The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

“That’s just Woodsie. He’s a great guy underneath. He’s just a bit shy, is all,” he said. Chownyk squeezed my knee in friendly encouragement.

  Mr. Morgan shot me a glare. I sat up a bit straighter and pulled my knees together.

  “So, I’m your spotter for the obstacle course,” he said, as if this was reassuring news.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chownyk.” My voice was tight.

  “Oh! Don’t worry,” he smiled. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Call me Luka.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chownyk,” I said. He was nuts if he thought I was going to openly address a fourth year by his first name.

  Mr. Morgan shouted that our time was up.

  “You’ll do great. Don’t lose any sleep over it,” Chownyk said.

  The expression made me smile. Two more sleeps and the longest six weeks of my life would be behind me. Outwardly, I imagined I looked relaxed and confident, but inwardly I knew my thoughts were fogged with fear of the one thing that shadowed every waking moment — surviving the obstacle course.

  Today was Hell Day, our last full day as recruits, which culminated in Doggie Night, the recruit-term open-season night for the fourth-year cadets to take a final run at us.

  The dark, chill October air was the perfect backdrop for our final morning run. The obstacle course handiwork of the LCWB loomed along the route like beasts, shrouded from prying eyes by tarps weighted down with small boulders.

  We’d been forewarned to expect a white-glove inspection and had been up most of the night making silent preparations. Meg and I had scrubbed, dusted, shone, touched up, ironed, folded, and polished every possible surface of our space, our uniforms, and ourselves.

  Our room was first today. Morgan and Kendall breezed past us without checking our uniforms. My eyeballs involuntarily shot over toward Meg, but I didn’t move another muscle as I tracked them with a practised ear. I heard a drawer open and some whispering. Mr. Morgan stood directly before us holding a pair of white gloves in each hand.

  “Top marks, recruits,” he said. “Your white gloves have passed inspection.” The fourth years doubled over together, laughing and slapping each other’s backs.

  After classes, the recruit flight staff greeted us in the hallway. Morgan was wearing standard-issue green long johns, a jockstrap on the outside, a navy-blue squadron SFMA jersey with the spider emblem, and the college toque. “You’re late! Get out of your work dress and into your PT gear NOW, A Flight.” We tossed our books into their spots in our bookshelves, changed, and jumped into the hall at attention.

  “Welcome to Doggie Night! We promise that no one will be permanently disfigured, but we won’t be held responsible for lasting psychological damage,” said Mr. Morgan. “First order of business, Mr. Jamieson offered to take you out for a warm-up run and get you limber!”

  The light was bad and the weather had turned, the sky leaden, threatening. As we set out it started to mist, and by the time we hit Fort Henry Hill rain was coming down in sheets and the sky was black. The rain had softened the earth, muffling the sounds of our movement. On the way back, Mr. Jamieson ran us straight into an ankle-deep mud puddle on the sports field and halted us there. “Down and give me twenty, recruits!” We dropped into the water; the fug of body odour and wet wool hung above us. Twenty face-soaking push-ups later, we were moving again.

  Back in recruit hallway, our blotched faces were smeared with mud and sweat. By now, the fourth years had all changed into costumes, dressed up in various military outfits, a mishmash of field combat gear and PT gear with personal items added as flourish.

  I took a deep breath and surrendered to whatever came this night. Recruit term had taught me that I was a risk taker. I was always testing boundaries: talking at unauthorized times, laughing too loudly, cracking inappropriate jokes to let the fourth years know they didn’t have total control over me. I wanted to stop. But I couldn’t. My mind flashed vivid images of the absurd beyond the obvious of a situation and I regularly blurted out what I was thinking. I vowed to be quieter from now on if I made it through the obstacle course tomorrow.

  “A Flight, stand on your heads,” commanded Morgan.

  Without missing a beat, we turned to face the wall and kicked up into a headstand.

  “Stand up,” he said. “Close your eyes. Spin five times around to the right.” My head swirled with my body. I bumped into walls and bodies. “Open your eyes.” I was several feet down and across the hall, inches away from Holbrook; we grinned at each other. “Close your eyes. Spin five times the other direction!

  “Stop. Get back to your room, get out of that wet gear, and put on every single piece of recruit uniform. Go!”

  We staggered back to our rooms as though on a ship in a storm. My legs dropped out beneath me as if the floor was falling away. Meg and I crashed drunkenly around our room, stripping down and jamming every conceivable piece of kit onto our clammy bodies. We turned out in the hall wearing double socks in our boots; pants, skirts over pants, layered shirts; CF tunics, raincoats, winter coats, tripling up; on our heads, toque, beret, and CF hat. Socks covered our gloved hands stuffed into shoes. Our brand-new RMC cadet uniforms remained untouched in the game, fitted and tailored weeks previously in anticipation of our becoming first-year cadets tomorrow afternoon.

  Now I was hot. For the next fifteen minutes, Mr. Morgan stood in a door frame at the end of the hall and yelled out drill commands as we marched around in one big circle, forwards and backwards drill, and then he ordered us to come back out dressed in a clean set of PT gear.

  McDonald’s takeout bags sat on a display table when we got back into the hall. Mr. Morgan ordered us to form one long line down the hall. I was head of the line with Meg on my immediate left. He held open a bag full of Quarter Pounders for me; I took one. “Take a bite, Recruit Armstrong, and pass it along,” he said.

  My jaw cracked as I took the biggest bite possible, hoping to catch some extra pickles. I breathed through my nose, turned to Meg, and offered her the hamburger.

  “Not the burger, recruit. Pass the bite.”

  “Huh?” I gurgled through my mouthful of food.

  “PASS THE BITE, Recruit Armstrong!”

  I turned toward Meg — her eyes were huge — and the sting of tears tickled the back of my nose. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and leaned in.

  “Wait!” Morgan cried out. I froze. “Christ, how evil do you think I am?” The fourth years cackled amongst themselves. He held the bag out for Meg to take her own burger. “If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined, people!”

  We ate at breakneck speed and then spent the next five hours as pawns for fourth-year amusement. We camouflaged each other; did pit drill in our beds, trashing our sheets with the freshly applied camo; and competed in sit-ups, wall sits, chin-ups, hall sprints, and burpee, dive-bomber, and handclap push-ups. They forced us through a series of contact games in which our mattresses were their favourite prop; the most dangerous involved sliding under the mattress cover and lifting the mattress off the floor, then charging blindly, running full tilt toward another recruit coming from the opposite end of the hall until we collided. After we’d all had a turn, it was time to stand in a row holding up our mattresses and be repeatedly shoved over like dominoes up and down the hall. Finally, we piled the mattresses at one end of the hall, on the floor and against the walls, and made mad sprints, flinging ourselves into the mattress pit, following the aircraft carrier landing signals being made by Mr. Theroux with a set of Ping-Pong paddles.

  At lights out, Morgan ordered us to clean up. The hallway was littered with sheets, mattresses, and random pieces of kit from our rooms. It stank like hockey gear, a pungent odour of sweat, smelly feet, and jockstraps.

  “This night marks the end of an era for each of you. Recruit term comes only once in a lifetime,” he said.

  “Thank God!” yelled Becker. Everyone laughed.

  Morgan continued: “Not everyone makes it through recruit term. I am proud that this year we sta
rted with twenty people and we’ve ended with twenty people. You’ve done something above and beyond what most people will ever attempt, much less accomplish, in their entire lifetimes. Seven minutes for showers and lights out. Fall out!”

  The good-night song played over the stereo for the final time. Every inch of my body hurt. I lay in bed and cried.

  13

  OBSTACLE COURSE

  Speakers crackled. Vivaldi blasted for the last wake-up call of recruit term. I smiled. Fuck you, Vivaldi.

  Blooming in fresh bruises after Doggie Night, I sat with my fellow recruits on a stone wall alongside the Frigate to pose for the “before” photo. We looked like a greaser gang from the fifties, hair slicked back, Converse high-top runners, and pant legs wrapped and taped closed into stovetops around our ankles. Earlier in the week, somehow, I had taken the time to paint one white letter, using the gooey white belt paste, on each of my fellow recruits’ navy-blue jerseys, except on Plourde’s shirt, which had the word of. Now we organized ourselves in the photo to spell our identity: Stone Frigate Class of ’84.

  Luka Chownyk lingered nearby in the group of cheering Frigateer spectators, ready to spot me through the course. A mix of other onlookers crowded around, as well — a few parents of recruits and ex-cadet Frigate alumni.

  Mr. Morgan said his final words to us as recruits. “As it was in the beginning, so it is in the end. This is no time for superstars. Hudson Squadron is not done until everyone is done. Work as a team. Do not leave anyone behind at the mercy of another squadron. Be strategic. Make us proud. Whatever you do, don’t stop thinking!”

  The race started in front of the Frigate. As we crested the rise to the start line on the parade square, a sea of recruit flights ran toward us in solid blocks of colour, trailing matching sprays of squadron spectators along behind them. The storm had passed. The sun was out. It was a gorgeous fall day and spirits were high. My fear shifted to determination. I was either ready or not. Recruit flights formed up along the front of the Frigate, the different squadron colours mashed together like a painter’s palette. The parade square was crowded with a thousand people dressed in civilian clothes, the ex-cadet blue blazer and grey flannel pants, and military uniforms. Even reporters from the local press were on scene.

  We were the show.

  CWC Dansen said a few formal words of greeting, welcoming guests and visitors and wishing us well. Then, our very own Second Year Arsenault took over as the master of ceremonies. A rush of adrenaline pulsed through me as I bounced on the spot and shook out my arms like a boxer priming for the prize fight.

  Several second-year cadets came into view from the side of the square, dragging a charged firehose. “Proceed with the dousing!” commanded Arsenault. The front man opened the spout, and the force of the water wrestled them like a writhing powerful snake as a wide, white arc of spray tore at our skin and clothes. When the torrent pointed at me, the water shocked me with a punch in the gut. We crouched into huddles with our backs as a shield until it was over and the second-year cadets were panting over the dripping hose.

  General Horton stepped front and centre, dressed in his alumni blazer. He raised a starter’s pistol over his head and paused for effect. Nobody dies.

  BANG!

  Every recruit flight ran off in a different direction, like a riot gone wrong. We pushed through the crowd and emerged in front of the senior staff mess. I kept to the centre of the group as it spread out. My heart was beating in dark terror as I wondered what I was about to face and if I could conquer it.

  Our first obstacle was a ten-foot wall at the edge of Fort Frederick, covered in plastic and some kind of oily tar. Bristow leaned against the greased plywood frame and planted his feet and made a step with cupped hands. Holbrook scrambled up Bristow’s body with a boost and straddled the frame at the top. Tate joined him. One by one, we climbed up Bristow and were tossed over by Holbrook and Tate onto thin gymnastic mats. Finally, Bristow jumped up to Holbrook’s and Tate’s waiting arms and the three of them scrambled over together.

  Once a recruit had passed over an obstacle, it was against the rules to go back and help. The last person had to make it on their own or depend upon the generosity of the other squadrons coming up behind to lend a hand.

  The marshal compelled us forward toward the steep walls of Fort Frederick where two thirty-foot ropes, with knots tied at five-foot intervals, hung down from the top of the hill onto the slope of the field below. The ropes rested on sheets of industrial grade plastic covered in the same tarry substance as the wall.

  I rushed up the rope and slipped in the tar, and my chin hit the hill with a neck-snapping thud. I skidded back down the terrain to the foot of the hill. Holbrook took charge and started barking out orders. We made a human chain up, securing ourselves on the line and standing on one another’s shoulders. Six of us formed a body bridge for the others to climb up. I was third up the line, holding on for dear life. I held my ground while others climbed up and over.

  Fitzroy kicked me in the face when his foot slipped, and I tasted the metal trickle of blood in my mouth. Time seemed to slow down.

  The human rope scrambled up from the bottom. Becker was holding anchor at the top of the hill while powerful arms yanked the rest of us up and over, and in the process my cotton knit squadron jersey was ripped off my back.

  Luka burst through the crowd and threw an indestructible navy-blue nylon shirt in my face. I peeled off my torn one and threw it back as I stumbled, half running and half staggering, along the path on the embankment toward the next obstacle.

  Two obstacles and I’ve already lost my shirt. We faced six more kilometres of torn-up terrain.

  We crouched down and scuttled through a tunnel, climbed up tires tied to the stairs for the Martello Tower, down into the moat, back up the stairs, over to the hill, back down the hill, back up the hill, and finally scaled the fort wall on a knot rope and leapt onto puffy gymnastic mats on the other side. Exhaustion dragged at my limbs, but every time I faced a new challenge adrenaline came to the rescue.

  We emerged from the fort, followed the water’s edge along Kingston Harbour, scooted under bleachers, negotiated unstable no-touch single-rope bridges that required a redo if a foot touched the ground, leopard-crawled under brush, swung between tires on the sports field goalposts at a height of five feet, and clambered up a ceaseless series of rope nets. In between obstacles, we sprinted across the gaps.

  Eventually, the muddy sports field behind the Sawyer Building came into view. We slogged through the mud. But where was the obstacle? As we got close, a frothy mouthed second-year marshal yelled in our faces.

  “Get in the hole, you fuckers!” He pointed down at the wet, dark, muddy entrance to a cave under a network of camouflage tarps spread across the ground, weighted on the outside edges with sandbags and covered in dirt. I slithered in behind Nigel Maxwell and stayed right on his heels in the pitch black, crawling on my hands and knees through dank mud, my back chafing against the weighted tarp above us.

  “It stinks like piss in here,” he moaned.

  I didn’t care. Move it move it move it. Light returned as we neared the end. Maxwell popped out of the hole and I oozed out after him.

  After the next sprint, we hit the storm culvert ditch under the road leading up to Fort Henry Hill, filled three feet deep with water. I splashed down into it and started running, my legs burning with effort. The water pushed back and it was like being sucked into quicksand. I made swimming strokes on the surface with my hands to pull myself along.

  Finally, up and out of the ditch, we raced back onto the muddy field alongside Navy Bay. My pants were heavy, my pockets draining. I could just stop. And then what? Give up on the last day after working so hard? And go where? Home?

  Luka was right there cheering from the sidelines. “You’re doing great. You’re gonna make it. All the hard ones are done now. Take a break whenever you get the chance. Recharge.”

  I was caked in mud and tar and panting so hard t
hat I could barely hear him. My spirit rallied. I was doing this. I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of me. Fuck everyone.

  Next was a maze of coarse rope pegged tight to the ground and secured with huge rocks. Holbrook squeezed under the lip of the net into the muddy slop beneath it. I threw my head back, hands on my hips, and greedily sucked in air.

  “Get down, sweat,” the second-year marshal growled at me.

  I dove under and leopard-crawled forward. The rough netting pulled through my greased hair and forced my face into the mud. I roared my frustration.

  Luka stopped cheering and I became the ninja woman on the bathroom door, a mind floating above my body as my legs kept pumping, my lungs heaving.

  The Frigate loomed ahead and the marshal sent us down into the moat to navigate obstacles around the base of the building. Surfacing around the back of the Frigate, I trailed after Fitzroy up the slope and toward the red bleachers edging the far side of the parade square. A crowd of spectators had gathered in the area, near the finish line.

  Luka was beside me yelling again. “GO! GO! GO! This is it! Last one! Finish hard. Finish hard!”

  I hit the bleachers at full speed and followed Fitzroy’s route up the ten rows of awkwardly spaced, slimy bench seats streaked with footprints. From the top, I hurled myself down ten feet onto a thin pile of gym mats and broke into a run. Mentally I was urging my body to speed up, but physically I was already moving at full tilt.

  I pushed through the last hundred metres and crossed the finish line, collapsing onto my hands and knees, my forehead on the ground as I sobbed. It was done. I had passed the test. I could stay and become a first-year cadet.

  Holbrook grabbed my arm and literally lifted me to my feet. His piercing blue eyes were framed with mud and tar. “Come on! We gotta go back and cheer on the others!”

  A second wind hit as Holbrook and I ran side by side upstream through the throng, encouraging our teammates as they passed in the other direction. We were looking for the last person wearing a blue jersey on the course: Nancy Sloane.