Nancy, who up until her resignation had associated almost exclusively with other military types, had never much given that particular aspect of male and female relationships much thought. Naively, she looked at Helen wide-eyed. “Do you really think that makes that much of a difference?”

Not realizing that Nancy was being deadly earnest, Helen reached out and patted Nancy on the hand as she laughed out loud. “Kid, you’re a hoot!” she roared. Though Nancy would have liked to have corrected Helen’s misconception, she let the matter drop. But she hadn’t forgotten it. Instead, Nancy kept her thoughts to herself as she tried to reconcile her past and live in the present while struggling to find a future for herself.

That was where the National Guard came in. In many ways it was a crutch, a place where she could be her old self without fear of isolation or the need be overly careful about what she said. That did not mean that she could totally drop her guard. For even though the members of the Idaho National Guard wore a uniform with a “U.S. Army” tape sewn over the right breast pocket, they were not the same United States Army Nancy had served in. No Guard unit, Nancy realized, would ever be like the regular Army.

“You’ve got to remember, Colonel, this is the Idaho National Guard,” her superior, Colonel Victor Simonson, cautioned her when she started working as a training officer. “Though we are a leg of the ‘One Army’ concept, our primary duty and responsibilities lie here, in this state, and with the people of Idaho. Unlike the active Army we are directly linked to the community we serve. Those people out there are our friends, our neighbors, our employers and employees.” Stopping, Simonson turned, looked out the window of his office, and waved his hand waist high in a sweeping motion. “The people we serve are the very people you meet every day in the convenience stores, on the highways you pass coming and going from here, in the college you’re attending. When the floods sweep away everything they own, or the snows overwhelm a locality’s ability to deal with them, or a group of prisoners feel their civil rights have been violated, those people depend on us to help them and protect them. Keep that in mind, young woman, if you expect to get along in this headquarters or anywhere else in this organization.”

Reaching her small cubicle, Nancy set her laptop on her desk, opened a lower drawer, and dropped her purse into it. When she had been on active duty she had seldom carried a purse. Not only had it been impractical, but it would have been totally contrary to the image she was always struggling to maintain. But here, perhaps because of her change of lifestyle or simply because she had grown used to carrying one around, Nancy found herself becoming attached to her plain black shoulder bag.

With a tap of her combat boot, Nancy shoved the drawer closed, forgot about that trivial feminine accessory, and sat down to collect her thoughts and redirect them into a military frame of mind. She started by shuffling through the papers and files that had found their way into her “In” box. Randomly mixed in with notices about changes in Guard benefits, news about upcoming events, and strongly worded admonishments by the headquarters commandant advising staff officers to improve the appearance of their workspace or tighten up on how they wore their uniforms, were new requests for training ammunition, the monthly status report of pending requests, and advisories on suspended or condemned lots of munitions. Without bothering to even give the administrative notices and directives a second look, Nancy separated them from her reports and requests and tossed them into the wastepaper basket.