The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

  At twelve, I was a head taller than her and finally raised my fist in defence. “Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you,” I said. Her expression told me that she was just as shocked as me. From that moment, the physical attacks stopped and her verbal tirades ramped up.

  “You don’t have any friends,” she would say. Her features contorted with spite. “Anyone spending time with you is just using you. You’re nothing but a little slut. A plain whore. A selfish bitch.” She treated me like I was impossible to endure, which I easily accepted. I felt horrible that Robert had run away.

  I wanted to prove her wrong about me. I started doing things that would force her to see that she loved me after all, just for being me, hoping that she would be proud of me. I did well in school, excelled in air cadets, and earned my glider pilot licence at sixteen. I was a high-school basketball all-star and MVP, worked part-time at McDonald’s, and had a cadre of friends through the house on a weekly basis. Above all else, I refused to have sex with my high-school boyfriend, terrified that he would know I was not a virgin and tell everyone. He dumped me for it. She never had a word of praise for me, no matter how well I did.

  20

  MY CHANCE

  One day in late April, my flight leader handed me a slip of paper during breakfast and waited while I read the note from Major Hardie, Staff Officer Careers. I was summoned to his office at 12:45 hours that day.

  “Do you know why?” I asked.

  “I was going to ask you. Come see me after class and let me know,” he said with a sympathetic smile.

  Major Hardie was seated at his desk, leaning back casually in his chair smoking a cigarette. He waved me to take a seat. I sat stiffly, hands on my knees. My eyes followed his hand to an open file folder.

  “This message just arrived from NDHQ,” he said, referring to National Defence Headquarters. “The Canadian Armed Forces are ready to open up the pilot classification to women.” He slid the message across the desk.

  I jumped out of my seat, grabbed the message, and screeched, “Really?”

  “Holy shit.” He reeled back and smiled. “You scared me. You can keep that copy. It says the plan is to start training twenty-five women pilots this summer in a four-year trial. Candidates will complete two years of continuous pilot training followed immediately by two years of observation flying in a squadron.”

  “How will this work for me?” I asked.

  “That’s the catch. You’ll have to choose. Finish RMC or apply to enter the pilot trial as a female candidate starting this summer.”

  My whole purpose for joining the military, for agreeing to come to RMC in the first place, was to fulfill my dream of becoming a pilot. Now the choice felt complicated.

  “Sir, I came here to be a pilot. To help my chances of reclassifying when this day came. Now I find myself afraid to quit RMC.”

  “Understood, Miss Armstrong. Why don’t you sleep on it?” he said.

  I joined the stream of cadets heading for the Sawyer Building classrooms after lunch. A few senior cadets looked sideways at me and scowled. I stared back intently so they would feel my gaze and be shocked. Fuck you. I am outta here. I’m gonna be a pilot. I smiled at them in a mocking way and another thought hit me. I would be quitting and that’s all that matters to them. However valid the actual reasons, the final score would be a simple tally of women graduates and quitters. Every woman who left could be used as evidence that women couldn’t complete the curriculum.

  Not my problem.

  What if I left here and then failed the pilot training trial? Oh shit. I’ll be in another trial with the first group of women. What if I said no to pilot and then failed out of RMC? What if the trial failed? Would I regret leaving RMC for the rest of my life?

  By the time I sat down in class, I had surprised myself. I can always reclassify to pilot after I graduate and the trial is complete. If pilot training wouldn’t make me quit, nothing would. I sat up a bit taller, determined to pay closer attention in class that afternoon. I’d better pass my exams and get the hell out of engineering.

  Meg slid into her desk beside me. “So?” she asked as class was just about to start.

  I told her what had happened. She grabbed my arm. “Are you going?”

  “No, damn it. I can’t seem to convince myself to quit,” I said.

  “Thank God,” she said and loosened her grip on me. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

  Next day after class, I gave Major Hardie my decision.

  The atmosphere at lunch was electric. The fourth-year cadets were finishing their last day of undergraduate classes. I felt a twinge of emptiness — I wasn’t living my dream of pilot anymore. This place better be worth it.

  After class, the Frigate hallways resembled a madhouse more than a dormitory at military college. Wherever I looked, cadets were running up and down, cheering, roughhousing, and wrestling. A morning announcement in Hudson Squadron had ordered us to gather on the pier behind the Frigate immediately after class. First-year dress was squadron jersey, work dress pants, and running shoes.

  The ice had barely melted off the bay. The air was still crisp with winter’s chill, and a brisk, metallic breeze stirred at the water’s edge.

  Lt(N) Norwalk stood on the pier with shoulders raised to fend off the wind at his back. He wore a delighted grin. “Congratulations, Hudson Squadron. You’re officially finished classes for the year and that can only mean one thing: it’s time for first years to jump in the lake!”

  A thunderous cheer rang out. We first years looked at each other in horror. The second years handed us overstuffed green life jackets that looked like relics from the Second World War and smelled like wet dog.

  “First years!” Mr. Jansen yelled. “You will run off the edge in pairs. Hold hands if you’re scared.” The senior cadets laughed. It was recruit term all over again. I paired off with Fitzroy. “LAUNCH!”

  Maxwell and Holbrook ran to the edge and hurled themselves into the six-foot drop. Fitzroy and I launched in fourth place. It was over so quickly that the biting cold didn’t register until I was standing back on the dock. Nancy and Nanette jumped last, and when they were safely up the ladder, the entire squadron yelled out our cheer: “Yea stone! Yea boat! Yea, yea, stone boat!”

  Ghostly echoes of “Stone boats don’t float” drifted over us from across the square. I ran straight up to Norwalk, hugged him, and squeezed a puddle from my life jacket into his sweater. Jansen smiled from the edge and jumped into the water, followed quickly by all of our recruit flight staff. No pairs, no life jackets, no boot removal.

  Exam routine officially started that night after dinner.

  21

  BLINDSIDED

  “Marks are posted!” someone was running up and down the halls yelling. By the time I made it to the notice board in Mackenzie Building, a crowd was swarming the list. I looked over Penny Miller’s shoulder for my name.

  Chemistry: Supplemental exam. I failed. I passed everything else, but failed chemistry. If I failed my sup exam, it meant repeating the entire first-year process, including recruit term. There’s no fucking way.

  I ran straight home to my mother. I flew into Luka’s room, barely pausing for an invitation to enter. He was sitting on his bed, red-eyed.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I have three sups. After all this, I might not graduate.” He sobbed, took a deep breath, and made an obvious effort to pull himself together. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry. I don’t mean to put this on you.” I tried to interrupt, but he raised his hand to stop me. “How did you do?”

  “I supped chem,” I said, raising my palms toward the sky and shrugging my shoulders.

  Our eyes met. Unexpectedly, I laughed at the absurdity of our situation. Luka joined in briefly.

  His face collapsed into sadness again. “I’m going to miss my own convocation and grad parade,” he said. Sups were written the week after graduation.

  “Oh shit.”

  “Make sure
you go see your chemistry prof and ask for help. Let him know you care.”

  “I will. I promise.” I got up to leave, embarrassed that I had barged in with my drama when he was facing a worse situation. “Is it bad that I’m glad we’re in this together?”

  The door flew open and Blackwood came in. He moved to block my exit. I sidestepped him. He blocked me again. “Why do you leave as soon as I show up?” he asked.

  “I was leaving. It’s nothing personal,” I said. He blocked me again. I stood still, staring straight ahead.

  Luka put his hand on Blackwood’s arm. “Come on, Woodsie.”

  I beamed a plastic smile and ducked around him. “See you.” I slammed the door behind me.

  A few days later, I stood at attention in front of Lt(N) Norwalk’s desk to receive my year-end performance review. For some reason, Jansen stood behind him off to the side. Norwalk cleared his throat, leaned back, placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, and tented his fingers. The lazy rattling sounds of sailboat rigging floated on a light breeze. His office seemed small and dank in the evening light.

  “Well, Miss Armstrong. I’m impressed with your progress. Your standing has bumped to the high side of the middle third,” he said. I smiled.

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied.

  He reviewed the performance categories and my strengths and weaknesses. “Keep putting in the effort. You’re gaining ground. Maybe train over the summer to get that third chin-up. Pass your chemistry sup and come back to a fresh start next year in commerce.”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t see the point of telling him that I had been training all year and could still rarely do two chin-ups. It would just make me look even worse.

  “The formal assessment is complete. But before you leave, there’s one more serious topic to discuss.” He frowned and nodded to Jansen, who moved from his place behind the chair and stood alongside Norwalk. I felt uneasy.

  “Do you have anything you would like to share with us?” Norwalk asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Miss Armstrong,” said Norwalk, “let me be blunt. Do you intend to date Fourth Year Eddie Byrne?”

  I gasped. “No, sir. I have no intention of dating Fourth Year Byrne. He will be Second Lieutenant Byrne and cleared of RMC before anything happens between us.”

  “Don’t get smart with me! Let me be direct. You’re forbidden to date him. I don’t care if he’s a graduate or not.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand. It’s not against college rules for me to date a junior officer.”

  “If I catch wind that you date him this summer and return next fall having disobeyed me, I will personally see you kicked out of RMC. Do you understand?” Norwalk slammed both hands down on his desk and rose out of his seat. “You’ve heard my decision.”

  I tried a softer approach. “Sir, please. Why does it matter to you?”

  “He’s not suitable. End of story,” he replied.

  Not suitable? My own dad doesn’t even tell me who to date.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Go.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’m nineteen. I’m old enough to make my own choice. How can you stop me from dating him?”

  He glanced at Jansen and back at me. His face was strangely devoid of expression.

  “Don’t fucking try me, Miss Armstrong. I mean it,” he said. He snapped my personnel file shut. I looked toward Jansen, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You’re forbidden to date Eddie Byrne. That’s final.”

  I crashed through the blue double doors of the Frigate and ran directly to the cadet safe haven of Fort Frederick — a hats-off area designated as a refuge in which college rules were purportedly suspended, a concept which had never been tested by me. Once inside the gates, I bolted up to the Armstrong Gun, a cannon mounted during the War of 1812 to guard the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, and screamed out across the water. “FUUUCK YOOOUUU!” I beat my hands on the grass mound along the edge of the limestone encasement wall. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  I drew in a deep breath of resolve. I would date Eddie Byrne. No one was going to stop me. We would decide if we were suitable for each other, no one else. Norwalk was resolved? I was resolved. I had followed their stupid rules. I knew for a fact that some of my female classmates were secretly dating cadets in third and fourth year; they didn’t wait. They were even having sex in their rooms.

  In a split second, I made a decision to ignore Norwalk’s order. I’m not even going to tell Eddie.

  After the three-hour graduation parade, we marched off the square, taking the route behind Fort LaSalle cadet dorms. Our passage was lined with recent graduates holding their swords aloft, forming a seemingly endless arch for us to march under as a farewell salute to honour us. We were dismissed, out of sight from the crowds; cheers erupted and parade guests flowed in around us. Children ran here and there, chattering and squealing.

  Eddie found me. He picked me up off my feet and swung me around.

  “One more night,” he said, “and we can openly date. I wish you could come to the grad ball. I hope you know that.”

  “I believe you. I wish I could meet your family,” I said, hoping to be swept off with him right then to search them out.

  “You’ll meet them during the summer. We’ll go stay at the cottage,” he said. “Good luck on your sup, and see you in Saint-Jean.” Eddie was heading home to Ottawa the next day with his parents.

  I watched him walk away. He turned and waved. I lifted my arm to wave back and a hand grabbed my shoulder. My face fell when I looked into the eyes of Graham Helstone.

  “Kate,” he said. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Caught me what?” I said, bracing myself.

  He laughed. “No, I mean before you left. I … I wanted to say sorry … for being extra hard on you this year.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m saying that I feel bad for how I treated you.”

  He had graduated; I didn’t have to be the dutiful cadet anymore. “You feel bad? You made life hell for me.”

  He flushed red. “It was the only way I could talk to you.”

  “What?”

  “I really like you.… You’re my favourite cadet.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  I shook my head, dumbfounded.

  “Now that it’s over, I wanted you to know. I thought maybe if you knew …” He paused and looked down at his feet and then back up at me. “Say, I was wondering if you’re interested in rowing?”

  “Rowing?” I asked, half laughing.

  “You have a perfect build for rowing. If you want to try out for the Queen’s rowing team, my younger brother is on the team. They allow cadets to row with Queen’s. I could ask him to help you out,” he said, a hopeful look on his face.

  I stepped back. “That’s okay. I really need to get going. I want to say goodbye to some of the guys from my squadron.”

  His smile collapsed. “Oh, of course. Well, take care.”

  “You too,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Kate,” he said.

  Richie and Meg were hanging out in a loose circle with Jamieson and Morgan. As I approached, they made space for me to join them.

  “What was that all about? He wanted one last kick at the can?” Jamieson asked.

  “That was just Mr. Helstone saying sorry for treating me so badly this year. Apparently, he had a crush on me and it was the only way he could talk to me,” I said with a casual shrug.

  Meg’s jaw dropped, and Mr. Jamieson croaked, “Are you fucking kidding me! He did not just say that to you.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  22

  ALREADY DONE

  On Wednesday morning, I wrote my chemistry exam. After lunch, I went out to Fort Freddie and sat at the Armstrong Gun. The wind whipped off the water and tousled my hair — I ha
d started letting it grow out. A ridge of dark clouds advanced along the lake toward the college. My skin got damp in the oppressive humidity.

  At two o’clock, I walked back to the Mackenzie Building to get my mark. I scored 71 percent. The sup mark was not factored into my overall final mark, so my transcript mark would always read 51 percent. I didn’t care. I had passed!

  A warm rain hit the college amidst loud claps of thunder. The storm passed, the rain broke the back of the humidity, and the college was washed clean.

  I slept for two days, read in Fort Freddie on a blanket, and waited for Luka. He was driving me to Saint-Jean when he was done.

  On Friday afternoon, as soon as Luka had seen his final mark and knew that he had graduated, we left RMC. We drove down the highway in his white 1968 MGB with the top down and the sun beaming on us as we sang along to a mixed tape he had made for me. We wore Vuarnet sunglasses and had our collars up on our Lacoste shirts, mine pink and his white. The wind whipped our hair in every direction. I leaned my head back and soaked it all in.

  Three hours later, we arrived at the CMR dorms outside of Montreal. Luka pulled up in front of the three-storey red brick building, grabbed my bags out of the trunk, and set them on the sidewalk.

  “See you soon,” I said, telling myself that this was true. “I never would have made it without all your support. You’re the best mother ever.”

  “Now you’re my little chickadee and I’m shoving you from the nest,” he said. “Remember to write to me.”

  We hugged goodbye, holding on a little too long. I loved him like a brother.

  I spent the afternoon settling into my room at CMR. Eddie picked me up at five to go for dinner in Montreal. That evening, after our first real date together, Eddie stopped the car in the parking lot of his building on CFB Saint-Jean, part of a complex called The Mega due to its gigantic footprint, where the commissioned officers were staying. He cleared his throat. “Wanna come up to my room?”