The sign said "Spearfish, 150 miles." We'd already been on the road for five hours, and the five guys behind me in the van had finally moved off the typical locker room humor and on to the subject of time travel. I listened absently as I drove, thinking instead of the long day ahead of us. I cast a glance in the rear view mirror and took stock in my team-- where they seemed to be at mentally and physically.

Meyer sat with his eyes closed, in silent meditation to the music being fed him through his headphones. Quiet and watchful, he was the oldest member of my team. This would be his last competition, for he would be turning 21 in a few months. He was my state flag holder, and we had pulled him onto the team only 2 weeks before. He had had some problems with his timing, but I knew he would perform well. He was also one of the fastest members of my group. I was counting on him to bring us a good time in the mile run.

Lohan, my team's alternate, was in the middle of yet another push to convince us that the irish pub music he had brought on this trip was better than all other types of music. Loud and obnoxious at times, Lohan's mouth and apparent immaturity belied an incredible intelligence and sharp wit that far surpassed other 16-year-olds. Unfortunately, most people couldn't get past his mouth. I knew if anyone would get thrown out of the van on the way there, it'd be Lohan. I also knew that when pushed, he would deliver anything the team needed.

My senior flagbearer, Tom Clark, was a soccer player who could also run a mile in under 6 minutes. He was to be my other anchor in the physical fitness test. He and Lohan were good friends, and they chattered incessantly, Clark's short bursts of laughter punctuating the hushed conversation. Even though he was 17, he had another year of school left. I was glad he wasn't leaving in the spring.

Sprawled out in the next seat was Ehrichs, one of the two riflemen. Also 17, Ehrichs was on delayed enlistment for the Army. He would be gone before Regionals. Easygoing and friendly, he had an underlying desire to be the best. His timing was still off in some of his maneuvers, and I hoped he could somehow pull it together.

Sitting shotgun next to me was Nick Gengler, the other rifleman and commander of my team. Gengler was the type of person that would put the Guard first before anything-- even letting slide Clark and Lohan's pointed jokes about his girlfriend and the fact that she had hit on them at a concert a few months prior. With a military bearing that was impeccable, a command voice that was naturally near-perfect, and incredible presence during marching exercises, Nick was the heart and soul of my honor guard. I knew his quiet intensity would steady the team and keep them focused. I looked over and chuckled at his concentrated stare out the window. Gengler was always concentrating. "Are you ready for this?" I asked. He turned his head and met my eyes with his easy smile. He didn't answer, and he didn't need to. Easily the most mature member of my team, the amazing thing about Gengler was his age. He was 15.

This team had been through hell and back to get to this point. Two weeks prior, I had kicked our commander off the team for insubordination, attitude problems, and general conduct concerns. My squadron commander and I had agonized over the decision so close to the competition, but we both felt that he was a hindrance more than a help. We wanted to win. And we both knew we wouldn't with him running the show. That had left us with a new problem: who did we replace him with? I had gone over the possibilities in my mind, and the major and I finally settled on Gengler. There was something about him when he marched, some underlying intensity, that told me he was the one that could take us all the way to Nationals. When I asked Gengler what he thought, he protested. "I thought we were waiting until after competition to decide on that! How can we do this with 2 weeks left?" I wasn't sure myself, but he didn't need to know that. "It's gotta be done. I need to know if you can do this. Right now. You have 2 weeks. We need you to do this. I need you to pull it together and do it. Will you?" His words came out with purpose. "Yes, Ma'am." I knew it would be just fine.

Over the next 2 weeks, practice was hell. We worked for hours at a time, every other day. Gengler's command presence grew with his confidence, and on the day before we left, their drill routines were, in a word, stellar. I had every confidence they could do this. They were confident too, but I knew they were worried about the other teams. Rapid City's Rushmore team had just returned from the nationals 2 months ago. They had been the team to beat for 2 years running. I knew that was in the back of our minds. We were the underdogs of the Wing, and we knew it.

My musings had taken us through the last 2 hours of the trip, and we finally pulled up in front of the Young Athletic Center in Spearfish. Black Hills State University is named for the gorgeous Black Hills that stretch across western South Dakota like a prelude to the Rockies. Nestled in the mountains, the Young Center has a view like nothing else. Even at 1:30 a.m. local time, the mountains could be seen all around us, their size barely illuminated by the myriad of lamps that lit the parking lot. The air stung my nostrils with its cold crispness as we poured out of the van, hyper and overtired after our 7 hour drive.

The guys worked quickly, grabbing flagpoles, rifles, sleeping bags, and their dress blue uniforms, neatly pressed on hangers. We loaded each other up with gear and headed for the front doors. As we passed the flagpole out front, the conversation died out and they were suddenly reminded of why we were all here. Tomorrow they would be competing for the right to represent South Dakota at regionals. The winner of the regionals went on to nationals, held at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs next summer.

Gengler dropped his gear and opened the door for the rest of the team. "After you, ma'am," he grinned at me. I smacked him playfully in the head with my pillow as I passed him and we all trudged up the stairs to our "bivouacking area". It was a fancy way of saying we were all crashing on the floor. The guys made the traditional cracks about "whacking the biv" and we started to unpack. The other teams were milling around, some practicing, some just hanging out.

"Brookings! Over here, guys," I waved them over to where I had my sleeping bag sprawled on the floor. They hustled over to me, jostling and pushing. "Hey...listen up," I raised my voice slightly and they fell immediately silent. "Do we want to practice tonight? The other teams are, but then again, it's now 2 a.m. local. That means for you guys, it's 3. We need to get up in 3 1/2 hours as it is. Your call." They looked at each other, and Nick finally spoke up. "I think we want to at least check out the flagpole outside." I nodded. Good call. Every flagpole is different, and they needed to know exactly how to run this one BEFORE they were being judged on it. We bundled up and went back out into the wind and slight rain.

Ehrichs and Gengler were the two on the pole, raising and lowering the flag. They counted the number of pulls it would take to get to the top, and how many to put it back down to half-staff for the competition. They also counted out how many pulls it would take before the flag was close enough to the ground for Meyer to catch. The most important thing was that it never touch the ground. With wind conditions, sometimes that was easier said than done. Some color guards will simply look up to gauge where the flag is and where they need to be. My guys chose to count it off. That way, they never looked up. Perfect bearing.

We got back up to the wrestling room where we were sleeping after about 30 minutes, and we all settled down on my sleeping bag to put some last-minute touches on the shoeshines. I gave them some edge dressing to paint their sole edges and heels with, and while they did that I went and let Colonel Purkapile know we were there and going to bed soon. Purky, as we called her behind her back, was one of those people you just didn't want to be around any more than you had to. Blessed with less than average looks AND brains, she concerned herself with the by-the-book details that no one actually cared about, yet never adhered to them herself. We didn't have a whole lot of love for her.

When I got back, I settled back down on the sleeping bag and saw Ehrichs with the edge dressing brush in his hand. Oh no. He was painting his whole shoe. This was very bad, since edge dresing is not MEANT to paint whole shoes with. It dries them out, makes them crack, and it does NOT dry to a shine. The only way to remedy it is to strip the whole shoe with paint thinner or nail polish remover, and start over with good old base coats of Kiwi shoe polish. We had no paint thinner. We had no time to strip them anyway. I sighed. Ehrichs was embarrassed and ashamed, but I told him no worries. "We'll just set them aside. If they look okay tomorrow, you'll be fine." He smiled a bit in thanks, and they went off to bed.

I laid awake in my sleeping bag for a while. I had seen the other teams practicing. They weren't good, but they weren't anything to sniff at either. I hoped my boys wouldn't choke. I hoped Ehrichs could find his timing with his rifle. I hoped Gengler wouldn't anticipate his own rifle commands. I hoped we would win.