The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

  Her exhaustion was evident in her rolling eyes and spastic leg movements as she bounced up from the mats at the bottom of the bleachers, and pushed on, her short legs flailing through the hundred metres to the finish, a crowd of Frigateers running alongside, cheering as she staggered across the line and the official timer hit the button on his stopwatch. We had all finished. It was over.

  Luka hugged an arm around my waist and braced me to him. Rumours flashed through the crowd that one recruit had broken his leg and another had stalled out, unable to go on. Both were men.

  When every squadron had finished, it didn’t take long to sort out the winners. “Wing!” CWC Dansen yelled into the megaphone. The silence was immediate. Luka held fast in his support of me, but I edged out of his embrace to stand alone.

  “Congratulations to all recruits of the Class of 1984. It is my great honour to officially welcome you as first-year cadets of the Royal Military College of Canada.”

  A roar broke out amongst all years. “Gimme a beer!” The college cheer rang out.

  “Today is a day you’ll never forget. Each of you has faced the most challenging physical test you are likely to ever encounter in your lifetime. The winners are:

  “Third place, BRANT SQUADRON!

  “Second place, WOLFE SQUADRON!”

  I held my breath.

  “First place, HUDSON SQUADRON!”

  YEA STONE!

  Holbrook and I ran at each other and leapt into the air with a chest-crashing hug. “That was freaking brilliant! We did it. We won,” Holbrook sang out. I howled in joy.

  Luka slapped my shoulder and I pulled him toward me for a filthy, tarry, stinking hug. “You were a great mother!”

  “Mothers are for life!” he said, laughing and wiping my muck off his chest.

  “I’ll hold you to that!” I said. He put his arm around my waist and supported me in a slow stagger back to the Frigate.

  Three hours after the first photo, we reformed to pose for the “after” shot, a cluster of smiling, triumphant, bleary faces with bodies covered in filthy, torn, and bedraggled clothes. It seemed, at this moment, that I had found my only possible life and these people were my only possible friends.

  14

  SWEATS

  I waited until last for showers after the obstacle course. Then I sequestered myself in the washroom alone and ran a bath. While the tub filled, I showered to remove the main grime and took a look at myself in the full-length mirror. I had bags under my eyes and was covered in bruises and scratches. I skimmed my gaze over my entire body and admired my long legs, graceful-fingered hands, grapefruit-like breasts with quarter-sized nipples, newly defined stomach, Irish-green eyes, and auburn hair. My focus shifted easily to parts that I hated: the shortness of my neck, my left shoulder sitting higher than my right, the extra flap of skin on my left ear helix identical to my great-grandmother’s in her wedding photo, and my hammertoes.

  I slid into the hot water with a groan, assuring myself that I would hold on to some of my femininity and feistiness through the next four years, against any pressure to be otherwise. I closed my eyes, sank my head below the surface, and felt my freshly washed hair float gently in the water. I was happy, mostly, with how I looked, maybe for the first time ever, and at the same time I felt uncomfortable. This was no place to be a girl. No one here welcomed the feminine side of anything, and wanting to look good felt dangerous, like I would be asking for trouble by being attractive.

  I didn’t know what mattered to me anymore. I didn’t know what my politics were. I didn’t really know what to think of myself or who I was trying to become. I felt afraid. This place wasn’t normal. I knew that much. So that meant I couldn’t be normal to be here. I had done everything they had thrown at me so far, but did I really want it? Just because I could, did that mean I should?

  When I got back to the room, Meg was in bed. The wind had picked up, bringing a fresh storm off the lake, and rain blew hard against our window. The sky darkened to pitch black and great blinding flashes of lightning broke against the night. Growing up in British Columbia, I had never seen the likes of the thunderstorms that come off Lake Ontario. I remained captivated. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I listened to the teenage girl in me. I whipped off my housecoat, dressed in my PT gear, rushed out onto the parade square barefoot, threw my arms wide, hung my head back to feel the rain on my face, and danced in a circle to the booming of the thunder. Suddenly, Meg was beside me. We whirled in laughter for several minutes until we crashed against each other in a hug and held on tight.

  The remainder of Ex-Cadet Weekend went off without a glitch. After the countless practice sessions of the past six weeks, the members of A Flight were finally integrated as full-fledged cadets of Hudson Squadron in an elaborate parade procession on Saturday morning. The wind from the storm had blown itself out and a soaked Hudson Squadron burgee hung limp from the college yardarm declaring to the world that we were right of the line coming out of recruit term. I felt surges of pride. My skin tingled as I joined the precise movements of those around me. All the squadrons were dressed in perfect rows, perfect squares, perfectly organized. Eight hundred cadets making clicks, slaps, stomps, and stamps in unison created a sense of power as one unit. After being dismissed as newly badged first-year cadets, we were met by an impromptu receiving line formed on both sides of the double doors to the Frigate. The senior-year cadets of the squadron, most of whom we had never met, welcomed us with handshakes and backslaps.

  We reached the A Flight hallway and found Mr. Morgan waiting. He held his notebook and was reading aloud the official tally of our final circles count as each person passed him.

  “Two hundred and eighty-two circles to run off, First Year Armstrong.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Morgan.”

  I already knew that. I smiled. My sleepwalking days were over.

  On Saturday afternoon, we went up to the attic to retrieve our personal belongings. At lights out, I placed the headphones of my precious Walkman over my ears, plugged in my Simon and Garfunkel cassette, and created my own bedtime-song ritual. Tears streamed down my face as I replayed and mouthed the words to “The Boxer” over and over.

  Later in the week, a special meeting was arranged for all the female cadets to have a private discussion with Captain Bernice Palomer, Eight Squadron Commander, in her squadron’s lounge. In her military career, she was a food services officer and, of course, had never attended RMC. Although I had never spoken with her, in my mind she was our de facto protector. It was our first gathering alone with all thirty-two of the female cadets and the only female squadron commander.

  “There is no sex allowed on college grounds. You may date within one year of your year. That means this year, you may date a first year or a second year. Marriage is forbidden without the written approval of the commandant. Any infraction of the dating rules may lead to expulsion.” Captain Palomer read from a piece of paper without looking at us, her face tight, voice restricted. She had a shock of grey hair, skunk-like, pulled back left of centre to her tidy black bun.

  “If you’re approached by the press, direct them to your squadron commander. He will take appropriate action to channel the request. Under no circumstances shall you speak to the press without permission or make disparaging remarks about the college in public.”

  She stopped reading. “Let me say another word about the press. One of the main complaints made by the male classmates about the first women at West Point, in the Class of 1980, was related to the attention the women were getting in the press. I suggest you downplay any references to considering yourself special and keep the focus on being in this together with your male classmates if you want to avoid the same conflict.”

  After reading through a long list of rules, she concluded with a crisp “Any questions?” We all looked around to see if anyone was going to speak up. No one said a word.

  My lips parted and I took a breath, summoning the courage to say something about the bet.

&nbs
p; Before I could speak, she rushed on. “I have an open-door policy,” she said. “If you have any concerns related to being a female cadet, please bring them to my attention. If it is something that needs my follow-up, I will take it on. Otherwise, any questions or concerns are more properly funnelled through your own chain of command.” She was making eye contact now; I sighed and looked down as her gaze swept over me.

  She dismissed us. Not one of us had spoken up, nor had she asked us any direct personal questions. The meeting had lasted all of ten minutes.

  Meg and I halted simultaneously at the edge of the parade square, completed a perfunctory area check, and broke into a run. Recruit term was over but first years ran the square all year.

  “We can get permission to be engaged but we’re not allowed to kiss,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  Meg laughed.

  “How has it been so far, ladies?” I asked in a singsong voice. “Oh wonderful, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”

  “Do you think she knows about the bet?” Meg asked.

  “Doubtful,” I said. “And she doesn’t want to know, either.”

  We ran the rest of the way in silence. I thought about my helplessness as a little girl and not knowing how to take care of myself. I did now. Nothing like that would ever happen to me again. I would fucking kill anyone who tried.

  The following week, Meg closed our door during study hours and pulled her chair beside me. “Do you know why they call us ‘sweats’?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Two jerks at dinner were talking about how sweats were ruining the college. One guy was saying that at first he’d thought it was a good idea to let sweats in, but only the ‘Love Boat’ had women good looking enough to consider banging, like I wasn’t sitting right there.”

  “Well, you are pretty cute,” I said.

  “Be serious.”

  “Okay. So who were they?”

  “I’m guessing hockey guys. Fencing and hockey are usually the last ones at dinner. I just got up and left.”

  “I’m gonna ask Luka,” I said.

  Still dressed in my PT gear after circle parade, I stood outside Luka’s door, knuckles poised. I hesitated. I could hear voices as I rapped on the door.

  “Come in?” His invitation was hesitant.

  I opened the door slowly and stood still without entering the room. Kevin Blackwood, from basketball, was folded up on cushions in the bay window, back against one wall and feet high against the opposing wall. He had started out in the Class of 1981 with Luka but was repeating third year. If you failed a single course, you had one chance to write a supplemental exam, and if you failed that, you had to repeat the entire academic year.

  “I am sorry to bother you, Mr. Chownyk,” I said. “Is this a good time to speak with you alone?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Hey, Woodsie, come back later, okay?”

  Blackwood grunted his disapproval, uncoiled himself, and left without saying a word. I looked down as he left the room.

  “Have a seat,” Luka said, not getting up from his lounge chair. He gestured toward the bay window.

  I sat on the still-warm cushions and rearranged myself so I didn’t touch them. I cut to the chase. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘sweats’?”

  He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. “Yes.”

  “Why are they calling us sweats? I don’t get it.”

  “In the Old English lexicon, ‘old sweat’ referred to a soldier who had a lot of experience in a certain area.”

  “How does that apply to female cadets?”

  “It’s about sex.”

  “Huh?”

  Luka picked at the arm of his chair. “Basically, it’s a way of calling the lady cadets whores. The running joke is that you came here for sex and break out in a sweat whenever you think about it because you’re all so ugly and want sex with the male cadets so badly. That you’re old sweats in the sack,” he explained in a rush.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Luka laughed nervously.

  “Do you think it’s funny?” I said.

  “What! Me? No,” he said, horrified.

  “Do you think I’m ugly?”

  “No, Kate. You’re not.”

  “Does everyone call us sweats?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is anyone stopping it?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said and dropped his head again.

  “What disgusting pigs. This place is like Lord of the Flies.”

  “It’s sad, I agree.”

  “Why don’t you do something?”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tell someone. You know about the bet, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell the squad comm — tell Norwalk.” Lieutenant (Naval), or Lt(N), Norwalk was our squadron commander, a regular-force officer responsible for the oversight and functioning of cadet life within the squadron.

  “Kate, he doesn’t want to hear anything except that the integration of women is going smoothly.”

  I looked out his window at the night view of Navy Bay. Fort Henry was lit up. I could hear the lazy clank of sailboat rigging from the pier. The sound comforted me. I stared out for a few moments and we didn’t speak. I had no idea it would be like this.

  “You’d better get going back to your room; it’s nearly eleven. I don’t want any trouble about us being alone together,” said Luka, breaking the silence.

  With a quick head snap, I glared in his direction. “You’re my mother. That was the whole purpose, wasn’t it? You’re a mentor to me, right?”

  “Yes. Except some people like to make trouble.”

  I stomped back to my room. I quickly showered, cleaned my teeth, and crawled into bed.

  “So?” Meg whispered when the lights went out.

  “It’s worse than you can even imagine.”

  15

  REGULAR LIFE

  The first Friday night after recruit term, we were allowed to go to town. Signing out gave me a rare break from circle parade. Holbrook, Fitzroy, and I met in the squadron orderly room at 6:00 p.m. wearing our first-year walking-out dress, or No. 4 uniform of a bellhop-looking navy-blue tunic and our gold-trimmed pillbox hat. Monkey grinders.

  Late fall, and the colour was gone. I was shocked at the number of bare trees in contrast to the evergreen forests at home. We walked over the LaSalle Causeway straight into town. A car passed us midspan on the bridge. I stopped and grabbed Richie’s arm.

  “One to beam up!” I exclaimed. A short portion of the drawbridge was made of metal grating with gaps large enough to look down into the water below. When cars passed over that section, their tires hummed briefly with the Star Trek transporter sound. “That noise has been coming from this grating on the bridge!”

  When we reached the shops along Ontario Street, my uniformed reflection in store windows surprised me. I looked serious, devoid of personality. Richie pulled back the heavy wooden door to Muldoon’s Irish Pub and music, cigarette smoke, and the smell of stale beer wafted out. This is perfect.

  We pulled off our pillboxes. Richie elbowed me and made a head gesture toward the bar, where the bartender was pulling pints into frosted glasses from a series of taps.

  “Oh my god, it’s a GIRL!” a voice roared over the noise of the crowd. Nearly every table was full.

  I turned and saw a young man standing in a gold-coloured Queen’s jacket stained with purple dye, holding a beer in one hand and pointing an accusing finger with the other.

  Our eyes met. The pub went quiet. Chairs scrapped the floor as various RMC cadets and Queen’s students around the room stood up, ready for whatever happened next.

  “Please, buddy, I just want to have a beer. You have no idea what I’ve been through,” I said as calmly as I could. Besides, I was only eighteen and didn’t want to get asked for ID.

  Nobody moved.

  “Welcome!” he roared and held up his glass in salute. Laughter
broke out as he sat down.

  Fitzroy and Holbrook fell in alongside me as we bellied up to the bar. The bartender pushed a pint of dark beer with a thick head of foam toward me, my first Guinness.

  “On the house,” he said.

  We found three seats together at a small table by a wall and settled in. We grinned at each other like idiots and pretended to be normal university students for a few hours. Then we caught a cab back to the college in time to sign in before our 23:00 hours curfew. The driver dropped us off at the gatehouse. It was a second-year privilege to be dropped off at the Frigate; it was deking to avoid running the square. We halted at the edge of the square, did the check, and started to run across. It was late and dark and I was tipsy.

  “Last one is a rotten egg,” whispered Fitzroy.

  “Cadet Armstrong! HALT!” Mr. Helstone’s voice rang out from somewhere above and behind us.

  I screeched to a halt while Richie and Grant kept running. “See ya!” they called.

  My friends were used to leaving me alone with Helstone. Why does he hate me? At least he couldn’t give me circles anymore, which was a good thing since I still had about 240 circles left to run off and wouldn’t finish until November as it was.

  “Good evening, First Year Armstrong,” he said as he stepped in front of me. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, buttoned up to his throat, a few chest hairs curling over the collar button. I suppressed a shudder and averted my eyes.

  “Good evening, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Do you have any idea why I’ve stopped you, Miss Armstrong?” he asked. Not giving me time to answer, he went on, “I’m concerned about you, Miss Armstrong. Do you believe me?”

  I don’t believe you, and quit saying my name every fucking sentence. “Yes, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Good. We’re building trust. I like that. Tell me this. Do you think drinking is an impediment or a danger to your ability to successfully navigate the parade square?”

  “No, Mr. Helstone.”

  “Okay. Just checking. Dismissed, Miss Armstrong. I don’t want you to be late signing in.” He nodded and walked away.