The buildings edging the square had been watching over the evolution of college life since the late 1800s. The night we arrived, they witnessed the birth of a new era. Women had joined the ranks as recruits.
The Vancouver recruiting centre staff had pitched RMC as an Ivy League–style university where the Canadian Establishment — the Eatons, Labatts, Molsons, Bishops, and Pearsons — had sent their sons for generations. It was true that some cadets came to RMC from all-boys’ schools like Upper Canada College, Ashbury College, and Eton College. Of course, there were also some boys who had been admitted not because they were good at anything in particular, but because their fathers were connected to the school. But in general, I discovered RMC to be a university populated by a microcosm of Canadian society at large, with cadets coming from high schools in their hometowns and from every type of family in the social strata, their selection driven by provincial quotas and stringent qualifying requirements. An emotional microcosm existed amongst these men, as well; the contingent most outspoken against female cadets were tough-talking, mean-spirited men with loyal civilian girlfriends who saw us as a threat. On the other end of the spectrum were the more benign cadets, kind and friendly but not willing to enter the fray and put themselves at risk of being seen as contrary to outspoken opinion against us. The social construct was wholly unnatural — nearly eight hundred men, eighteen to twenty-two years old, all living together for four years in the dorms on campus. There were no children, no pets, and barely any women. Adult interactions were rare.
The only emissaries from the outside world were the occasional freshwater gulls taking respite on the college yardarm along the edge of the parade square, oblivious to the meaning of the frantic rushing and constant drilling and yelling and activity taking place below their perch.
But I’d learn all this later. That first evening, all I saw was a majestic university. When I had been asked to make a split-second decision about whether to attend RMC or not, my head said it was a chance to do something important for equality of women. My instinct told me it was nuts to put myself through it. I told myself it should be right for me, and I should commit. I told myself that, as a middle-class nobody, I should jump at the chance to rub shoulders with Canada’s elite, to make history, and to get away from my mother, all in a single blind leap. I promised myself I could quit if I hated it. In the first moments, I trembled as we marched with our luggage toward the spotlighted walls of the Frigate. A big silver bell hung in a black frame next to the large navy-blue double doors and some kind of heritage plaque was mounted on the outer wall. A creepy stained glass window set above the double doors depicted a bulbous, leggy spider with the number one behind it. When we had first crossed the entrance ramp, I had glanced down into the moat and was relieved to see there was no water, just floodlights spaced out along a grassy bottom.
This morning, we marched from breakfast straight to the college supply building to be issued our Canadian Forces FN rifles. I had my first good look at the Frigate. The parade square was so large it seemed to form its own horizon culminating at the light-yellow limestone building, which looked less ominous in the daylight. Almost pretty, with its clean lines and symmetry.
Back from supply, I was struck by the musty old-building smell in the foyer. We clipped single file up the grand spiral staircase curving in front of us, with its thick wooden railings and faded yellow plaster walls. The stairs formed a precarious-looking fan up to the third floor.
On the second floor, we marched onto a worn cornflower-blue carpet in another foyer. Two hallways extended in opposite directions, one with red carpet and the other with green. Port and starboard, like red and green running lights on a ship. The recruit hallway was on the left with the red carpet. The Stone Frigate was modelled after a ship — albeit a creepy, rundown ship in need of a new coat of paint and fresh carpet.
My new home.
Meg and I shared the first room on the left in the recruit hallway. We dismantled our weapons, chained them onto the custom rifle racks, and placed the magazines and breechblocks into our shared gash drawer. Now I’m a girl with a rifle locked up in her bedroom. I hid the gash drawer key in a stack of my panties in the dresser.
Our room was not much larger than a walk-in closet. It had institutional lime-green walls and we were forced to turn sideways to pass each other between the bunk bed and the sink. The bay window had an alcove large enough to sit in and heavy green curtains that closed it off from the room.
I plunked down on the lower bunk, shaking the red metal frame, and yanked off my beret. I ruffled my hair and pushed the heels of my palms against my burning eyes. My stomach made loud grumbling noises and I felt shaky.
Meg grabbed a chair from the built-in desk and sat down with an air of confidence. She was lean and long-legged — we had similar builds, except at five nine, I was a few inches taller than she was. Plus Meg had the litheness of a dancer. At basic training, I had seen her bend in half, hug her chest to her thighs, and slide her legs into side splits until her chest rested on the ground with her arms stretched overhead. I could barely touch my toes. She slipped her beret off and set it gently on the desk so that it held its shape. Her brown bun was still perfect. No pins showing. We had been told to memorize vital statistics about our roommates — and to expect quizzes later.
“How can you still look so good after the day we’re having?” I asked.
She smiled. “Good one,” she said. “Okay. I’ll start. I’m Margaret Carter, no middle name. I’m eighteen.” She rolled off all her vital stats including place and date of birth, that she was the youngest of four siblings, the places she’d lived, and the name of her all-girls’ private school in Victoria. She finished by saying her dad was a commander in the navy, her mom didn’t work, and she was studying engineering.
“Holy crap. I hope I can remember all that for the quiz. All right. Kathryn Anne Armstrong. I’m eighteen. Born in Flin Flon, Manitoba,” I said.
Meg laughed. “Is that really a place?”
“For real. My dad’s a manager at Eaton’s. My mom’s a secretary for the federal government. I grew up in small towns all over British Columbia and graduated from high school in Abbotsford. I’m the youngest of five kids; my sister is oldest, with three brothers between us.” I told her the rest and ended by saying I had wanted to be a pilot ever since I had earned my glider pilot licence in air cadets when I was sixteen. When I had applied for military service, I was shocked to discover that women were ineligible to be pilots.
“You came here to get into pilot? What are you now?”
“I’m a logistics officer, the only job available to me as a woman studying commerce.” I deflected by asking Meg another question about herself. “What classification are you?” I liked her. I wanted her to like me. I knew that if she wanted to know, I would blurt out my whole life story. I wanted a fresh start in a new place with new people. I didn’t want Meg or anyone else to know what I had left behind back home.
“AERE. Aerospace engineer,” she said. My eyebrows shot up at that.
Mr. Kendall’s voice sounded in the hall. “Three Section get your asses into Holbrook and Fitzroy’s room, STAT!”
Their room was the closest to us across the hall, next to the women’s washroom. Meg and I converged with Maxwell and Becker at the door and entered one by one. It was instantly obvious why Mr. Kendall had chosen to meet there. All seven of us were able to form a comfortable circle — the room was huge compared to ours and had a view across Navy Bay onto the Fort Henry barracks.
“Relax, recruits. This is section commander time. Let’s get to know each other. You’ll go first, Combat,” he said, gesturing toward Becker. “State your name, where you’re from, something interesting you’re known for, and what you’re doing here, in that order. Go.”
My mind went blank. What’s interesting about me? I started to panic.
“Aye aye, Mr. Kendall. My name is Trevor Becker —”
“Don’t look at me, idiot. I alread
y know everything about your sorry ass. Tell them.”
How could he possibly know everything about us? We just got here last night.
“I’m Becker. I grew up as an army brat, so I’m not from anywhere. My parents live in Ottawa right now.”
Mr. Kendall interrupted again. “And your dad’s a major general and an ex-cadet of RMC. Isn’t that right, Becker?”
“Aye aye, Mr. Kendall.” Becker blushed. I’m not sure he wanted us to know that. My panic flared anew. I didn’t want Mr. Kendall to talk about my family.
“I’m known for wanting to grow up and kill people for a living. I’m taking military strategic studies and will be an infantry officer.”
Becker was the most nondescript of all of us. Plain features, sandy-brown hair, medium height, and medium build. He didn’t look particularly strong or fit my stereotype of a future killing machine.
Kendall grunted. “How do you feel about being a recruit in the first class with women?”
Shit. He’s not going there, is he? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know Becker’s opinion.
“I’m good with it. So long as they keep ’em outta the combat arms.”
“Moving on. Holbrook, sound off.”
Holbrook was efficient and rattled off his answers in succession. “Richie Holbrook. Most recently, I’m from Brussels, Belgium, but I mostly grew up in Rome. My dad’s a diplomat. I’m known for being able to do an infinite number of chin-ups. My degree program is political science. I’m going to be a pilot and I’m extremely funny.”
“That’s fucking hilarious, Holbrook. You are funny. But I’d say you’re going to be more famous around here for needing to shave twice a day, Stubble Boy.”
Stubble Boy? From where I stood, Holbrook’s face had a slight shadow but nothing serious. His standout feature was piercing blue eyes, ringed with thick black lashes that were incongruously feminine compared to his barrel-chested body and gorilla-like arms.
“Carter, sound off.”
Meg shifted from foot to foot. “Aye aye, Mr. Kendall. I’m Margaret Carter from Victoria, B.C. I’m known for being flexible. My degree program is mechanical engineering and I’m going to be an AERE officer.”
I glanced around seeking signs that the guys were impressed. No one showed any.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you mean flexible? Are you talking temperament or in the physical sense?” he asked.
“Physical, Mr. Kendall, like doing the splits both ways.”
The guys perked up at this news. I instantly saw a flash of regret cross Meg’s face. Kendall must have seen it, too. He sprung into damage control.
“Okay, Cartwheel. Maxwell, sound off.”
“Nigel Maxwell. I’m from Ottawa. I’m known for being cool.” He calmly struck a silent Fonzie-style pose. “I’m studying electrical engineering and will be a communications engineer in the signal corps, and I like having women in our class.”
At breakfast, I had liked him instantly — his blond hair, icy blue eyes, and long face came together to form a friendly countenance with just a hint of seriousness. He had thrown down his opinion on our side. I suppressed a smile of relief at having at least one ally.
“Of course you do, Fonzie. Always good with the women. Fitzroy, you’re next.”
“I’m Grant Fitzroy from outside of Shelburne, Nova Scotia. I’m known for being top of my class since kindergarten and being willing to go the extra mile. My degree program is political science and I’m going to be a naval officer.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You probably had to walk to school the extra mile with no shoes in wintertime. Top of the class out of how many, Fitzroy? Two?”
“Seven.”
“Welcome to the big leagues, Valedictorian. Okay, Armstrong. Hit it.”
My turn. I’m here because I wanted to put five thousand kilometres between me and my mother and I don’t want to owe my parents another thing for the rest of my life. “Kate Armstrong from Abbotsford, B.C. I’m known for being a basketball jock and a glider pilot. My degree program is commerce. I’m going to be a logistics officer and I’m funnier than Holbrook.”
Everybody laughed.
“Dream on, Army,” Holbrook jibed and just like that, my hated nickname from high school had entered the conversation. I stayed quiet and hoped it wouldn’t stick. I would much rather have worn one of Mr. Kendall’s inventions.
“Okay, enough fun for today,” Mr. Kendall said. He paced back and forth for a moment rubbing his eyes. “So, Three Section, here’s what we got: Combat, Stubble Boy, Cartwheel, Fonzie, Valedictorian, and Army. This is gonna be entertaining. Let’s get back to work.”
In the end, I didn’t see the point of the nicknaming session because we rarely used them. Mostly, we called each other by our last names, even when we were alone.
We spent the rest of the morning receiving a demonstration of intricate kit layout requirements both for day-to-day living and for formal inspections. After lunch, we were sent to organize our rooms. Our door was closed and the quiet was a huge relief. Meg and I took turns reciting the names of the Old Eighteen listed in our recruit bible as we worked. We measured and double-checked every single item in our kit according to the layout specifications given to us. Meg’s uniforms faced left, mine faced right inside the closet; hangers were spaced exactly half an inch apart; shoes and boots faced toes out with one inch between pairs; drawer contents were folded to specification and in the correct place. Even my panties were refolded into three-inch-by-three-inch stacking squares.
“Are you scared?” I asked, watching Meg holding a ruler over her underwear on her desk, adding pair after pair to the growing stack.
“Crapless.”
“Me too,” I said. I suddenly wanted to go home. “Do you mind if I stand on your bed?”
“Why?” she asked. I pointed to a bulbous spider high in the corner above our bunks. Meg shrugged. “It’s not hurting anyone, but go ahead as long as you don’t leave any marks on the wall.”
Armed with a wad of tissues from my purse, I crawled up onto Meg’s bed, took a deep breath, and got ready to make a quick stab at it. I gasped, lunged, and ground it against the wall in a sickening crunch. I quick-marched across the hall and flushed the wadded tissue down the toilet. Back in our room, I noticed Meg’s ruler hovered frozen over the same pair of underwear.
They confiscated everything that wasn’t military issue and we made an attic run to deliver our duffle bags and stuffed personal suitcases filled with “contraband,” including my Levi’s jeans, Sperry Top-Sider shoes, pink Lacoste sweater, Vuarnet sunglasses, beloved yellow Walkman, and favourite cassettes. Up on the third floor, we pulled a hidden set of stairs down from the ceiling using a rope and formed a fire-brigade chain to pass the bags along, one to the next, all the way up into the attic. My spot in the chain was inside the attic, and I realized it was better to see the attic than not to see the attic. I saw for myself that there was nothing to fear.
4
PANIC
Before going for dinner, the fourth years seemed rested and re-energized.
“I need a volunteer,” Mr. Morgan said.
No one stepped forward. I fought my impulse to step up. I wanted to make an impression. At basic training, we had learned the rule: never volunteer.
“Good. No volunteers. I like it,” Mr. Morgan said. “Recruit Holbrook!”
“Aye aye, Mr. Morgan!”
“You’re my volunteer. Who are the Old Eighteen? You speak for A Flight, Holbrook.”
“Aye aye, Mr. Morgan. The Old Eighteen were the members of the first class to attend the Royal Military College in 1876.”
“Very good, you idiot! I want names!”
I was glad that it wasn’t me on the firing line.
“Wurtele, Freer, Wise, Davis,” and he rattled off a few more names, then paused. I held my breath. Holbrook stuttered and then finished the list.
“Close but no cigar, Holbrook. A Flight, take two circles each. Recruit Armstrong. What’s the pr
oblem with the list?”
Why does he always pick on Three Section? Richie’s pause had helped me.
“Davis. The second Davis was missing, Mr. Morgan.”
“Right. Take it from the top.”
In my mind’s eye, I could see names written on the page in my recruit handbook. My chest tightened and my voice felt far away.
“Wurtele, Freer, Wise, Davis, Reed, Denison, Irving, Davis,” and I finished the list. The fourth years started to clap, a slow, sarcastic clapping.
“Good job, A Flight. As a reward, you can have dinner after all.”
After dinner, we sat in the hall in PT gear, working on our boots together. Earlier in the day, we’d learned how to shine our bootlaces using melted shoe polish soaked into the fabric.
“Tell the recruits the surprise, Mr. Kendall,” Mr. Morgan said.
“The surprise is that we are going to help you learn how to panic. You people don’t know how to panic. We were talking it over this afternoon and realized it’s our fault. We haven’t really given you enough chance to practice,” Kendall said. “That’s not really fair, is it, A Flight?”
“No, Mr. Kendall!”
“You have three minutes to put away your polishing kit, change back into work dress, and be back in the hall with your weapons. Go!”
Meg and I banged heads in the doorway as we reeled into our room. I went straight for the gash drawer key, unlocked the drawer, and grabbed out the breechblocks and magazines. Meg unlocked the weapons. We assembled our weapons and changed into our work dress uniforms. We folded and put away our PT gear, looked at each other, and stepped out in the hall at the same moment. The smell of hot tin and burnt wax lingered in the air.
“You’re late, people!” Mr. Morgan yelled. “Get down and give me twenty!” We laid our rifles down, dropped to the floor, and cranked out twenty push-ups. I strained for the last three, being careful not to scuff the toes of my boots, cheating by not dropping all the way to the floor.
“Secure your weapons and change back into your PT gear, and let’s take it from the top. Don’t think you can get tricky. You must learn to work together, help each other. Be smart. Be efficient. Go!”
The Stone Frigate Page 3
