twenty-nine

A Perfect Soldier

“Congratulations, captain perron. an ‘A’ on the course and strong recommendations to command the anti-tank platoon. I guess it’s hard to ignore that!” said my battalion’s deputy commander upon my return from Gagetown. He sat behind his huge oak desk, with my course report in front of him. The instructors had decided that there would be no best candidate, but I’d had top marks. “You’ll be taking the anti-tank platoon to Croatia come March. You can start your changeover with Captain Dumont next week.” I wanted to jump with joy like a schoolgirl but refrained from doing so.

“Thank you, sir!” I beamed enthusiastically.

A few weeks later, while snooping around at a local flea market, I got my hands on a rare treasure: a box full of miniature tanks and army trucks. Without hesitation, I bought the entire lot and dispersed them everywhere in my house: the window ledge over the kitchen sink, coffee table, shelves, and nightstands. Big turret, little turret, large wheels, small wheels.

•••

as an anti-tank platoon commander, I deployed with my troops for live fire exercises and battle group manoeuvres. True to my anti-armour training, my tow platoon was deployed as the battalion’s immediate firepower, supported by artillery and close air support. I felt important and involved. I was in heaven. My personnel evaluations and the multitude of recommendation letters reflected the officer I had always wanted to become:

 

Captain Perron is the type of officer that needs to be held back instead of pushed. She has an insatiable desire to learn and surpasses her peers in many regards. She is not afraid of stepping up to the plate and taking charge, particularly when it comes time to defend the interests of her soldiers.

 

It had taken me three years, but I was slowly making headway in the regiment. Junior officers weren’t paying too much attention to me, senior officers appreciated my work, and non-commissioned members continued to have my back.

I took my soldiers running in the morning three or four times a week, despite their complaints and arguments. One soldier in particular struggled with the runs and continually straggled behind the others. Admittedly, my pace was fast, no doubt because of the chip I carried on my shoulder from having heard so many times that the infantry was too demanding for women, that we weren’t strong enough, fit enough for battle. During the run I would circle my platoon around, pick up the stragglers left behind, and continue jogging until too many fell behind again and we’d start the whole process over. In hindsight, I was brutal, but at least no one could ever complain about me being too weak for the combat.

One day, a few weeks prior to our deployment, I went to see my company commander in his office and shared my concerns regarding the corporal in my platoon whom I saw unfit for deployment.

“Sir, Corporal Lynchuk can’t keep up on our morning runs, he’s borderline lazy, overweight, and I don’t think he should deploy with my platoon.” Corporal Lynchuk had been a reservist attached to my platoon for the upcoming un tour to Croatia. Finding qualified tow gunners to form my platoon had been very challenging. I couldn’t afford to lose anyone, but I also didn’t want to deploy with someone I felt would be a hindrance.

My company commander asked me if the corporal in question had passed all the other prerequisites for deployment and I was forced to admit that he had, except for not being able to run more than two kilometres without throwing up. I was totally taken aback by my company commander’s response.

“You can’t have all Rambos. He’s going with you. Just keep training him.”

I grumbled with obvious discontent and turned around to leave when my major added another comment.

“And by the way, you’ll get more experience training others. You are being posted to the Combat Training Centre in Gagetown as soon as you return from Croatia.”

My dreams to go to the Airborne Regiment were thus delayed. The thought of going back to Gagetown triggered a wave of conflicting emotions. I had both fond memories of my training there, and devastating ones. On the one hand, Gagetown was still hostile territory to women, but on the other, I would now be in a position of power to help the next generation of women coming through, and shape the minds of young officers starting their careers. Given that I was a senior captain now, I suspected that they would put me in command of an infantry course, surely Phase 3 or 4.

“In what position, sir?” I asked, visions of Captain Rainville leading us on night patrols and screaming at us going through my head. That would be me soon. I smiled at the thought.

“Not confirmed yet, but definitely as an instructor at the Infantry School.”

“Cool.” I saluted and left his office, still defeated with regards to Corporal Lynchuk, who would now become the focus of more intense attention from our physical fitness instructors.

I returned to my office and continued the pre-deployment evaluations of my troops. Master Corporal Cantin, one of my section’s second-in-command, was the complete opposite of Lynchuk. He was part Stallone, part Schwarzenegger, all meticulously sculpted together. He was my idea of a warrior. I wished I could have more soldiers like him in my platoon. It didn’t occur to me at the time that I myself didn’t fit the typical image of a warrior and that perhaps my senior officers might be wishing they could replace me for a real-looking soldier, part Stallone, part Schwarzenegger.

A few weeks before we were due to leave for Croatia, we lined up behind one another on the two-storey tall parade square to receive the prescribed vaccines for our deployment. A high table had been placed near the front dais of the square, and one by one, we advanced and bent over it with our butts in the air. The nurse would pull down the loosened waistband of our pants to disinfect the top part of the naked butt cheek, unceremoniously plunge the needle into the flesh and press until all the liquid was gone from her syringe. She would then yell, “Next,” so that all seven hundred soldiers were processed in turn. Of course, when I got poked, buskers in Halifax would have dreamed of attracting such an enthusiastic crowd. They circled around just to get the maximum view of the few square centimetres they could see of my butt. Three seconds later it was over. I turned around to see a dozen smirking men pretending to look anywhere else.

The rest of my platoon was queuing for this run-of-the-mill experience when all of a sudden a loud thump reverberated in the parade hall. I looked midway from the end of the line and saw that one of my soldiers had fainted. The medics ran over with a cold compress but before waking him up, they pulled down his pants and seized the opportunity to give him his vaccine. It was obvious they’d done this before and understood that some people have an intrinsic, uncontrollable fear of needles. I stretched my neck to see who had fainted at the sight of a needle and to my amazement recognized Master Corporal Cantin — my Rambo of all Rambos.