The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

  Right then, a voice bellowed from a third-floor window in Wing Headquarters. “Recruit Armstrong! HALT!”

  I dropped my arms to my side and stared straight ahead. I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I just run away instead of watching Kurt?

  In a few moments, Mr. Helstone, the cadet wing training officer, flew out the front doors of Fort LaSalle Dormitory and marched toward me with an air of supreme self-importance, his blakeys — the metal plates affixed to the bottom of his boots — clicking with each step. The CWTO was the cruellest guy of them all, and I was alone. I braced myself for the worst.

  “Good evening, Recruit Armstrong,” he said. He was grinning like a maniac.

  “Good evening, Mr. Helstone,” I said, staring straight through him, avoiding eye contact while trying to keep myself from shaking with fear.

  “Do you know why I’ve stopped you?”

  “No, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Try harder, Recruit Armstrong. At least take a guess.”

  “For talking outside, Mr. Helstone?”

  “No. I missed that part. Thanks for telling me. Take three circles for talking outside, Recruit Armstrong.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Aye aye. A simple ‘Yes, Mr. Helstone’ or ‘No, Mr. Helstone’ will suffice. You Frigateers and your eccentric little ways. Do you feel special, Recruit Armstrong?”

  “Yes, Mr. Helstone. No, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Now I’m confused.”

  “Yes, Mr. Helstone, to answering you directly without an aye aye. No, Mr. Helstone, I don’t feel special.”

  “Would you like another guess as to why you’re standing here, Recruit Armstrong?”

  “No, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Right. That could be dangerous. You can’t be too sure what I’ve seen and what I haven’t seen. Well, I see or know pretty much everything going on around this college. That’s my job, Recruit Armstrong, to uphold college rules.”

  How about stopping your own classmates and their stupid bet?

  He surprised me by holding up his hand and looking at his fingernails. He spread his fingers wide, cocked his head, and admired the back of his right hand.

  He’s killing time. Dragging it out. A cat with a mouse.

  “Are you homesick, Miss Armstrong?”

  No. In this moment, RMC feels too much like home. “No, Mr. Helstone.”

  After a moment, he spoke again. “You were standing outside in your PT gear staring at a fourth-year cadet.”

  My face flushed crimson; I had been watching Kurt as he ran away.

  “You understand that we don’t punish your behaviour here, Recruit Armstrong. Circles are corrective in nature. Take five circles to correct your behaviour of ogling a fourth-year cadet. No, wait. I suppose that is a matter of opinion. Take the circles for standing around outside in PT gear. We’ll keep the ogling as our little secret. Would that please you, Recruit Armstrong?”

  He leaned in toward me as if he were trying to smell me.

  “Yes, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Report to Mr. Morgan and let him know about your circles. Three for talking outside and five for standing around in PT gear, and we’ll let bygones be bygones. Carry on, Recruit Armstrong.”

  Several cadets from my squadron were on the parade square heading for dinner. I felt the burn of their stares as I sprinted back to the Frigate.

  News of the bet spread like wildfire amongst the women. Besides the obvious vileness of the wager, having sex with female subordinates couldn’t possibly be acceptable in the college code of conduct and leadership ethics. But whom could we tell and how could we prove it?

  11

  SKYLARKS

  The bet stripped away a layer of my trust in the fourth-year class. Up until then I had believed they had our highest good in mind despite their horrific treatment of us, that we were just being indoctrinated like every class before us. I was willing to take my knocks alongside the guys. But now life took on a new edge and increased my sense of separation from the male cadets. I felt like an object of prey, and the daily barrage of licentious glances and lewd comments took on new gravity. It became more difficult to keep quiet, play along, and pretend it didn’t matter, and more important than ever not to let them know it was getting to me.

  Not everything was negative. Recruit term had brought the members of A Flight together in a way nothing else could, and we closed ranks against whatever the fourth years threw at us. We celebrated our wins. Sometimes we fought amongst ourselves, but the bitterness evaporated with a handshake after the explosion of energy was released. A recruit folklore was developing around the funny stories. We teased each other relentlessly for mishaps or lapses in thinking, retelling the tales with the fervour of drunks keeping the laughter going at the bar. We shared stories about waking in a sweat from nightmares about lost pieces of kit when it was time to fall in, nearly shitting ourselves on parade when there was no possible way to get to the toilet, and cracks in the fourth years’ armour that accidentally let signs of their humanity slip out. We praised each other for small victories.

  As our confidence grew, recruit term became a testament to human adaptability, and our collective attitude took a turn toward the lighter side of the situation. Suddenly, we were on the offensive and looking for entertainment at the expense of the fourth years.

  The noon meal was mandatory, the one time of day when the entire cadet wing was in the same place at the same time, seated by squadron, to hear announcements. A simple happy birthday wish to a fourth-year cadet set off crazed chanting within the dining hall: “LAKE! LAKE! LAKE!” An eruption of scrambling recruits would chase down the birthday boy — who was usually making a mad dash for the doors — and then drag his thrashing body down to the Kingston Harbour and literally toss him into the lake.

  One day at lunch, I chose fish sticks. I made a fork sandwich with a chunk of fish bookended by two carrots. The combo was an inch from my mouth.

  “Do you think you’re Georgia Fucking O’Keeffe, Recruit Armstrong?” Mr. Jansen asked, mad-dogging me from the other end of the table. I took the bite, put down my cutlery, and chewed sitting neatly at attention with my hands in my lap. My eyes bugged out with the effort to chew quickly.

  The whole time I was chewing, Maxwell and Fitzroy, straight across the table from me, sat with their faces bent toward their plates, gut laughing without making a sound. When Fitzroy looked up, he had tears on his cheeks. Bring it.

  I choked down the mouthful. “No, Mr. Jansen,” I replied.

  “Fine. Take three circles. Carry on, and quit making art with your lunch.” Jansen had lost interest in me. Fitzroy was more interesting. “Kill that yuk, Fitzroy.”

  Grant leapt to his feet, his chair crashing loudly on the floor behind him. Recruits at other tables looked our way.

  To kill that yuk, he had to wipe the smile off his face and crush it underfoot like a cigarette butt. Grant executed the move with natural precision. His hand flew up to his forehead and slid down his face, shutting down all expression as it passed. Then he trounced on the yuk and left it for dead. He snapped back to attention wearing a calm, cold expression.

  “The yuk is dead, Mr. Jansen,” Fitzroy reported.

  No one moved.

  After a few seconds, Mr. Theroux counted aloud from his end of the table. “Five, four, t’ree …”

  Fitzroy bared his teeth like a donkey and snorted.

  “I fucking knew it!” Mr. Theroux yelled. “’Dat yuk is not really dead, is it, Fitzroy? Take five circle.” Fitzroy repeated the drill and stood like a stone. “Carry on, Fitzroy.”

  Mr. Theroux picked up his knife and fork to resume eating. He stabbed a small piece of chicken and loaded it with mashed potatoes. As soon as he had safely placed the food in his mouth, Becker piped up. We had a strategy to kill time at meals to prevent the fourth years from eating too quickly so that the rest of us could stuff our faces with square meals.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Theroux, 14454, Recruit Becker,
T., One Squadron, A Flight, Three Section reporting.” He sat at attention to address a fourth year.

  Mr. Theroux’s eyes narrowed. He placed his utensils properly on his plate and glared at Becker while he chewed, his lips jutting out with the motion. Becker sat quietly waiting with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Yes, Mr. Becker. Dis better be good,” Theroux said. He shoved his hand through his thick, wavy bangs.

  “I was wondering, Mr. Theroux. Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “No. Eat your lunch, Becker. Take two circle for asking a stupid question.”

  Mr. Theroux looked around the table. He reached for his flatware and took another bite.

  I sat to attention. “Excuse me, Mr. Theroux, 14390, Recruit Armstrong, K.A., One Squadron, A Flight, Three Section reporting.”

  He chewed and swallowed. I sat at attention and stared straight ahead waiting. “Yes, Miss Armstrong?”

  “I was wondering, Mr. Theroux, when is your birthday?”

  “Like I would tell you. Take five circle.”

  The next morning during room inspection, my spider-basher stick whooshed past my head and bounced in the hall. I had fashioned it from a broken bit of broom handle by attaching a yellow Kiwi shoe-polishing cloth to one end with an elastic band. The cloth was stained with squished spider juice, and one or two stray legs stuck in the fabric like thorns. I didn’t dare look over at Meg. She was going to kill me. I had forgotten it behind the door.

  Mr. Kendall was out in the hall in a flash, waving the retrieved stick in my face. “What’s the explanation of this?”

  “I’m afraid of spiders, Mr. Kendall.”

  Now Mr. Morgan was beside him. “You’re killing our squadron mascots?”

  “Yes, Mr. Morgan,” I said, “but only if they come into our room.”

  He grabbed the spider basher from Mr. Kendall, opened the door to the women’s washroom, and tossed it in there. “Make this disappear. Take five circles. Just you. Not Miss Carter.”

  The skylark rule was that absolutely anything was fair game, so long as the trick, joke, or horseplay could be reversed and everything restored to normal by noon the next day and no one got hurt and nothing got permanently damaged.

  At midnight, we snuck quietly down the fire escape stairs and met in the shadow of the boathouse. “Where the hell are Colbert and Duval?” Richie asked. He checked his watch and stared at the fire escape.

  “They’re not coming,” said Plourde.

  “Why not? We need everyone,” exclaimed Richie.

  “They said to tell you it’s bullshit and they’re sleeping tonight. They’re not into skylarks,” replied Plourde with a shrug.

  “Fuckers. Okay, let’s go,” said Richie.

  Even in the dark, it was easy to make out the large gaggle of people gathering near the edge of the road about a block away from the commandant’s residence as we crested the slope.

  Holbrook, Becker, and Bristow made their way over to the paint cans that had been pre-arranged by some of the guys in Six Squadron, who were stashing cans of white paint against a bush nearby and piling leaves over them in preparation for restoration painting tomorrow. In no time at all, the brushes and paint cans were divided up. According to the recruit handbook, the commandant’s fence had 1,876 pickets, corresponding to the year the college was established. It worked out to ten or fifteen slats per recruit. We split up and took up our posts as the organizers counted out the sections and signalled the groupings using our silent field signals from basic training.

  The painting was fast and easy. One coat of colour per picket, on the outside only, so that it could quickly be returned to white after the joke was over. I imagined General Horton looking out his window in the morning, seeing his white picket fence the same as always from the inside, only to be surprised as he closed the gate behind him on his walk over to the office. Within a matter of minutes, the small tins, paint pails, and brushes were stashed next to the white paint cache. We headed back to the Frigate and were back in bed within an hour.

  “Let’s move it, A Flight! Wear your sweaters today. It’s fucking cold out dere,” yelled Mr. Theroux. As we cleared the edge of the Sawyer Building, we peeked left to see if our handiwork from last night could be seen in dawn’s light.

  “What da —” Mr. Theroux exclaimed. “A Flight, halt! Left turn.”

  We were in the middle of the road looking up the hill. The multicoloured pickets spanned the commandant’s yard like a playground fence.

  “What da hell is dis, A Flight!” Mr. Theroux motioned toward the fence. “Was dis you?”

  No one said anything.

  “Speak up!” he hollered.

  “Aye aye, Mr. Theroux,” Richie shouted.

  “AR, AR, AR,” roared Mr. Theroux. “Fuck da run dis morning. Dat’s a beautiful ting. Let’s go ’ome.”

  We looked around at each other, stunned. Was he for real?

  “Left turn! Double time!” he ordered. “Dis is what I h’am talking about. All da time we wait for you to show some spirit, take some h’initiative around ’ere. I reward you for dat. One more hour sleep, to make up for your late night last night, ’ell yeah.”

  I felt like pointing out that Colbert and Duval should still go for their run, but didn’t. Meg and I crawled on top of our made beds. I threw my housecoat over me and slept at attention until the call came from the hall to wake up again.

  At breakfast, the dining hall was buzzing with the skylark story. While we were eating, the microphone speakers crackled to life.

  “Wing,” Cadet Wing Commander Dansen’s voice rang through the loudspeakers. Everyone stopped eating and sat at attention. “Sit easy. During the night, the fence to General Horton’s residence was renovated. Although he admits that the new colour scheme has a certain allure to it, he thanks you very much for the effort and says to please feel free to restore his fence to its original state by noon today. Effective immediately, the requirement for recruits to eat square meals has been lifted.”

  “Three cheers for the class of eighty-four!” someone yelled from one of the nonrecruit tables. As the entire wing chanted, we sat smiling and looking very smug. The end of square meals was the best thing to happen in my life, maybe ever. At that moment, I was proud to be there.

  “Give me a beer!” roared someone else.

  “BEER ESSES EMMA. TDV! WHO CAN STOP OLD RMC? SCHRAPNEL. CORDITE. NCT! RMC!”

  I was hungry and gobbled down my pancakes. No cunt tonight. I tried not to hear those words, only the letters. I was safe; it was going to work out. This place was all right. Maybe there was no bet. Maybe it was just a joke and Kurt had taken it wrong. This place, I realized, wasn’t anything like home. Here, the demeaning, the name-calling, and the yelling had a higher purpose, a purpose aimed to help me see myself, my real self, not to hurt me.

  12

  DOGGIE NIGHT

  Suddenly it was the end of recruit term, and the culmination of all our training was a series of competitions. Each recruit was awarded individual points that counted toward an overall team score. The winning squadron held right of the line on parade, which meant marching in the place of honour during Ex-Cadet Weekend. In the frenzy, I forgot about everything — the bet; the constant stream of punishment that had me running circles every night; the creepiness of Helstone’s obsession with me, although he never let up for a moment and continued to dog my every step; and the continuing onslaught of cheap shots about being a female cadet — everything except the looming obstacle course.

  As we competed in each event, the madness of recruit term took on a new perspective. Recruit harriers was an individual running competition that followed the exact route of our morning run. The recruit inspection by the cadet wing commander followed the exact layout of every critical morning inspection we had endured. The recruit drill competition, the recruit college history exams, and Cadet Wing Instructions exams covered our learning from the limitless drill practices, pop quizzes, and questions of the day that had been
cemented in our heads.

  Our worst showing was in the passing off the square competition, which combined drill and etiquette questions, judged by CWC Dansen and CWTO Helstone. Each recruit had to be cleared for the privilege to sign out and leave college grounds after recruit term, the idea being that we needed to be deemed fit to represent the college in public. Still, after all the competitions, Hudson Squadron was in first place. Now came the obstacle course, which scared the shit out of me, out of all of us.

  The recruit obstacle course would be run the next afternoon to kick off Ex-Cadet Weekend. A loss by us and a concurrent win by Eight Squadron could bump the Frigate out of right of the line into the oblivion of mediocrity.

  The most infamous death on the obstacle course was a cadet who had been trampled underwater at the bottom of an A-frame in Navy Bay and not found until after the race was run. Since then, each recruit had been assigned a kind of chaperone, who followed, from the sidelines, the progress of that recruit through the course. This person was called a mother.

  “Fall in for mothers!” called out Mr. Morgan. “Let’s go, people.” We scrambled into the recruit hallway and wound our way down the circular staircase to the gunroom.

  Our names were unceremoniously read off a list followed by the name of a fourth-year cadet. A small, delicate-looking man approached me. I shook his hand; his skin was softer than mine. This guy is supposed to save my life? I stood a head taller than him.

  “Luka Chownyk,” he said and beamed. “I was hoping I’d be assigned as your mother!” He dragged two chairs into a corner and made room for us to sit.

  “You were?” I croaked incredulously.

  “Kevin Blackwood is my best friend. He talks about you from basketball.”

  “Um,” I stuttered. “He’s not that nice to me.”