Madeleine Schneider
Big Red One
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. This assignment won’t be easy. Many of the men in this company think you can’t hack it. They are waiting for you to fail. Hell, some will go out of their way to get you there, push you down and kick you, all while saying I told you so.”
O’Neill stared into eight pairs of anxious eyes. These women, girls really, hung on to every word the platoon sergeant said. They didn’t know how lucky they were to have each other. Their new battle buddies were going to be a small life raft in a sea of military men. It wasn’t like this ten years ago, when O’Neill first transitioned to 11 Bravo. But Becca wasn’t here to complain about how hard things used to be. She was here to teach them a lesson, one that hadn’t applied to her first day on the job, one she’d had to learn from a disheveled, timid, stick of a woman. Harper, who’d probably fallen ass-backwards into combat arms. It had been O’Neill’s job to make sure the young private succeeded, but it had been Harper who’d inadvertently given O’Neill this boon. You are not alone.
“Well, I suppose there is a bit of sugar. Remember this. Lean on each other. Pick each other up so they can’t keep kicking. Know that you belong, and you have a team of sisters to prove it.”
The first time Sergeant Rebecca O’Neill overheard her nickname, she convinced herself that it was a compliment. She’d self-mandated positive thinking since she’d arrived at her new unit, an infantry platoon stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas. For three weeks prior to the discovery of the nickname, and for as long as she could manage afterward, she’d assured herself that the joking was good-natured, a sort of harmless initiation.
She was just one of the boys. She had to be, or she’d be all alone.
Promoting ahead of her peers, Becca had been encouraged to apply for the first round of women transiting from other Army branches into the Infantry. They need ladies like you to pave the way, to set the tone, to prove it can be done. Alongside the encouragement, she’d also received the opposite sentiment: from her fellow soldiers, from the news, on social media. Women can’t do this. They’ll change everything. They don’t belong.
Shortly after the initial call for volunteers, with her application half-finished, Becca phoned home. She shuffled through family members, each voice bringing its own opinion. Dad, soft spoken like herself, barely got a word out over Mom’s worried chatter. Her brothers, unplanned and unprompted, seemed in competition with each other to find the most sexist joke. Man up or be left behind. Becca rolled her eyes, waiting for the phone to move on, certain none of them could hack it in the Army. Ultimately, it was her sister, Jenny, who had the best advice, told with the assuredness of an eight-year-old. I know you can do it. So do it.
With those words, Jenny was calling on Becca to do what she’d always done. Even as the oldest child, with a voice that could have been the loudest, Becca had quickly learned that in the O’Neill family doing mattered most. Her brothers would talk and talk, but Becca always acted. That same day, Becca submitted the application.
At 21 years old, Becca was young for a sergeant. But she was tall, 6’ 3” with a sturdy frame. She was an expert qualified marksman, and she was able to out-deadlift at least half of her new platoon. Combine that with a complexion that suggested red hair, and she could see where the platoon’s nickname might fit.
Big Red One. That’s what they called her. It was a moniker shared by the larger unit that encompassed her platoon, the 1st Infantry Division. Receiving the same nickname as the oldest continuously serving division in the US Army had to be a compliment. At least, that’s what she told herself when she heard it snickered between two privates while on a training exercise. When she saw it scrawled in sharpie over her barracks room nameplate. Even when the platoon had been forced to sing The Big Red One song at a ceremony and everyone had given her side eye.
Becca tolerated the jokes, smiling slyly as she outshot them, passed them on rucks, and memorized pages of the Ranger handbook. She didn’t complain about the location of the closest female bathroom, across the street in the battalion headquarters, or about the way her platoon mates rehashed their weekend “conquests”. She wasn’t a stranger to masculine disorder. She simply needed to prove to her unit that she could be a rock amidst their chaos.
It took four months for the company to replace the sign on the smallest bathroom, wrapping the urinal in plastic wrap as if she might be tempted to use it. A few days after that, they asked her to lead the unit in their warm up drills. When her platoon sergeant invited her to join the other NCOs at Thursday night trivia, Becca had agreed with subdued appreciation, not wanting them to see her true excitement.
Big Red! They’d called out, when she walked into the bar. Now we’ll get the pop culture questions right. The food questions. The fashion questions.
Becca ordered a glass of Merlot, much to the men’s amusement, causing them to mockingly raise their pinkies when pounding their Mich Ultras.
A month after her first game of trivia, when her platoon leader was the only one who still called her Sergeant O’Neill, it became impossible to ignore the ridicule connected to her nickname.
The platoon had been practicing endless iterations of an ambush for five days under blaring sunshine and over 90-degree temperatures. Like all the previous nights of their training exercise, once the platoon’s patrol base was set, Becca found a secluded spot in the woods to clean herself off. Her Ranger handbook would advise against leaving the patrol base on her own, but her male leadership looked the other way, granting her privacy.
After scrambling through the brush for two hundred meters, Becca found a spot with a large boulder blocking the view in the direction of the patrol base. On all other sides, she was surrounded by tall grasses which at least gave the illusion of concealment. Peeling away her blouse, her tee-shirt, and finally her sport bra, Becca ran a baby wipe across her red and irritated skin. The feeling of a light breeze over the drying cleanser was so cooling, so refreshing, that she let herself stand there for several seconds with her eyes closed and her chest bare.
As the sun raced toward the horizon, the backs of her eyelids filled with a dancing glow. Birds chirped, and cawed, and trilled, as daytime creatures returned to their nests and bats prepared to take their place. In the distance, Becca heard the snap of rifle fire, another portion of the training area screaming with activity. But here it felt calm, and peaceful, and mercifully empty.
Becca took a deep breath and counted down from five. Knowing her platoon could be attacked at any time, she resumed cleaning the rest of her body, doing the best she could to rid herself of sweat and grime. She switched into fresh underwear and slipped on the same, slightly-damp overblouse and trousers. Running her fingers through the knots in her hair, she swung her rifle over her shoulder and moved back in the direction of the patrol base.
“Flash,” she heard a soldier on the perimeter call out.
“Thunder,” Becca responded, rolling her eyes at the copycat sign and countersign that the company had lazily stolen from World War II history and countless Hollywood movies.
Stepping into the patrol base without incident, Becca trudged over to her squad’s area to check on her team. She oversaw two privates and one specialist.
Privates Miller and Whitlock were practically joined at the hip, lying flat on their stomachs with their rifles pointed outward. They were whispering to one another, giggling and generally not looking for incoming enemy soldiers. When Miller noticed Becca crouching above him, he broke into full, snot producing laughter.
“Shut up, Miller,” Becca said, irritated to find the two of them half-assing their duty. “The platoon leader wants noise discipline. Where’s Specialist Hernandez?”
“Rodger, Big Red,” Whitlock responded, laughing almost as hard as his battle-buddy, with just enough self-control to get the words out. “Hernandez went to drop a load. He’ll be back soon.”
Becca rolled her eyes. Despite everything she’d learned from her younger brothers, she’d never understood the power of poop jokes to generate this kind of reaction. Before Becca could get another word out, her squad leader was flagging her down, calling her away from the line. Becca gave him a thumbs up, and turned back to the privates, planning to shush them again before stepping away.
Instead, her breath caught in her throat and her body went cold. This was followed by a drastic reversal in temperature, as her face flared crimson. Miller had rolled off his rifle onto his left hip. With one hand cupping a makeshift breast, he jeered his other in Becca’s direction. His face was contorted into mock euphoria, with his eyelids closed, as Becca caught him mimicking her five seconds of relaxation earlier in the grasses. But was that really what was happening here? Becca tried to keep herself from jumping to conclusions, but she couldn’t slow her thoughts. Had they seen her topless, her chest red at the lines of her sports bra from heat rash and irritation? That was the way her skin looked by the second day of any training exercise. Was this a common occurrence? Did they sneak after her every time?
Becca sputtered, searching for something to say. Sharp wit, diffusive banter, those had never been her strong suits. Silent, stoic competence, that was supposed to be enough. She’d tolerated their jokes for months, had come to terms with their nickname, had never once complained.
She’d proven herself to them. Hadn’t she? Hadn’t she shown her worth?
Becca’s voice betrayed her, releasing a stifled choke as Whitlock met her gaze.
“Miller,” Whitlock warned, his voice short and tight.
Miller dropped his hands, and his eyes popped open.
“Oh. Sorry Big Re–. I mean, Sergeant.”
Whitlock buried his face in the dirt as Miller’s comment seemed to replace the fear of punishment with uncontrollable sniggering.
It took all of Becca’s willpower to find her voice, to speak with conviction.
“Stop that right now, or I’ll put you on KP for a month. That is wholly inappropriate, and you’re lucky you’re on watch.”
Her mind was elsewhere, even as she glared, turned, and stomped away.
Big Red One. Was this it? Was this where the nickname had come from, starting just a few days after her first training exercise with the platoon?
Becca wanted to say more. She wanted to defend herself, to reclaim the authority that she was supposed to have as their team leader. Instead, she was speechless, standing frozen until her squad leader hissed out her name, and she was forced to walk away.
The questions surrounding what, if anything, the privates had seen, along with the true origins of her nickname, ricocheted through Becca’s mind for the remainder of the training exercise. For the next four days she festered in the same sports bra, returning to the barracks with scabs on her chest that reopened every time she exercised.
For several months after the incident, when the platoon ran past the 1st Infantry Division sign, the number of soldiers who mimicked Miller’s lewd hand motions grew. When the platoon leader finally noticed or stopped being able to ignore it, he directed Becca to stand in front of her fellow soldiers. As her face reddened, the lieutenant berated the men about being childish and about risking the reputation of the company if sexual harassment were to continue. He told the men to knock it off, and then he made them apologize in a cringe worthy series of call and response statements, as Becca felt herself involuntarily nodding her acceptance.
The name calling stopped, at least to her face.
In fact, Becca didn’t hear the nickname again until she was about to be promoted to staff sergeant. This was several platoon leaders and multiple years later, and it was also when the second female soldier joined their formation.
Her name was Private Jessica Harper. She was short, 5’1” with a slight frame. She’d only ever shot a rifle twice, once when she failed her basic training qualification range and then again when she re-tested. She deadlifted just below her body weight, and she had flaming red hair.
As the only other female in the platoon, Becca had been tasked to show Harper the ropes and to answer any questions. Becca didn’t mind doing this; although it was clear that whoever was permanently in charge of the new soldier would have to focus a significant amount of their time on soldier development.
Harper would go nearly mute whenever someone above the rank of sergeant asked a question, her voice dropping so low that she had to be told to speak up at least three times. She fell out of group runs and stared awestruck at the plates and machines in the weight room. She’d forget her patrol cap or her ID or the paperwork that she was supposed to bring for her in-processing appointments.
The first time Becca had shown her around the motor pool, Harper had somehow managed to leave her phone next to the wheel of a Humvee. Later that afternoon, Becca had picked it up while she was inspecting the vehicle for an upcoming exercise. The pink made it obvious, but she’d still tapped on the screen to confirm the phone’s owner. There was a message from Mom, which Becca read inadvertently.
Yes!! She does sound awesome. I’m glad you have someone there to help you out and show you the ropes. Sisters in arms! Be brave Jess. We’re proud of you :)
Becca felt a tinge of guilt seeing the message, and she couldn’t know for sure what the conversation was about. She also couldn’t help smiling. She left the phone next to Harper’s backpack without saying a word.
At the end of the week, when Becca told Jenny about the new private, her sister had offered a nugget of pre-teen wisdom. Are you going to be nice to her? Even if she’s weird, you should be nice to her.
On her third week with the unit, during weight training, Harper stood at the edge of the lifting platform, wearing her usual astonished expression. Becca had been paired with the private, even though the two of them didn’t lift close to the same weight, forcing Becca to spend most of her workout changing the bar’s plates.
Before Becca could get a good grip on what would be her heaviest lift of the day, a familiar and unpleasant face entered the weight room. Now a Specialist, Miller broke into a grin as he spotted his old team leader. He had been moved to another company shortly after the mortifying morning of apologies, and Becca did her best to avoid him.
“What’s up, Sergeant?” he said, walking close enough that Becca could no longer lift the bar.
“Miller,” she responded, without any inflection.
Becca rose back to standing as Miller’s eyes fell on Harper.
“Hey,” he said, nodding his head in a way that he probably thought was suave.
Harper looked at her feet, and Miller moved his grin back to Becca.
“Third Platoon’s got a new lady?” He asked, laughing and glancing between the two women. “You know Little Red…” He spoke to the top of Harper’s head. “If you try hard and put in a good effort, one day you might be as brawny as Big Red One over here.”
Becca felt her cheeks flush and the emotions that she’d buried for the last few years attempting to surface. Harper’s head tilted, and her doe eyes searched Becca’s face, perhaps seeking some indication of how to interpret Miller’s comment, how to respond to something that felt a little off, malicious in a way that was hard to articulate, harassment with perfect deniability.
Becca looked away from the private’s anxious face, staring down at the bar as Miller sauntered off. For several seconds the sound of blood in her ears masked the grunts of the other lifters and the clang of dropping weights.
“Fuck him,” Harper whispered. It was so quiet that Becca wasn’t sure she’d heard properly. She turned to the private, who swallowed and then spoke again, louder without being asked to speak up.
“Fuck him,” she repeated. “One day there will be so many Big Red One ladies kicking ass that Specialist Dickheads like him won’t have room to maneuver.”
Becca’s jaw dropped open, at a loss for words. Harper’s gaze returned to her sneakers, but she was smiling.
“Yeah,” Becca finally replied, chuckling as she did. “Fuck him.”
“Hey Miller,” Becca called out, forcing the Specialist to slow his jaunt and turn. The words spilled out, feeling more cathartic than any action could.
“That’s Sergeant Big Red One to you. Sergeant Promotable. So, why don’t you address me by my appropriate rank next time, with the respect that it deserves.”
Without waiting for a response, Becca lowered herself back to the bar and lifted the weight with ease.
“I joined the West Point Corps of Cadets in 2015, just as women began entering combat arms. This piece is inspired by the strength my sisters-in-arms have shown in the face of a decent amount of bullshit. I do not have any personal issues with the 1st Infantry Division; they are just a stand in unit for something that could easily happen anywhere in the Army.” —Madeleine Schneider
Madeleine Schneider is an active duty Army Captain. Her work has been published in Artists from Maryland, As You Were, Ascendancy, and Mslexia. She is a graduate of West Point and the University of Edinburgh.