Basic Training of the Heart Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Socialite Elizabeth Carlton impulsively joins the Women’s Army Corps to escape love’s disappointments and her father’s attempts to control her life. Still, she has never been one to accept discipline imposed by others—not even someone as intriguing as her new sergeant.

  Sergeant Gale Rains is accustomed to challenges, but she’s never had a recruit quite like this one. Rains surrendered much of her Sioux heritage to the Army to escape the hardships and pain of her youth. Now a drill instructor, her calm, steady manner and firm hand have molded women from all walks of life into WACs. But not one of them has ever touched her. Why should this spoiled party girl be any different?

  With the whole world at war, victory is never certain as two women wage their own battles of will and desire.

  Basic Training of the Heart

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

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  Basic Training of the Heart

  © 2016 By Jaycie Morrison. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-817-7

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: September 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Jenna Albright

  Acknowledgments

  My undying appreciation first to Joanie, Marti, and Casson, my loyal beta readers. Without your encouragement, this book would never have been anything but a file on my computer. The support of my special group of “flat tire friends” and others as this process has moved from dream to reality has been incredible. Thanks to Len and Sandy of Bold Strokes Books for taking a chance even after hearing the worst pitch in the history of pitches, and a special thanks to Ruth, possibly the world’s most patient editor.

  On a serious note, this story began with the intention of honoring two groups that I greatly admire: those who have served and are serving in the armed forces, especially those trailblazing women, and the long-suffering members of Native American communities. While I have tried to do my research, I do not claim to be an expert on either and sincerely apologize in advance for any offense I may have given. Even though this is a work of fiction, in both cases, an honest effort was made to remain respectful and not break any taboos. Any errors are entirely mine, but I would like to acknowledge the dedication of Mr. Jack Luskin of the Ft. Des Moines Museum and Education Center and the invaluable assistance of Ms. Renee Woodruff, who came on board as my consultant on Lakota language and customs after my early missteps but hopefully in time to save me from additional ones—philámayaye, mitȟámaške.

  Dedication

  To my wonderful family, who first taught me about love, and to Sandy, who makes me believe in it every day. Without you, my beloved wife, there would be no romance, no music, no stars. You are my match, my one and only.

  And for Gambo, and that other book we always meant to write. Your brave heart and beautiful spirit will always be with us.

  In honor of

  Oveta Culp Hobby

  (1905–1995)

  First director of the Women’s Army Corps

  Chapter One

  August 11, 1944

  “Well, it looks as if you girls are in for a rough eight weeks.” The perspiring driver’s words vibrated like the bug-smeared windshield as she peered out at the robust figure standing stiffly ahead. “You’ve drawn the meanest sergeant in the service.” Braking hard enough that Bett’s shoulder briefly brushed the woman next to her as they both swayed along the benches of the converted cattle truck, the uniformed woman turned around to confront the assortment of faces before continuing her explanation. “Her name’s Sergeant Moore, but I’ve heard they call her Sergeant Less, ’cause she grinds her recruits down to a lot less than they start out with.” She chortled as the truck ground to a stop. The damp heat of a late Iowa summer promptly filled in the spaces where the air had been moving.

  As if in confirmation of this assessment, the sergeant’s booming voice pierced the flapping back cover of the truck. “Get your asses out of that truck, ladies, and give me a line right here, right now!” Jolted into action, Bett and the other occupants began quickly gathering their possessions. The faces around her showed a variety of reactions: some were clearly terrified, others appeared determined, a few suppressing a smirk at the use of the word ass. Bett had to agree that it was almost funny to hear the words asses and ladies in the same sentence. Judging from the urgency of the sergeant’s tone, it was more important that everyone move the former than the obvious fact that several in the truck didn’t fit into the latter category. Clearly there’s a good reason this isn’t called the Ladies’ Army Corps, she thought.

  “Move it, move it, girls!” the voice insisted as the truck lumbered away, leaving a blast of well-worn dust that settled warmly around the young women’s ragged line. Once the movement had subsided, the group silenced as the ruddy, narrow-eyed Sergeant Moore began to speak. “You are officially members of the Women’s Army Corps now. That means you will look Army, act Army, think Army, and be Army! And for right now, I am the Army. So that means you will do what I say, when I say it, how I say it. Are there any questions?” She waved a clipboard threateningly in their direction.

  A general shaking of heads followed. Raising her voice a pitch, Moore added, “You are the sorriest bunch of recruits I’ve ever seen. I guess pickings must be getting mighty slim out there. Where did they find you?” She fixed a glare on the fourth girl in line, a stick-thin waif in a shapeless shift dress who, at first glance, looked as though she might blow over in a strong wind. “Skid row?” The girl ducked her head, her short hair not quite hiding the rise of color coming into her cheeks. She clenched her fists, hiding dirty fingernails and causing the wiry muscles in her arms to bunch.

  “I am a sergeant,” Moore resumed. “That means you will answer my questions with ‘Yes, Sergeant’ or ‘No, Sergeant.’ Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” a few brave souls mumbled.

  “What?” Sergeant Moore almost screamed.

  “Yes, Sergeant!” they replied together, loudly.

  Moore’s skeptical gaze came to rest on a tall, fair-skinned redhead who had been regarding her almost pleadingly. Taking a step closer to the girl, she shouted, “Are you looking at me?” As the redhead shuddered, her eyes moving wildly around for anyone or anything else to
look at, the segeant directed, “When you are being address by a superior, you hayseeds will look straight ahead, not at the officer.” Everyone tried to assume this expression as Moore looked down the line. Her critical inspection settled on a brown-complexioned young woman standing toward the end of the line on Bett’s left. The sergeant’s thick brows lowered and her voice was heavy with disgust as she snorted, “I can’t believe they keep letting mutts like you into my Army.”

  Although her breath shortened, the girl remained still, looking at nothing.

  Widening her contempt to encompass them all, Moore looked down at her clipboard as she barked her next order. “Sound off! For today that means you will give me your first and last name and where you’re from.” Moore stepped to the first girl in line, a young, pleasantly plump girl with streaky brown hair who managed to comply after a quick swallow.

  “Charlotte Jackson,” she stated nervously, adding, almost unnecessarily to Bett, who was quite familiar with the soft, drawling notes of the South, “Montgomery, Alabama.” Moore made a notation on the paper.

  The next girl in line was shaking visibly with her head bowed, and several of the others dared to glance at each other. Riding just the short distance to the base in the noisy truck, Bett had only heard a few words from the soft-spoken young woman, but she’d detected a significant stammer. She assumed the others had become somewhat better acquainted since they’d all been on the train for some time before she’d joined them at the station in Des Moines. Still, no one seemed to know what to do as Moore stepped in front of the frightened girl and demanded, “Well? Are you waiting for a personal invitation?” The girl’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She seemed unable to breathe. “Are you deaf?” bellowed Moore.

  The girl swayed just a bit, as though she might faint. After a few more anguished seconds, Bett took a breath and called out in her most imperious tone. “Wait.”

  In unison, the whole line turned toward the sound. Sergeant Moore’s head snapped around angrily, and Bett moved forward a step as she continued in her most pronounced British accent. “I wonder if you might indulge me, Sergeant. I’m an alumna of Oxford University”—she paused to offer a somewhat sheepish grin at her fellow recruits—“which is why I sound a bit like the Queen.”

  At that, her fellow recruits began murmuring to each other.

  “Sure does.”

  “Like one of those characters on the radio.”

  “That’s right.”

  Before Sergeant Moore could recover from the surprise of being interrupted, Bett pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear and continued. “My degree was in linguistics, but I presented on regional accents and colloquial dialects of the United States, so I was wondering if you might allow me a conjecture as to the geographical location from which each of these young ladies originates? Give my studies a bit of a tryout?” She ended with what she hoped was a winning smile, and the group stirred with relief and anticipation.

  “What did she say?” the thin girl wondered in a whisper.

  “She wants to guess where we come from,” the Alabama intonation replied quietly.

  “Shut the fuck up.” If Sergeant Moore’s face was red before, it was now almost purple. The recruits were shocked and frightened into silence as Moore strode down the line. “What part of doing it my way did you not understand?” she snarled into Bett’s face.

  “But aren’t you the least bit curious to see if she can do it, Sergeant Moore?” A new voice, clear and almost melodic somehow, cut through the sweltering tension. No one had noticed her approach, focused as they were on the drama unfolding at the other end of the line. Even Sergeant Moore appeared startled as she whipped around and then nodded briefly in acknowledgment.

  “So is it Master Sergeant now, Rains? I was told you might be gone for half a day.” From her vantage point, Bett could clearly see Moore’s thinly veiled hostility as she eyed the stripes on the newcomer’s sleeve. “They’re letting you try out the new uniform, I see.” Though they both wore a stiff-brimmed, rounded khaki hat with the WAC insignia on the front, Rains’s long-sleeved khaki shirt and tucked olive green tie disappeared at her narrow waist into a pair of pressed khaki pants. While Moore’s stomach strained at the straight line of her skirt and the buttons of her top, the cut and drape of the uniform fit Rains’s form flawlessly and complemented the tight lines of her thin figure. In further contrast to Moore’s red-faced, threatening appearance, Bett’s first impression was that Sergeant Rains looked every inch the military model of command—concentrated, competent, and completely in control.

  Seemingly unaffected by Moore’s antagonism, Rains’s voice was calm. “Yes, just now. But it’s still First Sergeant. Until we get this group through.” Facing the group, she stiffened to attention. “Good day.” Spontaneously, they all mirrored her position as she continued, “My name is Sergeant Rains and I will be your drill instructor until you graduate from basic training. I had a meeting at headquarters today and Sergeant Moore was kind enough to cover for me.” Turning back to Moore, she gave a curt, dismissive nod. “I know you’re due to rotate out for some R and R today, Sergeant. Thank you for your time.” They saluted each other at the change of command.

  “Good luck with this bunch, Rains,” she said unkindly, handing Rains the clipboard as she got off one final comment. “I’ve been trying to teach them the fundamentals, but they’re dumber than a box of rocks. They might even cost you that promotion.” Turning back abruptly, she added, in a low, menacing tone, “And I’ll have my eye on you, Your Highness.”

  Bett flinched, but more with distaste than fear.

  Sergeant Rains surveyed the group again with a serious expression. As Moore’s retreating back grew smaller, they gave an almost unison sigh of relief. Rains focused her dark eyes on Bett as she began to speak. “So, Private…?”

  “Smythe.” Bett filled in after the briefest hesitation.

  As Rains gave another quick, almost imperceptible nod, there were some hoots and giggles from the rest of the line, apparently at the distinguished pronunciation the young woman gave to the common name. The sergeant silenced them quickly with a sharp look. “One thing the Army expects us to teach you is how to work as a team. More than that, the women in this squad will become your sisters.” Her tone was firm but pleasant, taking on an almost hypnotic cadence as she moved noiselessly down the line, looking at each girl. “So no matter how things are with your relations on the outside, you have a new family now. One that we will build together. We will look out for each other, learn to count on each other, trust each other, and respect each other. We will be making vital contributions to the war effort, and we will demonstrate something important about the abilities of the American woman. So to the outside world, we present a united front. We are together. We are one. Because your family, and now this Army family, is a big part of who you are and what you will become. Added to whatever else you have been, a daughter, a sister, the youngest, the prettiest”—two or three of the girls giggled slightly at this—“from this moment on, you are also a WAC.” She turned and went down the line. “But we are part of a larger family, too—the Army family. And there are rules for our larger family as well. We do things a certain way, because we know they work. What makes these rules fair to the whole family is that since everyone follows the same procedures and has the same experiences, we can understand each other more easily.”

  Ending up again in front of Bett, she continued her lecture to the group. “Doing things differently can be a risk, because new ways may not get the results that we want. But sometimes a new thing is better and its success rewards us for trying it. Private Smythe here has taken a risk by speaking out. She wants to try something that is not the Army way. So we will try, and see if her risk is rewarded. But should she fail, you will all run one lap for each one she gets wrong”—she quickly swept her gaze over Bett—“to help us remember the pitfalls of questioning an officer’s instructions.” She turned to the group again. “Understood?” />
  The young woman on Bett’s left whispered, “I hope you’re really good at this stuff, girl, cause I hate runnin’.”

  The rest were nodding as Sergeant Rains repeated, with slightly more volume, “Understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” came the unison, obedient reply.

  Satisfied, Rains looked back at Bett, her head cocked slightly with curiosity. “Can you really tell where someone comes from, just from hearing them say their name?”

  “Well,” Bett allowed, “since you’ve put such high stakes on it, I would like a little more opportunity to hear each person speak. Perhaps if they could also state, in one sentence, why they volunteered for the WAC?”

  “Fair enough.” Rains moved back up the line, and instructed the group, “You will give your name”—she stopped and then added—“and what you prefer to be called, along with your reason for joining up. Private Jackson has already given her origins away, I believe,” the sergeant continued, and Jackson nodded. Rains stopped in front of the second girl, who had stopped shaking, although the long thin curls of her hair were drenched with sweat. The tall sergeant leaned away from her slightly, taking a nonthreatening pose, and said softly to the girl, “You may look at me, Private.” Teary eyes opened but did not look up. The sergeant’s voice gentled. “Can you tell your new family your name and why you volunteered?”

  “Te-Te-Te…,” the girl began, in an almost sobbing voice, but kept her eyes open. Bett wondered if anyone else heard Sergeant Rains making a soft hushing sound, almost like what a rider would make to settle a skittish horse, that seemed to draw the frightened girl’s eyes upward. As she met the sergeant’s eyes, she took a breath.