Induction Day

I walked in knowing exactly where I was going.
I just didn’t know what I was doing.

Inside Halsey Field House, Induction Day began with an unsettling calm. Everything looked orderly, almost polite. The ferocious part was waiting its turn.

Rows of folding tables stretched across the floor, aligned alphabetically by last name. I found A and stepped up to a table. The upperclassman behind it didn’t smile or look at me for long.

“Plebe Andrews,” he said sharply, sliding a slip of paper toward me. “Head to the bleachers marked with your company letter. Memorize this.”

I may or may not have managed a correct “Yes, sir.”

That small piece of paper held what would quickly replace my name. It included my last name, first name, summer company, Platoon—Alpha Company, 2nd Platoon, and my alpha code. Six numbers. I had no idea how ubiquitous my alpha code would become.

I turned toward the bleachers, careful not to make eye contact with anyone who might decide I needed to be stopped, scanning for A-2 while trying not to look like I didn’t belong.

The alpha code would become everything. For the next four years, it mattered more than your name. So deeply ingrained was it that decades later, ten years, thirty years, even fifty years on, people still remember theirs. Heck, I remember my roommate’s alpha code. They don’t leave you.

The first two numbers marked your class year. Mine were 8-1. The last four reflected your alphabetical position in the class. Because my last name began with “A,” my number was under 200. Others—W’s and Z’s—could be in the 900s or 1,000s, depending on class size. Order and hierarchy were all established before I had even sat down.

That alpha code followed you everywhere. It had to appear in medical records and school books, and be used to record your demerits. During Plebe Summer, I had to write it by hand in black permanent marker on every issued item of clothing. Underwear. White works. Tops. Bottoms. Even the Dixie cup. There would be no place where the alpha code did not identify its plebe. 

As I reached the bleachers, I felt a flash of relief. I spotted the one other woman I could see and walked over, bright and hopeful.

“Hi, I’m Mary. I’m from Annapolis. Where are you from?”

I would learn soon that she was one of my roommates. She looked up briefly from her paper, shared her name and hometown, and immediately went back to memorizing her alpha code. She later would laugh that I looked so comfortable and friendly in the midst of the fear and anticipation of what was ahead. With one more woman, the three of us were it among roughly thirty plebes in our platoon.

I tried a few more conversations. Most heads stayed down. Faces were tight, eyes fixed on those slips of paper as if they were life preservers. It became clear very quickly: this was not the moment to be human.

Almost as soon as we were assembled, we were broken into groups of six to eight. Instruction began immediately. Where to stand. How to reply. When to speak—rarely—and mostly when not to. Basic drill layered with urgency, along with the most rudimentary instruction on how to salute and how to wear your cover. Outside, your head was always covered. There were no exceptions.

The shift was unmistakable. The version of myself who had walked into Halsey Field House chatty, curious, unguarded was already being replaced.

Induction Day didn’t shout its intentions. It didn’t need to.
It simply started by taking things away.