The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

  Back in our room, I put on my work dress uniform, consisting of an oversized cyan-coloured heavy cotton shirt, forest-green trousers, black belt, and parade boots. We would not earn the right to wear first-year cadet uniforms until we passed recruit term in October. I ran my fingers through my damp brown pixie cut and tugged on my green beret to contain it. Meg fussed with bobby pins to resecure her bun. I was glad I had cut my hair off.

  “One minute, A Flight!”

  Mr. Jansen, One Section commander, was peacocking up and down the hall, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Move it, dogs!” Jansen was a wiry, slightly stooped cadet who looked much older than a fourth-year university student. When he strained to be loud, his voice cracked, breaking into a higher pitch like a teenage boy’s.

  “Five seconds!” There was a mad shuffle. Fitzroy rushed out and into his spot.

  “Recruit Fitzroy. You’re late,” Mr. Kendall said. “What’s the delay, Fitzroy? Recruit Holbrook was out here on time.”

  “I couldn’t find my beret, Mr. Kendall.”

  “Why didn’t you help him, Holbrook?”

  “No excuse, Mr. Kendall!” Holbrook yelled. At basic training, we had quickly learned that no matter how genuine a request for an explanation seemed, it wasn’t.

  “So you biffed your bud. B-I-F-F. Biff. Buddy fuck. That’s what we call it, Holbrook,” said Mr. Kendall. He was mid-sized and pudgy. He looked unkempt, like he was dressed in someone else’s uniform.

  Mr. Morgan was back in charge. Everything about him was keen: his mannerisms, his calculated pace of speech, his deep nasal voice, his piercing green eyes. He seemed like one of those cadets who does everything right — perfect posture, expert marksmanship, academic excellence, ability to speak two languages, athletic prowess, boots polished to shine like a glassy body of calm water.

  “Listen up, people. You need each other. You will not make it here on your own. Forget standing out or being a superstar. You’re a team now. Without your flight mates, you’re nobody. If you didn’t already know it, everything here is a competition. Winning is all that matters.”

  I looked back at the floating head on the bathroom door. I noticed a spider walking along the top edge of the door moulding. Its body was rotund and its leg joints were visible from across the hall. I shuddered involuntarily and looked away.

  Now Mr. Morgan was telling us that our mascot was a spider, and he was shouting our squadron cheer. “Yea stone, yea boat …”

  Then he told us the rules. No food, no booze, no cigarettes, no personal books or possessions, nothing in our rooms but uniforms, rifles, and issued kit of bedding, towels, and sports gear. One framed personal photo was permitted on our desk. No talking after lights out. Recruits slept with their doors open. “Use of fire escape stairs is a second-year privilege unless there is an actual fire. All movement within the hall will be done using proper drill: quick time during the day, slow time during the evenings. Keep right shoulders as close to the wall as possible. Stay out of our way. Make proper turns. No wheels. We’re into angles around here.

  “Circles are the indiscriminate method we use to steal your time. One circle equals a lap of the track. Circles are run at 22:00 hours nightly. Section commanders will keep your circle tallies. You will continue to run a maximum of eight circles per night until you have run them all. That’s two extra miles a night, people. Do the math. On top of all the other shit coming your way, you do not want circles, people. Any questions?”

  Cadet Section Commander, or CSC, Jansen snapped to attention, raising his right thigh while shooting his fist-clenched right arm out, both parallel to the ground. His foot slammed down loudly and his arm remained out. He looked like a competition diver taking the last bounce at the end of the board. He spoke loudly, staring straight ahead, exaggerating his pronunciation. “Excuse me, Mr. Morgan, 13117, CSC Jansen, P.D., One Squadron, A Flight, One Section reporting.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jansen?”

  His right arm snapped back to his side and he remained at attention. “I am demonstrating reporting — the correct way for a recruit to initiate a conversation with a fourth-year cadet, Mr. Morgan.” He spoke in a clipped monotone.

  “Well done, Mr. Jansen. Nice demonstration. Show the recruits how to carry on, Mr. Jansen.”

  We’re supposed to talk like robots?

  “Aye aye, Mr. Morgan,” he answered and executed a sharp about-turn and marched a few paces away. Aye aye is the naval way of saying more than yes; it means “Yes, I understand and yes, I will comply.”

  Immediately, Fitzroy executed the move. “Excuse me, Mr. Morgan, 14456, Recruit Fitzroy, G.A., One Squadron, A Flight … Three Section reporting.”

  “Yes, Recruit Fitzroy?”

  “I heard that circles are a form of discipline for recruits. Recruits can get circles for infractions of dress codes, inspections, college rules, and pretty much anything, Mr. Morgan,” he said, imitating Mr. Jansen’s cadence of speech.

  “Are you trying to be brown, Fitzroy? I don’t like brown-nosers.”

  “No, Mr. Morgan.”

  “What’s the question? Are you pretending to ask a question, to tell me what you know? Don’t waste my time. I don’t give a shit what you know, Fitzroy! Take two circles.”

  First blood.

  “Aye aye, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Carry on, Fitzroy.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Morgan.” Fitzroy did an about-turn and faced the wall.

  “Are you an idiot, Fitzroy? Take two more circles and turn around. Jesus,” Mr. Morgan said and jutted his chin at Mr. Kendall, who scowled, pulled out a pocket-sized notebook, and scribbled in it. “Recruit life is a game of time. You don’t have enough. That’s the game. When I say dismissed, go into your room, collect every time-keeping device in your possession, and bring them back into the hall. You have one minute. Dismissed!”

  Meg and I squeezed through the door jamb in the same instant, dogged by a chorus of “Move it!” I found my folding travel alarm clock in my suitcase. Meg was rummaging in her luggage.

  Mr. Kendall yelled out, “Thirty seconds, A Flight! I want to see pairs of recruits coming out those doors together like synchronized fucking swimmers.”

  I took off my watch and held it in my left hand with my alarm clock. I shook with adrenaline. Meg and I looked at each other. “Ready?” I asked.

  She nodded. We timed our exit to re-enter the hallway together and snapped to attention. I peeked out of the corner of my eye and could see that most people were back in the hall.

  “RECRUIT ARMSTRONG! Quit deking! Take two circles for lack of discipline,” yelled Mr. Morgan. A deke was anything sneaky, like looking around or taking illegal shortcuts to avoid running the parade square. “When Mr. Theroux walks past you, drop your time-keeping devices into the box he’s holding. You’ll get them back for Thanksgiving weekend, which is the next time you will breathe free air off the college grounds. For the next six weeks, your time is ours. We’ll keep it for you.”

  Theroux started his collection at the other end of the hall. My turn came last. I dropped my watch and my alarm clock into the overflowing shoebox. My mind flashed to a movie scene of criminals being dispossessed of their belongings.

  Morgan walked to our end of the hall and stood right in front of me, mad-dogging me with a glare. “What’s discipline, Recruit Holbrook?”

  “Doing what we’re told, Mr. Morgan!” Holbrook yelled out at Mr. Morgan’s back.

  “Wrong, Holbrook. Take two circles. Discipline means taking responsibility for our behaviour and the consequences.” He turned away from me now and faced the length of the hall. “No inspection this morning. Today is room set-up day. Let’s get to breakfast before all those greedy pigs across the wing eat our share of the food. Fall in outside.”

  The word food unlocked a cavern in me, and my stomach growled. I could have eaten a horse.

  2

  BREAKFAST

  We marched across the square, arms swinging shoulder high, to a chorus of �
�Left. Right. Left. Right. Left-right-leeeeft.” I had done it. I was on my way. I wasn’t in trouble all the time like Fitzroy, and I was determined not to be. I straightened a bit taller and lifted my chin.

  We dropped our hats near the door on a row of shelves labelled with tape that read “Frigate Recruits.” One of my flight mates, Colbert, stood off to one side staring at me. He whispered in French to another. I smiled at him. He glared at me. I stared back in shock, certain that he must have been mistaken. He did not avert his gaze; instead, he raised his eyebrows in a challenge. I looked away and moved on.

  A long line of skittish recruits weaved through the sea of solid oak tables. The twenty-foot-high ceilings were held up by a series of castle-like arched support beams at regular intervals. Ten feet up, the walls were adorned with a tidy row of military crests and memorabilia that encircled the massive dining room, which was built to accommodate eight hundred cadets eating at the same time.

  “Don’t look around, you pieces of shit!” yelled a cadet flight leader, or CFL, ahead of us. The baby-blue patch on his epaulettes meant he was a member of Frontenac Squadron.

  “Eyes front, dog breath!” yelled a cadet section commander from Wolfe Squadron, who wore a grey shoulder patch. “What the fuck? Are you crying? Are you a faggot? The girls aren’t even crying.”

  One of the first things I would learn was not to spend precious energy feeling sorry for anyone else. We were all in this together, but also alone. It was an easy trick for me, after my childhood. If these guys think they’re scary, obviously they’ve never met my mother. I suppressed a smile and focused on a side table loaded with cold cereals, jugs of juice, and fruit.

  Mr. Jansen’s voice sounded in my ear. “Are you looking around, Recruit Armstrong? Do you see something funny? Take five circles. The cold table is off limits to recruits. Don’t even fucking look at it!” Five circles were the maximum that could be handed out at once.

  I noticed the raised shoulders and sweat-stained backs of the other recruit flights ahead of us. Maybe being in the Frigate won’t be worse than anywhere else. I glimpsed the recruit handbook peeking out, like a miniature New Testament, from Holbrook’s front pants pocket. I regretted I hadn’t thought to bring mine.

  The recruit handbook was full of college history, trivia, lessons in proper etiquette, and definitions that we were expected to memorize. It included not only every fact we’d have to know about RMC, but also the name of every member of the recruit flight staff from all eight squadrons. The recruit bible also contained the name of every fourth-year cadet holding a bar position of three or four bars. There was only one cadet with five bars: the cadet wing commander, or CWC, Mr. Dansen. I already knew his name but didn’t know what he looked like. Recruits were expected to find these yelling lunatics, memorize their faces, and greet them by name during any encounters.

  Eventually, I had a warm plate in my hand and the choice of scrambled eggs, hard-boiled eggs, pancakes, French toast, hot syrup, limp bacon, greasy sausage, unbuttered toast, and congealed oatmeal. Dishes of light brown sugar and sliced almonds were resting next to large bowls filled with peanut butter and jam.

  Four women in white aprons and hairnets, armed with serving utensils, were dishing out portions. This is just a job for them. They get to go home after work. I caught a whiff of coffee — I’d acquired a taste for it at basic training.

  “May I have scrambled eggs and sausage, please?” I said, looking around for a coffee urn. The woman served my eggs without speaking, shot me a quick smile, and handed my plate back.

  “Here you go, honey,” she said, leaning closer and winking at me. “Good luck.”

  “Don’t fucking talk to the recruits, Sheila,” yelled a yellow patch.

  The recruit tables were crammed together by squadron, with five recruits per side bookended by a fourth year at each end as “the parents.” The tables were set with flatware, paper napkins, one glass per person, and two jugs of milk. No coffee.

  I strove for a seat close to the middle but was edged out by Holbrook and ended up right next to Mr. Theroux. We set down our plates and waited.

  “Sit,”  Theroux said. We dragged out the heavy wooden chairs with a loud rumble and sat. Despite being ravenous, I didn’t dare make the first move to start eating. “Say grace, Recruit Pitt.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Theroux,” Pitt said. We all bowed our heads. The amen triggered a flash of hands grabbing knives and forks.

  “Whoa. ’Old on,”  Theroux said and slammed his hand on the table. My hand froze with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth. I swallowed the anticipatory saliva, put down the fork, and looked at Mr. Theroux. “Recruit eat da square meals. All h’eyes on me.”

  He demonstrated the technique: sitting on the front three inches of his chair, back impeccably straight, chin tucked, fork in his right hand, he pronged some eggs and loaded more eggs on with the knife in his left hand, lifted the fork at ninety degrees to mouth level, brought the eggs straight across to his mouth, put the eggs in his mouth, reversed the square journey, and placed both utensils on the outside rim of his plate to form the top two sides of a triangle. The utensils never touched the table. His hands went to his lap as he sat up straight without looking around and chewed. The circular motion of his large lips looked comical, and a shock of thick brown hair flopped down from the crown of his head into his eyes.

  Three squares a day.

  Maxwell sat across from me and we locked eyes. He had a Stan Laurel quality to him — straight man to Hardy’s antics, goofy grin, drooping head, looking sort of tired, but never missing a beat. A smile broke out between us. Food kept falling off my fork from the top of the square on the way to my mouth.

  “Somet’ing funny, Recruit Armstrong?”

  “No, Mr. Theroux.”

  “Put your utensils down while speaking during da meal. Take t’ree circle.”

  I balanced my utensils across the top of my plate as demonstrated and put my hands in my lap. “Yes, Mr. Theroux.”

  “It’s ‘aye aye’ in da Frigate. Take two circle.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Theroux.”

  Then Mr. Theroux handed me two empty milk pitchers, explaining that whoever took the last glass had to fill both. By the time I had done that, my eggs were cold. I managed a few more square bites of sausage before Mr. Theroux laid his utensils together on his plate at the five-o’clock position to signal that he was done eating. He exchanged a nod with Mr. Jansen at the other end of the table. “Time’s up. Breakfast is over. Take your dish to da kitchen and fall h’in outside. You ’ave two minute.”

  My heart sank. I had eaten barely half my meal. As we rose, Mr. Jansen called out, “Question of the day: Who are the Old Eighteen?”

  No one spoke. I thought someone was going to get fingered, but Mr. Jansen said, “Be prepared to answer this question before lights out tonight.”

  3

  THE STONE BOAT

  The previous night, fresh off the bus in the dark, I had stood at the focal point of the college, on the parade square, walled in on three sides by floodlit buildings. I felt anxious, like I was supposed to be somewhere else and I was late. I couldn’t believe that I had been chosen to be a student here.

  The other recruits and I faced the Mackenzie Building, stage lit in all its glory, proudly framing one long side of the square. It was a three-storey grey limestone building with a green oxidized copper roof, a clock tower, and creeping ivy growing up its walls — my exact notion of a private boys’ school in England. At our backs, the pavement gave way to a formal sports field with a large oval track and a scoreboard in red and white, the college’s colours. The Stone Frigate stood alone on our right, bookending the east side of the square opposite a maze of interconnected buildings on the west side: the facades of the Fort LaSalle Dormitory, the Yeo Hall dining facility, and the Fort Haldimand Dormitory, which started at the square and continued along the entire length of the sports field. A paved driveway with street lights fronted the massive dorm comple
x and ended at a large stone wall, above which the red roof of the Fort Frederick Martello Tower was visible. The entire grounds were on a peninsula surrounded by water.

  When I’d been at basic training, the most harrowing conversations on life at RMC were about squadron assignment: which squadrons were good and which ones were bad. I’d consistently heard, “Whatever happens, pray you don’t end up in the Stone Frigate.” The trouble was, no one could give a straight answer on what the reasons were. It was just known. The fear mostly seemed to revolve around living in the building itself. The Frigate was a magnificent limestone building erected as a warehouse for the navy during the War of 1812 and was literally surrounded by a moat. It served as a dormitory for cadets assigned to One Squadron, who called it “the boat” and were fiercely proud of living there. They were rumoured to be a strange group of misfits living an existence outside the mainstream of college life. The Frigateers. It didn’t take long to figure out that an invisible line was drawn across the parade square that everyone else regarded as tangible. On one side of the line was the cadet wing and on the other side was over there in the Stone Frigate: the squadron building in which I had just been assigned to live for the next four years.

  The place was infested with huge spiders. An annual tradition was to catch one and train it for Halloween-night spider races. I was terrified of spiders — a fear second only to my fear of ancient, potentially haunted buildings.

  When RMC first opened in 1876, the Stone Frigate housed the cadets, and all the activities of the entire university took place in this single building, which led to our squadron nickname of Stone Frigate Military Academy, or SFMA. For a hundred years, drill had been held on this very parade square. In the early years, the college had a stable because back then every cadet had a horse. The newer cadet dorms, for the other seven squadrons, were not built until decades later.