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Author's note: The places in this story are real, though not always described as they actually were. The people are not real, although many are based on existing persons. Similarly, any military procedures or operations exist to serve the narrative, with but a tiny kernel of fact at their core. The first thing I noticed about Afghanistan was the smell. It stung my nostrils, a mix of dirt and gunpowder, tangy and sharp. Perhaps I imagined the smell, or perhaps it was real. At any rate, I immediately associated it with the history of violence which surrounded the country. Violence that I and my fellow soldiers from the 1st Battalion of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment had arrived to perpetuate in exchange for the hope of future peace. My name is Jordan Renwick; my friends call me Wick. At the time, I held the rank of Private First Class. I was an 11 Bravo; that's an infantryman, for you civilians, a SAW (M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon) gunner, assigned to 2nd Platoon of Charlie Company. I walked down the ramp of the C-17 transport plane and onto the Kandahar tarmac sometime in the early hours of the 8th of July, 2002. My watch, set for Greenwich Mean Time said it was just after midnight, but the sun was rising above the mountains to the East as we shouldered our rucksacks and duffel bags and got into formation. My second impression of the country came as Sergeant First Class Farrell marched us to our temporary lodgings in the tent city laid out to the southwest of the runway. A thin, gritty dust billowed from the ground and covered everything, even the leaves of the sickly looking trees we passed. The temperature climbed with the dust and the sun; a dry heat. Prickles of sweat arose and evaporated from my body. We halted in front of a desert-tan tent big enough to hold all thirty soldiers from the platoon. A droning air conditioner sat on a pallet next to the entrance. "Enjoy the luxury while you can, you dirty apes," SFC Farrell told us, "We'll meet up for Physical Fitness Training tomorrow at 0100 hours GMT, and after that we head out to the Forward Operating Base. Until then, rest up and stay hydrated." We filed into the tent and made ourselves at home. The white walls of interior were lit by fluorescent tubes hung from the ceiling. The plywood floor bounced beneath our boots. It was cool inside, thankfully. I spied a full size refrigerator in the back corner. Some of the guys had tossed down their duffels in a circle next to it and sat on them as they played a hand of cards. My buddy Mac, PFC James McLeod, that is, and I grabbed the bunk nearest the door. When we first met, Mac and I were about the same height. Since then, he'd grown a lot, and I hadn't. At 6'5", with blonde hair and a prize fighter's physique, Mac looked like a propaganda poster boy. Me? I struggled to make 5'6" and was thin as a rail; 'Wick' wasn't just a shortening of my last name. Mac and I had known each other since Middle School and we were friends throughout High School. I'd taken some college classes before graduation, but I didn't really know what I wanted to do with my life. Mac was working as an apprentice mechanic in his dad's garage. After September 11th, we both decided to join the Army. Somehow, we managed to stick together, all the way through training and on to active service. Now Mac's not dumb, but he's so shy that people think he is, when they haven't gotten to know him. In Basic, one of the Drill Sergeants called us George and Lennie until he found out Mac had scored in the 99th percentile on the ASVAB. With a score like that, he could have picked any job in the Army he wanted, but Mac had his heart set on being a Green Beret. My own score on that test wasn't too shabby, but paralegals and helicopter mechanics don't get much chance to shoot Taliban. So that's how we ended up in Southwest Asia. After we dropped off our bags, we slipped back outside, rifles in hand, to explore. We made kind of a comical sight when we were standing next to each other: the giant with the tiny M-4 Carbine, and the runt with the fully automatic machine gun. There was a wide dirt road passing behind our tent. In the distance, we could see a large hanger, and hear the beating of helicopter blades. We headed that way, heads swiveling in all directions to take in the sights around us. A platoon of soldiers in shorts and t-shirts, rifles slung across their backs, ran past in formation, singing cadence. Some of the structures showed evidence of the initial fight to capture the airfield. As we approached the hanger, I saw sunlight shining through bullet-holes in its corrugated metal exterior. Next to it was a squat, solid-looking building with a wide breach in the roof and smoke stains issuing from the archways along its pockmarked walls; a freshly painted Screaming Eagle, emblem of the 101st Airborne Division, whose troops we were relieving, was emblazoned on its side. Across the street was a massive tent from which emanated the aroma of food; Mac tugged on my sleeve and we went to investigate. ?Don?t forget the pick up your MRE for lunch,? The Mess Sergeant said as he dumped a spoonful of green-tinged, runny scrambled eggs on my outstretched tray. The Meal, Ready to Eat is the modern Army?s field ration; the acronym and the taste are both the subject of many jokes. The best thing about them is the ?stoppage? effect they have on the digestive system; quite useful during extended operations. Supposedly, the gum included in the packets acts to solve that issue, but I?ve never known it to work. Mac and I each picked up one of the brown plastic pouches from the pallet of open boxes at the end of serving line. The label on mine declared it to be ?Beef Chow Mein?; not the worst. Mac, on the other hand, ended up with ?Ham Slice?. He moved to put it back in the box and get another, but caught a disapproving glare from the Mess Sergeant. I stuffed mine in my cargo pocket and we found ourselves a table. A healthy dose of Tabasco sauce made my food edible, but by the time I?d shoveled it down my throat, my mouth was on fire. Mac had eaten his plain and needed something to wash away the taste. We each had a Camelback, but water wasn?t sufficient for our needs. ?Cold drinks on your six,? Mac said, indicating an ice-filled tub with an assortment of milk cartons on a table near the exit of the tent, behind me. He got up and snagged a chocolate for himself and tossed me a strawberry. Good old Mac; he knew what I wanted without even asking. I chugged mine, marveling at the Arabic characters on the box before tossing it in the trash. We retraced our path back to the tent; jet lag was beginning to hit me and I wanted to crash while I had the chance. Mac was still rubbernecking. He pointed out, in order of interest to me, from least to most, a Navy SEAL, an explosive ordinance handler with a t-shirt that said ?If you see me running, try and keep up?, and an attractive woman in civilian clothes beside the tent next to ours. After all the desert camouflage Battle Dress Uniforms I?d seen lately, she stood out in jeans and a t-shirt. She wore dark sunglasses and her long brown hair was in a ponytail which stuck out the back of a Red Sox cap. She was talking to a similarly dressed man, but as we neared our tent, he walked away and she turned to beckon us over. ?Hi there,? she said, flashing us a bright smile. ?I?m Larissa Stebbins, from Channel 7 News, Fayetteville. I?ll be reporting to the folks back home about what you boys are doing over here. What are your names? Are you two with the 82nd Airborne from Fort Bragg?? ?Yes, ma?am,? I answered, ?I?m Jordan Renwick, and this is James McLeod.? ?Nice to meet you,? she replied, ?Maybe we?ll talk again, after you?ve been outside the wire.? She gave another smile and walked back into her tent. Mac and I slipped back into ours and a few minutes later, I was drifting into sleep. The rotor blades of the Chinook were already beginning to turn as we boarded, sitting backs to the wall. We lifted off and I craned my neck to look out the window. The helicopter followed a valley headed northeast, flying over a barren gray landscape that became increasingly mountainous. We?d been aloft for almost two hours when we turned east and started following a river; it was the first real greenery I?d yet seen in country. We settled down on a dirt runway just a little north of the river. SFC Farrell gathered us together after we?d deplaned, and the platoon leader, Lieutenant Burbage briefed us on our upcoming mission. ?Gather around, men,? he started, ?Welcome to FOB Salerno. This will be our staging area for the next two weeks. Our primary mission while we?re here is to locate and confiscate weapons and weapon caches belonging to our enemy. Keep an eye out for bin Laden; we know he may be in hiding somewhere in these parts. We?re also under orders to destroy any illegal growing operations we find. Any questions?? ?What do you mean by illegal growing operations, sir?? Robertson from Third Squad asked. ?Poppies are the number one cash crop in this country. They?re used to make heroin and opium. Drug sales bankroll the Taliban. Can?t have that.? ?What do we do if we spot the enemy, sir?? my squad leader, Staff Sergeant Williams, asked. ?The Rules of Engagement are simple: unless you?re given a direct order by myself or Sergeant Farrell, do not fire unless fired upon.? ?And if we are, what then, sir?? ?Light ?em up, no questions asked.? There?s a reason why infantry are referred to as ?foot soldiers?. Even though us Airborne troops looked down on the ?dirty nasty legs? of a typical unit, we still marched to get places. All of us were loaded down with at least 70 pounds of gear: weapons, heavy rucksacks filled with extra food and water, plus bulletproof Kevlar vests and helmets. It was kind of a relief when we?d halt our march in some no-name village and go door to door, looking for hidden armaments. Mostly, we found AK- 47s, along with the occasional Rocket-Propelled Grenade launcher. In one house, Sergeant Barber noticed a wall with a still-wet plaster patch on it. Breaking it open, he found a couple of Soviet artillery shells and an anti-personnel land mine. The locals cooperated, more or less. Mostly, I assumed, out of respect for our superior firepower, rather than from any pro-American sentiment. Some were belligerent, some were helpful, but they never looked happier than when we were on our way again. One afternoon, we found ourselves outside a walled compound in the hills several miles from the FOB. In a break from the monotony of weapons seizures, we were on a multi-day patrol, searching for Taliban safe houses and hidey holes. This place hadn?t shown up in surveillance photos. We?d followed a twisting, bumpy dirt track that could barely be called a road to get here. I could see the top of a two-story building behind the front gate. ?Wick; you and McLeod secure that ridge over there?, SSG Williams said in a hushed voice, indicating a location overlooking the rear of the structure. We hustled into position while he issued orders to the rest of the squad. Mac and I scrambled to the top of the ridge and took off our rucks. I set up the bipod on my SAW, laid on my belly and drew sights on the building below. The walls of the compound only covered three sides of a square yard; there were trees within, and at the base of the hill I was on, there was a pond filled with clear blue water. I thought I could see motion inside the building, so I inched forward to get a better look. Without warning, the hillside gave way and I found myself sliding, and then rolling down the slope, and finally landing with a loud splash in the pool below. After floundering around in a panic underwater, I got my feet on the ground and my head above the surface. The previously clear water was now a muddy brown. Mac was on his feet and shouting from the top of the hill. On the back porch of the building, a bearded man in a turban had his rifle trained on me. A woman in a black burkha stepped outside and stood next to him, pointing at Mac. My own weapon had gotten stuck in the loose dirt of the hill, about halfway down the slope, and well out of my reach. I put my hands up and started inching my way back toward my friend. US soldiers began filing into the yard from around the sides of the house. SSG Williams joined Mac?s voice in telling the man with the turban to put his weapon down. Although I doubted he could understand the words, the man complied with their intent. The woman in the burkha, on the other hand, was halfway across the yard, yelling at me and gesticulating wildly. Although her words were unintelligible to me, I got the distinct impression that she was upset because I had despoiled her pond. I continued backing away up the hill, water dripping from my helmet and sleeves, socks squelching, and told her over and over that I was sorry. A few hours later and several miles away, we stopped for the night. I?d changed my socks before we moved out from the compound, and my pants and top had dried out, but my t-shirt and underwear still felt damp. My skin tingled all over and I wondered if perhaps there had been something other than water in that pool. Away from the lights of civilization, the sky was bright with stars, more than I?d ever seen before. Along with the half moon, there was enough light that I could make out shadows on the ground. I lay awake and looked up, long after my turn at watch had ended. When I did fall asleep that night, I dreamed of a raven-haired woman with intense green eyes; though I?d not seen her face in waking, I knew it was the same one from the pool. Sometimes you know things with certainty in dreams, even when there?s no reason you should. She repeated her words from earlier; I still couldn?t tell what she was saying, but her tone sounded less angry and more urgent than before. She saw that I didn?t comprehend and she shook her head sadly. She frowned in concentration for a moment and then pointed toward the moon, drew its path across the sky, and held up five fingers. Afterward she pointed to herself, swept her hands down the curves of her body, and then pointed to me. She repeated the gestures, emphasizing the number five. Five nights? Five months? I had no clue what would happen, or how soon, but she seemed so insistent that I nodded my head. She reached out a hand and gently touched me on the shoulder. I heard a voice softly calling my name, and her face became Mac?s. ?Time to get up?, he said quietly, as I opened my eyes. There were still stars spread across the sky, but there was a light on the eastern horizon. All around, the other soldiers of the platoon were in motion, stuffing bedding in their rucksacks, or food in their mouths. A few were scraping razors over their chins. The 82nd has standards to maintain, even in the desert. I ran my hand over the line of my jaw; it didn?t even feel like there was any stubble. That struck me as a little odd, but I wasn?t inclined to complain. Dry shaving hurt like hell, and wrecked the blades. I pulled some MRE crackers and a packet of jelly out of my ruck and had some breakfast, washed down with lukewarm water. After, I relieved myself at the latrine pit. I was the last one to use it, so SFC Farrell had me to fill it in. We left the campsite ten minutes later; my dream of the woman from the pool had faded by the time the sun rose over the mountains. Her message came back to my mind several days later, as it became clear to me what she had been trying to say. In retrospect, I probably should have figured it out sooner, but that?s the thing about hindsight. I mean, who gets shrinkage when it?s 115 degrees out? And yet that?s what I attributed to the fact that it was becoming increasingly difficult to whip it out when I needed to go. It was a Thursday when I fell in the pool and we were scheduled to return to Kandahar Airbase on the following Tuesday. My chest was itching something fierce the whole time. I assumed that tight Kevlar vest plus sweaty t-shirt equals chafing. I loosened the straps and soldiered on. We stopped for the night after sunset on Friday; my nipples felt like they were burning. I stripped off my body armor and BDU top and surreptitiously slipped a hand under my t-shirt to check on them; they were swollen under my fingertips, and painfully sensitive. I applied some foot powder and changed t-shirts, which seemed to help a little. I repeated the ritual the following two nights. On Sunday, we must have stopped earlier; it wasn?t quite dark yet. Robertson walked past as I was pouring Gold Bond down the collar of my shirt. ?Maybe it?s a trick of the light, Wick,? he said, ?But it kind of looks like you?ve got tits.? Other than my own personal discomforts, the rest of the patrol passed without incident. We returned to the FOB early on Tuesday morning. The helicopter was already waiting to take us back ?home? to the Airbase. For those who didn?t spend the trip sleeping, the major discussion was the relative merits of a shower versus a hot meal. After two weeks without either, each camp had strong proponents. When we landed, the LT gave a short speech of appreciation for our efforts. He ended with something that made us all cheer: we had the next day and a half off. No formation until PT on Thursday morning. SFC Farrell reminded us all to get a haircut, and to check the duty roster posted at the entrance of our tent. Then he dismissed us to relative freedom. Now I?d always been pretty modest when it came to my body, and in the Army there are very few moments of true privacy; showering is not among them. Robertson?s comments had me feeling especially self-conscious, so while everyone else ran off to wash up, I sat on my bunk and pretended to be writing a letter home. ?You know they?ve got individual stalls don?t you?? Mac said. He was the last of the others to leave; he knew of my bashfulness, of course. ?I?ll be along in a minute. I need to finish this up,? I replied, holding up my notepad. ?Try not to use all the hot water.? ?Ha. We?re in the desert, remember? We?re more likely to run out of cold,? He answered, stepping to the threshold of the tent. Then he turned back, a look of concern on his face. ?Are you feeling alright? Your voice sounds funny.? Of course it did; it had gotten higher sometime in the last few days, and I was trying to compensate. ?I?m fine,? I lied, faking a cough. ?I think I may be coming down with something. Summer cold, or whatnot.? Mac seemed to accept that. He nodded and left the tent. It wasn?t until my platoon-mates started coming back, smelling fresh, that I realized quite how much I stank. It was time; I gathered up my clean uniform, toiletries, shower shoes, and a towel and left the tent. The shower facility was nearly empty. I stripped down to t-shirt and underpants and stepped into a stall, pulling the curtain closed behind me. I knew something had been happening to my body, but I didn?t know the extent. Time to face the music. I finished undressing, and tossed the garments over the curtain rod. Looking down, my first impression was that Robertson was right. They were just small cones, topped with puffy areolae and big, fat nipples, but I definitely had breasts. I?d never had a very hairy chest, or arms; what I was left with at present was considerably lighter and thinner. Continuing on, past the plain of my stomach and my subtly widened hips, my dick and balls were not in evidence. I put a hand to my crotch and found the slit that I was, by now, expecting. I?m a girl now, I realized; it was as if a switch had been flipped in my head. My dream made perfect sense. The impossibility of the transformation didn?t faze me near as much as it should have done. A part of me wanted to be upset with the change, but in truth, I wasn?t. Instead, the reality of my situation ? specifically, a woman in the men?s showers, and more generally, a female in a male profession ? made me feel vulnerable. I knew it was U.S. Military policy that women weren?t allowed in direct combat specialties. Whether it was the most rational course of action is debatable, but I resolved to keep my new gender a secret. It wouldn?t be easy, especially out in the field. I turned the water on and had to bite back a scream as the spray hit my now ultra-sensitive chest. I turned my back to the water and scowled at my boobs. While the platoon was here at the Airbase, they were the things most likely to give me away. After washing up, I pulled the towel into my stall and dried off. Swapping the towel for clean briefs and t-shirt, I put them on, noting the ways they did, and didn?t, follow the changed contours of my body. I stuck my head out past the shower curtain and saw that the coast was clear. Hurriedly, I slid my arms into the sleeves of my BDU top and buttoned it up. For the short term, it was loose enough to hide things up top and it hung down far enough to hide what was missing, below. I finished dressing and walked over to the sinks to take a look in the mirror, half convinced I?d see a stranger looking back. Instead, it was still me; maybe my nose was a touch smaller, my lips plumper, my brow softer. It occurred to me that if my face had become drastically different, someone like Robertson, or maybe even Mac, would have commented on it. I can do this, I told myself. Walking back to the tent to drop off my towel and my soap, I was conscious of every slight jiggle of my chest, aware of the empty space in my trousers where a penis used to be, sensitive to the frankly non- existent sway of my hips. I felt like everyone must be watching me, and that they could all tell I wasn?t what I pretended to be. As my eyes darted around, no one I saw seemed to be paying the least bit of attention. Nothing except my mind had changed since I went to the showers, but it made all the difference. Mac had gone to the Post Exchange Barbershop, up near the mess tent. I figured I might as well go, too; my hair was definitely a little shaggy, at least according to the standards set by SFC Farrell. I felt a strange chill run down my spine as opened the door to the shop. There was no bell, but as I walked over the threshold, all of the haircutters turned to look at me. There were four of them, all women, all curvy, perhaps in their mid 30?s, one with slightly Asian features, the rest European, standing behind barber?s chairs, each with a soldier in the midst of a trim. After staring at me for a moment, they turned to each other and spoke briefly in some guttural language. A fifth woman, slightly older, sat closer to the door, behind a cash register. ?You are here for haircut?? she asked, in a heavily accented voice. ?Is only short wait.? I didn?t see Mac; he must have finished already. I sat down on one of a row of mismatched chairs, next to a Staff Sergeant who was picking his way through a month-old copy of the Stars and Stripes newspaper. When his turn came, I leafed through the pages without really looking at them. The sensation I?d had when I entered the room had turned into a ball of tension at the base of my neck that made me restless. Soon I was called and I sat down in the chair. My barber was a tall blonde wearing too much make-up and gaudy jewelry. Her blouse was low- cut and showed ample cleavage. She draped a smock over me and buttoned it around my neck; the touch of her fingers on my skin tingled oddly. Giving me a once over, she spoke some foreign words I didn?t understand. In a louder voice, she said something else, which made the others laugh. The woman behind the register asked me how I wanted my hair done. For a male soldier in the 82nd, there was really only one answer. ?High and tight,? I told her. ?Da,? she said to the blonde, who got out her clippers while the others laughed again. Ten minutes later, freshly shorn, I had payed and exited the shop. Waiting for me on the path outside was the reporter Mac and I had met our first day here. ?Jordan, isn?t it?? she said, extending her hand with a smile. I took it and we shook. ?I know you just got back from a patrol. Do you have some time to talk?? I nodded. She was as cute as I remembered. ?Larissa, right? I can?t tell you much.? ?Don?t worry. I won?t ask you to reveal any operational details. Walk with me.? She started off toward the airport terminal building and I followed. ?You seem a little different than you were before your patrol.? She glanced down my front. ?Less?cocky. So, what do you think of the staff in the barber shop?? she asked. ?They seemed a little odd,? I answered, running my hand over the stubble on the back of my head. The tension I?d felt while in the shop was easing as we walked away, only to be replaced with a pang of fear in my stomach. Was there something giving me away? ?They?ve had a rough time of it,? Larissa continued. ?Would you be surprised if I told you they were once soldiers in the Soviet Army?? ?Well, they don?t exactly look like soldiers. And what are they still doing here? Hasn?t it been a while??? ?The Russians pulled out in 1989. These ladies got left behind. The one who works the register, Marina, had an interesting tale to tell. The five of them were part of a convoy when their vehicle broke down. They were low on supplies, but they knew there was supposed to be a village nearby, so they headed out on foot. They found a house a few miles off the road, with a wall around it. On the other side of the wall was a beautiful oasis, with fruit trees, and a pool of clear blue water. It was a hot day, of course, and the water looked so inviting?? She was watching my face as she told the story, and I?m sure I showed a reaction, though I tried to hide it. ?What happened next?? I asked, my throat dry. ?In good time; I had some more questions for Marina,? Larissa said, changing tack. ?I was in the shop when you sat down. I heard what Liliya said to you.? ?Was that Russian? Do you speak it? What did she say?? ?I speak a little. She said, ?Hello, little sister?. And after that, she said to Marina, ?Ask this dyke if she wants a buzz cut?.? ?How did she?? I?m not a?? My heart was racing, my face was flush, and my ears were burning. Not only did it seem that my secret was already out, but I?d realized something about myself. My sexual preferences hadn?t changed when everything else did. Great; a second strike against me, as far as the Army was concerned. ?Marina said that after they were transformed, they could feel each other?s presence, like a sort of sixth sense. You bathed in the pool, too, didn?t you?? I sighed. ?It was an accident.? I related the details, including my dream. ?You?re not going to put this on the news, are you?? Larissa laughed. ?I don?t think that would be a great career move. My editor would have a hard time accepting it, let alone most of my viewers. The story of a female soldier making it in the Infantry, though?? ?I?d, uh, kinda like to keep that quiet. I don?t know what?ll happen to me when They find out.? ?Oh, that makes sense. Keep me in mind, when you are ready to let the world know.? She gave me another one of her winning smiles, ?And hey, if you need any help with, you know, girl stuff?? So that was how I ended up in Larissa?s tent for the first time. A guy she introduced as her cameraman was sitting on a bunk when we slipped in through the flaps. ?Hey Steve,? she said, ?I?m gonna do a private interview with Jordan. Why don?t you hang out with Rudy in the office? I think he?s got a copy of the new Austin Powers. You can watch it on the laptop.? After he left, she pulled an Ace Bandage out of the bag of stuff we?d picked up from the PX and told me to take off my top. I unbuttoned it, slipped it off, folded it and laid in the bunk next to us. ?The t-shirt, too,? she said. I untucked it and pulled it off over my head. I could feel my nipples getting hard from the air conditioning. Larissa wrapped the bandage around my chest. ?Let me know if it?s too tight. Be careful; you don?t want to wear this for too long at a time. You could hurt yourself, damage your breasts.? She tucked the ends of the bandage under my shoulder blades. ?There. That?ll help hide your assets.? ?Not like I have much to hide,? I replied, glancing at her bust as I put my t-shirt back on. ?Did the Russians start out looking like this?? I waved my hands down my body in an unconscious imitation of the woman from my dream. ?I don?t know. Marina speaks English; you could always ask her.? She gave me a sympathetic smile and put her hand on my shoulder. ?Look, Jordan, I don?t know how the magic works, or what all it?s done to you, but if you?ve got all the right lady parts, then without testosterone, your body will develop, over time.? She pulled another box out of the bag. ?And sooner or later, you?re going to need these?? I paused, hand outstretched toward the doorknob, not sure if I wanted the answers I?d come this far to ask. I could feel the tension building up again at the base of my neck. In the moment that I hesitated, the door swung inward; Marina stood in the opening. ?You are not here for another haircut already,? she said with a knowing smile. ?No, you come for talk. It is expected.? She stepped aside to let me in. The other women were busy in the ritual of closing the shop. The last customer of the day must have left only a few minutes before I arrived. Marina issued what sounded like a series of orders to them and then motioned for me to follow her to the break room in the back. She sat down at the table and indicated that I should do the same. Pulling an ashtray toward her, she removed a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her cardigan and lit up. After inhaling deeply, Marina blew the smoke out with a sigh. ?You must have had only quick dip in pool,? she said. ?What makes you say that?? ?Is obvious,? she answered with a chuckle that was half a cough. ?You have slim hips, flat chest. Greater exposure, greater effect. My comrades and I take bath in it, drink from it, for several days, and so,? she hefted her ample bosom. ?Anahita did warn us.? ?The woman from the house? She spoke to me as well, but I didn?t understand,? I said, ?until after.? ?Before?I am Spetsnaz; like your Green Beret. I learned language for mission; I know what she is saying, but who would believe it?? She took another drag on her cigarette. ?So will I, uh, get...um?bigger?? I asked. Not the most elegant wording, but it was what I?d come to learn. The smoke and the tension I felt in her presence were starting to get to me. I wondered how the Russians could stand to be near each other all day. ?Up top? Maybe a little,? she laughed, holding thumb and forefinger of one hand a small distance from each other. ?Don?t eat too much chocolate; it goes straight to hips.? ?Thanks for the information,? I said with a polite smile, getting up. ?You?ve been very reassuring.? ?If you decide you want to look like model, or just girl next door,? she said, pointing to a large stack of five gallon jugs in the corner of the room, ?we can?how do they say? Hook you up.? ?Holy fuck,? I said. ?What do you even have all that for? You?re not going to?? ?Not for US soldiers, no. Maybe just a spritz from spray bottle, if they ogle us too much during haircut,? Marina chuckled again, ?My girls and I were not always treated nicely, after we are left behind. Is for settling old scores.? As we gathered for PT on Thursday morning, Mac commented on the bandage under my shirt. ?I think I might have pulled a muscle working out on my own yesterday,? I told him. It wasn?t a great excuse, and I felt bad lying to my friend again, but as before, he seemed to accept it. With the information I?d learned from Marina, I?d been feeling pretty confident about my ability to pass as a guy, until Mac spoke up. After, I felt extremely exposed in the t-shirt and shorts that comprised our PT uniform. What if someone noticed that my arms and legs weren?t as hairy as they used to be, or that there wasn?t a bulge in my pants where there should be? Robertson?s place in formation was directly behind me, and I imagined I could feel his eyes roving over my ass as we did the side straddle hop (better known to civilians as the jumping jack). As we moved on to push-ups, flutter kicks, and the supine bicycle, I could feel the binding on my chest digging into the skin. Almost worse were the few moments when it felt like it was coming off. I was feeling pretty ragged by the time we got to the cool-down. At the conclusion of the workout session, SFC Farrell reminded us again to check the duty roster, and then dismissed us. Mac put a hand on my shoulder and said, ?I took a look already. We?ve both got guard duty in one of the watch towers at 1600 hours tonight, but we?re free for the rest of the day until then. Want to get a quick run in before breakfast?? I really didn?t, but it did serve as a way to make it up to him for not being truthful. ?Sure. Let me hit the latrine, first,? I said. I went into the nearest porta-john, loosened the bandage and took a few deep breaths before readjusting it. When I came out, we took off at a jog to the gravel track laid out just inside the perimeter wire. We?d been running for along it about 10 minutes when Mac guided me off the path. His arm around my shoulder, he walked me to the far side of a shattered oil tank with a large crack in its side, next to which some soldier had written ?Thunderdome ? two men enter, one man leaves?. ?Alright, Jordan,? he said. My back was against the tank; Mac was looming over me, one hand braced above my head on the metal wall. ?You?re gonna tell me what?s really going on.? ?What do you mean?? It was a weak opening, but all I could come up with at the moment. Mac?s size had never seemed threatening before, although there was definitely a bit of excitement mixed in with the tinge of fear I was feeling. Everyone?s a little queer; maybe I was a little straight? ?What I mean is that you suck at bullshitting me. I can tell something?s wrong; you?re trying to hide it, and doing a crap job.? ?What gave me away?? ?What didn?t, you mean? The other guys don?t notice, but I know you. You?ve been acting weird for a while. All that foot powder down your shirt. Whatever the hell it is that?s up with your voice. Two weeks in the field without bathing, and the first thing you want to do is sit on your bunk and write a letter home? Seriously. What?s under the bandage?? ?Okay, I give,? I said, dropping the falsely deep and raspy tone I?d been speaking with. ?It seems that I?ve gone and grown a pair of breasts.? ?Shit, man. Really? I don?t know what I was I was expecting, but that wasn?t it.? He ran a hand though his hair. ?Can I see ?em?? ?N-n-o-o. Of course not.? His hand reached out as if to untuck my shirt; I slapped it away. ?C?mon man.? ?Sure, but?how? Why?? ?The how isn?t totally clear, even to me. As for why, well?it?s kind of a natural thing for girls.? ?Um??? I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. I?d never really seen him like that before, and it amused me enough to take the edge off my own nervousness. ?You?re not a?I mean?I?ve seen your?? ?Yeah? Well what were you doing looking? Anyhow, I don?t have one anymore.? He gave me a quizzical look. ?And you?re okay with this?? ?I didn?t mean for it to happen, but somehow, yeah I?m okay with it. Please don?t tell anyone else. I don?t know what?ll happen to me if the Army finds out.? ?Well, I?ve got your back,? Mac said earnestly. Then he broke into a big grin. ?You sure I can?t sneak a peek?? ?No, you big perv,? I said, laughing, ?I?m not that kind of girl. Now c?mon; we?d better get back before the mess tent stops serving.? Mac seemed to have a million questions for me while we were on guard duty that night. Given the nature of my transformation, some were personal, such as ?what?s it like to have to pee sitting down?? The truth is, Larissa and I had worked out a technological solution so I wouldn?t have to. He also had the gall to ask ?is it weird masturbating without a dick?? It was, and for the record, I hadn?t really got the mechanics of it worked out just yet, but that was no business of his. Those sorts of questions, I just rolled my eyes at. He also had some that made me think, like ?What about ID cards and Social Security?? and ?How long are you going to pretend to be a guy?? As far as Identification went, I?d cross that bridge when I came to it. Nothing need be done while my male persona persisted, and I intended that it would for as long as I could get away with it. In all honesty, I felt envious of the few female soldiers scattered around the Airbase in various support roles. Not because of those jobs, of course, but because they didn?t have to hide what they were in order to do them. Would there come a time when that freedom was worth what it would cost me to have it? I didn?t know the answer, yet, but it felt good to have friends who knew what was under my disguise. Maybe the feelings had always been there, held in check by male egos and squashed by societal pressure. Perhaps it was a reaction to the stress of this deployment, or simply a need for human touch. Whatever the case, I realized that something was happening between Mac and me. He wasn?t what I?d ever pictured in a partner. I much preferred the female form, but the envy I?d felt for his body as a man had mostly given over to admiration. He was smart, and loyal, and kind; we?d been through so much together. That tiny spark of excitement was there any time we were close. He was subtle; a casual arm across my shoulders that lingered a little too long, the brush of fingers across the back of my hand after he?d helped me up during PT, but I believed Mac felt something too. Saturday night had found us on guard duty again, back in one of the sentry towers. The rising moon was fat on the horizon, casting its pale light across the desert plain before us. A warm breeze drifted in through the front of the booth. Mac thought he saw movement and leaned over the railing to get a better look. Flipping down the night vision goggles mounted on my helmet and turning them on, I leaned out beside him and saw it, too: a feral dog ran in shadows of the dunes between patches of moonlight. Nothing to be alarmed about. ?Is that your hand on my ass?? Mac asked with a nervous grin. ?Yeah,? I said matter-of-factly. ?Do you want me to move it?? He didn?t say anything in reply, just wrapped his arm around my waist, gently pulling me closer. Modern warfare was once described as ?Months of boredom punctuated by moments of extreme terror.? While I hadn?t yet experienced the latter, upon our return from FOB Salerno, my platoon found itself in the midst of the former. As a remedy, we pooled our money and bought a couple of Xboxes and TVs. In between PT, meal times, and stints in the guard towers, we would watch whatever movies or box-set TV series were available at the PX, among which were such varied titles as The Sopranos and Sex and the City. Even more popular were the video game tournaments, played on a round-robin basis, accompanied by raucous commentary from those awaiting their turns. The language of the Army is something that took some getting used to, when I first joined. Not only can the average soldier easily produce a meaningful sentence greater than 50% of which is comprised of acronyms, but the remaining words are like to be mostly of the four-letter variety. In addition to that, there are a lot of jokes and insults in common use which aren?t exactly politically correct; especially in the Infantry. ?Quit being a little bitch?, ?What a pussy?, ?Easy now; don?t get your panties in a bunch?, ?Whoa, must be that time of the month?; these sorts of comments were being said by and about most of the platoon members on a fairly equal basis. They hadn?t even registered in my mind until my situation made me sensitive to it. For example, after I complained about sniper rifles being overpowered subsequent to suffering a third consecutive cross-map headshot kill courtesy of Private Engels during Halo multiplayer, he said, ?What?sa matter, Wick; got sand in your vagina?? ?That must be it, obviously,? I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. I put down the controller and walked away, my face red. ?You okay?? Mac asked, meeting me at the back of the tent. ?Yeah,? I told him. ?I?m not even sure why I?m bothered, except that sometimes it reminds me I?m not really just one of the guys anymore. I never really liked that sort of comment anyway. Don?t worry, though, dick jokes are still hilarious.? For relief from the guys, I spent the remainder of my hours in Larissa?s tent. A rumor, which I neither encouraged nor denied, suggested that I was ?banging? her. The truth was more prosaic: when she was busy working on a story, I?d sit there in unbound comfort and read a book. Other times, we?d just talk; she treated me less like a potential lover, and more like her younger sister. That was okay with me. My life had enough complications already. The smell of diesel fumes wafted through the air as our convoy returned FOB Salerno. The sun was drifting behind the mountains in a golden sunset. I was behind my SAW in the turret atop the trailing vehicle, eyes peeled for any need to use it. While we?d been back at Kandahar Airbase, Humvees had been delivered here from Fort Bragg. Mounted, we were able to conduct patrols further afield than before. On this particular mission, we?d provided security for a contingent of Military Police who conducted weapon seizures, as platoon had done the last time we?d operated out of Salerno. Among them were a pair of female MPs, specifically requested by Brigade Command so that local women could be searched without offending religious sensibilities. Within the first hour, they had uncovered an RPG and six grenades concealed beneath the folds of one woman?s burkha. The vehicles pulled up behind the plywood shack that served as the base?s operations center. As the platoon worked to unload the confiscated armaments, Lieutenant Burbage caught my eyes and Mac?s, and motioned for us to join him inside the building. ?Stand at ease,? he said as he sat down at the desk. LT was only a couple of years older than us, and ordinarily, he struggled to project an air of authority, but by his tone, tonight he?d found it. ??Don?t ask, Don?t tell?, gentlemen. Have you heard of it?? he began, ?I?ve received a report that the two of you have been engaged in inappropriate behavior with each other.? Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Mac; he caught the look and shrugged. Things had progressed since that night in the guard tower, but I thought we?d been discreet. ?Given the nature and credibility of the report, and due to current Department of Defense policies,? the Lieutenant continued. ?I?m required to inform the Company Commander, and a formal investigation will have to be conducted when we return to the Airbase. Depending on the results of the investigation, you may both face an administrative discharge from the service. I wanted to let you know, so you won?t be blindsided when the CO calls you in. If I were you, I?d be very careful in how I conducted myself from here on out.? I felt tendrils of stress radiating through my limbs as I walked out of the office on stumbling feet. Mac and I turned to face each other as we got to the bottom of the steps. ?It?s all my fault,? we both said at the same time. ?It?s all my fault,? I repeated, moisture welling up in the corners of my eyes. ?My fault for falling that damned pool, my fault for not being a better liar. My fault for wanting someone to hold.? The tears were dripping off my chin, now, having left tracks in the dust on my cheeks. Mac reached out his arms in the beginning of an embrace, but I gave him a warning look and they dropped back to his sides. I pulled out a tissue and blew my nose. ?I?ve got to tell them. If they know I?m a girl, what we?ve done won?t be held against us. No need for us both to get kicked out.? ?We don?t know that they?d kick you out,? he said. ?No, I might get sent to prison, or worse,? I replied, giving small voice to my fears at last. ?Is this a no-win scenario, then?? Mac pondered. ?What about Larissa? Would she play along, if we used that rumor about you two to our advantage?? ?Somebody saw us kissing, Mac, they had to have. Revealing myself is the only way forward. I can?t see a path that?ll save us both.? Whether from a premonition or a simple bad dream, I don?t know, but I awoke with a start from a restless sleep, filled with a sense of dread. A glance at my watch showed that it was still the middle of the night. I could have laid down and tried to sleep some more, but the way my heart and my thoughts were racing, I knew that wasn?t going to work out well. I was contemplating a trip to the latrine and had stuffed my feet into my boots when I heard a hissing sound passing overhead. A moment later, I saw a flash of light to the south, beyond the berm that marked the perimeter, then heard and felt a muffled thunderclap which shook the ground. A second explosion followed the first, again outside the base. SFC Farrell had told us that 1st platoon had come under rocket attack after they relieved us at Salerno, previously. The rockets were crude; unguided and launched on a timer so that the men who had set them up could be far away when they went off. As on this night, those sent against 1st platoon had gone off target. To be on the safe side, I strapped on my helmet and body armor, and grabbed my SAW. Other soldiers were stirring by this time, and the sentries were giving the alarm. I heard the hissing sound again, this time accompanied by an odd whistle. ?Incoming!? I yelled, as one of the Humvees was engulfed in a ball of orange flame. Fragments of glass and metal rained down with a clatter. Fear and shock left me momentarily stunned. The rattle of gunfire to the north stirred me into action. Keeping low, I charged toward the berm. Swinging down the legs of its bipod, I slid my rifle over the top of the mound of dirt, then cautiously peered over, myself. I caught the faintest hint of motion; dark shapes moving through the surrounding gloom. Belatedly, I remembered my NVG?s. Night vision resolved them into the forms of half a dozen armed men approaching the FOB. As I was trying to decide if I had authorization to open fire, I heard SSG Williams call out, ?Contact! Six presumed combatants, 100 meters, North-North East!? The brief flare of a muzzle flash blanked out my goggles; an instant later I heard a loud crack. When the view had cleared, the enemy had moved behind cover. Hands shaking, I thumbed the safety on my machine gun. Remembering my training, I aimed low, let out my breath, and pulled back smoothly on the trigger, mouthing the words ?six to nine round burst? before easing it forward. My ears were ringing as I pulled the trigger again and again, the butt of my weapon pressing itself firmly into my right shoulder. Empty brass fell to the ground with a tinkle, accompanied by the links of the ammo belt. The smell of gunpowder, and the taste of it on my tongue, reminded me of my first day in country. Shots fired to my left and right let me know I was not alone on the berm. Someone launched a flare and its illumination rendered my NVG?s unnecessary; I flipped them up out of the way. Returning focus to the field before me, I caught sight of a figure, AK-47 in hand, running fast back the way he?d come. Where were the other five? ?Cease fire, cease fire!? SFC Farrell ordered in a voice that cut through the din. ?Probably just a probing action, to check our defenses. We?re gonna go take a look-see. First and second squad, get any equipment you?re missing, and replenish your ammo. Be ready to move out in 10; Third squad, secure the perimeter.? A glance at my wrist showed that a bare 15 minutes had gone by since I?d awoken. The troubles which had ended my sleep seemed distant. After the fear of death, and the survival of danger, I?d never felt quite so alive. With the excitement temporarily over, the adrenaline coursing through my veins was starting to give me the jitters. I put my rifle on safe and went to comply with the Sergeant?s orders. The echoes of gunfire were still playing in my ears as I headed slowly across the compound to my bedroll and ruck. I was a little queasy from the thought that I might have killed someone, and my legs felt like jelly. Some of the other guys were whooping and hollering as they ran past. I got knocked off my feet, pushed down from behind, my helmet smacking the ground a moment before my chin did. My hands scraped across the dirt as they instinctively and ineffectually attempted to break my fall. I was shaken up, the wind knocked out of me. As I collected my senses, my first impulse was to anger. It was no time for horseplay. Staggering to my feet, I looked around for the culprit, prepared to give somebody a piece of my mind. Dimly, I could hear shouting; my ears weren?t working right. Pieces of debris lay all about me. Turning back the way I?d come, I saw that another of our Humvees had been damaged by a late arriving rocket. The windshield had been blown out and the front wheels were askew; flames licked up from the engine compartment. The smoldering fiberglass hood lay a few feet away. The pair of legs and an arm sticking out from under it suggested a body pinned beneath. My knees protested, and my left leg didn?t seem to want to move properly as I limped toward the fallen soldier. Gingerly, I grasped the edges of the panel with injured hands and lifted it away. Pain stabbed at my leg as I knelt to assist a dazed Corporal Lopez who was already rising to his knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the shapes of fellow soldiers approaching. ?Jesus, Wick,? Lopez said, his unfocused eyes glancing over me, ?you need some first aid, man.? A haze of pain and pharmaceuticals meant that I had only a vague outline of the events in the aftermath of the rocket attack at Salerno. The sound of rotor blades permeate my memories of the experience. Along with the pain, there had been blood; lots of it, running down the left leg of my trousers and making a sticky pool in my boot. A jagged chunk of metal protruded from the back of my thigh. Someone arrived with the first-aid kit; after echoing Lopez?s sentiments, he plunged a needle into my arm. It didn?t stop the pain as much as make me quit caring about it. Secured to a litter, I was taken in a UH-60 Med-Evac Chopper back to Kandahar. High on morphine, I marveled at the roominess of the cabin from my vantage point on the floor. Liftoff felt like riding a fast elevator in a tall building. Strapped down next to me, Lopez dozed as we flew through the night. I spent some time in Surgery, getting stitched up after having pieces of shrapnel removed from my backside. Awash in drugs, I passed in and out of consciousness, never fully aware of my surroundings, but gripped by a fear I couldn?t express. The throbbing in my thigh gradually became more insistent, the dominant voice in a chorus of aches and pains. It even hurt to breathe; as I shifted futilely to find a more comfortable position, my eyes opened. I was laying on my side on a cot in a curtained-off section of tent, covered in a thin blanket and wearing an open-backed hospital gown. There was gauze wrapped around my leg and enough bandaging stuck to my ass to make me feel like I was wearing a diaper; there even seemed to be some padding in the crotch of my underpants. My stomach fell as I realized my secret must have been revealed. Panic reigned. Without a clear plan in mind, I pulled back the covers, preparing to spring out of the cot. Before I could, the curtain swept aside to admit a female officer, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, with a clipboard in one hand and a small paper cup in the other. ?I wouldn?t advise leaving just yet. You might tear out your stitches, and you?re a little low on blood. Besides, I bet your meds are wearing off. I brought you another dose,? she said, handing me the cup. I took it from her, and swallowed the pills it contained. Even that was an effort. I wouldn?t have made it far if I?d tried to run. ?I feel like I?ve been hit by a truck,? I croaked out, feeling defeated. ?You were; by pieces of one, anyway,? she agreed. ?The surgeon removed fourteen of them. The largest did some serious damage, but you?ll be fine with time and physical therapy. Something big hit you between the shoulder blades, and left quite a bruise. Your body armor probably saved your life. It was thought you had another injury, but it turns out you?ve started your period. Embarrassing, I know,? She said, as I felt myself blush, ?and quite unexpected, to say the least.? ?It?s not how I?d have chosen to let anyone find out,? I admitted. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed, ?I?m Captain Meyer, from Brigade Medical; I?m not a doctor, but they?I?thought you?d be more comfortable hearing about your condition from another woman.? ?No offense, ma?am, but I don?t think it worked. Believe it or not, I?m kind of new to the sisterhood.? ?Yeah? There?s some confusion among the Staff about how you made it in the Infantry. Between us girls, I?m impressed, but the Brigade Commander isn?t too pleased. To him, you represent either a conspiracy or a miracle, and he?s a practical man. There?s gonna be an investigation.? ?Hey, Jordan,? a familiar voice said. Larissa had taken the chair lately occupied by Captain Meyer. I must have been dozing. ?Hey there, yourself,? I answered, tiredly. ?You seem to have caused quite a stir,? she said with a chuckle. I gave a solemn nod. ?Not my intention.? ?I?d like to help,? she said, taking my hand in hers. ?Anything you can do,? I said, touched by the offer, but not expecting much, ?I?d appreciate it.? ?I just need to know: if you can?t be in Infantry, do you even want to stay in the service?? It was a tougher question that afternoon than I would have imagined when I arrived in country. The sick thrill of taking fire and returning it was at the core of the matter. I?d be okay if I never felt it again, but could I live with myself if I was safe at home while my friends were still fighting? I thought of all the other women I?d seen behind the wire in Kandahar; of the MPs who?d been out on patrol with my platoon, making contributions. ?I do want to? I said, finally, ?anything less feels too much like betrayal.? A few days later, I was upright again, hobbling around on a pair of crutches, and back in uniform. Protocol deemed it improper for me to stay with my platoon, just returned from Salerno, so I?d been moved into a tent that was shared by girls from half a dozen different units. Unlike the Infantry, they all had jobs around the base during the day, so the place was empty when I dropped off my stuff. Between the awkwardness of being a stranger in this strange land and the uncertainty of my future, I was feeling pretty low. Sitting down was still uncomfortable, so when the courier came to summon me to a meeting with the Brigade Commander, he found me leaned against a bunk, staring at my boots. Colonel Higgins was a thin man with a dark tan and hair a shade of gray that did not look entirely natural. His brown eyes fixed me with a penetrating stare as I walked into his office. I stood at some approximation of Attention and awaited my doom. ?At ease, Private. Make yourself comfortable,? he said in a kindly voice, eyeing my crutches. I remained standing, but relaxed a little. He rose to his feet, hands clasped behind his back. ?You?ve created the perfect shit-storm, here, Renwick. ?Apparently, you?ve been a good soldier, up to now. Honor graduate from Basic, no punishments to speak of, and you?re up for promotion soon. Your CO wanted to send you to Ranger school, after we redeployed. Obviously, that?s out of the question now. ?My JAG officer advises me that charges exist under which to court- martial you, and yet at the same time, you earned a Purple Heart, and your Platoon Sergeant thinks you?re deserving of a further commendation for your decisiveness at Salerno. ?My own inclination is to have you sent home and quietly discharged; however, things are out of my hands. My superiors have suggested that you be allowed to choose a new Specialty and finish out your enlistment. ?Your paperwork will be ?corrected? and you can complete your service honorably. But no word of your time in the Infantry can get out, or it will be not only you getting court-martialed, but any soldier who helped you.? And that?s how I ended up as an MP at Camp Humphreys, in South Korea. Even though I requested reassignment, I didn?t get sent back to Afghanistan, and never went to Iraq. My old unit went both places, though, several times, as well as being deployed to New Orleans to assist after Hurricane Katrina. The end of my term of service came in 2005. Despite having been promoted to Sergeant, I was pretty disillusioned by that time, and didn?t re- enlist. Instead, I used the GI Bill and got myself a college degree. It was there at school where I met the man who eventually became my husband. Mac made it into and through Special Forces training, and is still living the dream. I lost touch with the rest of my platoon; I heard Robertson was killed in Iraq, and Engels was court-martialed and now resides in Fort Leavenworth Penitentiary. Lopez got a medical discharge after sustaining his fourth concussion. Higgins retired in 2014, as a Three Star General. As for Marina and her girls, I have no way of knowing, but I like to imagine they had their moment of triumph. Before I left Kandahar, Marina gave me a bottle of the water, just in case. I still have it, tucked away in the back of my closet. There are days when I?m tempted to drink it. I never found out what Larissa said, or who she said it to, but it seems she was responsible for the deal that kept me from getting kicked out. We still talk, and she recently convinced me that it was time to tell my story. And that?s how I ended up here. The End Please feel free to comment on this story or any others I have written. Feedback is important, and often appreciated.