I stood in formation, shifting from one foot to the other, impatiently waiting for the commander to shout “fall-in.” As I stood there at Fort Sam Houston (Texas), I pondered my belief that these formations and subsequent mile runs would end after basic training. Add this misconception to the rapidly expanding bag that contained all the other misconceptions and falsehoods my recruiting officer assured me of before I took my oath to serve. My recruiter had shown me a short, quaint film of women in ankle socks and culottes, merrily doing jumping jacks in white gym shoes. I laughed to myself and looked down at the shiny, size ten combat boots I had worn all my waking hours since stepping off the bus.

At Fort McClellan, Ala., in 1977, combat boots, fatigues and an M16 rifle were all part of the finished portrait of the Women’s Army Corps turned Army Corps.  My platoon was a test case to see if women could complete the same rigorous training men endured. If we could, we would be called Army Corps. I was one of the last women to wear the Pallas Athene on the collar of my uniform. I was sworn into the Women’s Army Corps, but I was a graduate of the Army Corps. I was now a proud, regular Army soldier. The word “women” fell from the title but not the treatment.

 I stifled my thoughts that the future big picture of the U.S. Army would include women on the front lines. Usually for women to see any combat, they had to be associated with a medical specialty.

The commander shouted to fall in. My head was overflowing with negativity and depression. Within a few months of my arrival on base, I had accumulated more Article 15s than most soldiers get in their entire career. It was evident I needed to get my head in the game.

I had gone to base counseling to determine why I had been feeling so low, depressed and angry. I wanted to know what I could do to lift my spirits. Unfortunately for me, the doctor missed the mark with his diagnosis. He said I had a severe case of homesickness. He was wrong.

The truth was I had secrets buried so deep within me that they were no longer visible to me. My rape at the hands of a soldier tipped the scales of my self-worth and rational thinking. I would push the memory of my violation to the very back corners of my mind and then go and do something stupid. The Article 15s kept my pay grade at Private E-2. Each time I gained a rank I would get busted again.  Soon I got the reputation of being the base goof-off.

One day, the commander ordered me to report to the South Gate for guard duty at 1400 hours. Too bad my focus was on the beautiful summer day and a jumbo margarita. The temperature in San Antonio was 80 degrees at 9 a.m. The heat was so dry that by noon one could bake instead of boil.

Impulsively, I decided to go horseback riding rather than reporting for guard duty. Instead of walking the gate, I felt the warm breeze on my face as I sat on the smooth back of the powerful brown beast. Unintentionally, I let the horse take control. He pulled the reins out of my hands and walked me into the middle of a lake. I could hear shouts from people on the bank. “Take the reins! Take the reins!”

Standing in the water on the back of that horse, I knew deep within myself the time had come for me to make some changes. I needed to take control of the reins of my life. I needed to make better choices and to face my truth. Although I did not have the slightest idea how to move forward, I was ready. As the tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped into the water around the horse, I grabbed the reins and took back control. I know the onlookers thought my tears and laughter were strange, but I did not care.

The consequences of that eventful horseback ride would be another Article 15 and another appointment with the base counselor. But this time, I knew my decision about taking control of the reins of my life also meant sharing my secrets.

Note: Cincinnati VAMC Women's Writing Group