By Charlotte Crosswhite
The Army Security Agency (ASA) was a unique military experience. Whether you served in small assignments, large field stations, or combat situations, you always had one boot in the Army and the other in the NSA’s door. I wouldn’t call us isolated, but in many ways, we were self-isolating. You don’t usually take on that kind of work as a young soldier and then mix freely with others. Yes, we mingled at times, but the ASA was its own closed community.
The WAC experience, what little I had of it, was entirely separate from the ASA experience. Women had served with distinction in ASA positions during World War II, yet when the war ended, they were victims of the government campaign to push women back into homes. They were banned from the very fields in which they had already proven themselves. To keep women away, ugly stereotypes were circulated: women who joined the military were “whores, nymphomaniacs, or too ugly to get a husband.” Crass as it sounds, that was the reality—it was meant to warn us off.
I was an ASA brat, traveling the world with my father as he served in posts from the Philippines to Germany. I never once saw a female soldier—it was that devoid of women. I loved the moving, the new friends, the new places. Then, one night in 1972, I was watching late-night movies on TV and saw Skirts Ahoy!—a 1950s film about women in the Navy. I was shocked. Women could do this? Right then, I made up my mind: I was joining the Army.
That year, 1972, was pivotal for women in uniform. It was the year women were first accepted into ASA operations. I was only 16, but by the time I enlisted in 1974, women were still under WAC command. At Basic Training and AIT at Ft. Devens (where I was born, by the way), our commander wasn’t ASA—she was WAC. She wasn’t prepared for the changes happening around her. Things were moving too fast for her training, while the rest of us simply walked into them, not even realizing at the time how big those changes were.
WAC command meant that women were billeted in separate barracks, overseen by a WAC commander. That meant we answered to two bosses: one for our military duties and another for our “lady-like” behavior. If a WAC commander thought you were acting improperly, you could be thrown out. Women who married, and later even those who became pregnant, could be discharged. All that training wasted, because the WAC system still clung to outdated notions.
The regulations for WAC billeting were absurd. Barracks had to have kitchens and bathtubs. We were 18 years old, working rotating shifts—none of us were going to be cooking meals. Sure, we used the refrigerator sometimes, but if it wasn’t there, many of us had one in our rooms anyway. The WAC commanders I had seemed trapped in another era. At Basic, we weren’t allowed passes that would put us in town after 5 p.m. or in the EM Club—still called the “Enlisted Men’s Club”—because, and I kid you not, “Decent women would not be walking around in a city after dark.” We had morality classes. Revlon reps came in to teach us “the decency of proper makeup.” We balanced books on our heads to learn posture. Bras and even girdles—yes, girdles—were issued. On the train to AIT, a group of us made a show of throwing the girdles in the trash.
There was even hostility toward co-ed billeting. One commander was openly against the first ASA experiment of housing men and women in the same unit. This was during the height of the women’s rights movement, when we were also fighting to stop the old line that rape was caused by women’s behavior or dress.
Inside the ASA, some of the same attitudes surfaced. Once, the operations NCO on my shift suddenly announced that women could not take off their fatigue shirts inside the building, as it “could cause problems with the men.” I confronted him directly in the watch office. He stammered and finally admitted what he meant: men might get sexually distracted by women in T-shirts. It was absurd. Outside of work we wore bikinis and halter tops. Women were literally burning bras in protest, yet here we were in the Army, saddled with cotton bras our grandmothers wore.
I gave him an earful. I asked why he thought only men got distracted. Women noticed men’s physiques too—we appreciated a great chest and a nice backside just as much as they did. He was stunned, bright red with embarrassment. Soon after, the shirt rule was lifted. I don’t know if it was because he realized how ridiculous it was or if he just didn’t want to be that embarrassed again.
Another kind of hostility came from the wives of the men we worked alongside. Some were supportive, but others were deeply suspicious. Because we worked in secure buildings their husbands couldn’t talk about, wives assumed we were “doing something” with them. Their mistrust was aimed entirely at us, never at their husbands. I remember one incident that ended with me being called into the Command Sergeant Major’s office after an NCO’s wife complained about me. Instead of backing her up, the CSM told me he had already discussed it with the NCO. He said from now on, I should report it to him first. And then he sent word back to the wife: unless she could respect all members of his command, maybe the best thing for her was to live off-post or stateside. I never knew if he said it because he really believed it—which I think he did—or because he was a good friend of my father’s.
In the early to mid-1970s, women made up less than 10% of the operations troops at field stations. By 1980, that number was nearing 60%. By 1977, we even began to see female officers in operations. We were good at the mission—very successful, in fact. That surprised some people. While there were a few men hostile to women in operations, they were the exception, not the rule.
The Women’s Army Corps was distinctive in ways people might not grasp today. In 1975, for example, all soldiers had to wear dress greens when traveling. When I traveled across the country, people stopped and stared. It was unusual. It was also the end of the Vietnam War, when protests still hung in the air. Draftees hadn’t had a choice; but the WACs were all volunteers. The stares we got weren’t just about the uniform. They reflected those old stereotypes, still alive and well.
By 1972, other MOSs also began opening to women—military police, for example, and fields beyond clerical or medical. People often credit President Carter with integrating women, but in fact the process began under President Nixon, was accelerated by President Ford, and finalized by Carter. It was bipartisan, though like all military change, it moved slowly.
I often think back to the women of World War II who became pilots, truck drivers, medics, and even postal commanders. They knocked on the door and stepped through. By the 1960s and 70s, women like me didn’t bother knocking anymore. We kicked the door in and announced our arrival.
I remember once, maybe 20 years ago, sitting at a free Veterans Day dinner at a place like Chili’s or Applebee’s. Across from me was a woman veteran, probably in her mid-70s. I went over to thank her—not just for her service, but for being a pioneer without even realizing it. I told her that I’d stepped into the footprints she had left behind. She looked at me and said, “I never thought of it that way.”
We worked hard. We proved ourselves again and again. And that’s why I say “no” to the idea of a separate Female Veterans Day. We fought for the right to be equals, to be called soldiers. We’re still not quite there, but we’re close. We are the veterans of the United States Army, Air Force, Marines, Navy, and Coast Guard. We already have a day—Veterans Day, November 11. And that’s the day we should all stand together.
