. My initial reaction was indignation. During the long walk back to the barracks, I stewed in a foul mood. I’d only just started feeling competent at my present rate. I hadn’t even mastered the basics of soldiery and now they wanted to give me more responsibility.
It was supposed to be an honor. But I sure as hell didn’t feel cut out for it.
Thankfully, the base had an indoor pistol range. I had free time that night, and it seemed like a good idea to think it over while doing something that I found both relaxing and constructive. Aside from the range safety officer, I was the only one making use of the range that night. Pistols are not terribly useful as weapons of war, and they weren’t standard issue equipment. I’d picked up the hobby during my compulsory.
I still had the same old M1911 that I’d bought with my first month’s pay. I finished loading seven rounds of 15-gram ball into the last magazine. After slipping the magazine in, and pressing the slide release, I focused on the silhouette target. As I exhaled, I pushed away all of my fears and doubts. All that was left was the target and me. The 1911 was weighty in my hands as I lined up the sights.
The report was loud even through the safety muffs. The pistol kicked firmly as I squeezed off three rounds. The brimstone smell burned at my nose. It was strangely comforting. I emptied the rest of the magazine, recentering in between each shot.
I was less than impressed with the results. I removed the magazine and set my pistol down on the shelf. I reeled the target in to get a better look. The paper target felt like a disappointing report card. I only counted six holes in it, and those were barely within the black silhouette.
I was about to reload when I heard the muffled sound of someone talking right behind me. My heart jumped as I spun around and tore the muffs from my head. Mance was standing a professional distance away, looking as world weary as ever.
“Gott im himmel! You should know better than to sneak up to someone with a gun in her hands.”
He laughed quietly. “Sorry, I’d been meaning to get your attention, and I figured it was best to do it before you reloaded.”
“Well, what can I do for you sir?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Colonel Gracchus’ offer.”
I decocked my 1911 and set it down. “Well, you’ve come at a good time. I came here to clear my head and think about it.”
“It’s a big burden he’s placing on you. Even worse, they’ll be starting you as a second year, and you’ll have to sink or swim.”
“Did you go to West Point sir?”
“We’re not in combat, Schafer. You don’t need to call me sir. I think we’ve been trying to cling to the ideas of an army that no longer exists. Yes, I went to West Point. I’m not sure how much has changed; I attended in the middle of MacArthur’s reforms.”
He noticed me bristle at the mention of his name and chuckled. “He wasn’t always the bête noir he is now. Once upon a time, he was a diligent and perhaps even progressive military officer. Anyway, I’m not sure I can be much of a guide for you. But I will say this: if you choose to go, you’ll be treated like an outsider. The other cadets will resent you. Many will even hate you. You’ve seen the treatment these ‘officers and gentlemen’ have been doling out here? The arbitrary punishments, the harassment, the constant hectoring of any iota of initiative or independence on your part? It’ll be ten times worse at the Academy.”
His solemnness confirmed what I’d been fearing. “You think I should turn it down?”
“No, rather the opposite. I think you should go. Because I think you can take it.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m officer material.”
“You’re smart enough to excel academically. Unlike the other lieutenants, I actually keep tabs on the women under my command. You’re the one person in the whole platoon to read the field manuals Stavka sends us without being ordered to. They call you the ‘bookworm’ in the barracks, and I’d bet you’ve probably read the whole West Point first year curricula already.”
I felt intensely uncomfortable. There’s an old saying that goes something like that nail that sticks out the most is the first to be hammered down. I’d never liked being different but somehow, I could never manage to help myself. Mom always wanted to set me up with a nice Jewish boy with a decent trade. And yet she never understood why I wanted to go study the Torah with the boys. My teachers always felt I was too rough and mannish, and warned me that it was a bad idea to embarrass my future husband by being smarter than him or too outspoken. I didn’t like sticking out, and yet all my attempts to conform seemed to be rebellious.
“And most importantly, they trust and respect your leadership. You lead by example. You never ask anything of others that you wouldn’t be willing to do yourself. And from what I’ve heard, when you decided to enlist, a fair number of your Militia cadre decided to follow you in.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Just think about it. You’ve got a couple days before you need to make a decision.”
It’s easy with hindsight to see how obviously right Mance was. But at the time, I was terrified. To be honest, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. But somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, I found enough resolve to make a decision. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, I helped lead the troops through PT and a live-fire exercise. The moment I found some free time, I typed out my acceptance letter, and handed it to Mance.
He read it over once, nodding his head. He looked at me with such pride in his eyes I think I saw the ghost of my father in him. Before I knew it, I was waiting for my train at Sacramento, all prim and proper in my dress uniform, polished boots and pilotka, the rest of my platoon waiting with me on the platform to see me off. *[WPA]: Works Progress Administration *[NBI]: National Bureau of Investigation
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