Why I Never Wrote about the Army

Four hours a night and we slept with our rifles, strap twined around skinny forearms, brass and ammo locked away and catch on safety. Drill Sergeant Robinson warned that if he snuck into our shelter halves and nabbed a rifle, why, we’d be pushing Fort Dix off the map. We laughed, our voices too high, our camouflage paint cracking into frightened, toothy grins. He held a rifle over his head: “For the next eight weeks, this is your boyfriend!” I thought, “girlfriend.”

No one in my platoon breathed a word the nights Alexis crept into my bunk. After full-pack road marches I’d wake screaming from a charley horse, animal sounds ragged and out of touch with the night. They were glad I had someone to smooth my cramped muscles and shut me up. And everyone was so far from home. Latest rumor was that a girl in the next platoon was getting discharged for being queer and I asked my ranger buddy