I was a member of the Woman’s Army Corps. I am very proud to be a WAC. Basic training was the start to a brand new way of life, more than a career. I became something bigger than just me. I was one of them!

Our basic training in 1975 was at Fort Jackson, S.C. That was something new for the service, which was originally headquartered at Fort McClellan, Ala., since 1943 but was shut down because it had become a toxic waste dump.

We all fell in from different walks of life. We learned together all the terms we would need to make it through the next weeks of basic training. Each member of this “cherry unit” knew her place. We were called on by last name only. They tried to tear me down from what I once was, a naive country girl looking for something different, only to rebuild me into the best of the best WAC – someone with pride, endurance, confidence, respect and grit.

We were one of the first platoons to have a male drill sergeant in the brigade; our unit was all female. There were no coed basic training options; men and women were completely segregated for training. This obviously was a completely new concept for us and for our drill sergeant as well. He didn’t know how to treat us; he had only worked with male recruits before. If we did a good job on our inspections, Sgt. Gates would address us as “sweet peas,” but if our efforts were less than stellar you would hear in DI voice, “Hamburger-heads, get down and give me 20 push-ups,” female push-ups, which meant you were actually on your knees and only extending your arms up and down.

We would march and sing, “When they tried to make a WAC out of me…” Some of the classes really surprised me: how to apply make-up properly, personal hygiene and professional etiquette. Most of the women in the service during this time were traditionally nurses and or administrative personnel. We were treated like young ladies, and we were expected to act accordingly. There were high standards. Yes, we qualified with M16s, went to gas chamber and went on bivouac like our counterparts, despite being ladies.

We would march out to the parade field where we would conduct physical exercise. Our uniform for physical training was an ironed blouse, tucked, with a wraparound skirt and a pair of shorts underneath the skirt, bobby socks and sneakers.

It was not until we were in our appropriate location and ready to commence our exercises that we would disrobe by unwrapping our skirts, placing them right next to us folded. There they would remain until our exercise routine was complete. Then we would again wrap our skirts around ourselves to completely cover up, ready to return marching to the barracks.

As WAC recruits, we were not allowed to be married or have children. If you happened to already have children, you would need to give custody to someone else while serving in the WAC.

It would take another three years to be completely integrated into the Army. The WACs were disbanded in 1978. WACs were all required to update their contracts if they elected to stay in the service or had the option to be honorably discharged. From then on we marched to the beat of a new drum; the changes were many.

Looking back, I now realize what it took to step out of my comfort zone. I am from upstate New York, very country, secluded. We are basically a bunch of white people trying to hoe out a living. I had no idea that the Army would help me become part of a complex, diverse culture.

But I was once told that “I was worth the pound of salt it took to plant me.” I choose to believe these words. I have grit. I knew when I left my childhood home that I would do at least 20 years and be retired by age 39, and that is what I did. The Army would mold me into that lean, mean fighting machine. I was a force to be reckoned with. I still am.