A Different Kind Of Courage free porn video

March 07 2010 Trace Willard sat in the center of the canvas lined bench in the troop compartment of a UH60 Blackhawk. It was coming in low and fast over the Tora Bora Mountains on a Sweep and clear mission hunting for Taliban militants in Afghanistan. Trace had been here fighting the war on terror off and on for nine years. He was the Platoon Sergeant of his unit and was fully committed to the war. Twice over, he had re enlisted. He was committed to crushing the Taliban; he even told superiors that he considered the Taliban fighters to be subhuman garbage. They approved. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard knew this was a juicy target when the ground fire heated up at their approach. SOMEBODY was here. It had to be somebody big, probably not Oily Bin Liner, but maybe Mullah Omar. The lead bird's wheels feather touched the soil as the task force hit the ground and Trace led his men into the heavy stuff. The Taliban knew what was up and put up a heavy flak wall. That did not matter as the Americans moved in a wide dispersed skirmisher fashion using; interlocking fields of fire and fire-and-maneuver tactics. Many of the men had M203 grenade launchers under the barrels of their M4 carbines, and so they could put up a rolling fire of what was essentially small caliber grade mortar fire. The exterior defenders were down, not without loss, but the main force moved into the cave. This was not SFC Willard's first rodeo, and so he chucked in a 'greeting card' of two J2J fragmentation grenades to pave his way, then he led his squad in using single file slice element tactics. SFC Willard never stopped moving. He led the team in and never gave the hostiles or "Habibs" as he thought of them a minute's rest. The jackpot once they got into the main section was something Willard never saw coming. Instead of a nest of Taliban Bigwigs, what greeted his eyes was a crowd of civilian hostages. They were Reporters, aid workers, and even civilian hostages taken from local villages to compel obedience to the Taliban. After killing every gun toting falafel eating Gombah In the caves, Willard radioed in. "Big hat, Big hat, this is little bear, Over," "Little Bear, this is Big Hat, we read you, go ahead." "Objective is secure; we are heavy one baker's dozen November Charles's requesting dust-off extract on November Charlies, over" "Little bear roger that, your dust-off is inbound at this time, Big hat, sez good job, the beer's on him, over and out" Willard led the civilians out and to the Landing Zone. They were crying and shouting and effusive in their praise of the Soldiers of Willard's unit. They did not get the big target they hoped for, but this was just as good. This was the good stuff, saving the good folks from the bad folks. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard was the last to get into the chopper when the RPG round hit near the bird and blew him to the ground. He was a mess. He could not feel his legs, his arms were shredded and he could neither see nor hear. He felt himself being picked up and carried and set on something, and then he blacked out. Willard's body had blocked the RPG from doing any serious damage to the Blackhawk, but he was a wrecked ruin of burned and shredded flesh. He had one last thought before oblivion closed in, "At least we saved the civvies." Trace found himself in a strange surreal ever-shifting realm of dreaming. A place of often frightening unreality and disturbing visions. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard wondered if THIS was the afterworld. Was this bizarre place the hell that was his punishment for his sins? S.F.C Trace Willard woke up. That alone came as such a surprise to him that he was at first not cogent of the rest of the sensations he was receiving from his body. Then, he took inventory, Legs that were there and apparently working. Arms, the same, back and body, very, very strange feeling, but pain free and working. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling of the room in witch he was. Willard had been in hospitals enough times to know the rest. There was a glucose drip in his left arm just below the elbow joint and he lay in a standard U.S. Military hospital bed. There was an oxygen feed in his nostrils and an oxygen blood monitor on his left middle finger. The final bit of equipment was the various leads for the heart monitor on his chest. That was when Trace realized what was really wrong. Breasts, Trace Willard had breasts. pretty decent sized, if one was to be perfectly frank. Two well shaped nicely rounded and totally hairless breasts crowning his chest. Then, Trace closed his legs and realized that the presence of two mammary glands was complimented by a very glaring and shocking absence. Trace Willard no longer had either his penis or his testicles. Something was very wrong. Something was going on and he did not have enough data to understand what that was. Trace moved his head just enough to glance downward and saw he was wearing a standard U.S. Army Medical Corps smock and the room marked the location as the Army's main hospital in Maryland. Walter Reed medical center. Trace laid there, churning over everything he knew up to that point to try to think of what could explain this. How does a twenty-eight year old man suffer lethal combat damage and then wake up apparently complete healthy with all the characteristics of a woman? He did not have enough information. He needed to know more. That meant Trace Willard had to wait and see. Trace Willard was an avid science fiction reader. He always had been. One time when he was a boy, he read a book by one of his favorite authors. It was about a rich old man, dying who had his brain transplanted into the body of a recently deceased young woman. Was that what happened? Did they take some young female derelict or hooker and put his brain in her body. If so, that was just perverse. Trace hoped that there was another explanation. The attending nurse realized he was awake and entered the room to check on him. She looked at all of the screens and then satisfied at the readings, asked him, "Sergeant, are you alright? Sergeant Willard, can you hear me?" Trace, tried to speak, but was only able to squeak out, "Yes" in a tiny voice. Then he said again in a stronger, but still higher pitched voice, "I, I can hear you." "Sergeant, the doctor will be in soon to speak with you, I have already called him, until then, is there anything I can do, do you need some water? Are you thirsty? I can let you have some ice chips to suck on." Trace nodded his head and the nurse raised the top half of the bed so that Trace was now sitting up. His breasts shifted a bit and he could feel the nipples against the fabric of his smock. As he looked around, the nurse, a U.S.A.M.C. Lieutenant, turned on the T.V. and set it to the Armed Forces Hometime channel. (The Military's version of T.V. Land.) Hometime was programmed with prime time dramas and sitcoms from the late 1970s and the 1980's what the army guessed to be the programming most prevalent during the childhoods of the lion's share of the serving soldiers. That meant that right now, the sight that greeted Trace's eyes was Linda Carter bouncing around the screen in her wonder woman costume. Trace had to admit, he liked that. Then, he realized that his new downstairs level was reacting to his thoughts. He could feel lower lips parting and moisture increasing as his whole body reacted to the thoughts the show was putting in his head. That was just plain strange, and no mistake. The nurse saw him flush and his heart rate going up, so she turned off the T.V. and left the room. Trace worked to get control of himself, then saw an Army doctor, a Major by rank enter the room to talk to him. "Sergeant First Class Trace Willard, age, 28, sex, female, hair brown, Eyes, amber, born in 1982 in Austin, Texas." Trace spoke up in a clearer more confident but still female voice, "Doc. How come I'm a girl now, how come I'm, I don't, Doc. I don't understand what's going on." "Sergeant, do you have any idea just WHO you saved in those mountains? You saved the only son of one of the most prominent and powerful medical magnates in America. When he heard what happened to you, he authorized the Army to use a new and state of the art form of total regeneration therapy. It literally rebuilt your body from a fine tuned and defect free version of your Genome. The reason you are now female is because all vertebrate embryos are inherently female and actually require an additional androgyne to make them male." "And they don't know, how or when to add it in, do they?" "No, Sergeant, they do not. The good news is that Mr. Hardesty has allowed us to make the procedure public in your case. You will not lose anything and you will receive full honors for your actions over there. You are STILL Sergeant First Class Trace Willard and no one is going to try to take that away from you." The doctor told him he was a woman. The dude even put it right up front right after rank and name. 'Sergeant First Class Trace Willard, sex: Female.' It now said so right on all the paperwork. To the Army and every member of American officialdom Trace Willard was a person of the feminine gender. That old rich guy with the doomyflatchie gave him a brand new factory reconditioned body with one doozey of a catch. Trace Willard, hair, brown, eyes, amber, rank, Sergeant First Class, birthplace, Dallas Texas.. Sex, female It was a girl. It pisses sitting down. It would take forever in the bathroom. It would like chick flicks and soap operas and frilly things to wear. Trace Willard, Tracey Willard the girley-girl. These were all of the thoughts that raced through his head, his? HIS? That was a good joke, was it not? The laws of providence just confiscated all of the male pronouns and issued a fresh set of female pronouns, get used to it, TROOP! Another odd factoid was that Trace had been blonde, just like his father, and was now brown haired, just like his mother. It was almost as if all of his mother's genes had become dominant in the regeneration. Weird. Trace had gone from his father's son to his mother's daughter. Trace let her head fall back on the pillow, then answered, "So, now, everyone is going to know I'm a freak." "Far from it, Sergeant. You are a Soldier who served her country well with sparkling distinction, and who has been compensated as best as we could do for her sacrifice, you are no freak, not by any means." Sergeant First Class Trace Willard turned her face away from the Major/doctor and said, "If there is nothing else, Doctor, I would like a minute to get my mind right, if that is alright." "Of course, Sergeant, I'll be back by later to check on you and see about some other things." "Yes, sir." Trace discovered that among other things she was very weak. She could do basic things with her hands and arms, such as eat, but anything more ambitious was for now out of the question. Her body was brand new and needed conditioning. One of the things Trace could do was work the remote on the television. The news was more of the same. President Obama trying to do his job and most of the Republicans and even some democrats doing their best to stop him. Even when something was actually a good thing, the talking heads on FOX made it sound somehow sinister. Trace spent most of her time watching the entertainment channels. She was pleased to discover that she still liked the same things. Action movies, comedies, science Fiction and historical dramas. Trace still REALLY liked war movies, especially from World war two or about World war two. Finally, she still liked looking at scantily clad and or naked women. The disquieting thing was the definite physical reaction her body displayed every time she looked at those images. Flushed skin, hardening nipples, and a hot wet vulva that opened itself as if to facilitate intercourse. The crowing moment of embarrassment came when the Attending floor nurse caught Trace 'saying yoo-hoo to the hoo-hoo during an infomercial for a women's workout video. Trace immediately stopped and shouted, "Oh, my god, Oh, God, I am SO SORRY, I can't believe I was doing that, Oh, god, I'm so sorry." Trace was obviously more embarrassed than the nurse was and the Nurse chuckled and told her, "Sergeant, do you really think I've never seen that? We have female soldiers here too, you know. It's actually a great sign, it means you're healthy and your body has normalized, it also means you've accepted your body, Congratulations. I will just have to be a little more careful, that's all." Trace was not sure what squicked her out more, the fact that she masturbated or how incredibly good it felt. The really unsettling part was that it was probably going to happen again, and most likely very soon. Then the REALLY creepy part snuck in there and blew up. She had accepted her body. Trace had made her peace with being a woman. Gender Dysphoria was simply not going to be an issue, it just was not going to happen. That was what Trace thought at first at any rate. Trace Willard was now a woman, but she was still profoundly sexually attracted to women. Trace Willard was a Lesbian. From straight man to gay woman, Good luck sorting THAT out at the home office, so to speak. Then, it occurred to her to wonder, where did her religious faith stand? Trace was never what could be called religious, but she always pretty much went along with a sort of Laisse Faire Christianity. Thinking about it, there was that whole thing about gay stuff being bad. At least, that was what she had heard. Men were supposed to have sex with women and vice versa, right? The problem was that the thought of having sex with a man was what really made her feel like a faggot. Trace asked to speak with a Military Chaplain. Inside of two hours, a Captain Ned Halverson with a cross on each lapel came to see Trace. He seemed more than friendly and even had a briefcase. "Hello, Sergeant, I understand you would like to speak with me." "Yes, sir, I would, I have some pretty serious questions, and like that." "Please, Call me Reverend Ned, and if I could I'd like to call you Trace, may I do that?" "Sure Reverend Ned, um, how much do you know about me, do you know, you know, like everything about me, like EVERYTHING?" Trace, I know you were once, rather recently a man. A soldier that was so badly hurt in battle that only a bleeding edge medical procedure could save you. I know that this procedure caused you to become a woman. Now, Trace, first, let me assure you that the soul is NOT the body and God knows you and loves you, HE understands a lot more than many people think." "Uh, Well, Reverend Ned, um, I needed to ask, I mean. I know the Bible says stuff about how women are supposed to act and things like that, but I don't , well I mean uh, well uh, I mean well, you , see, uh well that is....." Trace trailed off there, in a sort of stuttering embarrassed confusion. She was as red as a beet and her hands were gesturing as if she were John Madden. The Reverend understood and asked Trace, "Trace, are you telling me that you are sexually attracted to women?" In a tiny muttered voice Trace answered, 'yes, sir." "Trace, up until your treatment concluded, you were a man, a heterosexual man, of COURSE you're still attracted to women. You can't expect to just BECOME a woman in every way just because you have a woman's body, God knows that." "He does?" "Of course he does, and over time as your mind acclimates to you body, you may come to find men attractive, but you may not, and if you don't that's alright." Trace's jaw dropped, her eyes widened with incredulity, "What, What are you saying?" "As far as the Army is concerned, you are who you are. Nothing can change that. There is no more wrong with you than any other soldier wounded in combat. In fact, Most of the older and more hidebound members of the Army's general staff would be happy as clams if you NEVER learned to like men." Trace was completely flummoxed, puzzled beyond the ability to verbalize. The Army was O.K. with her as a woman loving women because in their collective minds she was just a horribly physically disfigured man; the church was O.K. with it for the same reason. The kicker was that she was NOT a physically disfigured man. She was a woman. The next day, after they tested her hand-eye responses and basic reflexes the fun began. Physical therapy Otherwise known as medically endorsed and subsidized torture. Trace had to learn to walk all over again. She knew how to walk but the factory reconditioned body had never done it before and her muscles needed to be conditioned. In addition, the bottoms of her feet needed to be toughened up and seasoned to supporting her weight. It was hard. It was painful. It was so much harder and hurt so much worse than she expected. Trace normally considered herself to be tough. She always thought of herself as a game day player, someone who could hang in and take it. By the fifth day, Trace was crying silent tears from the pain and effort of training her legs and feet to support her own body weight. Trace kept at it, and walked the course between the balance bars she was using, but the nurse could see her shoulders quivering. The Physical therapist looked at the nurse and the nurse made a wordless gesture to cease. That was when she moved in behind Trace with the wheelchair and the therapist said, "Wellp, to quote Big Sam from Gone with the wind, 'Quittin' tiiiiiiime!' I think we can pick up tomorrow, good job, Sergeant, you're gonna be running the confidence course in no time, you are really bustin' that ass, Troop." Trace wiped the tears from her face and tried to look stern as she was being wheeled to the showers. She did her best to play it off as if she had not been crying, but the nurse was not fooled. All the same, she helped trace undress and get into the paraplegic stall to wash up. "Sergeant, are you alright?" Trace, gulped and said, "Of course, El Tee, why wouldn't I be?" "Because you're putting pressure on a part of your body loaded with nerve endings with no calluses, and you are working muscles that have never been worked and your entire body is, on fire with pain from going from total non use to heavy and strenuous use. If I were under those daily stressors I would be crying like a little girl." "Well, that's not an option for me, I need to be tough, I need to buckle down and do the do I cannot afford any weakness or show of vulnerability, El Tee." "You need to be a man, is that it? Men don't cry and you need to be a big tough manly-man, is that the deal, Sergeant?" Trace rinsed her body off and took the towel the Lieutenant offered her and started to dry off. As she did so, she said, archly, "I'm not an idiot, El-Tee, I know I'm a woman, I get it, but in what world does that automatically mean I have to turn into a simpering weepy pathetic little bitch?" "Sergeant, its O.K. to show emotion especially now, with everything you've been through, there's nothing wrong with crying when-" "Oh sweet baby Jesus SPARE me the limp dicked pansy 'free to be-you and me', crapola, are you seriously going to start singing 'It's alright to cry'?" "I could if you would like me to, perhaps you could join in." Trace was now being helped into her panties and pajama bottoms when the nurse told her, "I know you're scared, Ser- Trace, but it really will be alright. You'll rehabilitate and then you can go on with the rest of your life." Trace let herself be wheeled back to her room and be put to bed. Even with as tired as she was it took her hours to get to sleep as she thought about what kind of life it would be. What about her parents, what about her friends, or her career in the Army? Where would she stand in the larger social structure known as the United States of America? For the first time since Trace was a little boy, of four years old, she cried herself to sleep. The next morning the solid waste hit the rotating rotoreocilator. All over the news, from CNN to MSnbc to FOX news, everyone was reporting the total body transformation of United States Army Sergeant First Class Trace Willard male and wounded grievously in combat, into a fully formed and perfectly healthy woman. The U.S. Army spokesperson made a point of telling them that if this had not been done Trace would have died, or at the least been condemned to life as a voiceless deaf blind Quadriplegic. CNN reported it as a Hero getting a second chance at life, and a well- deserved chance at that. MSnbc sold it as a good man who loved his country getting what he had coming to him, they opined that Sergeant Willard deserved good wishes in her new life. FOX news could not avoid saying essentially the same, given that they were specifically told that crossing the gender line was an unavoidable side effect of the total body regeneration. Even so, Sean Hannity could not avoid making snide comments about what to address her as or what bathroom Trace would use or whether or not she was gay or straight. What Glenn Beck actually said was that Trace's transformation was "This is More Obama-style liberalism and the forcing of the homosexual agenda on the American public. President Obama actually thinks he can make gays be more accepted if he turns one of our heroes into one of them, a transsexual pervert." One empty headed commentator actually said that unless Sergeant Willard could learn to like men she should be drummed out of the army as a lesbian. Jon Stewart of the Daily Show had that one for dinner. "That's right, if Sergeant Willard can't learn to suck (BLEEP) and Take it up the (BLEEP) then they should throw him out of the Army!" Trace had to admit, that was funny. What added to the discomfort of the overaged middle school students at FOX news was the following. Sergeant First Class Willard stumbled into a depository of kidnapped civilians that the Taliban had been planning on using as the human currency in the granddaddy of all hostage gambits. The only problem was that when they went to go get their counters, the civilians were not there. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard had rescued them. The Taliban war chief announced they held American hostages and demanded the NATO forces leave, only to have the cut-to reveal an empty cave. The hostages were at Bagram Air Force Base receiving aid and getting ready to go home. Sergeant Trace Willard was, in addition to her other citations, now receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor. Trying to smear this woman would be like trying to spread poop on a mirror. It would only reflect badly on THEM. Trace Willard had three more years to go on her most recent four-year term of enlistment. She would be serving those years in a NON-combat specialty. Either with the training command, (Witch she could definitely live with.) or worse luck, the recruiting command. Trace learned how to walk. She learned how to run; she did the work to recondition her body to the labor and effort of getting around and living in gravity. At that point, she was certified to return home. When Sergeant First Class Trace Willard discharged from Walter Reed Medical center, she had a friend. S.F.C. Elisabeth Dobkin. Sergeant Dobkin had recovered from a very chancy belly wound and had been posted with Trace and told to help her acclimate to her new gender over time. Her first words to Trace were, "Hi, Trace, call me Betty." Because they were of equal rank, there was no need for either deference, or authoritative assumption. The two women were fundamentally equals, just as if they were two civilians. Trace found it rather refreshing and answered, Hello, Betty, looks like the two of us are roomies, doesn't it?" Trace Willard shook Betty's hand full grip the way she would have as a man, and Betty shifted grip mid shake to show her how women shook hands. That told Trace what Betty's real job was. Education and indoctrination. It turned out that Betty had been a Combat medical corps specialist and she was now the U.S. Army Medical Corp's designated occupational living counselor for a very special case, one medically transformed Sergeant First Class Trace Willard. Trace was not stupid and the army had no intention of treating her as if she were. The Doctors told her straight out what Betty's job was and why. "The fact that the procedure to save your life and restore your limbs also changed your sex without your consent means that gender dysphoria is a real risk. It's something we're genuinely concerned over. Should you experience it, Sergeant First Class Dobkin will help you deal with it." Trace did not begrudge Betty's presence. Far from it. In fact Trace was grateful to have her there. Betty would be Trace's very own native guide to the world of modern femininity. The exit from Walter Reed was a mob scene of reporters from every major station. They pushed in and clamored at her for answers to a thousand questions. It seemed that with the lights, the cameras, the noise, and the questions as if they were going to crush Trace Willard in a stampede. S.F.C. Dobkin took Trace's hand and led her past the gauntlet into the car that would take them both to the military airfield. Trace was surprised, not just by the mad mob scene, but also by her visceral emotional reaction to it. She had been afraid. She had felt little and helpless and powerless. Something Trace Willard had never before felt since reaching teenage status. Even as the car door closed and the staff car moved out, Trace struggled to get control of herself and make sense of her reaction. Betty could tell something was wrong and place one hand on the other woman's arm asking concernedly, "Trace, are you alright, are you O.K.?" Trace Willard gulped twice, swallowed her gorge, did her best to fight back her hysterical reaction, and told Betty, "No, actually I'm pretty damned far from O.K. right about now, Betty since you asked, I am terrified, I was scared shitless of a bunch of pencil necked reporters. I was terrified beyond reason of a bunch of media mooks I wouldn't even give the time of day to." "I can explain that, if you like." "Please do!" "Sergeant,... no Trace, you're a woman. You're not a man dressed in drag, somewhere in there that big tough manly man brain of yours KNOWS that you are neither as strong nor as tough as you used to be. It also knows that now you are someone the rest of the world sees as an object. What's more you are terrified of what that world will think of you." "Yeah, my friends, my squaddies, my parents, my PARENTS what the hell are they going to say, I know the army told them why haven't they come to visit me all this time. Where have they been?" "I don't know, Trace, "Betty answered sympathetically "You never had any visitors and we were all wondering about that, ourselves". Trace thought about that. Anson "Tex" Willard was a VERY conservative Republican Congressman from the great state of Texas and made his bones on his 'Red Blooded' true blue all American" son. Now, his son was a girl and no longer fit the agenda her father was selling. Trace's mother was a professional conservative activist and a faux homemaker who never cooked a meal in her life. The truth was that Trace spent most of his life trying to get away from the hypocrisy of the Willard home. Now, she would have to deal with the Fascism salesman and the Stepford Smiler head on. This was not going to be pretty. Trace silently endured the ride to the Airport, and the remained quiet as she rode the Air Force gulfstream jet to Dallas Fort Worth International airport. Riding the staff car to the Willard family mansion Trace was terrified. What would her father and mother say, why had they never visited, what had the Army told them about her and what had happened? Trace Willard had been a big man. 6 feet and six inches tall, 250 pounds of muscle and power. A great big man that could pick up and carry a fallen comrade as if they were a sack of flour. Trace Willard was now a somewhat slim woman that was five feet and eleven inches tall and weighed a mere 120 pounds. With her greatly decreased upper body strength, she needed help with a double armful of groceries or packages. Her brown hair was short enough to be well accepted on a man, but on her, it now seemed positively butch. As yet she flatly refused to wear makeup. Betty was lucky to have gotten her into panties, bra, slip, hose, and the Army's skirt uniform. Trace wore formal flat-heeled shoes and no jewelry. Barton, the family's butler opened the door for her and Trace thanked him as she entered. She could hear a strange man's voice telling Trace's parents the following, "It is very important for you to understand that your son is alive. Alive and thanks to this procedure fully able bodied and able to lead a normal life. Sergeant Trace Willard gave up a lot for this republic and the unforeseen side effect of the procedure was neither ours nor the Sergeant's choosing." They did not know, or if they did know, they did not believe the first accounts. That was not a good sign as it meant that her own parents might deny her. Trace's legs shook and Betty held her shoulders, looked into her auburn eyes, and told her, "It'll be OK, Trace, It'll be OK, I'm here if you need me." Trace Willard walked into the family room where a U.S. Army Captain was standing and her mother and father were sitting and listening to him. The first words out of Anson's mouth were, "Jeezus Christ, Trace, Is that you, boy?" They could see the son they had known in her face, in her stance, the cast of her shoulders, the "Face the world' set to her hips and feet. Her mother buried her face in a double handful of Kleenex and Anson asked incredulously, "What the hell did they do, what did those perverts do to you boy?" "They gave me my life back pa. I was as good as dead and they gave me life back." "What the hell kind of life is this? What kind of sick joke is this shit?" Trace was starting to get a little angry as she asked in a raised tone of voice, "What have YOU got to be upset about, Pa. I'm the one that this happened to, this is my life, I don't get you, how is this any skin off your nose?" "It's an election year; our party has to try to retake the Congress. How the hell am I supposed to do that with a damned Tranny pervert for a son?" Trace fought to get control of herself and keep a steady voice. Then she bit out, "A tranny pervert, What the hell are you talking about , Pa? do you think I chose this, do you think I WANTED to lose everything about myself, my manhood, my strength, my whole sense of self. I don't even know who or what I am any more and I was hoping, no praying that I could come here, to my family and at least feel welcome, so I could at least feel something like normal." "You think you have problems? Trace, we have our standing in the church and the social circle and the community to think about and we DO NOT need a son that isn't even a real man any more." "Yes, Pa, I should have realized. This must be a terrible hardship FOR YOU!" "Well what are you going to tell them when they find out I'm out of the hospital?" Trace's mother answered in the nicest possible voice, "We'll tell them the Army needed you and that you couldn't come home right away, or even for a while. For a long while." "Momma, are you ASHAMED of me?" "Well, Trace, how else are we supposed to feel, you're not normal any more, you're not our son any more, why, I don't even know WHAT you are." Then Trace turned on her heel, walked out, pushing past Betty and Barton and walking out the door, down the walk, and then out to the sidewalk into the night. Before Trace was aware of what she was doing or where she was going, she had taken a cross-town bus to one of the more liberal sections of Dallas. In a daze, she wandered into a combination coffee shop and bookstore. Trace sat down and stared at a rack of books and did her best to clear her head. Her father, her own father could only ever think of how this affected him. All her mother could do was mumble into wadded up Kleenex about 'the shame' and: what would the neighbors think' and what will they say at church/' In other words, Trace's life had been blown apart and all these people could do was think and talk about themselves. Trace opened the purse she just now realized she'd been carrying and took a look at the contents. Betty had obviously packed it. It had a few makeup essentials. A pack of Kleenex, a compact, a brush and a woman's wallet. Looking at that the wallet held her military I.D. a Visa Debit card and various other identifiers. It also held a checkbook and register and seventy-five dollars and sixty-five cents in cash. The overwhelming femininity of the handbag and it's contents screamed at Trace. As she looked into it, she suddenly became aware of every sensation she was feeling. The bra holding and covering her breasts, the silk of the panties covering her buttocks and pubic mound, the sheer material of the panty hose covering her legs and the silk slip over that. This combined with the skirt and women's flat shoes she wore made her feel as if her mind and her soul wear trapped. She felt as if she were dressed in drag. A spiritual transvestite. The fact that no one batted an eye at her only made it worse. Trace closed her purse and sighed heavily and stared around her at the bookstore's patrons. Many were women. A few were men in women's clothes, some were men dressed normally. Some were obviously at the mid point between man and woman in their transsexual journey. Trace Willard had always had either no opinion or one of reciprocal liberty concerning the GLBT community, reasoning that if THEY did not get full equal rights then those so-called rights did not really exist. They were merely privileges. Privileges that could be revoked. Now, she was not a heterosexual man who was being Mr. Enlightenment, but nor was she a natural born woman, at least she did not FEEL female. She felt like a stranger. Odd, out of place, a freak. A puzzle piece that does not and cannot fit. What was worse was that Trace knew she would never even consider conventional female to male reassignment surgery. Trace knew it would just be a lie. A grotesque cut and paste over the female rather than a true restoration of the male. Trace Willard. Tracie Willard. Tracey Willard the panty and bra wearing girlie girl. Just before Trace tipped over into hysterical emotional panic, Sergeant First Class Trace Willard stepped into the mental fray and put a stop to it. 'Kwitcherbitchin, TROOP! What the fuck are YOU complain' about? You aint got NO reason to bitch. You got arms, legs, eyes, ears you got everything. You're as healthy as fuck. You can run and jump and skip and play with all the other kids and aint no one said different. So your parents are self-centered assholes, so the fuck what, you knew that before you joined the damned Army.' 'but I'm just a girl now' 'So's half the fuckin' army" 'but I'm weaker now.' 'Says WHO so work out bust a sweat get psyched you got a gang of leg strength now so use it, TROOP!' 'But I can't have sex with girls any more.' 'Bullshit, Grunt, the Army gave you a blank slate to be a full on lesbo, you get to have lesbian sex till you go crazy, and nobody can say shit cuz yer 'really a MAN inside," it's the perfect sex crime. The only way they'd bitch is if you started fuckin' dudes, like THAT'LL ever happen.' Trace set her shoulders, stood up and walked over to one of the shelves. Then she started pulling books off them. By then, some of the patrons had been staring at Trace and even talking about her. One of them finally came up and asked her in a somewhat deep voice, "You're her, aren't you, you're that Sergeant, the one that used to be a man?" Trace turned to face her and said in a friendly voice, "Why yes I am, Ma'am and I think we might have that in common." Then, this woman(?) turned and said "See, it's him ,well, her, it's that Sergeant." Then one woman, a rather unpleasant looking sort, looked Trace up and down and said "What the hell are you doin' here, you aint one of us, not really, you aint even a real woman, or a man who knows what you are?" Everyone else stared, aghast at this accuser as Trace asked with a gleam in her eye, "So, you don't think I'm a real woman?" "No, I don't!" Trace put her books down and started taking off her uniform. First she put down her purse and undid the delta tie at her neck, then she took off her jacket and followed this with her blouse. Her skirt fell to the floor soon after and inside of twenty minutes, Trace was completely naked. Then she stood in front of the belligerent woman and demanded, "Why don't you do me a favor and find my penis and testicles, I seem to have misplaced them." The rest of the room exploded in applause and the one woman stormed out. Trace for her part accepted the coat one of the shoppers offered and picked up her underthings and uniform in both arms. Doing that, for some reason made Trace feel fantastic. Trace felt great, she felt free, and she felt like her body belonged to her for the first time in a long time. As she dressed in the back room of the store, the storeowner wanted to talk to her. "That was AMAZING. I never thought anyone would shut Bridge up like that, that was great. Seriously, you REALLY were that Sergeant, the one they say got changed?" "Yes, ma'am, I was, and I am. I don't know what they did to me, but it gave me my body back. It gave me my life back. I was dead; I was as good as dead. They grew this; they grew me a new body. The thing is, that all mammalian embryos are inherently female they need an extra hormone to make them male and the doctors have no idea how or when to add it in during regeneration." "Wow, so could this thing work on anybody, like say a healthy person. Could it turn a man into a woman even if they weren't hurt?" Trace shrugged as she tried to put her panty hose back on then cursed as one leg snagged on her big toe and threatened her with a run. "Shit, I'm never going to get good at this." Karen Cane, the bookstore owner told her as she came over to Trace, "Well, for one thing you're doing it wrong, Silly. You don't put them on like pants, here," Karen took the hose from Trace and showed her how to bunch the hose up and then ease them onto the leg. "See, you point your toes, like so, and then you just let out the slack as you move up each leg, then when you reach about here, then she touched trace's knee -" and then you stand up and pull them up to your body." Karen helped Trace in a rather more intimate manner than Trace was used to and Trace was having a tough time keeping it together. Karen smelled good and she was warm. At one point, Trace felt Karen's breath of her neck. It was a real problem. Trace had to clamp down on her wobbly feet. There was definitely some action downstairs, in addition her skin felt flushed and she was starting to breath heavy. Trace got the panty hose up over her hips and back into place then she had to sit down. Trace fell back into the chair and exhaled, "Whuff." "Trace, are you O.K.?" "I uh, well, I uh, you see, umm, when you were uh, helping me and uh well uh." "Trace, are you ATTRACTED to me?" Trace felt as if she were a fourteen year old boy again as she gulped and nodded sheepishly. Trace finished getting dressed just in time to hear the door out front jingle and Betty Dobkin ask loudly, "Is the proprietor here, I'm looking for someone." Both Karen and Trace entered the sales floor at the same time and Betty fixed an investigative eye on them both for a moment before being satisfied that nothing untoward or inappropriate had occurred. It was not that Betty would have objected to it in and of itself, but rather, she felt Trace was most defiantly NOT ready to handle sex in her new body, not just yet. Betty asked Trace, relieved, "Trace, why did you run off that way, you didn't have to, you could have just gone to the car. It would have been all right." "Betty, I'm sorry, I just had to be, away from there, I needed to bug out or I was going to lose it, and then I had to have some space to process and get myself together. I've got a lot of stuff going on in my skull right now and some of it is more than a little weird for me to deal with." Karen looked at both women and asked, "Are you two,..." Trace was at first not comprehending, then realization dawned and she blurted out, "What? Oh, hey, no, NO Betty is my gal pal, she's helping me deal with stuff when it gets weird, witch more and more is a lot of the time lately. This stuff is really funky." "So, Sergeant, did you still want those books you were looking at before the floor show started?" "Huhn? Oh, yeah, yeah, I guess I should get those paid for, huhn?" "Don't worry about it-" Karen answered as she bagged the books in a large canvas tote bag, "The show was more than worth it, Sergeant Willard." Trace blushed fiercely and looked at the floor on her way out carrying the bag and her purse one in each hand. Karen watched her walk and looked at how she carried her burden. She walked with a wide stride, as a man and she carried things one handed even though the big book bag was straining her, as if she was a man. She did not know how to wear women's clothes and she did not know how to move or carry herself the way a woman would. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard had really been a man. Not a traditional transgender, either, he had gone from male to female with zero prep time. Karen wasted no time in getting on the phone to her friends, Trace and Betty were outside and halfway to the staff car when the penny dropped and Betty asked Trace "What the hell did she mean, 'the floor show, and the show was worth it?" Trace stopped and was now ever redder. She mumbled, "Can we talk about this in the car?" Trace got in the passenger side of the car and at Betty's sharp prodding haltingly related the encounter with the rather belligerent and confrontational Bridgett March. When she was through, Betty gripped the steering wheel and by extension her temper with both hands, asking in a scary calm voice "So, let me see if I have this straight. Let us just be absolutely clear. A woman in a GLBT bookstore accused you of not being a REAL woman, and not belonging in there, so you, Sergeant First Class Trace Willard, decided to completely embarrass yourself, the Uniform, the Army and the Republic by stripping completely naked to show her that you were SO a woman. Is that right?" Betty barely heard a mumbled, almost inaudible, "Yeah, I guess I did." "What was that?" Trace answered louder, "Yes, I guess that's what I did." "Sergeant you're up for the Medal of Honor for Tora Bora, JESUS, what the hell were you thinking?" Trace put her foot down and answered, "I was thinking that I wanted to be SOMETHING. I'm not a man and she was telling me I wasn't a woman either, and that made me feel like such a nothing that I wanted someone to see me, to SEE ME. To , to, Betty, I didn't want to be a nothing, even being a woman, is better than being a nobody. " Betty understood and said, "it's OK, tomorrow I'll go back there and try to clean this up, it's OK, I didn't realize how you must be feeling and the danger your identity was in. Trace, it'll be OK, I don't think anyone really thought about what's really going on with you." Trace got a dangerous hitch in her voice, as if she were holding back tears, and told Betty, "Betty, I don't know who I am. I think I can do it and I tell myself to buck up and Soldier, but I don't know who I am and even when I thought to myself, O.K., I'll be a woman, I had it rubbed in my face that I don't know how to do that either. Then I was right back where I started. I am just so scared of losing myself of being a nothing, of, of having who I am slip away and being a nothing." By this time, Trace was openly crying and Betty pulled over and hugged her and tried to soothe her. "Betty, I don't want to be a nothing, I want to be something, somebody, some kind of person and I don't know how to do or be anything, I don't know what I am." Sergeant Betty Dobkin drove them back to the B.E.Q. and saw Trace to bed, and then Betty thought about it. In traditional gender reassignment therapy the patient is required to undergo over a year of hormone replacement therapy, and at least 18 months of living as the other gender as well as intensive psychological and emotional testing and screening. This is to make sure that the patient really is one gender trapped in the body of another gender. This was to make sure that the patient would not be in any danger of exactly the kind of mental and emotional collapse, Trace Willard was in danger of. Sergeant First Class Betty Dobkin finished her report and recommended that Sergeant First Class Trace Willard be remanded to a qualified clinical psychologist skilled in dealing with Gender Dysphoria and Gender related issues. Trace for her part, took several hours to get to sleep that night. She dressed in her gender neutral bedtime garb of t-shirt and white panties. Trace lay awake thinking about the antics she performed in the bookshop and the problems that could cause, her potential future. And most importantly, where she stood. With women, with men, with the Army, and with the Church. The next morning the word came down that Trace was restricted to base for the duration for what happened in the bookstore. Her duties for now would consist of make-work. Most of the time she would be in the Supply and quartermaster's department and told to stay out of his way. Trace was told to go over the listed inventory and compare it to the materials on hand and make sure they were in accord. The computer controlled inventory system made such a thing unnecessary, but that was not the point. The point was to give Trace something to do that was neither arduous, not particularly security sensitive. Something that would keep her busy until the Army figured out what was to be done with her. It turned out that the CC TV footage of Trace's strip show had been destroyed by Karen Cane before the word got out. That reduced the incident to rumor and rendered it a nonissue. The Sergeant major in charge of the Quartermaster's department knew about Trace, but was neutral about her. Sergeant major Marcus Dawes just wanted his people to do their jobs and he knew Trace's alleged job didn't need to be done. Sergeant major Dawes told her, "Look, Sergeant, just go and sit in the office and look at books or listen to the radio or do something, just don't get underfoot, OK?" After a day of that, Trace started reading the various U.S. Army manuals in the office. Some of them dated back to before the Korean conflict. That was not enough after a week, so Trace started policing up the office and Sergeant major Dawes saw this and decided to teach her how to do his job. Trace liked working in the Supply department because it enabled her to wear Tactical boots and Army Combat Uniform rather that the woman's class "A" uniform. That meant that she did not have to wear more than the minimum panties and bra under the Uniform and T-shirt. She felt the most 'normal'. The best times for Trace were the early morning hours. She would rise, shower, and dress in sports bra and panties and workout sweats and athletic shoes and she would run. Just run at a jogging pace and take the air. It gave her time to think and help figure out things. Running, she didn't have to think about other people, or her body or how it felt or anything, she could just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. It took the United States Army 30 days to make up their mind about Sergeant First Class Trace Willard. She was to be honorably discharged at her current rank. She would receive 3/4ths benefits for one year, after witch the benefits would be downgraded to one-half, for ten years, then to ten percent until legal age of retirement. In addition, she would receive 200 dollars a month as her cash benefit from her Medal of Honor. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard received her orders to fly to Washington where President Obama would give her, her medal and formally dismiss her from the forces in the same ceremony. One night, Sergeant First Class Trace Willard left the Supply department and went to the Post Exchange. When she got there, she bought a twelve pack of beer and a stack of girlie magazines. Trace returned to their shared quarters and planned on making herself feel good and taking her mind off things that seemed to be pressing in on her. Betty wasn't there, she was giving a deposition to the Army Medical Corps on Trace's mental state. Trace, showered and ate five pieces of pizza as she drank three bottles of beer. Trace drank three more bottles while watching a Planet of the Apes marathon on Cable. Two bottles more later she went to her room, took off her grubbies, and looked at her own nude body in the mirror. With her seventh beer in hand she leered at her own reflection and said aloud, "You're hot; I wanna fuck you sideways, do you wanna do the nasty with me? I'll bet you do, you look like a dirty little whore, I'll bet you're up for anything, we could get filthier than a bag full of dogshit." Then trace took another pull off the bottle in her hand and squinted critically at her own mirror image, saying derisively, Nah, look at that short ass hair, I bet you're a fucking dyke. Yeah, that's what it is, you don't want a man, you want to BE the man. Fucking lesbo, fuckin, bulldyke!" Then trace collapsed to the floor and started crying. Big racking body shaking sobs. That was how Betty found her, laying on the floor, sobbing, and calling herself a filthy bulldyke whore. Betty searched the room and found the orders in question. It took half of a New York second for Betty Dobkin to realize what had happened. Trace received the orders today, and she then interpreted them as the Army's rejection of her, then she contrasted that with the Military's previous acceptance approval and pride in the former male Soldier's actions and existence and deduced (Possibly correctly) that Trace was being discharged specifically because of her femininity. This combined with the already shaky nature of Trace's current self-identity created a powder keg of self-doubt, self-loathing, and manifest unreason. Trace Willard's parents did not want her. Her former friends had not even tried to contact her, so they did not want her. The U.S. Army obviously did not want her. In her mind, it was because she was a woman now. That was the ONLY thing that was different about her, so Trace decided that her being a woman was the problem. The next morning Trace awoke with a hangover from hell. This made sense as the previous night's beer bust had been the first time she had imbibed alcohol since the Procedure. Betty was sympathetic and helped Trace hobble around and get started, giving her Aspirin and Alka seltzer. Trace showered and dressed in a tan t-shirt and white panties and sat at the kitchen table looking balefully at a bowl of oatmeal. Despite the over the counter medication, food was the last thing Trace wanted any part of, and the look on her face showed it. This was immaterial however as Betty was obviously not going to take no for an answer. Trace sat, slowly stirring the oatmeal pretending to mix the sugar in with it. In reality, she was thinking about the past three weeks and why the past five days had suddenly been so bad for her emotionally. She had been cranky and irritable and moody, and. No No, No, No, NO! Feeling more than a little funny and physically as if she had had a childish accident, Trace stood bolt upright and bent to look between her legs. There it was, a small but growing red wet stain in the crotch of her panties. Trace screamed and ran for the bathroom with Betty following. Betty's only comment was, "Relax, I'll talk you though it." Trace sat on the toilet having torn her panties almost in two trying to get them off and then thrown them in the trash in disgust. "Talk me through what, oh, my god, what is HAPPENING TO ME?" Betty was more than a bit insufferably amused, but tried to hide it as she said, "It's O.K., it's just your period. All it confirms is that you really are a fully functional biological woman now, it's nothing to freak out over." "No, NO, Jock itch, inconvenient hard-ons, wet dreams, these are the things I was raised not to flip out over, not this, What to do when I got my PERIODS was NOT something my Dad covered in the Facts of life!" "Given whom your dad was I am surprised he told you anything about the facts of life." "Ha ha, no kidding are you going to help or just laugh at me?" "Why can't I do both?" "You are NOT FUNNY!" "Well, can you answer some questions for me?" Trace sat on the toilet with her head in her hands and rejoined, "Oh, fuck, me, now there's a fucking quiz?" "Are you having any pain, do you feel sluggish, do you feel bloated?" "No, kind of and yes." O.K. second question, do you feel up to using a tampon or do you want to cheat with panty liners?" "Trace said again, "Fuck me." "No, I'm not that way, and besides you're nasty down there just now." "Oh, har-de-har-har, VERY droll." "Seriously, Trace,---" "Gimmee the maxi pad, no way am I ready to start sticking crap up there." Trace wiped off as best she could washed her hands and then put on a new pair of panties with a panty liner in the crotch. As she sat back down at the breakfast table Trace observed resentfully, "This thing feels like I'm straddling a roll of toilet paper." "Trace, you really should eat something, try to get some oatmeal down, it'll do you good." Trace put a spoonful of the oats in her mouth and chewed a bit, and then she swallowed. She knew she needed to eat, but it was rough going. While the two women ate, Trace spoke. "You know, Betty, every time I think I've got it licked, every time I think I've got it all figured out, something happens something sneaks up and bites me on the butt. I don't want to be dead and I don't want to be a chunk of long pig in a hospital somewhere rotting away, but damn it. Betty_" Betty understood as much as she could and answered, "Trace, when a conventional transwoman makes the change from male to female, there are batteries of tests, dozens of certifications, and psychological determination steps to make sure the mind inside the body is that of a woman. To make sure that what is happening to you can't happen. 18 months of hormone replacement therapy and living as a woman, dressing as a woman learning to be female. It's not the same as growing up female, but it's something. Trace, you did not even have that." Trace swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal and asked with trepidation, So, what, what do I do, what am I supposed to do, other than just flip out?" Betty stood up and told Trace the news of her contacting USAMPSYCHE and that she had an appointment with a Major Edna Mason. Dr. Edna Mason. Trace's discharge from the army had been rescinded as Betty had made the case that separating her now would deal a deathblow to a fragile psyche. She told them that, "Right now, for Sergeant Willard, the Army is a crutch, a wheelchair, it is a psychological prosthesis. Take it away too soon and she'll fall. What we need to do is help her learn to 'walk' without it, not snatch it out from under her before she has even learned to get along." That bought Trace an extension of one year. This worked out as that was actually the full duration to the time of the expiration of her legal enlistment.. two years in the Active reserves, then three years in the inactive reserve. More than enough time, at least in theory to make a full transition. After Breakfast, Trace sat on the couch and thought. Betty saw her face and sat next to her, asking her, "Dollar for your thoughts?" "I thought it was a penny for thoughts." "Well, these look like some heavy thoughts, the price is bound to be higher." Trace chuckled at that, then responded, "Betty I have to be something, I have to be somebody. I'm not a man anymore, I can't just be a man, but I have no idea how to be a woman. What is worse is that my whole entire upbringing is screaming at me that I am not SUPPOSED to wear dresses, or makeup or jewelry or, or any of that girly stuff. My body is a woman and my mind is a man and between the two of them, they may just kill me." "That is why you're going to see Doctor Edna on Monday, she'll help you. She'll help you resolve the conflict between mind and body." "Well, I hope I don't get turned into some kind of pathetic lifetime network girly-girl." Then Trace quipped, "If I tawk ta her, and she turns me into a fag, Imana killer ya unnerstand?" That got a laugh out of Betty and then Betty said, "Trace, let's get dressed and get out of here and go do something, something fun. We'll go to town and make a day of it, how does that sound?" "That sounds like a plan, Betty, I'll get my shit wired and be right back down, oh, since I'm thinking of it, don't forget to bring plenty of ,you know, uh, woman shit." "Don't worry, Trace, I won't forget the 'woman shit'." Trace chose clothes that she thought were masculine, or at least gender neutral. She came up with an outfit that made her look like a soccer mom out for a round of golf. Betty decided not to say anything; she could tell Trace would not appreciate being told she had dressed as if she were the mom in an after school special. Trace Willard realized on Monday morning as she dressed, that it was simply astounding what a human being could get used to, and how fast that acculturation could take place. She was now used to women's underwear. Panties, bras, hose, slips. Now it was true, that she did her best to wear only basic cotton underwear and only wore the more feminine garb when she had no choice. That was why Trace was glad the female Class "A" uniform had a trouser variant that let he wear knee hose and flats. She had already been told that socks were not acceptable for women in Class "A" uniform. Even if the uniform was with trousers. Trace took the base shuttle bus to the medical annex that had Dr. Edna's office in it. Trace walked into the office and got a good look around and that was when she saw the d?cor. Bright yellow walls with deliberate graffiti of rainbows anthropomorphic forest critters and balloons. The office had copies of "Highlights" magazine, Ranger Rick and Mad Magazine. Trace, walked up to the receptionist and hoped to god that there was ANOTHER Dr. Edna Mason somewhere in the building who's office didn't look like the dressing room for Sesame Street. "Uh, excuse me, I'm-" "Sergeant Willard, of course I have you down here for nine o' clock with Dr. Mason. Just have a seat over there and I'll call you when she's ready for you." "Yeah, O.K., I'll just wait over there." Trace sat in an orange plastic chair far enough away from the door that the draft would not hit her, and far away from the Dr.s office door that she would not get hit in the head with it. She set her purse on the blue plastic chair next to her and clasped her hands over her lap. Trace looked around trying to think of something to fill her head and the time. What was she doing here, not just in a head shrinker's office but the office of a kiddie head shrinker? This was insane; who did they think she was? Trace thought back to as little as two months ago. A mere week before the attack that resulted in this. Her current physical body and social mental and emotional conundrum. They were in the village of Akilah, doing a Sweep and Clear on Taliban Fighters. The advantage had been that Sergeant Willard and his men had been here so often that they knew these people personally. They had become friends and now knew the village so well that they knew who did not belong. That was the brainchild of Trace's company commander and an outgrowth of the old "Hearts and Minds" strategy from the Vietnam conflict. Get to know the people you are protecting, be more than just thugs with guns. Make it personal and make them realize you take their safety seriously. It worked and as a result, this village and four others trusted the Americans implicitly, so much so that when the Americans came, every villager, man woman and child, fell to the ground, hugging the dirt and leaving the Taliban fighters glaringly conspicuous in their failure to do so in time. It took a little under fifteen minutes to kill every Taliban Habib in that village, serious upside. That was Trace's life. He did the do, saved the day, and fought the good fight. Trace saw no reason that should ever change save the final defeat of the Taliban and his return home. Then, this happened. That terrible day in the Tora Bora Mountains, that nearly killed him. Sometimes, in dark moments Trace wished the doctors and that Buttinsky civilian had just let him die. The secretary/nurse calling her broke Trace's reverie, "Sergeant, Dr. Mason is ready for you." The inside of the office's therapy room was as bad if not worse than the waiting room. Toys, children's books, bright simple paintings, and child like murals and furniture upholstered in summery colors. Sergeant First Class Trace Willard looked around and the looked at the older woman with red hair and plump features dressed in civilian blouse, skirt and sweater. Trace asked her, "What am I doing in this office, Major, and why aren't you in uniform?" "The first is easy, you are here to help resolve the fundamental conflict between your mind and your body and I don't wear the uniform during clinical duties because uniforms are a symbol of authority and that sends the wrong message to my patients. That reminds me, in the future why don't you wear mufti from now on when you visit me. Uniforms are walls and you need to break those walls down if I am going to help you." "Well, what am I supposed to wear, I'm a Soldier, Soldiers wear uniforms" "You could always wear slacks or jeans and a nice pull-over or a blouse. That would be alright, wouldn't it?" Trace walked around the room once and then challenged the doctor, "SO if I dress how you say, think how you say and live how you say, everything will be all better, right, is that it? Maybe you'd like me to come in wearing a nice dress or high heels and some jewelry or makeup, how would that be?" "Do you want to wear things like that, Trace?" Trace was aghast; this woman was a psychologist, had she never heard of sarcasm? "No, Are you kidding, HELL NO, Jesus. I'm having enough problems with women's underwear, as it is." Dr. Edna Mason watched Trace carefully. She walked as if she were a man, with a wide stance. She stood as if she were male with her feet apart, as if she were making room for a penis and testicles she no longer had. Trace had an aggressive forward projected stride and sharp forceful mannerisms and gestures. This woman was unconsciously convinced that her body was that of a man. It was incredible. Dr. Mason had read the file, and knew the case, but to actually see it before her eyes was a true wonder. She was neither camp masculine, nor was she behaving as if she were a butch lesbian. Trace Willard behaved as if she were a MAN. This woman could make Dr. Edna Mason's career. Dr. Mason focused back onto what Sergeant Willard was saying and invited her, "Trace, why don't you sit down and relax, take it easy no one is going to bite you. "Trace told Dr. Mason, This is not how it's supposed to be, this is not my life, none of this is right, I am not supposed to be in a kiddie doctor's office back in the Land of the Big P.X.. I am supposed to be in the 'Stan" leading my crew over and under and around and through, hunting Habibs and t