eight

Weight of the World

The last cadet fell in with the rest of us already in three ranks in front of the Gagetown barracks, dressed in physical training (pt) sweatsuits, ready to go for a run. It was still dark out and bitterly cold for a mid-March morning. The warrant officer was pacing in front of the platoon. Finally he spoke.

“Well, good goddamn afternoon.” His voice was slow and soft, but threatening in a very disconcerting way. “Now let’s get one thing straight,” he said in a controlled tone, which was growing significantly louder. His fists were clenched and the deep creases on his forehead warned of his none-too-happy mood. “You will have your asses out here by o-six-hundred or you’ll be doing pt morning, noon, and night. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Warrant!” we answered in unison.

“You will shit, shower, and shave on your own goddamn time!” he screamed. And then his eyes connected with mine and he caught himself. I could guess that he was considering his last sentence to see if it applied to me. I felt like reassuring him. Yes, Warrant, I do those things too. He turned around to face the course officer.

“Sir, all present, sir.” He handed over the platoon to Captain Rainville who would be taking us out for our first run. Shivers crawled up my spine at the sight of him. Captain Rainville was tall, lean, and fit. He had dark skin and sun-blond hair that gave him an air of a Californian surfer dude on holidays. Oh, how deceptive that look would prove to be for all of us.

Phase 3 infantry training is traditionally the hardest phase of infantry training. The basic mathematics of a battlefield assault are simple: for every enemy unit in a defensive position, you need three of your own units to attack it, plus supporting elements like artillery, air support, etc. For this reason, units are divided into threes. Three sections of ten soldiers make a platoon, three infantry platoons make a company, three infantry companies make a battalion, and three infantry battalions make a regiment. That core fighting force is strengthened by supporting elements such as pioneers, artillery, armoured, and air defence. In Phase 2, we had learned the role and tactics of an infantry section, the most basic unit of the infantry. Phase 3 consisted of ten long weeks of dismounted platoon manoeuvres ranging from patrols, raids, and attacks, to digging defensive positions. This phase of my training began in March 1991, when the frigid temperatures of winter were in full force. Phase 3 is challenging in itself, but to complete it in winter is to pile on layer after layer of difficulty. To add to our course’s challenge, Captain Michel Rainville was assigned as course instructor for our class. And thus a perfect storm was formed.

Captain Michel “Mike” Rainville was a revered soldier. He had been a commando with the Airborne Regiment, graduated top of the elite US Special Forces course, and was a formidable athlete. I’d known Mike before transferring to the infantry. Four years earlier, he’d been the course commander for Nancy’s Basic Parachutist Course in Edmonton, and he’d been the one to grant my request to parachute with her during her final graduation jumps. He’d also pulled some strings for me to get a few more jumps afterwards, during low-level equipment extraction exercises. We’d become friends. A few years later, as a logistics officer with the service battalion in Valcartier, I had participated in the brigade’s winter games and Mike had offered to help me train, show me how to pack my rucksack and prepare my equipment for the gruelling Nordic Triathlon.

The competition was the brigade’s hardest event, a mountainous twenty-one-kilometre snowshoeing, shooting, and skiing triathlon in full combat gear. Mike’s advice had been precious, but it was his confidence in my abilities that had motivated me to excel, reach higher, push harder. He’d constantly refer to me as “soldier,” saying things like “carry on, soldier,” “suck it up, soldier,” or “doing good, soldier,” as if his vision of me entirely filtered out anything else but being a soldier. I thrived on it. He believed in me and, consequently, I did too.

On the day of the Nordic Triathlon, the weather was bitterly cold at minus twenty-eight Celsius and the organizers had established an additional safety checkpoint after the shooting range event to inspect all the competitors for frostbite. After sixteen kilometres of skiing, I’d been working so hard I actually thought I was overheating, but when I reached the checkpoint, the inspector advised me that I had frostbite on both my ears and cheeks, therefore I was disqualified. I was told to proceed to the tent area. I thanked the official, ignored his instructions, and proceeded to continue what was left of the snowshoeing patrol to complete the race. The idea of not finishing the race was preposterous, especially since I had more than three quarters of it completed already. I didn’t get very far. Two officials caught up with me, pulled on the quick-release straps of my pack to rip it off me, and repeated that I was disqualified. My resolve had been valiant, but my skin had betrayed me. When I saw Mike at the finish line, he apologized, saying nonchalantly that he should have told me to put Vaseline on my face.

When I found out he would be the course commander for my Phase 3 training, I was torn. I was terrified of him, but also in awe of his competence. I knew we would be learning from one of our top officers. I also thought that this phase would be even tougher with him as our course leader.

I met my two dozen classmates the first day and was impressed with the calibre of my peers. Given that this was a winter-spring phase, there were no Royal Military College cadets, only graduates of civilian universities or colleges (cegep). A couple of them were older than me, but most were young officer cadets, barely old enough to drink. We spent the first few days learning as much as we could from each other and within a short time, with very little effort, I became friends with a motley crew of seven guys who all hung out together. They were already a close-knit team, having just completed a very demanding winter Phase 2 infantry training together, but nevertheless they made room for me in their circle. They nicknamed me Bizoune, a French slang word for penis.

Fabien Roy had joined the cf later after trying his hand at university-level football. He was about six feet tall, square, mostly muscle, and built for endurance. He teasingly pushed and prodded all of us whenever he had the chance, trying to provoke a wrestling match, but it was more like an ape toying with a duckling. None of us was stupid enough to take him up on his challenge. Sometimes when he was bored he’d ask me to hit him in the flanks as hard as I could and I would try to pound the crap out of him only to have my fists repeatedly bounce off a solid wall of muscle. He tried pretending he was the biggest, “baddest” alpha male, which in the context of infantry training is quite understandable, but I could see another side to him. He already had two young children and it was immediately obvious to me in the way he talked about them that he was a caring and loving father. Those kids probably had Fabien wrapped around their little fingers.

Sylvain Rheaume, “le vieux,” was the oldest of the bunch. Dark and handsome, he was quiet, nonchalant, and imperturbable. He could have graced the front pages of GQ magazine, but remained humble and unassuming. His laugh was beautiful, contagious. There was a depth to Rheaume that held secrets I would confirm only many years after our training together, but I could sense that he was fighting discriminatory battles of his own.

Jason Langelier was the baby of the group at seventeen, and by far the wittiest of us all. Everything that came out of his mouth was brilliantly funny in a sardonic, yet not too sarcastic way. He was only slightly taller than me, and his round rosy cheeks gave him an air of naïveté mixed in with an “I don’t give a shit if I make a fool out of myself” carelessness that I wished was contagious because it enabled him to take risks, dare to ask questions we all wanted to ask but were afraid to, and dive headfirst into the unknown waters of infantry training. He often spoke first, but then listened with intent and maturity despite his young age. I was so impressed by Jason, knowing that he could lead all of us with the confidence of a seasoned warrior.

Guillaume “Bobby” Robert, also very young at eighteen, was reserved, easygoing and cute as a button. He was the type of little brother that everyone wished they had. He was the tension barometer among all of us, steadfast, strong, neither easily influenced nor frayed. He laughed at everything, until he got angry. And when he got angry, we all paid attention.

Pat “Robbie” Robichaud was the ultimate warrior. Soldiering was quilted in his dna. Like me, he was intense and focused, way too serious about everything. Extremely fit, he could run circles around all of us and it became obvious early on that he’d be a career soldier.

Pat Theriault was studious, mellow, and serious but with a deadpan sort of humour that got us all going. He didn’t talk very often, but when he did, he was either very intelligent, or very funny. It always seemed like Pat was processing stuff while the rest of us were busy reacting instinctively to situations without taking much time to assess. In many ways, Pat was as much of an anomaly as I was. Although physically he resembled his peers much more than I did, it seemed like his brain worked on a different frequency and he was desperately trying to hide it. It wasn’t until much later in his career that he was diagnosed with a form of Attention Deficit Disorder, but to us he was a source of calm and wisdom.

And then there was “Boule.” Stephane Boulé was the type of genuine human being you could trust with your life as well as your deepest secrets and he’d never let you down. Boule was special, a Martin Matte type of comedian but with a profound sense of wisdom uncommon for a nineteen-year-old man. He was an old soul by far, and that would eventually allow him to connect with his soldiers in a profoundly meaningful way.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the friendships we forged in the spring of 1992 would pass the test of time and enable me to overcome many stumbling blocks, psychologically and professionally, throughout my years in the infantry. Those bonds were born of a natural association of like-minded people, but they were cultivated and nurtured because of what would happen in the upcoming weeks.

For that moment, however, they were just my very good colleagues.

•••

i had not underestimated the difficulty of Phase 3 training. Most nights when we were not in the field, I had to set the alarm on my clock before actually getting into bed, or else I’d be asleep before my head hit the pillow. I had neither time nor energy to dwell on what I had done to end my pregnancy prior to the course and that was exactly what I needed. I still struggled to acknowledge the abortion, and now this training was giving me a lazy way out of thinking about it.

The weekend before leaving for Phase 3, I had called Valerie to talk about meaningless, trivial “girl” things, desperate to feel normal again. She knew I had not kept the baby, but it was still too raw for me to talk about it, and I couldn’t hold the tears back whenever the subject came up. We chatted a little, but there seemed to be tension on the line. I figured she must have her hands full with two young children at home.

“What are you doing this weekend?” she asked.

“I’ll probably go for a last ten kilometres on the trails, then try to get as much sleep as I can before leaving for Gagetown. And you?” I could hear her puttering around in her kitchen.

“I’m going to an anti-abortion rally.” Her tone was cold, intentional. I froze. A knife through the heart would have hurt less. I understood the tension now. This was her way of letting me know that what I had done was despicable, unforgivable. I could feel the hate, the resentment, and the judgment on the other end of the line. Or maybe it was just a projection of the feelings I had towards myself. To me, they were both one in the same. I didn’t try to change her mind or convince her that I was a good person. I deserved her wrath, her disdain and let it envelop me like an old familiar blanket.

“Okay, then I will let you go.” I hung up the phone and didn’t speak with her again. Now I would have to mourn the loss of a friendship too.

•••

kevin had been incredibly sweet during the weeks that followed the abortion and had even cancelled one of his races so that he could comfort me while I curled up in bed crying night after night. He didn’t try to speed up my grief or shake me out of my self-loathing, but simply held me when I needed it, soothing my sobs with incredible compassion and patience. And instinctively, he kept his distance in bed. I had lost my trust in birth control pills and had stopped using them altogether, putting up walls on our intimacy instead. Kevin left for his peacekeeping tour in Cyprus shortly after I had the abortion. I spent the cold winter months trying to keep my mind, and my body, busy to the point of exhaustion. I recruited women on the base to compete in biathlon races, and worked out at the gym in the mornings and at lunch. On moonlit evenings, I snuck onto the cross-country trails until late at night and to the rhythm of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” on my bright yellow Walkman, I skied until I thought of nothing but the searing pain in my legs. Occasionally, Mylene would come with me and we giggled as we hid from the mechanized groomers patrolling the trails.

Once in Gagetown, I could never totally escape the guilt I had about my decision to end the pregnancy, but the lapses between my bouts of self-inflicted torture where I revisited my decision over and over again were getting longer. Every now and then, when we dug our defensive positions at night, I stood in my trench, stared at the millions of stars, and repeated my plea for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, but I’ll make it worthwhile,” I promised the stars. “I’ll save lives one day. I’ll make up for doing this. I’m going to make this count. I will be an amazing leader ...” And then I’d continue searching the night sky for a sign, perhaps a shooting star that would wink at me to let me know that everything would be okay.

Near the end of the third week of our training, we deployed on a field exercise and were tasked to conduct day patrols. We learned about tactical formations, how to cross fields and bushes strategically, and how to avoid giving away our silhouettes on ridges. Those patrols were the most nerve-racking. Physically, we were being stretched beyond what most of us had thought we were capable of, and every mistake had Captain Rainville screaming at us to do push-ups, or squats.

There was a Grade A crazy side to Rainville that terrified all of us. He indoctrinated us at every opportunity: impromptu unarmed combat lessons after supper where he’d show us how to strangle the enemy with piano wire, or the perfect angle for a one-stab enemy kill with a bayonet. Stab, twist, and lift, he’d say, motioning the thrusting of a knife just under the enemy’s rib cage, turning a quarter turn, then lifting the blade to do the most damage. He’d show us how to crush each other’s skull with pugil sticks and have us fight one another on the grass field behind the barracks. In the classroom, he didn’t just teach us infantry tactics, he transported us to war zones through movie clips from Apocalypse Now, Hamburger Hill, or Platoon, dissecting the scenes one by one to highlight the manoeuvres that would get us killed, and those that would enable us to kill. Kill, or be killed, he’d repeat. Kill, or be killed, kill or be killed. Anyone daring to doze off in his class would be in the push-up position for the rest of it.

In the field, there was no such thing as practice, or dry runs. This was not training, it was war. We were on alert every minute of every day and mistakes would cost us dearly. A beeping watch, a poorly concealed flashlight under a tarp to look at a map, or an inadequately timed sneeze meant we’d be running with our gas masks until most of us dropped out from exhaustion. There were no simple by-the-book patrol scenarios. War doesn’t happen by the book, he’d argue, although not one of us was stupid enough to argue anything with him. He would incorporate impromptu trials in the patrols: grenades, booby traps, or sniper fire, to challenge every fibre of our warrior spirit. He continually designed seemingly insurmountable predicaments that had all of us failing our tasks during the first few weeks. But we learned. Rainville was a force to be reckoned with, and would have been top choice on anyone’s list of soldiers we’d want to deploy with if ever we went to war. His dedication to making us the best possible infantry officers was unequalled and impressive, much beyond any other course officer. We were all in awe of him, but also terrified.

By mid-course, our platoon was significantly smaller, no more than twenty, and getting smaller every week. Some had failed or quit, and others were on medical leave back at the barracks because of sickness or injuries. A normal infantry platoon consists of thirty soldiers, and this meant that those of us remaining had to carry a larger share of the ammunition and equipment.

During the preparation of a late-afternoon patrol, one where the second officer, Captain Latendre, was assessing us instead of Captain Rainville, I was assigned as the Carl Gustav gunner and also told that I’d have to carry the two spare rounds, which came in a separate carrier. Normally, two people shared that task. The Carl G. weighs about 14.5 kilograms and each additional round weighs 3.1 kilograms. Including my C7 rifle, ammunition, rucksack, snowshoes, and protective gear, I was to carry about approximately 58 kilograms, which was slightly more than my own weight. Looking around, I saw that others in the platoon had relatively lighter loads. I wondered why they were insisting that I carry so much, but I’d learned earlier on that I was sometimes put through these tests of endurance out of curiosity about women, as if my actions represented those of every single other female out there and these ordeals would answer all the questions they had about women in combat. I’m not even sure what those questions entailed, but several obvious ones came to mind. Are they too weak to do the job? Will they break down? Will they balk and cry? Will they bitch? Ultimately, my actions would decide what their perceptions would be for years to come, just like one’s first visit to the dentist forever influences whether we are going to take two Valiums the next time we go or get excited at the thought of getting a lollipop. If I failed, all women would continually be expected to fail until proven otherwise, but unfortunately, the opposite wasn’t true. If I succeeded, it would only put a tiny dent in the armour of their arguments. And if I outright triumphed, well, then I would probably be just a bizarre freak exception to the rule.

It wasn’t just the instructors who harboured serious doubts about my capacity to be in the infantry. I was skeptical as well. The image I had of a soldier wasn’t reflected when I looked in the mirror and saw a very average woman who recoiled at the explosive sound of the 84 mm missile launcher and was afraid of spiders. Could one be in the infantry if one was terrified of a man-eating spider (and weren’t they all man-eating)?

So these tests were just as important to convince me as they were to convince everyone else.

I knew my endurance would be limited at this weight but I said nothing and packed myself up like a mule, the rucksack piled so high that I could lean back and rest my head on the 84 mm missiles perched on my pack. At first it felt good, like a shark needing to swim against strong currents to stay alive. I felt strong, solid, motivated to do what they were daring me to do. I welcomed the gauntlet that had been thrown at my feet. They could have loaded me with a sea container full of lead weights and I would have only braced for more until my body broke. I may have even wanted it, as a liberation of sorts, an easy out of this miserable training exercise should I get hurt. I didn’t know it then, but the instructors had concocted this little challenge for their amusement, the same way young boys venture out on thin ice until it breaks (and of course it has to break or else what’s the point?).

It took less than one hundred metres for the full weight of the rucksack and equipment to start taking its toll, and as the terrain got rougher to navigate, I advanced wearily, knowing that if my knees buckled I’d fall and never be able to get back up. At least I was warm. Every wobbly step was cautiously tested and measured to ensure I had secured one foothold before attempting to lift my foot for another. We traversed an open field where past mechanized manoeuvres had left deep apc tracks criss-crossing our trail. I strained to keep upright. The equipment on my back squeaked rhythmically as I advanced perilously near the edge of the woods, careful of not leaning too much towards one side or another. With every teetering step the momentum of my load’s weight threatened to carry me with it. Our silhouettes were covered by walking in a gully and flanking a wooded area to our left. Luckily, we walked slowly and steadily so as to limit the noise, stopping every three hundred metres or so for the patrol leader to check his map and compass, readjusting his direction. Every stop, the drill called for us to adopt a kneeling position. I was forced to use my rifle as a cane to support my weight as I shakily bent down on one knee. Getting back up required more strength than I could muster and the person behind me would have to grab the straps of my pack to pull me up.

The single file of soldiers walking in front of me was in vivid contrast to the orange hue that settled over the terrain as the sun started to set. In the corner of my eye, I could see two instructors walking a few steps behind me on either side of the patrol. I could imagine them making faces at each other as they laughed at my laboured breathing and my unsteady advance. They were waiting for me to break, like vultures waiting for their frail prey to give in. I followed the section, my mind void of anything but forward motion, one succinct step after another. Distraction would finish me. I couldn’t have been more tuned in to the mechanical movements of my body, the precise alternation of weight shifting from one side to the other. I was firing on all cylinders and very winded. Despite the cold spring evening air, I could feel my back drenched in sweat and the droplets on my temples. My heart was pumping hard to keep up with the pace even if it was moderately slow. I leaned precariously like an old barn.

Less than a kilometre later, one of the training staff suddenly shouted, “Flare!” Just then, the sky lit up with the 40,000-candle power of the pyrotechnic flare. The drill meant that we had to hurl ourselves to the ground for cover so as not to be seen by the enemy. Flares are normally used only when it is totally dark, but this was a training simulation so I assumed that we were to pretend it was night. There was no way in hell I could dive into the knee-high grass because of the weight on my back, but with as much urgency as I could muster, I bent halfway down, first on one knee, then the other and finally I succumbed to the weight and let it crush me, face first into the frozen dirt. I tried to raise my arms to adopt a shooting position, then immediately realized that my efforts were useless. I couldn’t even lift up my head. The 84 mm missiles were pressed tightly against it. I tried to move my chin towards my chest to clear a better air passage for me to breathe but the front edge of my helmet dug into the ground. I wheezed painfully, taking in the damp earthy smell of the frozen ground underneath me. Trying to shift my position so that I could at least turn my head sideways, I realized within seconds that I was screwed. At that moment I understood that this was the party they had been planning for me.

The flare burned for about four minutes, after which the same instructor yelled, “Recover!” I tried to rock back and forth onto my back or push up with my arms, but I was nailed to my position. I couldn’t budge. I couldn’t even undo the quick-release straps of my pack because they were tucked underneath my body, covered by bandoliers of C6 ammunition. The bandoliers were digging into my hips where they’d already chafed a raw spot on one side. I looked like a helpless idiot, my arms flailing around trying to find a position where I could wedge myself back up. I could hear the instructors gathered around me, laughing.

I was starting to have trouble breathing now and my pride wouldn’t prevent me from pleading to be let up for much longer. I was nearing panic. My body was slowly being crushed like a piece of brittle china. I could feel my back muscles abandoning their resistance to the weight of my pack. My legs were starting to feel numb and my entire body was succumbing to the overwhelming load.

After a few minutes, which seemed like eternity, two of the training staff grabbed me by the straps of my rucksack, but instead of helping me up, they rolled me on my back where I lay just as helpless as a turtle flipped over on its shell. At least I could catch my breath. They laughed some more. Humiliated, I started fumbling for my quick-release straps underneath all the other equipment. Soon, many of my classmates had come over to see what the ruckus was about and they too got a good laugh.

“Perron, you’re something,” said the second course officer, leaning in to help me undo my webbing. “We didn’t think you’d make it past the first few metres, but you just kept going and going. You are so fucking pigheaded, it’s unbelievable,” and he just shook his head, not laughing so much now.

Fabien pushed a few of my classmates aside, muttered an oath as he helped me get up, and without discussion, a couple of others started unloading some of the heavier ammunition to better distribute it within the group. I felt ashamed, belittled.

“Shit, Bizoune, why the hell were you carrying all of that?” asked Fabien, who himself could have easily carried all this equipment and more. His jaw clenched as he lifted the bandoliers of ammunition over my head.

“Because apparently I’m pigheaded,” I answered. Nothing else was said. They’d had their amusement, and I’d no doubt be the brunt of jokes for many days to come, but despite the lingering pain in my back and shoulders, I felt like I had won a small battle, showing them what stamina and determination can do. The label of pigheadedness, however, lingered…

Pigheaded and stubborn. I liked to think of myself as persevering or determined. Tenacious maybe. There were shades of grey among all these character traits, but it did occur to me that I was probably varying degrees of most of them, most certainly trending towards a darker shade of stubborn. Combined with a need to prove to myself and to everyone else that women deserved their rightful place in the infantry and — Wham! I was a cross between a brick wall and a donkey. As I considered this, another thought came alarmingly to mind: I needed to be conscious of this stubbornness and make sure it didn’t blind me to my physical limitations. I was by no means a superwoman, and if I didn’t wise up, I could end up being hurt permanently, perhaps even jeopardizing more than just my career only to prove a point. I made a mental note to be mindful of my physical limits.

And then I proceeded to ignore it for the next four years.