He is such a fucking sycophant.
“Thank you, Mr. Blackwood.” Mr. Toller’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he cast a sideways glance at Blackwood. “Where did you find the key?”
“In a drawer containing articles of clothing, Mr. Toller,” he said.
Mr. Toller made a few notes. “Miss Armstrong, you’ve heard the formal charge brought against you. I understand that you were not in your room at the time, is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct, Mr. Toller.”
“You had no knowledge of Mr. Blackwood’s intention to conduct a thorough inspection of your room in your absence?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Toller.”
“Where exactly was the key to your lock-up drawer hidden, Miss Armstrong?”
“Amongst my personal underwear, Mr. Toller.”
Toller frowned. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“With my panties, Mr. Toller.”
He leaned back, grasped the wooden arms of his chair, and stared hard at Blackwood.
“Permission to speak freely, Mr. Toller?” I asked.
“Go.”
“One pair is missing,” I said.
Mr. Toller’s face flushed. “I am not pleased with what is being disclosed,” he said in an icy tone.
I waited. Holbrook stood so still, I had almost forgotten he was there.
“Miss Armstrong,” Mr. Toller continued, “regardless of the tactics used, which I find suspect, nothing has been revealed to refute the facts. You left your lock-up key hidden but unprotected in your room, resulting in a serious breach of conduct, an insecure bayonet. Taking into consideration the circumstances disclosed and that this is your first breach of conduct, I am awarding three days on charge to be served on October second, third, and fourth. Do you have any questions?”
Ex-Cadet Weekend. I would be on charge for all of Ex-Cadet Weekend.
“No, Mr. Toller,” I replied.
Three days in jail.
Blackwood smirked.
“Mr. Dillon, please remove the accused and debrief her on the process to be followed during those three days. Mr. Blackwood, please remain for a word,” Mr. Toller ordered. “Breach parade dismissed!”
I caught a glimpse of Toller addressing Blackwood intently as the door closed on them. Dillon turned to me. “What the fuck? Are you for real? Your key was hidden in your gonch?”
“Yes!” I hissed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it would matter,” I said. I didn’t admit that I had wanted some advantage, and the element of surprise seemed to have worked in my favour.
“So creepy,” Richie said.
“I have a feeling that whether or not it matters is being determined right now, behind that door,” Jeff whispered.
“I still got three days.”
Richie accompanied me back to my room, where I threw myself on my bed and stared at the pipes on the ceiling. “I have to do all the shit preparing for Ex-Cadet Weekend and now I’ll miss all the parties and have to run around in my white belt and gaiters like an idiot in front of all the ex-cadets.”
“Based on what just happened in the basement, you have bigger things to worry about. I’d be scared of him if I was you,” Richie said.
“I am,” I said. I looked Richie in the eye. “But no one can know that I’m afraid.”
25
ON CHARGE
The word panties floated in my wake wherever I went over the next few days. I had hoped for sympathy for the violation of my personal privacy, but none came. I was the joke.
Blackwood became a shadow over my already minuscule sense of privacy. Whenever I came back to my room I checked to see if anyone had been there. I looked under my bed, in the closet, and behind my door. I left traps: a pen placed just so on a book, a hair on the edge of my drawer, one thing offset from another. I thought about locking up my panties in my gash drawer, but I didn’t. I need to pretend he’s not getting to me.
Friday morning, 05:30 hours. “Another One Bites the Dust” shook the Frigate for the last time. This time, I got up with the recruits. I was on charge. It was pitch dark. I dressed in the winter version of No. 5s — battle blouse jacket, blue pants with red piping, and a light-green shirt — adorned with the formal white belt, parade boots, and gaiters normally worn only on dress uniforms, but in this case the hallmark of a cadet on charge.
There was an art to putting on gaiters, the polished, hard, black leather puttees strapped over the lower pant leg. First, I put on pants and boots. Then I lined up the pant seams, secured the gaiter around my leg, and did up the buckles. Next, I pulled my pants down, tied my pants to the gaiter tops with crudely fashioned bootlaces stuffed with fishing weights that we had made during recruit term, pulled my pants up, and bloused them with perfectly aligned seams front and back. All the while being careful not to make any creases.
On charge, I had to run everywhere when I was outside. My second-year privileges were suspended: no use of common rooms or fire escapes; no phone calls, mail, or social interaction; four inspections a day; and remedial duties at the discretion of the duty cadet. My first inspection was at 06:20 hours, followed by corrective drill.
Drill lasted an entire half hour. The duty cadet belted out a new command every third pace: right turn, left turn, halt, quick march, about turn, halt, stand at ease, attention, quick march, slow march, quick march. By the time he dismissed me for breakfast at 07:00 hours, I was sweating.
I ran back to the Frigate and locked up my rifle. Now I kept my gash drawer key with my rifle key on my dog tags, which I wore around my neck at all times.
I ran to Yeo Hall for breakfast.
I ran to Massey Library for class.
At noon, I ran back to the Frigate to re-iron my uniform and unlock my weapon for midday inspection. And so the day went, running every time I set foot outside and doing what felt like an eternal round of inspections and menial tasks. That afternoon, I was granted special permission to fulfill my second-year duties on the obstacle course and dress in work dress.
At 23:00 hours on Saturday night, I ran back to the Frigate after a defaulter parade spent scrubbing the commandant’s private toilet with a toothbrush. The badging parade for the recruits was over and everyone was partying with the new first years. Music and laughter wafted up the stairs from the gunroom. I skulked to my room and threw myself on the bed in the dark and watched lights track across the ceiling from cars leaving the ex-cadet party at the senior staff mess. My door cracked opened. A bare-hand puppet poked in with thumb and fingers pressed straight out together in the form of a beak and scanned the room.
Richie and Meg stumbled in a moment later, drunk and giggling, and flicked on the light. It was just past midnight. “We came to let you know the party sucked because you weren’t there. It was no fun at all,” Meg said.
“Thanks, you guys. I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself,” I said.
“We brought you kye,” Richie said, grinning and holding out a tinfoil packet of lukewarm soggy toast slathered in peanut butter and jam. I gobbled it down.
The following week, the new director of cadets, or DCdts, Colonel George Gilmore, called a meeting for the first- and second-year female cadets. I walked up the stairs to the Currie Hall theatre alongside the other second-year Frigate women, Meg, Nancy, and Nanette. At the top of the stairs, I stopped in my tracks in front of a pale marble statue of a goddess guarding the entrance to the theatre.
“Why have I never noticed this statue?” I asked. The rest of them shrugged and kept walking. I stared at her for a moment. The word PAX was engraved on the marble base under her sandalled feet. She was seated, draped in a robe, and wearing a dove-adorned helmet and an elaborate metal breastplate. Across her knees, she gingerly held a sword that was partially wrapped in olive branches. A tarnished silver plaque said the statue was a gift from the French government in 1923 in gratitude for RMC graduates and their contributions in the First World War.
/> The expanse of Currie Hall, able to accommodate the entire cadet wing, accentuated how few seats in the college were actually taken up by female cadets. We barely filled the first two rows.
Colonel Gilmore was gruff. He stood with his hands on his hips, and he reminded me of Elmer Fudd with his balding head, glossy skin, and fat body, which stretched the seams of his uniform.
“Ladies,” he said, “I’ve called you here today for a blunt discussion about sexual attraction and sexual conduct in the cadet wing. I want to be clear that the responsibility rests squarely on your shoulders. Each one of you must take this responsibility seriously. Sexual intimacy is forbidden on the college grounds. The onus is on you to maintain strict vigilance about your conduct and appearance, to ensure that your integration into the cadet wing is as seamless as possible. It is your job to prevent trouble and to not invite unwanted sexual attention.”
What the fuck? Who is this guy? Does he know about the bet from last year? I looked around at the faces of my peers and saw that other women seemed pissed off, too.
“Am I clear?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” we answered lamely. I was keeping my mouth shut after my recent trouble with Blackwood.
“Good. If there are no questions, you’re dismissed.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Janice Bellamy put up her hand. “Second Year Janice Bellamy, Two Squadron.” Go, Janice! Janice was the only second-year female cadet remaining in Two Squadron. Last year, Bellamy’s recruit-term roommate had been infamous for having sex with senior cadets. We all paid the price for it. Much to the terror and horror of Bellamy, her roommate had been publicly presented with a dildo at a squadron party and their squadron commander had simply laughed along with the male cadets. The roommate didn’t last the year.
“Yes, Miss Bellamy.”
“Sir, to be honest, I’m not sure that I am clear.”
“What part confuses you?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” she asked.
“Go.”
“Sir, aren’t the male cadets responsible for their own thoughts and behaviours?”
“Of course, Miss Bellamy. The trouble is, women are the more mature sex in these matters. We can’t count on the guys to keep a grip on themselves, especially at this age. It’s just the way they’re wired.”
“Sir,” Janice said, “how is it even possible for the female cadets to take responsibility for male cadets’ thoughts and behaviours?”
“You need to keep your hormones in check. You’re the gatekeepers, as it were,” he said with a tight little smile.
Janice sat down. It was a pointless argument. He hadn’t called us here to ask us; he’d called us here to tell us. Red blotches mottled her neck.
“If there are no further questions, you may carry on, ladies.”
As we trudged down the stairs past Pax, I gave the marble goddess a sideways glance. The Frigate first-year women ran across the square, leaving the four of us second-year women alone, marching side by side. Once we were definitely out of earshot of anyone, I spoke up. “Next thing you know, they’ll have us wearing black tablecloths over our heads and face scarves to protect the guys from their thoughts,” I said. I was thinking of the images I’d seen on the news of women in Iran.
Between Colonel Gilmore’s speech and Blackwood’s unwanted attention, I wasn’t very keen these days on taking part in extracurricular events. My tolerance for blatant sexist remarks and stupid jokes was depleted. Last year, I had enjoyed the rough-and-tumble activities with a first year’s sense of wonder and amusement: the Navy Bay regatta, the annual cadet wing snowball fight against the Frigate on the night of the first big snowstorm, the winter carnival, cheering at varsity sporting events, and all the seasonal parties and formal balls. Now I had lost interest in participating, but I wanted to keep up the appearance of having a good attitude, so I forced myself to go through the motions and lumped it all into one general category: mandatory fun.
November blew in the first winter storms. It was cold and snowing hard. I’d just had a nice meal out with Kurt Samson, my favourite fourth year from the basketball team last year, who had been on his way through town and invited me out for dinner. We’d had a friendly, meandering chat at a local upscale restaurant on the edge of town and had lost track of time. When the waiter delivered the cheque, it was starting to feel late.
“My treat,” Kurt said and grabbed the bill. “I’m a rich second lieutenant now.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he held the bill out of reach and looked at his watch. “Whoa, it’s eleven forty. I’m pushing your curfew to the limit.”
“It’s only a ten-minute drive. We should be fine,” I said, but I was immediately nervous. I had been living by the book, making every effort not to break any rules.
On the drive back, we rounded the curve along the limestone walls of Fort Frontenac and saw the LaSalle Causeway lift bridge was up and still rising as a tugboat waited for clear passage from the Rideau Canal side.
“In all my years, I’ve never been caught by the bridge,” Kurt said, “and now, of all times.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s okay. I still have twelve minutes.”
For several minutes, we watch the bridge in action. It cantilevered up and then down, and within minutes Kurt zoomed along Precision Drive and around the rear of the Sawyer Building complex, slowing at the Frigate. He squeezed my hand and I leaned over to kiss his cheek.
“I hate rushing away like this. Thank you so much again for a lovely evening,” I said. The instant the tires stopped crunching in the snow, I was out of the car.
I charged up the fire escape stairs two at a time and walked quickly down the dark first-floor hallway. It was a nondescript night without any big event happening, so there was no reason to be concerned about the duty office being manned past 22:30 hours. In second year, we signed in and out on the honour system.
The orderly room lights were out, the door was half closed, and I sighed in relief. I flicked on the lights and yelped: Blackwood was sitting there on the desk. He was wearing a Scrooge-style striped nightshirt, and a pair of shower sandals hung from his bare feet.
“Good evening, Miss Armstrong,” he said. “What time do you have?”
I took a deep breath, and looked up at the standard-issue white-faced orderly room clock. “Twelve-oh-two,” I said. I wrote it down as I signed in.
“You’re late,” Blackwood said cheerfully. “It looks like you’re AWOL. Being AWOL is a serious offence.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood,” I said, completely deadpan. “Permission to carry on?”
“Carry on, Miss Armstrong.”
I walked away, resisting my impulse to punch a wall or scream in frustration, anger stiffening my every stride. I placed my hand on the doorknob to my room and looked back down the hall. Blackwood stood in the beam of light from the orderly room with his hands on his hips, watching me. I closed my door behind me and locked it.
I couldn’t sleep, so at 01:30 hours I wrote a note to my section commander, Jeff Dillon, about the incident and slid it under his door. The golden rule in the military is if you’re in trouble, make sure your superior officer hears the news from you first.
I awoke to a knock on my door at 07:00 hours. I put on my housecoat and opened the door. Dillon came in and sat down in my lounge chair uninvited.
“Got your note. This is worse than I thought,” he said. I half-sat on my desk and braced myself. “The key thing was bad enough, but this is ridiculous. Waiting in the orderly room for a second year? He definitely has it in for you.”
“You think?”
Jeff asked me for the details. We went over the whole story. I had no real defence. I was late. Bad luck. Bad planning. End of story.
“Yes, best to take your lumps and move on,” he said. “The good news is, only six more weeks of Blackwood as CSTO until the new bar slate for second term.”
We left it at that.
Next stop, Richie’s room. He was totally hungover and sti
ll in bed. His blue eyes were bloodshot. I told him I had some bad news.
“Let me guess, Blackballs?” he said.
Richie listened to my story while he lay back in bed, head in his hands, staring at the ceiling. When I was done, he propped up on one elbow. “Okay, do you want the bad news or the worse news first?”
“Bad news.”
“Bristow and I went out last night. We didn’t sign out. We got home at three a.m. That is the true definition of AWOL.”
“Fuckers!” I said it with a laugh but felt the sting of unfairness. “Crap. So, what’s the worse news?”
“This is going to make you really angry, so brace yourself,” Richie said. “Last night, Blackballs was on the rampage in town looking for you. We saw him a couple times and he kept grilling us, wanting us to say where you were. His eyes were all crazy. Have you ever noticed that he walks kinda sideways like a rabid dog?”
I stared at Richie. “Oh my god. He must have seen that I signed out for dinner with Kurt. Shit. Wait. He saw you and didn’t even notice that you weren’t signed out?”
“I didn’t even think about that. We were already feeling no pain by the first time he showed up. I wonder if he’ll remember?”
“I don’t think he cares,” I said. “So, can you guess why I’m here?”
“You need a best man?”
“Uh huh.”
“Agreed.”
“Thank you. You’re a true friend and a lucky bastard. Details to follow.” I leaned over to hug him but I reeled back to avoid breathing in the booze cloud around him.
Seven days.
That was the price I paid for being two minutes late. Blackwood charged me for being ten minutes late on the official paperwork. I didn’t contest the amount of time because it wouldn’t have changed anything. Late was late.
The breach parade was a repeat performance, all the same characters playing their roles. The only change was the content. Once again, the details on the surface of the incident supported the punishment. Or rather, the correction.
The Stone Frigate Page 16