sixteen

Twelve Labours

The next saturday afternoon, i sat on the floor in my room propped up against the bed, and held my journal contemplatively in my hands, a beautiful forest-green leather-bound collection of thick, cream-coloured, softly lined pages which kept my most profound thoughts, dreams, feelings, and hopes. That morning, I had reluctantly gone to see the doctor as promised but he’d been unable to see me and so I had left a very cheery note saying how great I felt, and thank you for the medication. In truth, had he seen my condition, I would have had another fight on my hands. I was running on empty, puttering like an old Volkswagen Beetle in Havana, ready for the junkyard. I was grateful for the doctor’s unavailability.

I read some of the pages of my journal I’d written during Phase 3 training, which now seemed so long ago. As usual, the writing often tapered off crookedly until it was unrecognizable because I’d fallen asleep while writing …

 

GOD, I am exhausted. Every part of my body — some parts I’ve never paid much attention to — is hurting so much that I feel like I’ve been playing football without any padding — or worse, that I’ve actually been the football. But it’s a wonderful pain, the type you get when you are living your life full throttle … there is no doubt in my mind that I can do this… I’ve made some great friends and although it seems I am the target of more attention than I can handle sometimes, they mean well …

 

How things had changed between Phase 3 and 4. I’d felt exhilarated then, aligned, and energized during the toughest phase of infantry training, while Phase 4 drained me of all happiness, self-confidence, and strength to the point where I seriously questioned my decision to reclassify from logistics and my ability to actually graduate. I missed the protective shield my comrades and I had built around ourselves in Phase 3.

I sat there, with very little inspiration to share my feelings. The voices in my head screamed for answers instead, and I filled the pages of my journal with question after question.

 

What’s changed between the Phase 3 and 4 for the atmosphere to turn so drastically against me? What the hell have I done to provoke these guys into being so relentlessly cruel and nasty to me? Yesterday, I went to put my combat boots on and there were raw eggs inside of them. Last week, it was shaving cream. The week before that, I tried to get out of my room for morning pt but the doorknob was tied to the broom closet across the hallway so that I couldn’t get out. By the time I finally got out I was almost late for PT and had to complete the morning run with a full bladder! How will I ever pass this course without the support of my team? Is this what I really want? Will it get better once I’m at the regiment? Will I even make it to the regiment? What is it about me that causes jealousy, fear, and discomfort in these men, particularly those from the Royal Military College? I am fucking competent, and work so hard for my team. And I’m a damn good person. They have no reason to cull me out of the herd because I’m too weak or frail. They are all sharing a room with three other guys, which means that they are four to clean and wax the floors, dust every single nook and cranny of the room, and impeccably clean the windows. I am alone to clean my room, and still manage to do more …

 

I couldn’t understand what I was doing to attract such contempt from my team members. Every insult, rejection, or prank left its mark like the chop of an axe felling a tree. I was still standing straight up, but only a few more whacks would be needed to see me fall. Their constant harassment had taken its toll on my morale, my confidence, and my self-esteem to the point where I seriously considered throwing in the towel.

I kept most of what happened on Phase 4 from Kevin. We barely got to see each other since he was training intensively for the 1994 Olympics, less than two years away. Our sinewy paths rarely crossed for any length of time. We talked on the phone whenever both our schedules intersected and occasionally he sent me photos of Maggie the Moggie, whom, he said, we should seriously consider getting spayed if we didn’t want to be “grandparents.”

I worry about you, Sand, he’d written in one of his letters which was now tucked in my journal. When we talk you sound different. Sad. I miss your happiness … I miss my happiness too, I thought. Apart from brief moments of total exhilaration when we were in the throes of an assault on the enemy, I felt a deep void inside of me, an emptiness I couldn’t fill with those few moments of joy at finally doing what I loved to do. I had tried to hide it from Kevin, but he’d seen it in my eyes, heard it in my voice and felt it in my seclusion. Once again, I was withdrawing from him, afraid that he would try to come to my rescue. Mostly, I was afraid I’d give in to it, welcoming it with open arms.

•••

i was leaning over perilously, much the same way I had when the instructors had overloaded me with equipment on Phase 3, but this time it was my emotional muscles that were being tested beyond their limits. If I fell, I knew with certainty that I’d never be able to get back up.

I did, however, have one weapon of last resort to call upon, and the fact that I would even consider using it proved two things: how badly I hurt, and how desperately I wanted to graduate.

We were scheduled to deploy for another week of exercises starting Monday, and on the Sunday prior, I called Boule, Fabien, Jason, Bobby, and Rheaume to my room. Apart from studying a few times together, we hadn’t seen each other very much during the past weeks because they’d all been assigned to other sections. We all stood together in my room and they looked at me inquisitively. I got right to the point.

“I need help. I’m not going to make it,” I said, with an air of desperation. My eyes got watery. I took in a deep breath to hold on to the tenuous threads of my composure. I stared at the lacquer-smooth floor of my bedroom. I told them how the guys from military college never stopped harassing me, that I couldn’t understand why, but that I might need to quit before I went crazy. I confessed that I was ashamed at asking for help, embarrassed at my lack of strength to handle the situation on my own, but there was no other way for me to survive the course. My colleagues had witnessed only some of the more minor events of the past week but there was still no need for me to elaborate. They knew. I was generally the one who offered help, not asked for it, and that spoke volumes about the desperation that had overcome me.

“What can we do to help, Bizoune?” Boule asked softly, the compassion in his voice wrapping around me like a down comforter in the dead of winter.

I didn’t really know what they could do to help, but getting some crucial information would be a good start. I didn’t get many of the orders when instructions were passed around, I told them, and as such was often left scrambling at the last minute. Last Tuesday, they’d all been told to wear their webbing for pt (physical training) but no one had shared that information with me. By the time I went back to get it I was late and got in shit. This happened over and over again, I told them, so I was constantly wondering what I’d missed. When timings changed, I wasn’t kept in the loop, so I either showed up early — or worse yet, late — and then I’d get written up again. I drew an imaginary line just under my nose and told them I was up to there, feeling like I would drown any day. Before they could ask, I told them that yes, the course staff could see the lack of co-operation from my team, but not one of them was willing to do anything.

“They’re letting things happen,” I said, “and probably finding the whole experiment interesting as all hell.” I coughed and nearly choked on the phlegm in my throat, the tail end of my pneumonia still lingering. Physically, I was starting to feel much better after five weeks of fighting it, but now my morale was waning. I felt like I was walking around completely denuded of protection. I felt raw, like a burn patient forced to endure a never-ending session in a tanning booth. I was in survival mode.

They all looked at each other. I could see the non-verbal signals they were giving each other. I saw Fabien’s knuckles tighten and turn white, but he smiled at me.

His jaw tensed and he told me I’d said enough. “Get some sleep and hang in there. We’ll figure out what to do.”

I thanked them and told them how lucky I was to have them on my side. As they filed out of my bedroom together, Bobby turned to me, gave me a boyish grin, and winked. For the second time in less than a week, I felt like the weight of the world had just been lifted off my shoulders.

Come Monday morning, we deployed for a day’s training at the firing range to learn how to become range officers. I immediately felt the change in atmosphere around me, if not in the attitude of my section. It was another beautiful summer morning. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air around us, a sweet hot metal mixed with burnt coal and sawdust smell, one I’ve always associated with discipline and adrenalin, much like ski wax must smell to Olympic skiers, or hot rubber to car racers. We all had tasks to do, either running part of the range or actually shooting. During one of the morning breaks, Fabien, Boule, and Jason inconspicuously left their sections to come sit around me and carried on conversations as if everything was normal. Then, during lunch, it was Pat, Robbie, and Rheaume who casually took their places beside me. They rotated their “sentry” duty in the afternoon and as we marched in ranks to go back to the barracks that night, I was again flanked by my colleagues. This was the way it would be for the remainder of the course. My precious allies continued this routine throughout the remainder of Phase 4, never leaving me alone whenever possible and finally the terrible feeling of being targeted from all directions faded away so I could focus my energy on fighting the enemy, instead of the men in my section.

I would find out, many years later, that a few of my friends had also taken it upon themselves to give a special warning to one or two of the worst harassers, a warning that was done in a dark room and involved very little talk, often referred to as a blanket party. It was unfortunate that my presence was so polarizing as to separate the platoon into those who resisted women in the infantry, and the others who would support the evolution of the workforce, but to this day I am forever grateful for my colleagues who were not only open-minded to the change I represented, but who actually stood by their convictions to champion that change at their own risk.

•••

shortly after that day on the firing range, I decided that I too should be a champion for those who might need it. I’d learned to mentor, coach, and lead at an early age in army cadets and realized that it was about time I continue that tradition. There were no women on Phase 3 infantry training (the women who’d started with me had failed), but there were a few on Phase 2 and so I walked over to their barracks and rallied them together for a pep talk. They knew who I was. I offered them all the words of wisdom I could think of, shared some valuable insights into what they could expect in the upcoming weeks, and cheered them on. They listened with such intent I felt honoured just to be in their presence.

I told them that once they completed Phase 2, they needed to stay fit for Phase 3, the most physically demanding phase of the training. “You’ll get very little sleep and the manoeuvres are challenging,” I warned them. I handed them the aides-memoires I’d made for battle tactics and orders groups, and the plasticized sheets for time appreciations and reconnaissance patrols. Then I asked them how they were doing, and I simply listened. They told me about the challenges they faced and some of the alienation they endured from their classmates, but generally they seemed to be getting along much better with their colleagues than I was with mine.

Then, these beautiful young women, full of drive and ambition, flattered me. They related how their training staff, especially the non-commissioned members (ncms), often used me as an example, saying that I’d done extremely well and so there was no reason that they couldn’t do the same.

“They really respect you, ma’am,” one of them had said. Surprised at the admission, I was touched and encouraged. I agreed with the ncms, and I told them so.

“They are right, there’s no reason for you not to do well. It’s all in your head. The next time you are marching, soaking wet, on patrol in the cold pouring rain, remember that the six foot, 250 pound guy beside you may be twice as strong, but he is just as miserable. That’s when you can have an edge, if you dig deep and use what’s up here and in here.” I pointed to my head and then my gut. I told them about when I was on the basic parachutist course, the physical training instructor would take us out for a ten-kilometre run in the morning and when we approached the barracks signalling that the run was almost over, he’d accelerate and then, instead of stopping at the barracks, he continued to begin another ten-kilometre loop. Half the platoon would give up then, but they would never have done so if they knew that we’d only be doing less than another two hundred metres.

“That’s when it all happens, girls. You chose this, so dive right into it, head-on, and give it everything you’ve got. Everything. And then dig deeper and give more, when everyone else is giving up. You need to want this as much as you want to breathe. Don’t play the victim and do not turn on each other.” I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered the women in my Phase 2 training. I hadn’t been a very good mentor to them, despite my seniority and my abilities.

I told them to be bold and repeated the mantra I’d had since my late teens. “Vivent les femmes fortes!” Long Live Strong Women! I was tempted to tell them to keep their feet and knees together, but they weren’t paratroopers and would probably have been puzzled at that. I would also have liked to tell them that it gets easier, but it would have been an outright lie, so instead, I told them where to find me, and to come call if they needed help.

Walking back to the barracks, I thought of how strong and eager these women seemed. They still had two summers of training before they’d graduate, but my gut feeling was that I’d eventually have reinforcements in my regiment. And they’d be amazing.

As the course progressed, the men in my section, as well as the other rmc graduates in the platoon, continued to exclude me, but at least I received much of the crucial information from my other colleagues. It made the course bearable, and I could concentrate on the tasks at hand. The atmosphere was still hostile but at least I was allowed a bit of respite when the Pepperoni Lovers were around. It wasn’t until many years later that I would finally understand the root cause of the tension between the rmc graduates and me, but at the time it was the end of the ninth week, and graduation was just around the corner. The final stretch to becoming a Van Doo seemed within reach, and I was euphoric at jettisoning the guys who made my life so miserable.

As we approached the end of the training, my course commander advised me that I’d be going to the 3rd Battalion. It was where all the women would eventually be regrouped. Whereas my colleagues could have a say in their first choice of postings, I wasn’t given the option. When I shared this news with all the Pepperoni Lovers, they all requested to go to the 3rd Battalion as well, and I was relieved that we’d all be together to start our career in the infantry.

A few days before graduation, we were given course evaluations. Surprisingly, I graduated sixth. As I stood at attention in my course commander’s office, he pressed his lips together and despite my obvious disinterest, gave me a predatory smile as he shared the names of my classmates who had, in his words, “beaten me” on the course. I understood his cynical enthusiasm: those who had given me the hardest time had excelled on the course, and he was pleased to throw it in my face. The leadership qualities of those men had been recognized: they stood out because they were capable of rallying troops, executing complex battle manoeuvres, and meticulously aligning each pawn with its mission. However, they did that while ridiculing and treating others with contempt, all under the perceptive glance of the instructors, gaining importance and standing despite obviously crushing others on their way to the top. I was disappointed but not surprised.

Then additional bad news was piled on.

My satisfaction at graduating was overshadowed with the news that all of my gang, with the exception of Fabien, was going to the 3rd Battalion while I would be going to the 2nd Battalion Royal 22e Régiment, at the famous Citadelle de Québec. He gave no explanation for this sudden change in postings, but said that the 2nd Battalion was the traditional “show battalion,” in charge of the Changing of the Guard at La Citadelle. Then with a huge shit-eating grin, he offhandedly listed some of the others who were also going to the 2nd Battalion. Many of the men in the platoon who’d been the source of intimidation and harassment towards me, the ones whom I wished were posted anywhere outside the country, perhaps even on a different planet altogether, were also assigned to my new battalion. My only glimpse of relief was the thought of having Fabien with me, but then I learned that he’d be attending the year-long English course immediately following graduation.

If it’s true that God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers, then He must have thought I was Hercules (assuming God believes in Greek mythology).

The graduation ceremony could not have been more different than the one I had led the previous summer for Phase 2. Despite my protests, my parents had driven the twelve hours from Ottawa to attend my graduation, picking up five of my aunts and uncles, as well as my little cousin, Julie, on their way through Quebec City. My family would occupy half the bleachers, I thought with some embarrassment. But we were a close family and they knew how badly I’d wanted this all my life. It was a big deal for me, and as such, it had become one for them as well. Late in the afternoon prior to graduation day, I waited for them in the much-too-comfortable lobby of the Delta Hotel in Fredericton. They found me soundly asleep, curled up in a little ball in one of the velour sofa chairs. I had obviously mastered the art of sleeping anywhere, regardless of the hustle and bustle around me. I was wearing my combat fatigues, holding my logistics beret against my chest for the last day. Tomorrow, I’d be wearing a Van Doo badge.

That night when we went out for supper, it became obvious to them that my enthusiasm for that summer’s infantry training was very different from the previous year. They all kept telling me I looked tired and my aunt Colette, my father’s oldest sister, was not impressed by my feet, which were now in the stages of losing a few toenails. Kevin had joined us for supper and tried to reassure all of them that it was normal for me to be exhausted after back-to-back phases. It almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself in the process. My mother wasn’t buying it. She doted on me relentlessly and tried to make me eat the entire contents of the breadbasket on my own.

I felt blessed to have my family present for the next day’s graduation, but I also longed to be with my comrades who were probably sitting on the floor of the laundry room eating pizza right about then. They had been instrumental in my success on the course and I wished I could share one more night with them before we all parted ways.

The next day, we marched around the parade square in our regimental uniforms with all the other combat arms graduates. There were a couple of other women on the parade square: one in the Artillery and the other in the Armoured. Following the parade, I received a memo advising me to report to the battalion on Monday morning without taking any vacation because I’d be deploying on a special mission within a few days.

My new wonderful life in the infantry was about to start!