twenty-two

MIA Beaver

I apologized profusely to the DutchBat commander, but he replied that he was extremely proud of his soldiers for having pulled off such a hilarious prank. To emphasize his sense his humour, he kept calling his deputy commandant Robin.

Humour, teasing, and playing jokes on one another was a great way to relieve some of the day’s stress, even if it occasionally got us into trouble. It became obvious that alcohol could also relieve part of the tension several of the officers accumulated during the day, and so they regrouped at the officers’ mess at night to tell stories and drown their stress. There was a limit of two beers per person per day, but it was enforced only by peer pressure. I occasionally joined the officers in the mess out of a sense of obligation, but I stayed in the duty room until late most nights, subconsciously avoiding that environment. I hated to hear about all their war stories and everything else I was missing out on.

Each member of the battalion was entitled to a ninety-six-hour leave period where they were transported outside of the theatre of operations to the coast of Italy for much-needed rest and relaxation (r&r). It was not optional. I signed up to go on the rotation with Buanita, with whom I’d become close friends. While chatting at the officers’ mess the night before our departure, I pointed to the regimental mascot, a stuffed beaver the size of a small dog, sitting on top of a ledge over the bar.

“He could use a vacation,” I said jokingly. She looked at me in agreement and I immediately saw something in her eye: a sparkle of mischievousness.

We should have left it at that.

Early next morning, Buanita and I stole the beaver, ripping him off the large wood plate he’d been stapled to. I put him in my duffle bag, with the tail wrapped in a plastic bag sticking out. It was conspicuous at best, but given that everyone was focused on their own vacation plans, no one thought to ask any questions. I had written a ransom note to put in the place he’d been perched, figuring that they might not even realize he was missing until our return.

Needed some R&R. Je Me Souviens, it read.

Buanita and I shared a room in the hotel near Ancona, a port city on the Adriatic coast of Italy. After we’d savoured the first real hot shower since the beginning of our tour, we promptly went out with the beaver to have a coffee at the hotel café. There were a few sergeants and warrant officers already there. They thought it was hilarious that we’d brought the beaver and wanted their picture taken with it, in positions ranging from cute to obscene. That afternoon, we took the beaver everywhere, snapping pictures with him riding a bike, with topless women at the beach, having a late lunch in a local restaurant. To this day it amazes me that after nearly four months in Bosnia with very little downtime, we chose to have such childish fun with a stuffed beaver instead of relaxing and drinking ourselves silly on the beach. We figured we had four days — plenty of time to travel and see Rome, Florence, San Marino, etc. That first night Buanita and I went dancing until five a.m., leaving the beaver tucked safely in bed before going out.

When we arrived back at the hotel at the break of dawn, the beaver was gone.

I panicked and screamed. Buanita simply went to bed.

“Oh my God, where the hell is he?” I asked, frantically searching every inch of the room, knowing full well the consequences of losing the regimental mascot. I remembered distinctly where I had left him in the bed, but he was nowhere to be found. Buanita laughed and guessed that one of the sergeants had kidnapped the mascot as a joke. I found no humour in this situation.

“We need to find that beaver, Buanita, now.” I ran downstairs to the front desk and inquired about whom they had let into our room. The hotel clerk would not say. I was sure that Buanita was right, that the sergeants or warrant officers had decided to have their own fun with the beaver, but I was going to get to the bottom of this right then. “If you don’t tell me who you let into our room, I’m going to knock on every goddamn door until I get an answer. Where is the fucking beaver?!” My voice got progressively louder until I was almost screaming.

“Please, signorina, police come to take it. I not say no.” I was floored, overcome with panic. I went back to the room to tell Buanita we were in big trouble, but she’d already fallen asleep. I had a shower, got dressed, and went down to breakfast. Warrant Officer Arsenault was having coffee. I zeroed in on him to get some answers.

“Who took the beaver?” I asked, exhausted but still fuelled on adrenalin, bordering on hysteria.

“I heard that the military police came to get it last night. You didn’t hear it from me, but apparently they couldn’t resist taking a pair of your underwear too.”

“Are we in a lot of trouble?” I asked, completely ignoring the fact that my underwear, now probably in the hands of some young military police corporal, would probably be the source of jokes and God only knows what else. Somehow my instincts were screaming at me that I was in much bigger trouble than what a pair of underwear could do for my reputation.

The smell of Italian coffee and chocolate viennoiseries wafted up my nostrils and I fought to stay focused on the beaver. The regimental mascot. The sacred regimental mascot.

Warrant Officer Arsenault continued. “Don’t worry about it too much — relax and enjoy your r&r. It’s just a beaver. You should know that they’re waiting for you when you get back though.”

“I can’t believe the commandant flew the mps here to come get it.”

“Yeah, I guess they had a regimental dinner and realized he was mia (missing in action). Wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Apparently you left the blue pad of paper you used to write the note right next to your camp cot.”

I had not been very covert about the whole thing. I told myself that it couldn’t be too serious an offence. It was a funny prank. Nothing more. Perhaps I would write an entertaining article for our regimental newspaper, photos included.

I was sorely mistaken to downplay the gravity of the situation, but naively Buanita and I decided to enjoy our holiday, going to local markets and shops, cathedrals and beaches, renting scooters to tour the countryside, all the while making jokes about how these beautiful vistas would have been perfect spots to take pictures with the beaver.

“He would have loved the Vatican!” Buanita exclaimed. “Probably not too many beavers there!” We busted our gut laughing.

Before long, we returned to Visoko, but instead of taking the long ride on the ferry to cross the Mediterranean Sea as we had done, we flew directly to Sarajevo where cargo trucks, escorted by armoured personnel carriers, were waiting to take us back to camp. Well, everyone, that is, but Buanita and me. Two military police corporals were waiting with a jeep and we were formally escorted back to camp as if we’d been caught breaking into the battalion’s armouries. Sitting in the back seat of the Iltis jeep, I whispered to Buanita.

“I think maybe we’re going to get it pretty bad. Don’t take it too seriously. It’s just a goddamn stuffed beaver. We didn’t kill anyone.” She didn’t respond, but I could tell she was apprehensive about being escorted like criminals. “Whatever you do, don’t cry! Don’t let them get to you. I’m sure they’re just playing a game and are going to try to scare the hell out of us.”

The mps advised us our bags would be brought to our tents, and then, blushing, I remembered that they probably had a pair of my underwear in their possession. We stood waiting outside the commandant’s office until the adjutant, who is generally in charge of discipline for officers within the battalion, marched us into the commanding officer’s office and commanded us to stand at attention in front the of the lieutenant-colonel. We both saluted. He sat stoically behind his desk. I could see that we’d be signing some sort of formal reprimand, probably a recorded warning. He stared at us and there was no humour in his face whatsoever.

“Did you, Captain Perron and Captain Muller, steal the regimental mascot to bring to Italy on July 17, 1993?”

“Yes, sir!” we both answered in unison. There was a long pause while the commandant wrote something in his folder, probably something akin to guilty as charged. He laid down his pen and sat back, both his forearms forming a pyramid under his chin. The hair on my neck raised a notch and I had a premonition that we would be annihilated.

“You have some nerve.” He slammed his hands down on the desk. “You think you are pretty funny, but you are a goddamn dishonour to this regiment, stealing the regimental mascot the night before we had a formal dinner, with the force commander no less. That beaver represents over seventy-five years of our regiment’s courage and bravery, and you think you have a right to drag him around for your amusement?” And then the swearing began. He went up one side of us then the other, yelling so loud that I’m sure the entire camp could hear him. After what seemed like two hours but was in fact probably less than ten minutes, he told Buanita to leave. She hesitated, not wanting to leave me alone. “Get the hell out of my office right now,” said the lieutenant-colonel. As she walked past me I could see a wet spot on the corner of her eye. I kept telling myself that it was all a joke. They couldn’t possibly be this angry about a stuffed beaver, could they? The commandant then had a few choice words for me. “Look, Captain Perron, you are still new to the battalion and new to the infantry. You better start by earning your place before being arrogant enough to do stupid things like this. You’re getting a recorded warning, which means it will be in your personnel file for six months. If you do anything else this stupid, you’ll be given counselling and probation, and will probably be heading out the door. Is that clear?”

“… Um, yes, sir,” I said meekly, looking down at the floor to avoid eye contact with him or the captain adjutant.

“I didn’t hear you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” I replied. Properly scolded, I signed my reprimand and was told to return to my tent, which I did hastily. It felt like I’d stopped breathing the minute we’d stepped foot in the commandant’s office and now I inhaled deeply. On the way to my tent, I crossed two lieutenants who scoffed at me disdainfully, one of whom was unable to keep his mouth shut.

“Disgusting,” he said and made a puffing noise as if I’d just thrown up on his boots. As my junior, he deserved to be reprimanded for talking to a captain so disrespectfully, but I didn’t have the energy to get into it right at that time. I’d get him back eventually.

I went inside our tent and Buanita stood up from her camp cot as soon as I walked in. “Oh my God, are you okay? What did he say when I left?”

“He pretty much continued where he left off: fuckin’ this and goddamn that. It’s okay. Keep it in perspective. We’re in the middle of a war in Bosnia, and all we did was bring a stuffed beaver for a vacation. You have to admit it’s pretty funny.”

“Well, we’re the only ones who seem to think so.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay, hopefully in a few years we’ll laugh about it all.” I tried to ease her anxiety, but I wasn’t convinced myself. I hadn’t intended to dishonour the regimental mascot by taking him to Italy, but it seemed I’d underestimated its historic significance.

Within a few minutes, someone called for me from outside the tent. “What now?” I wondered and went outside the tent to see what was the problem. A warrant officer, whom I barely knew and had passed only once or twice in the dining hall, stood at attention outside the tent. He saluted me and I saluted back.

“Ma’am, I just want to shake your hand.” I didn’t move, so he grabbed my forearm to pull it forward and began to shake my hand vigorously.

“What’s this about?” I asked quizzically, and remembered he was the second-in-command of the lieutenant I’d just passed in the hall who’d shunned me.

“We heard about the beaver. Shit, ma’am, I have to say, you have more balls than all these young officers put together. You did us proud, and I’m not the only one that thinks so. Everyone is talking about it and also the shit you got for it. It’s hilarious! Good job! It’s an honour to have you in the battalion, ma’am. Je me souviens.” Needless to say I was dumbfounded and just stared at him with my mouth open like a fish. I finally re-powered the circuits of my brain to formulate a thank-you before he saluted again, turned around and left, still laughing and shaking his head.