four

Infantry 101

Very simply, an infantry officer is trained in four phases: Phase 1 is basic training, which is undergone by all military officers, army, navy, and air force. Each officer then completes their own specialized classification training. Infantry officers have to graduate from three additional phases of training: Phase 2 Infantry consists of elementary manoeuvres of an infantry section. Phase 3 Infantry upgrades the manoeuvres to more complex tactical problems at the platoon level, and finally Phase 4 consists of learning how to command and lead a mechanized infantry platoon in the context of fast-paced multi-disciplinary battle group formations. Each phase lasts between ten and eleven weeks.

When I left for Phase 2 Infantry training in May 1991, Kevin was in Switzerland for a Biathlon World Cup championship, so we’d said our goodbyes a few days prior, knowing that as usual, it would be many weeks before we’d see or talk to each other again. Maggie the Moggie, which is what Kevin called our cat, was left in the loving care of the twin girls next door.

“I’m starting to think we’re the cat sitters and her real home is with the neighbours,” I said jokingly to Kevin before he left for the airport. Eight pairs of skis, two biathlon rifles, and two large duffle bags full of gear were piled into his grey Honda Prelude.

“Thank God cats aren’t good at giving guilt trips, or we’d never leave this house,” Kevin said, hugging me one last time before getting into his car. I didn’t really feel guilty at leaving Maggie with the neighbours. I actually thought she was happier there. I only felt guilty about not feeling guilty.

I arrived at the barracks in Gagetown the Sunday before the phase training was to begin and was shown to my room at the end of the barracks by the duty officer cadet. The 1950s barracks were two-storey yellow cement buildings with tall pillars that framed the entrance and seemed to dare us to enter. At each end of the U-shaped building there were showers, laundry, toilets, and a couple of smaller rooms for two people instead of the usual four. The freckled concrete floors shone impeccably, and not a speck of dust could be found as you entered the great entrance hall. I had a feeling we’d be waxing those floors on a regular basis in the next ten weeks.

As I entered my room, I met the other three women on the course. They were sitting on one of the beds, chatting. They were all reserve officers, which meant they had decided to combine their part-time military career with a civilian one. All three were several years younger than me, barely twenty, and I appraised them carefully. The one who had been assigned to my room stood out as being particularly fit, charismatic, and strong. She would probably do well. I introduced myself, and we got to know each other a little. She was smart, enthusiastic, and was well prepared for the training ahead.

The other two were staying in the room across the hall. Both of them were about five feet tall, but that’s where their similarities ended. One of them sported a blond ponytail and wore white dress pants, a white leather jacket with fringes dangling from the sleeves, and high-heeled boots. Her voice was soft, melodic, and feminine. She was delicately built and seemed out of place, like a potted orchid on the edge of a windy balcony. The other had a short boyish haircut, was rather roundish, and stout. She looked tough, like a pit bull. They couldn’t have been more different from each other. I asked them questions about their backgrounds, their experiences, and their ambitions. They had been friends for a long time, had joined their reserve unit because it was the closest one to home, and, since it was an infantry regiment, it seemed like the natural thing to do to complete this training. It had all been decided nonchalant, as if the decision to join an infantry unit had been as easy as deciding to go to the zoo for the day.

Now, they will be eaten alive, I thought, remembering what Kevin had said about me.

Within ten minutes, I concluded that they would probably struggle on the course and cringed at the thought of all of us women being painted with the same brush, even if they were intelligent, motivated, and probably very good at something else. Their success, or lack of it, will have an impact on mine, I thought.

I am not now proud of the way I viewed these women at that time. Unconsciously, I had already grasped the notion that being “good” was just not good enough for women to succeed at this training and that the reputation of one would affect the rest. Without hesitation, I unfairly pigeonholed them after only a few minutes of being in a room together. How sad it was that I had learned that skill so well.

A photo of the expected layout of each drawer hung above the dresser beside my bed. I thought I had brought everything I needed, but to conform to the standard, I was missing a razor, shaving cream, and a black comb, the kind without a handle. The rest was standard military issue, except that my formal uniform in the closet would include a skirt and a necktab instead of pants and normal tie. Wanting to make sure I didn’t ruffle any feathers on my first day, I went out to the Canex, the military version of a small Kmart, and bought the necessary male hygiene accoutrements for my cookie-cutter layout. I then hid all my bras and underwear, as well as my industrial-sized hairbrush, in the bottom of my barrack box.

The course staff, consisting of a captain, a lieutenant, and four warrant officers, introduced themselves during the first morning class, and bid a special welcome to “the girls.” The course captain explained that everyone on the course, regardless of gender, was expected to meet the same standard to graduate. He was trying to let us know that we would all be treated equally but his message was clumsy and it came off as if he assumed that the women expected leniency in their assessments and he wanted to reassure the male candidates that this would not be tolerated.

That night at the barracks several of the male cadets expressed their deep resentment at being in the first class of infantry officer training to include women, but explained that the chances of us graduating were slim anyway so there was no need to panic. I did not reply, foremost because I felt counter-arguments would be futile, but also because I myself wasn’t so confident of passing the course. When I look back on it today, I realize how comforting it would have been to have even just one of my colleagues whisper to me that I would do all right, that I would be fine, that I would succeed.

The course was fast-paced and challenging. We were given small party tasks: two-hour missions that would enable us to practise reconnaissance patrols, conduct detailed time appreciations (the estimate of when each sub-action needs to be completed in order to meet the deadline), and hone our navigational skills. We repeated section attacks for days on end, and then dug trenches non-stop all through the night, getting attacked by the enemy forces every time we let our guard down, or even when our guard was up for that matter. Adrenalin forced us to live in the moment, with laser-like focus on any sound or movement in the woods. We got very little sleep, inhaled food at lightning speed during breaks, and tried to keep our bodies from getting hurt during manoeuvres in the pitch-black darkness of the night.

The level of difficulty increased as the days went by and those who didn’t adapt to the escalation of momentum found themselves re-coursed, or reclassified to another profession.

The first few weeks, the other students on the course stayed at arm’s length from me. From what I could see, there were two reasons for this: first, I was the same rank as the course commandant, and second, there were three easier, more vulnerable targets to prey on in the platoon — the three other women. Because they were “weekend warriors,” a derogatory term often used to refer to reservists, these female officer cadets were taken less seriously, and there was an obvious lack of co-operation from the team whenever one of them was in command: the men were slow to react, dragging their feet, taking very little initiative to help their female section commander.

There was also some unease at my presence, especially during our time off. Whereas I preferred to have time alone after spending the week with all my colleagues, they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. I wanted to read, rest, and get my kit ready for the upcoming week. For the most part, they wanted to go out, drink, and pick up women.

I went out with them to a nightclub in Fredericton the first weekend we weren’t confined to barracks, but after a few beers, the gap between our ages and our ranks was forgotten and some of my colleagues lost their inhibitions: hands began to wander when we were dancing, or they whispered drunken proposals in my ear as we sat around the table. I pushed them away as patiently as I could, then eventually excused myself for the night. Given that I was one of the few teammates with a car, I offered to drive anyone wanting to leave back to the barracks. I specifically looked at my female colleagues, hinting this might be a safe time for them to leave as well, but it was too early for them to head back. I was hoping I wouldn’t get stuck giving a ride to Mr. Wandering Hands or Mr. “Lut’s Fine a Dark Corna Babeeee.” The earlier I left, the better my chances were of leaving alone and that is exactly what I did.

I knew that given their ages and maturity, and the ratio of men to women, I might be hit on even if I was older. I also quickly realized that rejections were not well received and the tension that ensued was not conducive to creating a healthy working environment, much less one in which we shared barracks. I found a big post-it on my door that first Saturday morning.

T’ai juste une agace-pissette (You are just a big cock-tease.) It could have been addressed to either my roommate or me, but I had a feeling I had pissed one of them off.

From then on, I decided to stay back or drive the seven hours to Valcartier to be home with Kevin when he wasn’t off doing triathlons. Occasionally he’d come up to Gagetown and we would hang out, escape to Saint John or Fredericton for the day, or go to the movies. I distanced myself from my colleagues on weekends, and that meant I had to work a little harder to reintegrate with the team on Mondays, but it was better than having to reject their advances. Often by Sunday mornings, bras of various colours and sizes were hung around the men’s bedrooms like trophies, as testament to their conquests over the last two nights. The bigger the better.

I continued to receive the odd anonymous note letting me know I was not welcome and that I should go back to the logistics battalion: Aye la saccoche, retourne chez toi. T’es pas faite pour jouer dans la cour des hommes. (Hey Handbag, go home. You are not made to play in the courtyard with the men.)

Individually, none of these notes would have been cause for much concern, but collectively they piled up enough to sow the initial seeds of anxiety. And perhaps a little fear. Slowly, I began to distrust the intentions of my peers and consider the possibility that some of them truly wanted to see me off the course by using any means possible.

These notes also worried me on another level. Many of these men were going to be my regimental peers. I knew I needed to build cohesion with them if I was going to have a successful career. It seemed like it was my responsibility to shift their paradigms against women in combat but it felt like trying to tame sharks while swimming in the same waters, already bleeding from some of their nibbles. I stayed alert and guarded, all the while trying to convince them I was worthy of being in the infantry, despite their opinions to the contrary.

The young men from the Royal Military College were my biggest challenge. Their derogatory comments towards women were offensive, often revolving around sex and the use of it by women to get ahead in their careers. They had just spent the last year studying, participating on sports teams, and living together at the college, which meant they were a tight-knit group presenting a united front. Unfortunately, I was on the other side of this front. So these fifteen or so cadets with barely one year completed in the Canadian Forces, all about five to seven years younger than me, were cocky and arrogant enough to discriminate against a captain who had commanded and mobilized troops.

Instead of kicking them in the nuts, as tempting as that was, I tried to gently pull them towards me by showing them what women can do. I worked tirelessly for them, helping out with my map-reading skills, calling artillery support when they forgot to do so, lending them the aides-memoires I had diligently worked on during the weekends.

And it was working.

Their façade slowly cracked as they recognized my experience and began to choose me repeatedly to be the second-in-command during the evaluations of their tasks. What my colleagues couldn’t realize then was that despite their discontent at having women in the infantry, they were actually helping me prepare for the next phases of infantry training. I was flourishing in this environment. Like the calluses that had sprouted on my hands and feet to protect me from the physical abrasiveness of the manoeuvres, my character was hardening too. Instead of just cruising along as a member of the section when I wasn’t in command, they were allowing me to exercise my leadership skills, get better at anticipating the logistical preparation of attacks, and sharpen my navigational competencies. It was much more work, but I was growing professionally at lightning speed.

That growth spurt, however, was short-lived. By mid-course, the instructors declared that they’d seen enough of me as second-in-command and forced my classmates to choose other colleagues.

As the course progressed, I kept my distance from the other women in my platoon, except for my roommate who seemed to truly enjoy the infantry tactics we were learning. She was strong, fit, and determined, but being associated with women was a daunting minefield for me. Two of them had started dating officer cadets from other platoons on base and innuendoes, jokes, and obscene roleplaying between the men imitating a sexual “advance to contact” were commonplace. I was haunted by comments I’d heard over and over again, in basic training, at the officers’ mess, or in any discussion which involved me admitting that I wanted to be in combat arms: “Women are a distraction. Women will make men go all gaga and do stupid things. Women will cause men to risk their lives to save theirs.” The first two of these assumptions were certainly proving to be true. The men in the platoon, even some of the instructors, were distracted by the women, and they were most certainly doing stupid things.

One mid-July afternoon while we all stood in three ranks on the grass area outside the training centre, the instructors told the entire platoon to take off their combat shirts, and told all of us to sit down. It was a hot day, and the opportunity to sit around in just our t-shirts was welcomed. The course’s lieutenant called out the four women’s names and told us to come forward and to line up perpendicular to the platoon. He then ordered us to give a demonstration to the rest of the class on how to properly pepper-pod, something the whole platoon had already mastered during the past five weeks of section manoeuvres in the field.

The four of us began our very basic advance; while number one and three adopted a firing position, number two and four ran a few metres, dove to the ground, and covered the advance of the two others. We repeated. I suspected that something obscene was going on because all the men were laughing. They were toying with us. I wasn’t particularly curvy, but a couple of my colleagues were well endowed and the v-neck t-shirt could provide an interesting vantage point as we bent over, then got up repeatedly. I turned around and gave one of the warrant officers a pissed-off look to let him know that this was totally inappropriate. He must have grasped the meaning of my glare because he immediately called for four others to continue the exercise and then dismissed the entire platoon to go back to class.

So far, there had been only a few such petty, childish, and small-minded incidents involving the instructors since the beginning of the course. Most times their actions or words were simply gauche, rooted in their isolation from working with women for so many years. One of them swore incessantly. This wouldn’t have bothered any of us in the least, but every time he swore he looked at the women and apologized. I eventually took him aside one morning and begged him to stop saying sorry for swearing. They also occasionally forgot about the four “candidates” secluded at the end of the barracks when they called everyone together for last-minute instructions, or used suggestive sexual language to describe how soldiers should “caress” their weapons, particularly when they jammed the rod up to “clean her.” These were stories and jokes that had been passed down from one generation of soldiers to another and repeated without challenging their appropriateness, or perhaps they were even considered funnier now given the mixed audience.

For the most part, I chalked up their impropriety to the newness of having women in combat arms. They were testing the waters to see how far they could go. I decided that my limits were far from being reached. I chose to be patient, tolerant, and focused only on graduating. I was going to be the first female infantry officer. I couldn’t afford to complain that “the instructors made us pepper-pod in front of the boys and they laughed at us.” Yes, that would go over well, wouldn’t it?

I’d choose my battles. If it meant that I had to put up with that kind of bullshit for a little while, then I would do so. But at least I would graduate.

Eventually, the novelty of our presence abated and the instructors eased off on their reprehensible behaviour towards us. A new normal was established and the course evolved smoothly. I may have been challenged with harder tasks occasionally, I can’t remember for sure, but it would have been normal given my rank and experience. I enjoyed every aspect of infantry manoeuvres. I dug my trenches with fervour, pepper-podded with enthusiasm, and patrolled at night with a sense that all was right with the world. This was where I most wanted to be, and happiness invaded every fibre of my being.

By mid-August, the course approached its last week and we began practising for graduation parade. I was designated to lead the platoon on the parade square and that could mean only one thing: I was graduating top of my class.

I waited for the backlash from my peers, but there was none. There were no congratulations either, but given their initial repulsion at being part of the first mixed-gender class, I wasn’t holding my breath for any kind of veneration.

The morning before graduation, my teammates and I were folding modular tents and cleaning equipment in preparation for its return to the quartermaster’s stores when Warrant Officer Devine, my section commander, said he needed to have a little chat with me. He motioned for me to accompany him to the side so that we could have a private conversation.

I followed him away from the group. Warrant Officer Devine was my junior, because he was a non-commissioned officer, but he was my instructor, so out of respect I stood at attention.

He stood in front of me with his face looking up at mine. He was a short man, but despite his build, he’d proven several times during the course that he could outmanoeuvre and outlast many of the bigger, younger guys in the platoon. His voice was deep, hoarse, and left no room for interpretation; when he belted out orders, not one of us hesitated to move quickly. He was only in his early forties, but the thick pleated lines on his weathered face showed the years of wear and tear that comes with being an infantryman. I stared at the deep creases around his eyes and wondered if I would get those wrinkles prematurely too. I never wore sunscreen and every chance I had, I would smear the thick greasy camouflage paint into my pores as if it was Nivea’s best face cream.

“Relax, Captain,” he said. I stood at ease. He told me there was something he felt I should know about myself as I progressed through the remainder of my training. It was important, he said, staring directly at me but with compassion in his eyes. Warrant Devine was one of my favourite instructors. Although initially he’d struggled with the presence of women on the course, he’d been quick to come around and show us his support. I would even say that he championed the success of the other three female candidates, despite their difficulty with some of the tasks they’d been assigned.

Curbing my shoulders and self-consciously trying to shrink myself down to his height, I asked him if it was good news or bad news.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he shrugged, then paused for a long time. I could see he wanted to tell me something earnestly important, but wasn’t quite sure where to start. “You have what is called the little dog syndrome,” he blurted out. He paused again and looked for a reaction. I offered none, willing him to continue. He said he’d been observing me closely, and that I felt the need to yap louder than anyone else to prove to others that I was something to be reckoned with. “You think if you bark louder, people will believe you are more powerful than you look,” he explained. “In your case, it translates into always wanting to do a little more than everybody else. Your kit is always perfect, your boots are always shinier, your weapon is always spotless, and we can bounce a goddamn bowling ball off your bed.” He was referring to the old myth that the wool blanket covering the bed needed to be tucked so tightly that a quarter should be able to bounce off of it. I guess I was extra meticulous when it came to making my bed.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked, a little confused.

“It depends how you look at it,” he replied, and then explained that from my colleagues’ point of view, I made them look bad. Only a quarter could be bounced off their beds, but I had raised the bar and that would make them want to take me down a notch. It was human nature. In a competitive environment, he explained, we like to push down those around us to lift ourselves up and we like to chop off the heads of those who stand out, much like we trim a cedar hedge. I looked at him, the deep baritone of his voice a stark contrast to his short stature. “You stand out, Captain Perron,” he said, looking meaningfully into my eyes. “You are the perfect target to take down because just by being a woman doing the same things as all these men, you shame them. Worse yet, you are an even bigger target, because you’re outstanding, and that makes them resent you even more.”

I pondered his comments, trying to grasp what he was telling me. “I only seem outstanding because your expectations of me are so low.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said and proceeded to give me examples: when we were on the battlefield, I wasn’t satisfied to just pick up one wounded body — I kept going back and picked the biggest dead weights to haul back. He’d also observed me during patrols. I acted so seriously you’d think real Viet Congs were going to jump out of the jungle. “I keep expecting to see you crawling around with a bayonet between your teeth,” he said.

I tried to argue with him, saying that the “dead bodies” I picked up only looked big because I was smaller, but he put his hand up and signalled for me to shut up.

“Listen to me,” he interrupted. “Do you know how I know about little dog syndrome, Captain Perron?” he asked, and then answered without giving me a chance to respond. “Because it’s also called le syndrome du p’tit bonhomme, the small man syndrome.” I looked at his small frame and understood. He’d been speaking from experience, and he obviously wanted me to learn from his past. In hindsight, I wish I’d paid more attention. Instead my shields went up.

I asked him what the hell I was supposed to do. Everyone was watching me like hawks, waiting for me to screw up so that I could prove what they thought about women in combat. I was only trying to do my best. What was I expected to do now, screw up? If so, I’d be feeding their existing beliefs about women, giving them fuel for scorning or disciplining me.

“Let yourself be vulnerable on occasion,” he said, turning his glance towards the rest of the platoon busily preparing the equipment for storage until the next course. “Don’t try to be perfect. Ask for help from your peers now and then. Don’t volunteer for anything, and don’t give us more than we ask for. A bouncing quarter is good enough.”

Let myself be vulnerable? Did this man not realize how bloody defenceless I felt every minute I was surrounded by all those men? I’d had years of people telling me that women couldn’t be in the infantry and no one had proved them otherwise yet. Bambi surrounded by a pack of wolves probably felt less vulnerable than I did.

That night, as I shone my boots for the next day’s graduation parade, I examined the fine details of my tired face in the mirror shine of my boot’s leather toe. I pondered Warrant Officer Devine’s advice. Was I trying too hard to show everyone that I wasn’t vulnerable, which in reality invited them to prove that I was? Was I overcompensating? It made sense: I was a little dog in a big-dog world. But it was a paradoxical situation. If I acted like a little dog, I’d be ostracized faster than the four seconds it took for a parachute to open. If I acted like a big dog, it would only incite them to take me down a notch. I was not allowed to be a big dog. The boisterous, testosterone-laden environment rewarded those who belted out orders with conviction and authority, but I wasn’t expected to act that way so it was perceived as inauthentic, out of character. God help me if I actually outperformed the big dogs — that would be sacrilege.

It was all very confusing. I found myself not knowing what to do or how to act to ensure that I wouldn’t attract resentment in the future. Part of me just wanted to fit in, to disguise myself in a suit that would hide my differences and enable me to be forgotten. What I wrote in my diary that night also reflected another part of me:

I’m going to be in the infantry and I’m going to be the best I can be. If they don’t like it, they can all go fuck themselves

The next day, I was presented with the Infantry School’s Commandant Sword for best student and I led the platoon around the parade square for the Combat Training Centre graduation ceremonies. Kevin had come up for the graduation along with my mother and my father, looking so handsome in his own uniform. After the parade we headed over to the large green modular tents for shade, and sat with the other parents that had come up for the occasion. My mother, dressed in a cream-coloured suit, walked through the grass in her dainty high heels, pearl necklace, and matching earrings. She pinched my waist as she did so, telling me affectionately that I was too skinny and that I needed to wear more sunscreen. I was starting to get freckles on my nose, she said, just like hers. Her green eyes shone with pride. I couldn’t be happier that they had all come up to share this first milestone in my infantry training.

I couldn’t stop talking. I wanted them to see how fulfilled I felt in the infantry and I especially wanted Kevin to realize that I had made the right choice in reclassifying. My father remarked on how fit I looked and how impressed he was at my top candidature for the course.

It was an extremely proud moment for me, despite the cloud of Warrant Officer Devine’s comments lingering in my thoughts. I was doing what I loved to do, and this was a great start to my new and hopefully lengthy career in the infantry. With a successful Phase 2 Infantry behind me, I was pumped and ready to start Phase 3, which was scheduled to begin in the spring of 1992, seven months away. If the phase I’d just finished was any indication, I was convinced that I’d do well in the rest of my training.

Little did I know that Phase 2 would prove to be a garden party, the proverbial calm before the storm. And that storm would pillage every square inch of the thin armour protecting me. If they wanted vulnerable, much to my chagrin, they would soon get it in spades.