BANG! And Other Hasty Decisions

[These are true stories as remembered by the author. All names have been changed and any resemblance to actual persons could be coincidental but is actually very deliberate.]

Chapter 1

“JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DIE ALREADY, STEVENSON!”
- Master Corporal McLean

The Canadian Army is a reasonably well-dressed, well-fed, well-housed, and, for the most part, a well-equipped fighting force. We did, however, find ourselves occasionally rather short on ammunition, when sent out to play. War games are an always popular way to while away a few hours in any infantry unit, and the Queen's Own Foot Soldiers, the elite Grenadier Guard, were no exception. We learned to dig holes (trenches, technically—WWI was a long time ago, but I guess some things never go out of style), guard said trenches (if you’ve ever wanted to whisper, “Who goes there?” in the middle of the night, then this is the LARPing role for you), and, if provoked, storm the other team’s trenches; a somewhat random activity that entailed much running amok and shooting of blanks.

Before setting off into the field, we would usually each be issued a few magazines of these blanks, but one day the battalion was neglected by our Ordnance Corps, and each soldier was only given thirty rounds or so. Should you have been obliged to fire an automatic rifle at any point in your life, you’ll know that thirty rounds will last you about 10 seconds, or less, if you’ve got an itchy trigger finger. To remedy this HQ oversight, our always resourceful leaders convened in a spontaneous field summit and emerged minutes later with their orders: the expression of a verbal offensive in the assault vector, thereby rendering targets instantly deceased, as though they had actually been shot by real blanks.

We were told to shout, “BANG!”

This seemed like an acceptable, even economical, solution to our ammo shortage, or at least until the barrage began.

Crashing through the underbrush, I could hear my fellow soldiers attacking on both flanks, firing tentatively at first (“uh…bang?”), then more and more gleefully, as the ten year-old Cowboy and/or Indian resurfaced. “BANG!” soon echoed throughout the woods, or, alternately, “BANGBANGBANG” if weapons had been set on automatic mode.
I took aim at a particularly obvious opponent, who had carelessly positioned himself in front of a sun-bleached rock wall, evidently having forgotten he was in full fighting order: resplendent in gaudy forest camouflage complete with shrubbery-sprouting helmet. When he was clearly in my sights, I hollered “BANG!”, as authoritatively as I could muster with my own foliage coiffure tickling my nose. There was a pause, and I peered through the underbrush, watching him as he looked frantically up and down and to each side, apparently surprised to have been picked off so easily. Instinctively, he lifted each arm and inspected his midsection, appeared to contemplate his narrow escape for a moment, and then shouted in the wrong direction, “YOU MISSED!” 

I certainly had not--sniper school was edifying--so I bellowed firmly back, “NO WAY! I GOT YOU!”

In a highly insulting underestimation of my skills, he responded, “NEGATIVE! YOU MISSED!” 

“I HIT YOU RIGHT IN THE CHEST!” 

“BULLSHIT!” 

“OK, BANG AGAIN!” 

“YOU MISSED AGAIN!” 

“BLOW ME!” This digression did nothing for my cover, and I soon heard, from about fifty meters to my left, “BANG!” Whirling around, I beheld Private DePommier’s head poking above a fallen tree trunk, weapon pointed straight at my own chest.

“BANG STEVENSON! I GOT YOU!”, he called. 

“YOU MISSED!”, I screamed back, terribly frustrated. If my man wasn’t going down, there was no way I was going to be left out of all the fun. 

“BANG! I AT LEAST GOT YOUR ARM!”, DePommier shouted again, now joined by the unmistakable jaunty cap and pie plate-sized ears of my sadistic Master Corporal, some little acne-scarred punk kid who used to work at a gas station in Southwestern Ontario but is all grown up now and ready to kill some…Germans? Arabs? Women? It seemed that Master Corporal McLean had decided, upon our introduction, that he wasn’t a fan of the Army’s affirmative action program, especially when one of the affirmative acts was in his section. Our relationship had not yet managed to develop past that point. 

Waving both arms at DePommier, to prove that I was, in truth, the picture of good health, I yelled, “NOPE—YOU MISSED—SEE?” 

“DUDE, YOU KNOW I GOT YOU”, he shouted back. I was just maneuvering myself to display an unharmed middle finger, when Master Corporal McLean joined our exchange, roaring, “GET DOWN STEVENSON, RIGHT NOW, AND CUT THE BULLSHIT!” 

“Damn”, I muttered, and slumped to the ground. Gratified at least to be able to put my edifying semester of high school drama class to good use, I clutched at my throat and convulsed violently, waiting until I had drawn my last, shuddering breath to take the position. [Canadian Army Field Exercises Rule #472(b): a soldier will indicate death in combat by reclining on the ground with legs and arms extended upwards.] I heard DePommier gloating—“Now you can blow ME!”—and scramble away. I didn’t move until I was sure Master Corporal McLean had decamped as well, and then glanced around, to confirm that my 'buddy' (every infantry recruit is assigned a partner, called a buddy, who must stick with him or her through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer. This is an arranged marriage that is literally only dissolvable by death), Private Freddo, and I were completely alone. I certainly did not intend on wasting the rest of the beautiful afternoon lying on my back in the mud. Lumbering up like an overloaded camel, I kneeled to hike my pack higher onto my back, leaned on my rifle and staggered to my feet. Freddo looked scandalized, but I suggested that, due to the fact that you only live once (or, in my case, twice or three times), it was our duty, to Queen and Country, to rejoin the fray and fight on to victory. 

Racing ahead, I spied another ill-concealed foe, Private Oiseau, and yelled “BANG ON YOU PRIVATE OISEAU!”, as loudly as I could. As expected, a distant voice warbled back through the trees, “YOU MISSED!”; but, in anticipation of this event, I had already formulated a response. 

“OK, THEN, BANG RIGHT THROUGH THE FOREHEAD, SNIPER STYLE!” 

“SHIT! Ok, fine”, Oiseau retorted petulantly, and I saw his helmet descend behind a rock and his hands and feet emerge in its place. Finally satisfied, I only had a second to revel in my triumph, before the dulcet tones of Master Corporal McLean came bawling from across the field, “IS THAT YOU STEVENSON?” 

“Um...NO?”, I tried.

“YOU’VE BEEN DEAD FOR TEN MINUTES! GET DOWN RIGHT NOW, AND STAY DOWN! JESUS CHRIST!”

“Ok, Ok”, I grumbled, and resumed my death rattle, as Freddo self-righteously whispered, “I told you so!” 

“Fuck off—bang yourself!”, I hissed back, accidentally responsible for the first friendly fire casualty of the day, and inadvertently introducing a new, and very handy, universal remote-control. If someone was bothering you, all you had to do was kill them. Should a dining companion be reaching for the last piece of pizza in the mess hall while you were still hungry, you could say, “BANG! That slice is mine”, and the slice would be surrendered. Likewise, two people rushing for the only clean bathroom stall could engage in a brief small arms aggression, shouting “BANG!” back and forth at each other until superiority was established. 

This unorthodox method of dispute mediation eventually became so automatic, that I ran into some minor difficulties upon my discharge. I found myself dispatching schoolmates and other civilians left and right. “BANG! That's my coffee!”, or “BANG! How dare you imply my proposed infrastructure is too derivative of Le Corbusier?!”
Usually, an explanation was required. Being that I have always upheld a staunch belief in pacifism and spoken openly about my resentment of being ordered around by men, this often turned into an extended narrative, and one that I never tire of recounting.

Chapter 2

I used to have a habit, a frequently unfortunate one, of making monumental, sweeping decisions without dwelling too long on the minutiae of what I perceived to be extraneous details or consequences. It was through this laissez-faire, and now wholly repealed mode of operation, that I came to unintentionally join the Canadian Army.
This rather embarrassing story is particularly amusing to the citizens of my current country of residence, the United States, being that they tend to take their armed forces very seriously, and have difficulty imagining how anyone could make a mistake of such import. Historically, Canadian units have rarely taken the role of aggressor, usually acting as allies in global conflicts, or peace-keepers under the larger umbrella of the United Nations, so the army, as a cultural phenomenon, plays far less of a role in defining our identity as a people.

Since Canada and the United States enjoy many common cultural norms and genealogical roots, the differences between our two countries are sometimes not as self-evident. A particularly obvious one, however, is the fact that we are a member of the British Commonwealth and the United States is not, thanks to several memorable skirmishes such as the War of 1812. This means that we share many things with Britain, some of which are lovely, like endless cups of Earl Grey tea, and some of which are less so, like endless cups of Earl Grey tea. It really depends on whether or not you like Earl Grey tea. I do, so I have always been a happy, if not overly patriotic, member of this Commonwealth.

We also share a monarchy, encumbered by the myriad traditions that define that whole bizarre situation. (During my time in the army, Queen Elizabeth was still at the helm.) Exhibit A: Her Majesty must be guarded at all times, by very manly men in fetching red coats and huge fuzzy hats, who stand still all day long and never crack the merest hint of a smile, even when cute girls try to kiss their cheeks. These are the Queen’s Foot Guards, otherwise known as “Busbies,” who wear black bearskin caps (from Canadian black bears) colloquially called busbies, hence the name. The bearskin caps were first worn by British, Spanish and French soldiers in the Eighteenth Century. These hats made the soldiers appear taller and scarier, and everyone believed that this fashion decision had contributed to their many victories. Unfortunately, the very qualities that inspired such respect also rendered them difficult to shampoo and condition on a muddy battlefield, so they quickly became a ceremonial uniform. Our parliament building, or 'The Hill', as it is affectionately (?) called, is the seat of Canadian power, and must therefore be treated to the same level of protection as the Queen's residence itself. So, we employ a bunch of Ceremonial Guards, “ceremonial” being the operative word here, to “guard” The Hill and the Governor General's (the Queen's representative in Canada) home in this manner, but choose to solicit local talent instead of culling from the ranks in Britain. One of the regiments honored with this exalted task is located in Montréal, my city of residence as a young adult, and called the Canadian Grenadier Guards (CGG).

Near the end of my first year of architecture school, it struck me that I should start thinking about summer employment. For those who have wisely declined the deadline- and coffee-fueled hysteria of architecture school, I should probably explain that students in this particular faculty rarely are able to think too far in the future; anything beyond the current project's final critique is a lifetime away. So, I was understandably in a bit of a rush to find a job once I realized that summer was quickly approaching and charm alone does not pay the bills. Allowing myself a five minute break, I proceeded to the student employment office, where I was confronted directly by a life-sized photo of one of these smartly-dressed Busby guards, instantly recognizable from Buckingham Palace fame. With an extravagant sum printed on the cardboard stand below: this was more money than I could earn in an entire year of waitressing! Not taking the time to inquire within, I quickly jotted down the number on the poster; confident that, with such generous renumeration, I could undoubtedly be relied upon to stand still for extended periods wearing a large black Q-tip on my head. Returning to the studio, I called the number, made an appointment to speak with a liaison officer the following afternoon; and, satisfied that I had at least taken the first step in finding a summer job, turned my mind back to the fascinating study of concrete slump testing.

In my usual rush, I was a bit late to the appointment, and was, somewhat sternly I felt, hustled in to a small office with bare walls containing a single desk and chair, enlivened only by the buzz and flicker of elderly fluorescent lights. The gentleman occupying the chair was wearing a nondescript but well-pressed uniform, and spoke in a rather unsettling staccato—not rude, but certainly not a tone that promotes conversational ease. He briskly inquired after my fitness level, academic pursuits and mechanical competence, and asked if I would be willing to take some tests. I reluctantly agreed, not too keen on adding to an already heavy course-load, but money had to be made somehow, and standing still without smiling seemed to best fit my current skill set. I was surprised that such a straightforward job necessitated a working knowledge of how an automobile engine was put together and the ability to do fifty pushups, but was too frazzled by my quickly approaching final examinations to pursue this line of inquiry in much depth.

I returned a week later, to answer questions about orienteering and hydraulic systems, and to lift a large heavy duffle bag, presumably filled with sand or failed applicants, onto my back. The man in charge of the testing appeared completely unimpressed by my performance; adding a form to an already disconcertingly thick file folder with my name on it, he told me that they'd be in touch if they were interested. Based on the poster's prominence at the employment office, the font size of the advertised wages, and the simplicity of the job, I was quite sure that they would be swamped with applications, and went home dejected, certain that lots of other people would be able to heft that bag with far more agility than I had.

Consequently, I was both astonished and elated to receive a message on my answering machine a few days later, informing me that I had made the first cut and that I was required to report back. I arrived at the appointed hour, proud to be only a few minutes late this time, and was again ushered unceremoniously into a similar box of a room and greeted by the expressionless face of yet another instantly forgettable uniform. We ran through my educational curriculum and he begrudgingly congratulated me for advancing this far in the testing process; the subtextual “because you are a girl” suffix was further highlighted by the next set of information he offered. A comprehensive, and in his opinion, prohibitively rigorous, physical examination had been set up for me a week later, and I was warned that I would be expected to complete male-like Herculean feats of strength and endurance. Not entirely sure how distinguishing oneself in the Standing-Still-and-Frowning competition could be this gender-biased, I nonetheless agreed to present myself at the specified address at the specified hour.

In preparation, I only had time to swim a few extra laps throughout the succeeding week and try some pullups on my housemate's boyfriend's door frame-mounted pullup bar. I did pledge to run a couple miles; but, it being springtime in Montréal, there was still three feet of snow on the ground, so this element of my self-imposed training regime remained unfulfilled. Thus, I arrived woefully unprepared at the gymnasium that Thursday afternoon. The paddy-whack machine of my youth was no preparation for what ensued. Staggering home after what seemed like interminable physical and mental torture, tempered only by moments of deliberate insensibility, I finally collapsed onto my bed, genuinely thankful to have failed to find a summer job.

Chapter 3

Due to what I felt was a regrettably poor gymnastic showing the week before, the acceptance package that I found in my postbox a few days later, thick with forms and checklists, came as a complete surprise. The moment of incredulity was short-lived, however, as I was simultaneously studying for five exams, finishing up a semester's-worth of drawings (keep in mind this was before AutoCAD: one inking mistake, and the whole drawing must be started again from scratch. I was not a particularly able draftsperson), building implausible models with balsa wood and an Olfa knife, mopping blood off my drafting table and bandaging cuts from said Olfa knife, endeavouring to preserve a relationship with a boyfriend who found me “cold” and “not present”, surviving on shrimp-flavored ramen and sleeping perhaps 4 hours a week—I couldn't possibly absorb any new information, nor did I have the desire to. So, I filled out the paperwork in a dazed panic, sent it all off, and thought no more on the subject. I simply did not have the capacity to conceive of a future that existed beyond my next bowl of chemical-infused noodles.

A few days later, I found a message with a phone number taped up next to the phone at the studio—I wasn't home enough anymore to use my home number as my home number—that when called, commanded me to report to a bus-stop downtown at 0600 hours the following morning. Since I rarely got to bed before an hour that didn't start with an 0, this struck me as being a tad unjust, but I imagined that I'd be able to sleep on the bus and then catch a snooze while I was waiting for whatever the next phase of this interminably long and complicated process was: there appeared to be far more involved in this whole standing-still-and-staring-straight-ahead gig than I had at first surmised.

Sleeping on the bus was not easy: the Greyhound I had assumed would whisk us off on our sightseeing excursion was actually a refurbished school bus, painted white and meticulously clean, but still as drafty and uncomfortable as I remembered from my elementary school years. Significantly intensifying this discomfort were several loud men in silly berets up at the front, who maintained a lively one-sided conversation with their captive audience throughout the duration of the trip. There was much discussion of fulfilling one's potential, and being all that one could be, and acquiring leadership skills and confidence, and finding strength in camaraderie, and leaving my boyhood behind to become a man, and all kinds of other bollocks that were about as relevant to my lifestyle as learning to Tuvan Throat Sing.

A very long hour later, we pulled into a parking lot full of jeeps and trucks with camouflaged bunting, a few rocket launchers and a couple tanks (the day suddenly became slightly more interesting), and uniformed men carrying rifles who waved us through a checkpoint. We were marched from the bus into a huge hanger, where it took my eyes a second to focus. The light was blinding, and tables piled with what seemed to be clothes and camping equipment were arranged in an unending 'S' snaking all the way to the back. Someone thrust a green canvas rucksack into my chest and ordered me to move forward, so I stumbled after the head bobbing along in front of me. The first two gifts I received were a green tarpaulin and can of waterproofing spray. I must have looked aghast (I am, even at the best of times, an unenthusiastic camper), because the guy behind the table sarcastically offered the advice that I would have to learn to care for my own tarpaulin all by my own self. He had misunderstood that I was not so much concerned about having to waterproof my own camping equipment, as I was astounded that camping was even part of the job description. Were we going to pitch tents on the front lawn of Parliament Hill? Were the tarpaulins for passersby to hold over our heads if it started to sprinkle? The mystery deepened as my rucksack filled up.

After being given, and demonstrated the packing procedures for, the aforementioned tarpaulin, a small camp stove and pot, a first-aid kit, a compass, a trowel (the purpose of which was inconceivable, so I ignored it), six pairs of thick grey wool socks, dark green mittens (summer temperatures in Ottawa rarely dip below 70, so I likewise ignored the socks and mittens), an undoubtably unflattering dun-colored harness called “webbing”, a green plastic water bottle, several green accessories that appeared to clip onto this webbing in some elaborate pattern—the amount of green objects in my rucksack was attaining inexplicable proportions—I was then directed to the next series of tables, where green fabric became the theme. Green shirts, pants, t-shirts, long underwear (again, an unexpected addition), rain gear, sweatshirts...I had visited our nation's capital many times, but had never noticed the tent city of verdantly-attired Busby guards that evidently existed right under the noses of millions of unwitting tourists. These Busbies were masters of camouflage!

Lugging my bulging rucksack to the next series of tables (the relevance of the earlier sand-filled duffle bag hoist and drop test began to dawn on me), I finally saw some things I recognized: racks upon racks of red jackets and dark pants with a red stripe next to ceiling-high shelving filled with the anticipated hirsute haberdashery. Up to this point, I had not been entirely confident that I was in the right place, but had lacked the courage to ask to be taken home. I was glad I hadn't: now I could explain that I had somehow gotten into the wrong line, restore my 30 kgs of tents and green pajamas to their rightful owners, and surrender to the glamor and prestige of being fitted for my smart red suit.

This happy bubble was promptly and viciously popped, an experience that became almost comfortingly familiar in the ensuing months.

Chapter 4

Thankfully, we did seem to be moving further from the mounds of green and closer to the wall of red, but I soon began to realize, with a rapidly-mounting sense of unease, that there was only one line, and that I was in it. It did not feel like the right time to point out my initial suspicions of misdirection, so I bit my lip and proceeded.

As I approached the racks of Busby uniforms, a burly seamstress with a mouth full of pins brusquely waved me towards her. Mumbling impatiently over my protestations, she made me remove all my clothes, then spun me around, eyed my bust and waist rather more critically than I felt was necessary, and waddled over to the rack of jackets. It was April, and the vast hanger was heated only by a few pathetic ceiling diffusers far above, so I was shaking with both cold and indignation: I didn't see any other half-naked women in the near vicinity, and I noticed that many of my equally disrobed (and male) fellow shoppers were also becoming aware of my unique situation. The seamstress returned with two jackets—the first one fit comfortably, albeit a little restrictively in the bosom area, but the second one was so tight that I could barely breathe as she buttoned me into it. I was understandably startled when she discarded the roomy one and laid the tight one out on the table. Responding my raised eyebrows, she informed me that I would lose so much weight during my training, that she would probably have to re-tailor it a second time. I tried to imagine a Toy Solider training regime that would tax me sufficiently enough to reduce my waistline by several inches. Maybe we practice by standing around until we starve nearly to death? Perhaps they don't feed us if we smirk or smile?

Bearskin hats stink. Not as badly as a fresh bear (only a guess at this point—I hadn't yet had an opportunity to smell an actual bear. More on this later.), but certainly not a fragrance that I would care to associate myself with publicly. The increasingly exasperated seamstress measured my head and pushed an odiferous furry thing at me, about the size of a smallish Labrador Retriever, grunting and motioning in a manner that led me to believe that I should place it on my head. Standing behind me, she positioned it carefully and tightened the chin strap. My hair, normally not coiffed even close to a standard my mother would approve of, was particularly unforgiving that day, and stuck out like clumps of limp hay. She tugged sharply at one of the more offending locks and dismissed me by assuring me that it would all be cut off anyway. While admittedly not possessing supermodel-thick waves, I was still nonetheless attached to the thin straggles that I had managed to grow out to my shoulders, so I silently pledged to avoid the barber's chair at all costs. More on this later as well.

The dress uniform was more fun: such dashing shiny hats and fitted blouses, and trousers that, unlike those of the Busby uniform, differentiated between waists and hips in their design specifications. The person who handed me these items also offered the information that I would be responsible for cleaning and ironing them, but this did not faze me, as I had never touched an iron in my life and did not intend to start anytime soon. I figured I'd just pop everything over to a dry-cleaner's when necessary, and eat my spaghetti like the lady that I was in the meantime. Much more on this later.

The bus ride home was a blur: utterly exhausted from the day's adventures and lack of sleep, I must have passed out until we were dropped off downtown. Trudging home through the knee-deep snow, hauling incalculable kilograms of gear and clothing I had absolutely no use for, I was thinking only of how fast I could get back to the studio to finish a model that I had been compelled to rebuild as the result of a nasty beer spill. The imminent and dramatic elevation of my bank balance also passed briefly through my mind. Any concept of 'army' was simply a footnote in a completely overwhelming story.

Three evenings later, however, I experienced my inevitable moment of truth. Summoned by yet another phone message taped to the studio phone, I presented myself, in “business-casual attire”, at the recruiting office on rue Ste. Catherine. Bleary-eyed from the most recent all-nighter, I tried not to snore as I sat in an overheated room on rickety folding chairs with about twenty other people. Many of them had apparently invited their parents, as there were several middle-aged couples in the back that I did not remember meeting in that freezing hanger. A small, rodent-like man marched stiffly into the room, ceremonial (one could but hope) sword clanking at his side, and barked us to attention. Since most of us had only seen this happen in movies, we all clambered up awkwardly and tried to stand as straight as we could with our arms at our sides. Lieutenant Ratface then commanded us to raise our right hand and swear, among other things, to protect our Queen and Country with our lives.

This gave me pause. I am not a loyal monarchist by any stretch of the imagination, and the Queen, while presumably a nice enough old lady, has never inspired me to feats of self-sacrifice, nor had my love of Country ever surpassed the affection I cherish for an excellent chocolate-glazed doughnut. This whole Busby gig was a summer job, not a career, and I definitely was not interested in being legally bound to any sort of World of Warcraft-empowered and deluded nerd fight club, for any reason whatsoever. I was even more disinterested in putting myself in a position where I could potentially lose my life within a system that I passionately abhorred. I opened my mouth to object, but suddenly the ceremony was over, and the parents were applauding and hugging their sons with pride. In heart-stopping panic, my mind raced back over the last month, trying desperately to remember everything that I had been told and read, and the contents of all the forms I had filled out and signed so distractedly. The realization hit me like what I would soon be able to identify as a Leopard C2 tank, making me so weak that I sunk back into my chair.

I had just joined the Canadian Army.

Chapter 5

My time in the Canadian army was marked by many intense experiences, the first one being my realization that I had, in fact, joined the army. The second followed soon after, when I was offered the option of killing a man or getting back on a bus.

The first shock was tempered somewhat by the irrelevance of the situation within the context of my demanding end-of-semester schedule, but once exams were over and projects handed in, I finally had time to consider the consequences of what I had done. I wasn't particularly concerned about the job itself—the thought of having to play statues all day long was not unduly daunting—but I was definitely not pleased to be a member of any armed force, and still rather confused by the presence of the tarpaulin and trowel in my rucksack. Responding to “what are you doing this summer” inquiries, I encouraged all my friends to make the trip to Ottawa for the traditional Canadian 'try to make the Busbies laugh' seasonal pilgrimage (I wasn't worried they'd pick on me—no one would ever recognize me in my bearskin hat), but I had to admit to myself that I wasn't sure exactly what I would be doing over the summer. I assumed the mystery would be cleared up soon enough.

And, it was, a few days later. The bus to our training base in Ottawa was leaving Montréal early in the morning, and I took the time to walk to the pick-up point slowly, saying goodbye to the city I loved, just in case I never returned. I have always appreciated a good dramatic opportunity, and the irresistible, albeit farcical, melancholy of this moment overshadowed even the drama of the night before, when my boyfriend had dumped me for the fifth or sixth time in as many months. The Grenadier Guard regimental building is located on probably one of the prettiest streets of Montréal, called l'Esplanade, facing the gorgeous Jeanne-Mance and Mont-Royal (the mountain in the middle of the city) parks. I sat briefly on the monument at the mountain's base, a perch with an incredible view of downtown, and the reality of my situation began to set in: I was leaving my friends and my city, heading off to be trained to do a job I didn't entirely understand, for an organization that I despised, in an environment that was completely new and not altogether appealing. I figured I could always go AWOL and flee to the United States if anything got too unpleasant.

My fellow recruits and I eyed each other warily on the bus ride to Ottawa—how was this social pecking order going to evolve? Who were the cool kids? The wimps? Who was envisioning themselves as the blood-thirsty star of 'Busby Guard, Mortal Kombat', and who was just in it for the money? I got the feeling that most people were looking upon this as a lucrative and exciting sort of summer camp, and several had already gone to the trouble of getting their hair trimmed into the standard buzz cut. I caught the eye of another girl, several seats back, and raised my eyebrows in a “this is weird, let's be friends” type of welcoming gesture, but she appeared not to have noticed me, staring straight through my awkward smile.

It turned out that the base was way outside of town, which depressed me even further—I had imagined that I'd at least be able to spend some time in Ottawa, which is a lovely city in the summertime. Slowing down to pass through a checkpoint at the top of a long driveway, I got a good look at what would be my home for the next four months: rows upon rows of whitewashed barracks and bungalows centered around a parade square; a mini-city of administration buildings, mess halls, athletic fields, an infirmary, credit union, convenience store, gas station, etc.; and beyond, a control tower and hangers, surrounded by asphalt out to the horizon. The man at the front of the bus told us that this was an air force base, and that we would occasionally be sharing the runways with airplanes: apparently most of our days would be spent in drill, practicing our fancy guard moves, and the best place to drill is a vast flat surface, unobstructed by marching hazards (aside from the aforementioned jets).

Pulling up beside one of the barrack blocks, we were ordered to get off the bus and line up by size. This took a lot of time and energy, since everyone seemed to think that they were taller than they actually were, but we ended up in a ragged line, each person with their rucksack and suitcase neatly arranged before them. An overweight ginger-haired individual in a uniform several sizes too small marched up to us, sweating profusely, and began yelling louder than everyone else. His first sentence shut the noise off, as if with a switch.

“If any of you little sons of bitches are not prepared to kill a man with your bare hands, you can get right back on the bus right now!” Everyone was instantly rendered speechless, but I sighed in relief. I finally had incontrovertible proof that I was in the wrong place, so I bent down to grab my stuff and get back on that bus as fast as I could.

“YOU! Female! Stand up straight when I'm addressing you! Do you think this is some kind of fucking game?!” I looked left and right, but everyone seemed to be frozen in place—he must be talking to me! I actually did think this was a fucking game, and a ridiculous one at that, but suspected it was not the right time to proffer this opinion. I concentrated on not snickering, and stared intently at the buttons straining against his sweat-drenched belly. This whole army thing might end up being more amusing than I had expected: I adored M*A*S*H, and thought Bill Murray's work in Stripes was pure genius.

“RECRUIT! What's your name?!” Fatty Ginger Soldier Spice was now standing so close to me that I could make a reasonably educated guess about what he had eaten for lunch: a hamburger with a generous onion garnish, I deduced.

“Elizabeth!”, I boldly replied.

“WHAT?!”, he bawled back, “I don't fucking care what your fucking mother named you. We'll try this again. What's your NAME, recruit?”

“Um...Elizabeth Stevenson?”, I tried, more hesitantly now.

“That would be Recruit Stevenson, SIR!” Onion-flecked spittle was flying like fetid sleet. I wanted to reach up and wipe my face, but I got the distinct impression that might be tempting fate.

“Ok, recruitstevensonsir”. Biting down hard on my lower lip to subdue the hysterical giggle that was bubbling dangerously close to the surface, I took the risk of making eye contact with my antagonist. The first of the many, many mistakes I would make in the ensuing months.

“Don't you dare look me in the face, you piece of shit! I may grant you this privilege if your skinny little ass makes it through boot camp, but until then, you are NO ONE! You are invisible until at which time you fuck up again, a moment I feel confident is approaching swiftly. I have noted you, Recruit Stevenson. I already pity the person assigned to be your buddy. Which brings me to my next point.” He spun around and marched back in front of the group. “Due to the fact that we are a drill unit, we have organized you by height. The person standing to your right will be your partner for the duration of your time in the Grenadier Guards. You will get to know this person very well. This person will be rewarded when you perform well, and be punished when you do something stupid.” The dark-haired man on my right squirmed uncomfortably. “If this person is thirsty, you will give them your canteen. If this person has a tummy ache, you will make sure they vomit up whatever it was that disagreed with them. If this person falls in battle, you will carry them to safety. This person is called your buddy, and you will eat, sleep, work, defecate and fight beside your buddy until one of you dies. Your buddy doesn't have to be your friend, but he or she (glaring pointedly at me) will take a bullet for you”. I snuck a glance at my new buddy. He was sneaking a glance at me, wide-eyed with fear and skepticism.

This was going to be a long day.

Chapter 6

We were sorted, again by height, into sections, divisions, platoons, and all sorts of other military-sounding terms that meant nothing to me. The infantry, we learned, was organized in a hierarchical system that I found initially to be both random and complex, and which continued to be so for a very long time. Understanding the chain of command is imperative, and I still have rank and formation 'family trees' tattooed on my brain: being able to recognize instantly who is the boss of whom is a skill that contributes a great deal to one's ability to remain invisible, a condition that one strives for, at all costs, in the army. I ended up in the shortest section, which was surprising since I've always thought of myself as a tall person, but did not take this as a personal slight. At least not until it was made abundantly clear that my dark-haired neighbor and I were also the shortest troops in the shortest section, and would therefore be the butt of every joke and the scapegoat target of every soldier who outranked us, which, at this stage, was practically everyone. My new buddy also seemed taken aback by this knowledge, and tried unsuccessfully to edge around me to the “taller” end of the line; an awkward pas-de-deux which did not bode well for our blossoming relationship.

My day of reckoning certainly had arrived. All my questions were unequivocally answered in the next few hours, beginning with The Mystery of the Tarpaulin and Trowel. Recruit Freddo, as my buddy was identified a few minutes later, and I were ushered, along with the other (only very slightly taller) members of our section to a large grassy area, where we were ordered to dump the contents of our rucksacks. We spread our piles of green equipment out in long rows, in a carefully choreographed pattern dictated by a man who barked out the name of each object and its use.

“TARPAULIN!: a bivouac during field maneuvers, and stretcher for fallen comrades! TROWEL!: to bury organic waste, in order to prevent infection and deter predators! PONCHO!: worn as a rain screen or used to augment bivouac! SCOTCH GUARD!: troops are responsible for waterproofing their own equipment! BAYONET!: affix to your weapon at close combat, can also be used to skin and butcher animals!” And so on, and so on. I doubted that my years of Brownie and Girl Guide camp had sufficiently prepared me for this experience. I had few fond memories of those endless, mosquito-infested, freezing cold summers, and did not recall ever earning a butchery badge.

Moving on to the uniforms, we were informed that not only were we expected to polish our combat boots to a bright shine on a daily basis, but also required to perform a process called “spit shining” (spit is actually involved) on our parade boots, to a mirror-like degree that allowed the inspections officer to see what time it was by reflecting the image of his watch on the toes of these boots. An ironing board and iron were lugged out by a pimply youth, trailing a long orange extension cord, and we were treated to a display of precision ironing, of both our dress uniforms, as well as our combat greens. (Perhaps sharp creases deflect bullets? Are infantry units assigned ironing boards in the field, and if so, who gets to haul it around? The least tall person, I suspected.) The regulation number and width of sleeve rolls was demonstrated (three rolls, four fingers wide), should we ever overheat whilst wearing a long-sleeved uniform, and we were informed that we were not allowed to wear the same clothes for morning PT (Physical Training) that we had worn out to the bars the night before. We were also advised that we would be throwing up a lot on our PT clothes, and it was recommended that a fresh set be always kept on standby.

Hygiene was next. The women were issued hairnets and an industrial-sized can of hairspray, and several female troops were paraded in front of us as examples of proper military bun structure. If your hair was too short to go into a bun, it would be cut off. My despairing attempt ended up so thin and horizontally cantilevered, that it was suggested more than once I should dress as Olive Oyl for the regimental halloween party. This did nothing for my ego, but did help me to avoid the barber's chair. The men had similarly stringent coiffeur restrictions, and must maintain absolute facial and neck hairlessness at all times, regardless of one's rate of hair growth—shaving several times a day was not unheard of for those of Mediterranean descent. Blisters were a subject unto themselves. It was expressly forbidden to pop your own blisters, as the possibility of an improperly treated blister going septic was very high. If infection did occur, and it was proven that the troop had not sought official medical care, a night in jail would serve to drive home that lesson. Two other jail-able offense were enumerated as being unable to fulfill one's duties due to a) fainting or b) uncontrollable digestive emissions, if it could be established that one had brought the ill effects upon oneself by binging on unhealthy snack foods or festive beverages. The army was investing a lot of money in our training, and it would be our fault if they were unable to reap the benefits of their investment; therefore, it was our responsibility to visit the infirmary as soon as we felt any discomfort whatsoever. At least, this was the theory. I soon learned that weakness was frowned upon most sternly; and, furthermore, as a woman, I would need to be able to do everything at least twice as well as the men, to be considered even half as able. This included silently enduring a lot of infected blisters and regurgitation and light-headedness; which, celebrating the silver lining in that cloud, actually did prepare me for finding myself insurance-less in a country without universal health care many years later.

Our section's inventory complete, we were introduced to Master Corporal McLean, an aggressively arrogant jarhead, built like a brick shithouse and clearly suffering from Small Penis Syndrome (as the months rolled by, I came to realize that the army had a disturbingly high occurrence of SPS in the upper ranks). He would be our best friend and worst enemy, breaking us down and building us up again: a man whom we would someday obey without hesitation and worship like the god that he evidently believed himself to be. To his credit, he was the one who finally managed to cleanse me of the last remnants of blissful ignorance I had been clinging to so desperately for far too long: he explained very clearly and with much pride, exactly what I had gotten myself into. The Grenadier Guards are a reserve infantry formation, whose primary role is the provision of combat-ready troops in support of regular command units. As we were responsible for protecting the Queen anytime she is on Canadian soil, our training would be both intense and comprehensive. Our ceremonial duties were secondary, and would require only a fraction of our time, once our summer tour was complete. Eventual deployment was possible, and in some cases, a certainty, depending on how the war in Bosnia went down.

Welcome to bootcamp, Recruit Stevenson.

Chapter 7

Bootcamp was a blur—little sleep, lots of yelling, inspections of everything from hairstyles to bed-making, introductions to weaponry and ammunition that scared the shit out of me and field rations that appeared to have been pre-digested, so many disciplinary pushups that I lost track after a hundred during one markedly emphatic dressing-down—interrupted by several notable moments of clarity and revelation that I have come to recognize retrospectively as being among my most personally transformative, to date.

Due to the fact that there were so few women on base, we all bunked in the same barracks, so my fellow female recruits and I did have a slight, and singular, advantage over the men, in that we were warned by our higher-ranked roommates about some of the more obtuse modes of persecution that were coming our way; and, more importantly, assured, by the very existence of these women, that bootcamp was do-able. Most days, we ran about carrying 30kg rucksacks and gigantic C7 rifles (which eventually, with the familiarity bred of endless drill, became deftly-wielded little extensions of our own arms) from before dawn until well after midnight, only to be rudely awakened again each morning at 0430 by a lo, lo-fi recording of reveille evidently performed by a tone-deaf veteran of the Great War on an equally ancient bugle. Unaccustomed, for the first couple weeks, to bunk beds, we'd lurch clumsily out of bed, the bottom-bunk residents attempting, with a calamitously high degree of failure, to avoid cutting their foreheads open on the metal frame above, while their upstairs neighbors suffered repeated sprained ankles from the abrupt and unexpected change in elevation. Pulling on our vomit-stained PT clothes, the half-dozen or so of us would blearily brush our teeth with whatever instrument first presented itself, and stagger out to the parade ground, where we would be screamed at mercilessly as we did pushups until we vomited again. This was altogether a bad scene, and I rapidly came to regret ever being born, but my general malaise was increased even further by my first “Night and Day” treatment. This was one of the abuses that our barrack-mates had warned us about. If anyone in our section or division screwed up in a particularly offensive fashion, the entire group would be subjected to this bizarre practice: specifically designed for bootcamp, it was also utilized as the ultimate punishment for any soldier, held over our heads throughout perpetuity, guaranteeing absolute obedience.

My initiation into “Night and Day” happened after one of the guys in my section, Recruit Maigre, happened to enjoy an outstandingly rambunctious evening at the bars in Ottawa on our first, and only night off during bootcamp, and word got back to Master Corporal McLean that the young man had not comported himself in a manner that befitted a Ceremonial Guard. We had literally just dragged ourselves back onto (not 'into': no one actually sleeps under the covers, as only an idiot would add an extra step in their morning routine by taking the time to make their bed) our two-inch thick foam “mattress” planks, after a day so exhausting that I was having trouble mustering even the energy to make my own heart beat, when Master Corporal McLean burst in to the female barracks screaming, “STEVENSON! Get your sorry ass out of bed! Your colleague Maigre has lamentably underperformed! Outside, spotless PT attire!”

Fortunately, I had a general idea of what was in store, since I had been forewarned of this possibility. Unfortunately, I did not feel like participating. I had just spent the last hour washing and pressing all my uniforms, a challenge in itself with only four washers and dryers in a building that served around twenty women, and another hour spit-shining my parade boots. This is an extraordinarily labor-intensive process that involves rubbing polish into the leather, spitting on the place you just rubbed the polish (after my first few nights waking up with a mouth so dry it felt like I had sleep-eaten an entire bag of pretzels, I learned to fill the lid of my polish tin with water and dip my rag in that instead), buffing the hell out of a tiny spot until it started to shine like a mirror, and then repeating over the entire boot. I eventually learned to polish both my combat and parade boots while napping, but had not yet attained these heights of efficiency in the first week of bootcamp. Weapons also had to be cleaned meticulously: if a white-gloved inspections officer stained the perfection of his gleaming index digit even slightly during his intrusive violations of our poor rifles, we would be reprimanded with a thoroughness that one did not soon forget. Thus, it was rather a blow to discover that my section, due to the inattentions of Recruit Maigre, would be compelled to enact an entire “day” and “night” in the space of approximately three hours, therein rendering most, if not all, of our painstaking uniform and weapon maintenance null and void.

Leaving my barrack-mates, who couldn't decide whether to weep in sympathy or thankfulness at being left alone to sleep, I raced outside, nearly blind with exhaustion, and joined my equally desperate section, shaking with fear and cold, on the moonlit parade ground. Master Corporal McLean marched up with a terrifying smirk and informed us that the next few hours would probably be the most unpleasant we would ever spend, outside of the theater of war. Everyone stared accusingly at Maigre, who appeared unable to breathe.

“Fifty pushups! DROP, motherfuckers!” We dropped and immediately started to implode—after the day we had just endured, even the strongest among us was unable to complete more than ten. I heard sobbing, and reached up to touch my eyelids, hoping it wasn't me. Master Corporal McLean stalked back and forth between the two rows of heaving backs and continued to scream as though someone had shat in his poutine, “Come ON ladies! This is only the fucking beginning! You're going to have to dig deeper than that if you don't want me to give you a reason to cry, you flaccid little pricks!” This encouragement did serve to motivate us to a significant degree, and we all managed to finish with only minor collateral damage. “OK! Back to barracks! Dress uniforms! NOW!”

Delirious with pain and fatigue, I yanked my flawlessly ironed uniform from its hanger and put it on as quietly as I could, gravely worried that I might wake someone. I was learning very quickly that this army thing was a group effort, whereby the survival of the individual was directly contingent upon the success of the whole, so it was in my best interest to nurture the well-being of the collective. This contrasted directly with my experience growing up as the eldest of three girls, where the success of the individual was directly contingent upon the bossiness and self-assumed superiority of said individual, so I was finding this new “Borg” sensibility especially difficult to come to terms with, while, at the same time, vaguely illuminating.

Bootcamp revelation #1: I may have, in the past, occasionally been, at some junctures, a selfish asshole.

Buttoned into pristine blouse and trousers, tie knotted firmly, mirror-shined hat brim and boots front and center, I flew outside again and joined the ranks of my increasingly blurry section-mates. Master Corporal McLean marched us back and forth on the tarmac for what seemed like hours, bawling commands that meant nothing to my terror-added brain but somehow inspired my arms and legs to respond correctly. Sweating profusely in spite of the frost, I perceived that my entire uniform would need to be laundered and ironed again before reveille, which was now less than two hours away. Ordered into yet more pushups on an adjacent concrete sidewalk, the toes of my brilliantly spit-shined parade boots were promptly shredded, adding an hour of boot recovery to my second round of chores.

“Ok, you bags of piss: back here in thirty seconds, in FFO!” FFO (Full Fighting Order) was comprised of all the green equipment that had so puzzled me at the supply depot, including clean and pressed combat shirt and pants, foliage-adorned helmet, camouflage face-paint, fully-loaded rucksack, webbing with canteen and ammo pouch, polished field boots and pristine rifle. My heart sunk as we marched off through the darkness to the firing range: I had spent at least forty-five minutes earlier that evening (a comparatively relaxing idyll that felt like a lifetime ago) transforming my rifle into a masterpiece of cleanliness, and I was well aware that if I fired it even once, I'd need to clean and oil it all over again. I was particularly nervous, since I had already failed one rifle inspection and knew that if I produced another “disgusting, filthy weapon” during drill, my buddy Freddo and I would be first in line for Master Corporal McLean's next sadistic game.

By this point, I was on autopilot, fueled only by adrenalin, so I barely registered the torment of our next fifty pushups, rucksack and rifle swinging from our backs. Satan-with-Stripes demanded a single shot in the prone position, cleverly conserving valuable blanks while ensuring that we'd need to re-clean the entire rifle. Finally arriving back at the barracks, after a forced march of several laps around the base, we were ordered to present ourselves and our locker for inspection, and I realized, with a sickening dread, that Master Corporal McLean would be invading the room of my peacefully-sleeping and unsuspecting associates. The boys got to go first, so I took the opportunity to tiptoe into my building, whisper-shouting that everyone should prepare themselves for a very rude awakening, but no one stirred. My voice tight with hysteria, I squeaked, “the devil is coming!”, mere seconds before Master Corporal McLean charged in and started ripping open my locker and foot-locker, decreeing with a shriek that my dress uniform was unacceptable (not a huge surprise, being that I hadn't had a chance to pop it by the dry-cleaner’s since the beginning of this nightmare) and that my damaged parade boots were beyond discussion. “WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SOLDIER ARE YOU?!”, he rhetorically howled. “You are a DISGRACE to this unit, Stevenson, and I hope to god that my life is never in your hands!” I, however, hoped it would be, someday.

I rejoined my section outside the men's barracks, numb with despair and sleep-deprivation. The sun would be rising soon, so Master Corporal McLean regretfully stepped down and ordered us to commence the reparation of our kit with all haste. I snuck back into my barracks, praying that everyone had fallen back to sleep. Spitting and shining and scrubbing and ironing like my life was at stake (which I believed, in all sincerity, it to be), I barreled through my tasks, in the hopes of getting at least fifteen minutes of horizontality before the whole hellish process began again. Alas. Just as I pulled the last clean towel through the barrel of my C7, the screeching notes of our morning bugle barrage wheezed agonizingly through the mono-channel speakers in the ceiling, and all the women sat up abruptly like someone had slapped them simultaneously. The usual waking fogginess was supplanted this wretched morning by a deep, visceral, momentarily inexplicable anger that I could see twisting about in everyone's minds, during the two or three seconds it took for them to become fully conscious, and recall the chaos of their precious few hours of repose the night before. Again in unison, all heads whipped towards me, and all eyes glared at me with a bestial malevolence. This horrifying savagery disappeared almost instantly in empathetic murmurs and hugs, but I was speechless with shock and devastation. I would expect such raw evil from my ignorant jackass of a Master Corporal, but not from my new “friends” and only allies for 200km.

Bootcamp revelation #2: there is, in fact, a monster in us all.

Chapter 8

Bootcamp revelation #3: If I don't die trying—literally—I can do anything I want to do (or am ordered to do).

Essentially, bootcamp is a highly-refined process designed to break a recruit down into his or her constituent atoms, and then rebuild from scratch the ideal soldier. The mechanism is as follows: force subjects to endure a consistently extreme level of physical and mental strain; endless insults to, and mockery of, the most fundamental and defining elements of their personalities and identities; and then deprive them of sleep to such an extent that rationality and individualism begin to take second place to pure survival instinct. The military, in any country, even non-aggressive UN peacekeeping troop-suppliers, is a complex and well-oiled machine; and, regardless of how one feels about it from an ethical perspective, one must concede that it works perfectly.

I had initially adopted the foolish stance that I would be able to complete bootcamp, fulfill the tour of duty that I had pledged to the Queen, and emerge unscathed on the other end: sound in mind, body and soul. I scoffed the notion that I would be brainwashed into a fighting automaton, mindlessly obeying idiots that were superior to me only in rank and magnitude of inferiority complex. I ridiculed the friends who predicted I would address everyone as Sir and speak in the stereotypical monosyllabic monotone, even when back in civvies. I knew I was strong, and was certainly not afraid of self-important men in uncomfortably-starched uniforms. In fact, I almost relished the challenge—if anyone could teach the army a thing or two about what real character was, it would definitely be Recruit Stevenson!

These, and other now-humiliating flights of fancy, sustained me through the first few days of bootcamp, until I woke up abruptly one morning, thirty seconds before our ear-shattering alarm. I was lying in the pose of “at attention” on my bed, as stiff as a rail, hands clenched in fists at my sides, and a wave of nausea passed over me as I realized that I had already begun to fall under the spell of the evil empire. Later on in the summer, as we rode the bus to and from Ottawa to perform our daily ceremonial functions, I would stare blankly out the bus window, watching people jogging or taking photos or having lunch on a patio, and feel absolutely no connection to them, perhaps like a humanoid intergalactic tourist might, gazing upon a new species who looked remarkably like I did, but with whom I shared no common experiences. It took months for me to integrate myself back into society, after my discharge. I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it must be for people who have actually fought in a war. But I digress.

I have never been a fighter; in fact, I would even say that I was, and still am, strictly conflict-averse. I did, when my age was still in the single-digits, enjoy asserting my will over my younger sisters, and beating up little boys who suggested they could skate faster than I, but my aggression was usually borne of bossiness, not rage. However, halfway through bootcamp, I was edified by a new, and not entirely welcome, life lesson.

We were introduced to an amusing little past-time affectionately called “Balls to the Walls”: our Master Corporal gathered us into a circle, threw a soccer ball into the middle, barked out two names, and proceeded to laugh maniacally as the lucky duo duked it out over this sacred article of sports equipment. The recruit who managed to wrest the ball from the other and transport it singlehandedly outside of the circle was awarded by positive reinforcement from our superiors, which only meant that they were temporarily exempted from being screamed at in the usual fashion. This was part of the army-machine magic: if you misbehave or “slack off”, you are treated to a display of uvula and tonsils so comprehensive that even the screamer's doctor would find it illuminating, but if you are successful in meeting the inane and/or violent criteria of a certain task or “game”, approval is demonstrated by offering the gift of indifference. I sensed that I would soon be the beneficiary of yet another intimate exhibition of Master Corporal McLean's pharynx.

Being that everyone else in my section and division were men, and bigger than I was (although not by much, at the end of the summer: mid-August, my biceps were larger than my pre-army thighs), a female had been summoned from another division, to try and grab my balls. This was no ordinary girl, however. I knew Tina Barbieri well, seeing as we shared sleeping quarters, where she was celebrated for her inability to suffer fools gladly. Diplomatically stated, she was a real bitch. I'm sure she was a lovely young lady at heart, and a great favorite of her grandmother, but she outweighed me by about 20kgs, and was clearly used to getting her own way. We weren't enemies though, since I made sure she never had the opportunity to register my presence. I always blended into the scenery if we were heading for the same bathroom stall, or if she showed an inclination to put her laundry into a washing machine I had already claimed.

Most notably, she had recently whisked the last piece of one of our roommates' birthday cake from beneath her very nose, thus depriving both the birthday girl and I from sampling the cake at all: we had assumed the responsibility of cutting and distribution, and hadn't had a chance to claim our own pieces yet. I have a profound respect for cake, and fiercely resented this selfish gesture. Tina had already consumed one slice, and no one had indicated that seconds would be provided (I was secretly maneuvering myself to serve as the Cake Removal Expert), so I fumed with silent impotence as I watched her take only a few bites of the stolen goods before casually tossing the rest in the bin. My rage had only barely begun to dissipate a week or so later, when our section found itself again on the dreaded Balls to the Walls list, so I was eager to settle the score. Bring it on, Barbieri!

Master Corporal McLean placed the ball in the center of the circle, and backed away, shouting, “Stevenson! Barbieri! Get in there!” I glanced over at Tina, who was focusing her laser gaze on the ball. My strategy, discussed in panicked whispers with my bunk-make the night before, was to channel Muhammad Ali: float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Barbieri can't hit what her hands can't see. So, I took the offensive, and darted in without hesitation, confident that I was a faster runner than she, and counting on the element of surprise to carry the day. I had, however, significantly underestimated my ability to be graceful under pressure. Years of figure skating, learning to flourish my arms expressively as I landed high-speed spinning jumps (in all truth, usually on my bottom), had not prepared me appropriately for this test. I had planned on racing to the ball, deftly scooping it up, and then diving back to the safety of the circle in under 1.5 seconds, or at least in a short enough period of time for me to appear as only a blur in Barbieri's peripheral vision. I had not anticipated fumbling the ball, and then tripping over my own clown-sized boots on the return journey. I knew that Plan A had failed when I heard the tone of the shouts from the guys in my section change from lecherous (what testosterone-replete male does not appreciate a good girl fight?) to advisory, and then rapidly, to concerned. Barbieri had evidently been practicing at the track, and was upon me before I could formulate Plan B. The ensuing skirmish was brief and humbling—the ball was removed from my death-grip with no more energy than it would take to pluck a tulip, and I received several salutary elbows to the face, rewarding me for my efforts while simultaneously warning that further resistance would be futile.

Her tackle had knocked the wind right out of me, and it took me a few minutes to recover. I could vaguely hear Master Corporal McLean shrieking somewhere, far, far above, and felt myself being dragged a few meters, presumably clearing the stage for the next round of gladiatorial combat. I glided my tongue across my upper and lower rows of teeth, hoping desperately that I would not find any gaps, and wiped the blood from my presumably now thrice-broken nose. (The previous two occasions had been the result of sporting accidents with male teammates, and I took some pleasure in the fact that, like the army, my crooked nose could also boast of espousing gender equality.)

Spread-eagled on the grass and very much alive, only a little worse for the wear, I stared up at the sky and gave myself a pep talk. This had been my first real fistfight; and, while I had admittedly not acquitted myself with an overwhelming degree of valor, I obviously hadn't been killed, so I allowed my natural, albeit generally misguided, optimism to claw its way back to the surface. Bootcamp, schmootcamp. I was suddenly ready for anything.

Chapter 9

Bootcamp graduation day began just like every other day: heralding the pre-dawn glow with the usual feral cat orgy/bugle serenade, followed by several hundred sit-ups on dew-soaked, freezing cold concrete and other miscellaneous calisthenic exercises that are designed less to shape our bikini figures and more to impress upon us that we are unworthy of life and the pursuit of happiness; all culminating in the grand finale of breakfast. Breakfast is always a festive occasion on base, usually devolving into a competition to see who can empty the seemingly endless bulk cereal bins first, washed down by the contents of the equally generous chocolate milk tanks, and this day was even more exciting, as it would mark the end of the last few excruciating weeks of degradation and hard labor. Of course, the degradation and hard labor would continue as before; but, from henceforth, we would be sustained in our endurance by the noble rank of “Private”.

Our berets had always felt a bit drab—just a plain dark green felt hat, edged with a black pleather band. Today, they were enlivened by the addition of a shiny Canadian Grenadier Guard brass insignia, pinned to a folded area above the left eye. For fascinating reasons that we had apparently learned during bootcamp lectures, but had not managed to absorb in our sleep-deprived state, the insignia represents an exploding bomb: a small convex disc, about 1.5cm in diameter, with stylized flames bursting forth from the top like a drag queen's wig. The ceremony itself consisted of an inspiring lecture about how honored we should be to wear such a glorious symbol, and how badly we would be punished if we desecrated its holiness in any way. Marching proudly back to barracks, we were informed by a passing group of reg force troops (the CGG are a reserve formation) that this prestigious piece of jewelry was known to them as the Canadian Girl Guides badge, which put a slight damper on our triumph, but we consoled ourselves by loudly observing that it was perfectly normal for desk jockeys to be jealous of real soldiers.

Some of the more amusing newly-minted CGGs wondered if we would be celebrating our transformation from Recruit to Private with a day at the spa, but most of us knew better. Ordered to change into “Drill”, I predicted a long, hot day of marching back and forth across vast shimmering fields of asphalt, the metal heels and toes of our parade boots clicking away in a rhythm that was completely maddening unless everyone was in perfect step. I was not far wrong. However, we discovered that today, to fete our recent promotion, we would also begin learning the precise set of rifle and foot work that we'd be using in our duties on Parliament Hill and at the Governor General's residence. I have never considered grace to be one of my marketable skills, but I've always been an excellent dancer, at least in front of my mirror at home, so I anticipated this next phase of our training would be a cakewalk after the rigors of bootcamp.

The walking part of ceremonial drill was actually somewhat cake-like, but the rifle whirling and tossing and brandishing and balancing presented rather more of a challenge. Everything would have been just fine if was ok to drop one's weapon now and then on the parade ground, but sadly it was not ok. Not even remotely ok. In fact, it was about as ok as punching one's grandmother in the face. During bootcamp, I had enough trouble just maneuvering my rifle from its position slung across my back into firing stance, but now I found myself in a whole new world of humiliation. In drill mode, this unwieldy, pointy (the bayonet is affixed for a large portion of the Changing of the Guard ceremony), oily object becomes a majorette's baton; the only difference being that if a majorette drops her baton by accident, after a difficult series of spins and throws, she is not screamed at until her eyebrows slide around to the side of her head and forced into more pushups than can be reasonably accomplished in a twenty-four hour period, usually with the additional assistance of a booted foot pressing down on her back. Even on my best days, no one has ever mistaken me for a majorette, so I spent most of the first week of CGG drill instruction on my stomach; my ambitious push-up regime interrupted only by brief stints back with the group, racing to catch up, until the inevitable moment in which I dropped my rifle again.

My buddy Freddo and I were often invited back to the parade ground after dinner to continue our practice alone, aside from the companionship of our beloved Master Corporal. Freddo was not struggling as much as I in his weapons drill, so these practice sessions were mainly for my own benefit, but he was compelled to tag along, due to the fact that he was my buddy and we had to do everything together. After a few of these nights became mornings, I sensed that he was beginning to strenuously resent our partnership, so I initiated a campaign that I was confident would display my charms to more of an advantage.

For the next few days, Operation BFF occupied most of my time and energy, outside of my regular duties. Oftentimes, Freddo would find his boots mysteriously polished and trousers pressed (just to make sure there was no mystery, I tucked cards saying things like, “Courtesy of the Buddy Fairy” or “Thank you, Easter Buddy” into a shoelace or pocket)(in retrospect, I think this might have done more harm than good), or a fresh bowl of his favorite breakfast cereal would magically appear on the mess hall table before him, just as his own bowl was getting low. I copied my class notes for him, drew him into conversation about his own failing relationship back in Montréal, and complimented him incessantly on both his wit and good looks. Slowly, the ice seemed to be thawing.

All this extra training was paying off as well, because I rarely dropped my rifle anymore: even fumbling became a thing of the past. In fact, my burgeoning drill expertise, complimented by Freddo's renewed enthusiasm for the job, actually developed into a situation that surprised the hell out of everyone, Master Corporal McLean first and foremost. In fact, it would not be overstating the case to say that his diabolical intentions backfired, with a big, loud BANG, right in his big, ugly mug.

The Master Corporal and I had clearly not started off on the right foot, and subsequent events hadn't really served to endear me to him either. He had been taking great pleasure in watching Freddo and I drilling for hours after dark, enjoying himself so thoroughly that he was willing to sacrifice his own evenings of dissecting kittens, or whatever he did in his spare time, to encourage us to even greater heights of proficiency, so the result was highly satisfying (for us) and enraging (for him): Freddo and I became the best weapon-handlers in the entire platoon. We consistently received compliments on our drilling from visiting dignitaries, and I was once invited to publicly demonstrate my skill at dismantling and rebuilding my rifle blindfolded—with Master Corporal McLean's selfless commitment to my private instruction, I had become so adept at this task that I could do it a full 3-5 seconds faster than anyone, including Himself. Adding further insult to injury, he was roundly commended, by both his colleagues and superiors, for these incredible pedagogical feats, as no one expected the shortest fireteam in the shortest section in the shortest division to be distinguished in any way, especially no one who was aware of Freddo and my unfortunate experiences within this hierarchy thus far. Torn between slavish pride and blind hatred, our Master Corporal was a textbook study of personality disorders.

A dramatic clash of these neuroses occurred one morning, during a special ceremonial inspection on Parliament Hill. After a particularly jaunty presentation of arms, Freddo and I received an official “nod” from some unmemorable but undoubtedly royal character, as their entourage passed before us in troop review.

Staring straight ahead, I strained my peripheral vision to try and catch Master Corporal McLean's eye. He, of course, did not acknowledge me at all, but the exquisitely tortured expression on that asshole's face was the highlight of my entire summer.

Chapter 10

While hard-pressed to be able to offer a wide range of favorable commentary about my time in the Canadian Army, I can definitely identify one uncharacteristically positive element of the experience, basically the only nice things that happened to me all day: meals in the the mess hall. Contrary to the stereotypical tray of slop, often portrayed in comedic depictions of military life, the air force base where we were stationed had a different idea of how to keep their troops fueled up.

Breakfast was especially wonderful: not being much of a morning person, I rarely ate breakfast before I joined the army, and didn't really pick up the habit afterwards either; but, for the four months I spent on that base, I became a devoted breakfast enthusiast. I dreamed about breakfast all night, and thought about breakfast as I was running laps during PT at five in the morning. I discussed breakfast with my section-mates as we did pushups in the rain, and Freddo and I endlessly plotted strategies for gaining time during the breakfast rush—it was a big base, so everyone had to eat in shifts of about twenty minutes. Getting through the hot food line took between seven to nine minutes, and fighting your way through to the cereal bins and milk tanks took another three to four, then finding a table was always a challenge, so you usually ended up with about five minutes to eat enough food to sustain you until lunch. Due to the truth of the cliché: “the army gets more done before 9am than most people do in a day”, we would all need about 2500 calories to see us through to noon. That's a lot of cereal, eggs, pancakes, toast, bacon, waffles, fruit and sausages to shovel in. Through much trial and error, Freddo and I eventually pinpointed several foolproof schemes to augment our shovel time:

  1. Don't appear too eager and run to the front of the line. This only guarantees that some eager-to-order-someone-else-around Corporal will send you straight to the back.

  2. Develop a taste for an unpopular breakfast cereal: the lines were always shortest behind the off-brand Bran Flakes and plain Shredded Wheat, both of which are enlivened considerably when drowned in chocolate milk.

  3. Have your hot food order all ready to go, and demonstrate an appropriate level of respect and admiration for the person cooking it. Furthermore, choose wisely. A perfectly poached egg, while both delicious and attractive, takes more time to cook than scrambled eggs. Plus, if you order any type of soft yolk egg preparation, you will be obliged to squander priceless minutes lining up for the toaster, and then carefully slicing your bread into dipping strips, a.k.a. toast soldiers. Waffles are obviously more desirable than pancakes, but pancakes are faster, and can be sprinkled with chocolate chips if you have previously taken the time to establish a genial relationship with the pancake-meister. Bacon is a fine choice, but indigestible if undercooked. Ham or sausages take a bit longer to cook through, but the extra fifteen or twenty seconds is well worth it, to ensure that you don't find yourself standing on the drill square in a few hours, panicking in a pair of increasingly tight polyester double-knit trousers as your gas bubble expands to dangerous proportions.

  4. Fresh fruit takes time to peel and slice: if you must have a banana with your cornflakes, choose a ripe one, chop off one end, and just squeeze it out. Apples can be stashed in a pocket for later, but oranges should be avoided at all costs, since they take too long to peel and section at table, and are too messy to consume secretly.

  5. Make friends with tea drinkers, or coerce your current friends into becoming tea drinkers. Large steel teapots are available at the hot drinks station, so you can bypass that line entirely if you nominate a “mother” to make a pot for the whole table every morning. We learned that the term “mother” was best not said out loud, when the designated mother was within earshot.

  6. And finally, don't waste any time in the mess hall bathroom afterwards. Those lines are enormous, and there are plenty of other cleaner, lesser-travelled locations nearby: compile a map of all the unmarked and unguarded officer restrooms on base, and use them with extreme prejudice.

Lunch was fine, but doesn't really merit much discussion—typically box lunches or otherwise serviceable hot meat sandwiches and chips; however, dinner was the pièce de résistance. The food service company, at least on our base, actually seemed to take pride in their work, and consistently offered such delicacies as better-than-your-mother's lasagna, not-gross meatloaf, perfectly cooked roast beef and yorkshire pudding, baked chicken with homemade stuffing...it was like christmas and thanksgiving and your birthday every night. Even the spaghetti was more than simply just edible. I rarely order pasta in restaurants, even fancy ones, because it always comes out mushy and overcooked in big sticky clumps, but these people were pros. Al dente and olive oil squiggly every time. And, they even offered a choice of meatball or minced beef sauces! Spaghetti and minced beef has been, since the age of 0 up to the present, my favorite food in the entire world. However, I've always considered meatballs to be rather uncouth and ostentatious, and my minced beef-to-sauce ratio is very specific, so I rarely have had the opportunity to really enjoy a spaghetti dinner unless I make it myself; and even then, not so much, since I am a terrible cook. Imagine my elation when I discovered that, not only does the mess hall frequently prepare this particular dish, but they do it exactly the way I like it! This was ALMOST enough to make up for some of the more traumatizing indignities I suffered that summer.

Even more exciting was the holiest of all sacraments: pizza night. Pizza night was revered throughout the base: advertised in all caps on the day's menu board, the word would travel back through the breakfast line like wildfire. “Pizza night!! Pizza night?! Oh my god!! It's pizza night!!” For the rest of the day, everyone became effusively respectful of their superiors, and over-precise in their drill—the worst punishment imaginable was to be excluded from pizza night, and forced to eat a stale box-lunch dinner alone in the barracks. Because this was no ordinary pizza. Of course, one must take into account of how a long row of steaming pizzas in an all-you-can-eat buffet layout would look to a group of just recently post-adolescent youth who had been awake since 0430 and marched probably 30km carrying various heavy objects, so our ecstasy may have been slightly biased. Regardless, the pizza was fresh, not frozen, and the ingredients were of acceptable quality: the crust was crisp and not at all greasy, the cheese didn't say “contains real cheese” on the label, and the sauce had actual tomatoes in it. The best part was the limitless supply. I think we all ate at least two large pizzas each those nights, and still, it seemed like we barely made a dent. I felt terrible not taking full advantage of this wondrous situation, so one evening I singlehandedly devised and executed a brilliant covert operation: I managed to sneak an entire pizza out of the mess hall (this was a challenge, and a story, unto itself), and transport it back to eat in my bunk after lights out. Unfortunately, I was so tired that I feel asleep immediately upon getting into bed, and I woke up the next morning with a very strange sensation on my cheek. I had evidently sleep-eaten half of a slice, and then pulled the rest of the pizza onto my pillow, presumably to facilitate the process by bringing it as close to my mouth as possible.

Showing up at PT that morning with pepperoni and mushrooms stuck in my hair was definitely not my finest hour. By this time, however, I was so accustomed to finding myself in this sort of predicament, that I had already dropped and started doing pushups by the time the screaming began.

Chapter 11

“YOU HAD BETTER EAT WHAT YOU’RE GIVEN, STEVENSON—WE CAN’T ALL BE PRINCESSES TODAY!”

- Master Corporal McLean

Field Exercises, even outside of mosquito season, are usually unpleasant, frequently unendurable. Section Five was especially ill-fated, as our intrepid Master Corporal considered rough orienteering to be merely a light diversion, and was never happier than when thrashing through the underbrush, overstuffed rucksack of gear on his back, face caked with mud and green paint; interrupting his idyll only to bark over his shoulder every few seconds, “COME ON LADIES! Only sixteen kilometers left! A walk in the park!” This got old quickly. The first time I found myself up to my neck in a bog, I figured that life just couldn’t get much worse. Then, Master Corporal McLean halted us for dinner, and I found out it could.

Mess hall food, at the base in Ottawa, was always at least 'food', and even quite tasty at times. As I soon discovered, though, field rations left very much to be desired, especially if you had a stomach that tended to rebel against lukewarm diarrhea-soaked vomit, optimistically labeled as “chili”. These IMPs, Individual Meal Packages, boasted such delicacies as macaroni and cheese (a.k.a. maggots in radioactive orange slime) and wieners and beans (a.k.a. dwarf penises and rabbit turds), complimented by an envelope of fine fruit juice crystals and finished with a waxy brown bar of Cadbury's worst. Just one nose-full of scalloped potatoes with ham (a.k.a. waterlogged scabs with bandaids), wafting up at you from the bottom of a previously-encrusted aluminum mess tin, was enough to induce dry heaves in the heartiest of eaters.

Sometimes, we would be fortunate enough to get a boxed breakfast, which featured a food item that, in civilian life, I contemptuously reject, even to blow my nose in: white Wonderbread. However, after one makes the initial faux pas of joining an army voluntarily, one must be prepared to alter one’s habits slightly, so I consumed it with little to no discussion. The Wonderbread was considerately served with small pouches of jam and peanut butter, which, if acquired in volume, could stave off the worst of most hunger pangs.

I’ve never been a particularly picky eater, but squeezing my dinner out of a pouch into a tin cup, in a process both auditorily and olfactorally offensive, became rather a challenge after a while. During one of the aforementioned forced marches, when I was first presented with this dining opportunity, in the guise of “wieners and beans”, I held my breath and welcomed the experience—I have always believed that it is character-building to try everything once, but my open mind slammed shut the second my teeth crunched down on something that was neither wiener nor bean. After a few more of these meals, I became increasingly desperate and hungry; so, beating down my inner food snob, I began to horde Wonderbread like it was gold. I would steal a few slices here and a few slices there, stuffing them into my webbing along with all the half filled jam and peanut butter packages I could find in the trash. These made for very dusty and peculiar-smelling sandwiches, but at least the world had stopped spinning every time I stood up.

Eventually, my store ran out, and I was left with two options: either faint on duty and be sent to detention, or protest. Protesting was not a popular activity in the army, a social group that depended on conformity and group cohesivity to survive, but I figured a hunger strike was worth a try—if it worked, I would get more Wonderbread, and if it failed...well, jail had to be an improvement on my current conditions.

The first night, no one noticed that I wasn’t eating my shepherd’s pie (a.k.a. urine-scented corn and ground spleen), as I was too tired and weak to enter into the debate; but, the next evening, fortified by a large breakfast of nine granola bars, I made some real headway. When Master Corporal McLean thrust an IMP in my general direction, not making eye contact as per his usual salutation, I politely informed him that I wouldn’t be dining in that evening, thank you. This, of course, provoked great upheaval in the ranks, as my section didn’t know whether to laugh derisively or approvingly as Master Corporal McLean screamed at me for several minutes, but I eventually retuned to my camp stool by the fire, strangely elated and even optimistic. The hunger strike had begun.

The next evening, Master Corporal addressed my forehead in his usual strident tone, “So, Stevenson, will you be dining with us tonight, or would you rather go and dig a new latrine with your pretty polished fingernails?” I responded to the latter in the affirmative, and (admittedly somewhat reluctantly) surrendered my warm place in the campfire circle to hang out by the latrine pit all evening, digging halfheartedly with my mess kit spoon. It was actually rather pleasant back there, aside from the stench, as I was finally alone--apart from Freddo, of course, who, as my buddy, had been forced to join me in a form of coercive punishment approved by both NATO-sanctioned armies and terrorist cells. Freddo was, as expected, unimpressed by this arrangement, and encouraged me, with angry whispers and threats of uncharacteristic violence, to just eat the fucking spleen and shut the fuck up. I was not to be deterred, as I had a feeling that the tide was turning.

After a few more days of latrine duty and Freddo’s increasingly unbecoming hysteria, our platoon’s commander, Lieutenant Flayes-Divit was called to the scene. The Lieutenant was a small man, so diminutive in fact, that the tip of the ceremonial sword he wore at all times (even in bed, one surmised) would drag along the ground as he strode about authoritatively: reviewing his troops, leading a march in the field, or just going to the restroom. I had gotten the impression, at the beginning of our time together, that Lieutenant Flayes-Divit was unaccustomed to female companionship. He blushed to the tip of his rodent-like nose every time he issued a command to me, and rarely, if ever, dared to lift his eyes above the second button of my coat when conducting inspection during the Changing of the Guard. To be fair, he rarely made eye contact with anyone during the ceremony, possibly because he was concerned that the weight of his heavy bearskin hat would tip him right over if he looked up too high. I could only sympathize, then, with his own personal agony as he prepared himself to approach the latrines and not only speak to me, but to actually scold and force me to do his bidding. I could crush that little man like a bug, and he knew it, but he was still my superior, and he knew that too. So, marching smartly over, sword clattering against the stones in the path, he summoned the fiercest face he could muster, and demanded in his distinctive high screeching voice, “What seems to be the problem here, Private Stevenson?”

“Well, Sir”, I replied, jumping to attention in the pit I was digging, “the IMPs are kind of gross, and I feel like I should be able to eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches instead of trying to choke down a bag of still-warm barf.” The Lieutenant stared intently at my shirt pocket, apparently considering the issue both thoughtfully and thoroughly.

“YOU WILL EAT THE INDIVIDUAL MEAL PACKAGES!”, he concluded with a shriek. “It is not relevant whether you like them or not. The army provides what a soldier needs, and a soldier needs food! It is a chargeable offense to refuse food! Do you understand, soldier?”

“SIR, YES SIR!”, I shouted back, parrying with a new angle. “I am not, however, refusing peanut butter and jam sandwiches, Sir. I promise to eat every meal in the field, if I can eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches.”

In an obvious attempt to extract himself from the mounting unbearableness of this situation at his earliest possible convenience, he only pondered his response for a second.

“You shall be given peanut butter and jam sandwiches at every single meal then, Private Stevenson, since you seem to like them so much! Furthermore, you will eat them every time they are given to you, without comment or complaint. Is that clear?!”

“SIR, YES SIR!”

“At ease, soldier!”, Flayes-Divit ordered, and I saluted with my digging spoon as he whirled around, sword clanking against the spurs on his mirror-shined riding boots, and marched at silent film speed back to the campfire.

I followed a few minutes later, and was rudely presented with a loaf of Wonderbread and a paper sack of peanut butter and jam packages by my friend and protector, Master Corporal McLean. Thus, Freddo and I joined Section Five around the fire again, munching contentedly on our sandwiches. I was curtly informed that the loaf and condiments had to last me for a while, so I carefully tied the bag on the outside of my rucksack, to avoid crushing it.

Of course, my fellow troops were more than curious how I had managed to not only avoid eating IMPs, but also score a whole loaf of bread for myself. When I explained, everyone was understandably upset that they were still eating omelet with mushroom (a.k.a. bronchial phlegm with blood clots), and demanded to receive the same privilege. Faced with an inarguable case of inequality within the ranks, Master Corporal McLean had no choice but to provide Wonderbread for all.

The next morning found the ten of us hiking through the bush to our next point of combat, in full camo as per usual, avoiding detection by an ever-vigilant enemy. We had spent a great deal of time before the sun came up, smearing our faces with green and black oil paint, bedecking our helmets with pine branches and ferns, and stringing grasses throughout our webbing, and were all justifiably proud to have achieved complete invisibility. The illusion was marred only by the ten blindingly white bags, decorated with brilliant blue, red and yellow polka-dots, that bobbed merrily along behind us, tied to the backs of our rucksacks.

Chapter 12

“I CAN HEAR YOU SNORING, STEVENSON, AS CAN PROBABLY EVERY OTHER LIVING THING IN THIS WHOLE GODDAMNED FOREST!!”

- Master Corporal McLean

Trench warfare, while admittedly somewhat old school, is nonetheless rigorously taught to freshly-minted Canadian Grenadier Guards. A great deal of emphasis is placed on the actual digging of the trench, an utterly pointless endeavor featuring several hours of backbreaking labor, courtesy of the soldiers, facilitated by an equal number of hours of mockery and general hilarity, courtesy of the attending Master Corporals. Apparently, nothing is funnier than watching two people, armed only with shovel and pickax, attempt to excavate a hole just about the perfect size and depth to accept a casket (the irony was not lost on me), in ground where boulders the size of small cars are common, and the groundwater level is approximately four feet. After said hole has been detailed out to meet the approval of the peanut gallery (I feel like the walls of a trench do not need to stand at a perfect ninety degree angle to the floor, but my opinion, sadly, was not considered in the final evaluation of our work), the owners of the hole are then required to remain there for many, many more hours, busily repelling invaders (typically just of the insect and small rodent variety): my buddy and I cleverly used this time to sleep.

Sleep, in the army, is more valuable than any currency—infantry soldiers train themselves to be efficient sleepers at both ends of the spectrum. If awarded leave for twenty-four hours, most will simply head back to barracks and climb into bed, emerging like a butterfly exactly twenty-four hours later. Likewise, during field exercises, if one's Sergeant halts the platoon and shouts, “Downtime! Three minutes!”, everyone drops like they've been shot, and begins snoring immediately. Techniques are developed, that, in civilian life, would be impossible to imagine as being restful; but, from the perspective of a sleep-deprived trainee, miraculously re-create the impression of being safe in mother's womb.

Take classroom sleeping, for example. There probably isn't one high school student on the planet who has not passed many blissful hours of calculus instruction asleep at their desk, but these kids have nothing on desperate soldier sleepers. The un-air-conditioned doublewide trailers used as classrooms on our base were stuffy at best, during the summer, and an oven at worst; thus, it was understandably difficult for a group of already completely exhausted, polyester-clothed, tie neatly-knotted, wool-socked and leather-booted people to maintain a high level of attention as a pasty-faced officer droned away, waxing eloquent on the fascinating world of tank mechanics. Heads would bounce off desks like hail: it was actually rather amusing to catch the expression on people's faces as they were rudely snatched from peaceful, albeit momentary, slumber on the rebound of this concussive process, and most of us ended up with perpetual goose eggs on our foreheads as a result.

This involuntary farce was mistakenly interpreted, by our superiors, as a lack of respect for the lecturing officer, and pushups were deployed as a reliable means to simultaneously reinvigorate and punish. Of course, the class could not continue if every member of the audience was on the floor doing pushups, so an alternative solution was suggested: if you felt an uncontrollable wave of sleep descending upon you, you were permitted to move to the back of the class, and stand there at attention until you had sufficiently recovered your interest for the edifying topic at hand.

In five minutes, the entire class was standing at the back of the doublewide. The room had been designed to accommodate thirty students at desks and did not therefore have a large standing room only section, so it was a bit cramped. We were all pressed against each other like (melting) crayons in a box, but we quickly figured out how to craft this equally torturous situation to our advantage: the front line of troops would brace themselves together and plaster energy drink advertisement smiles on their faces, and then the back row would lean against this “wall” and sleep for five minutes or so, or at least until the “wall” couldn't handle it anymore and elbowed the leaners awake. Everyone would shuffle quietly around until the leaners were in wall position, and the cycle would continue until class was dismissed. This practice was so successful, that it was adapted for several other similar cases.

Beauty sleep could also be collected during forced marches, if one hooked the front of one's webbing to the rucksack of the marcher in front, who would provide stability for a couple kilometers while one snored peacefully away like a big baby in a papoose, legs lurching drunkenly below. A sharp nudge from a rifle butt would prompt an exchange, and the process would flow along the line like a carefully choreographed marching band routine for as long as the terrain was relatively flat. This particular arrangement worked perfectly if both participating troops were of relatively equal height and weight, less so if not. Freddo and I found ourselves uncharacteristically popular during forced marches, fending off much larger gallant suitors who competed to “carry” us when it was their turn.

If viewing an infantry unit from an omniscient altitude, it would quickly become clear that there are just three modes for a soldier: eating, working and sleeping. In the guardhouse, at the Governor General's residence, the only people awake were the busby guards on duty outside and the tourists taking photographs of them. The bus trips to and from Parliament Hill were heaven: fifteen minutes of uninterrupted sleep, in a vaguely padded environment. Weekends off were essentially forty-eight hour comas punctuated by somnambulant trips to the mess hall. The concrete floor of the firing range became a luxurious king-size bed, between practice sessions and sandwich consumption. Counterintuitively, war games also provided many excellent opportunities to refresh oneself, especially when ordered to guard a trench.

This complex job involves assuming a prone position in a small concealing hollow, dug a few meters in front of one's trench, staring down the scope of one's rifle and challenging those who cross one's line of vision. The usual salutation of “Who goes there?” is customarily responded to with a name, rank and service number. If the visitor wishes to proceed towards the trench, a password is required, to weed out those with ignoble intentions. Most trench-guarding occurs at night, when darkness renders the whole “who goes there” conversation less silly, and also, more importantly, provides cover for a quick snooze. Canadian combat helmets are round steel domes with a small turned brim, secured to the head with a strap that bifurcates at the chin. I found, the first time I was honored with lookout duty, that it takes a lot of neck strength to hold your head high enough over your rifle to prevent the brim of the heavy helmet from resting on the scope and distorting your view of the target. Confident that I would probably not be called upon to actually shoot anyone, I knew no one could prove that my target was not properly in my sights, so I gingerly lowered my helmet brim onto the scope and discovered that, if I propped my rifle up with enough sandbags, my head could be fully supported and balanced inside a cradle created by the helmet's chin strap. Even on moonlit nights, all a casual enemy passerby would see is a loyal soldier, lying alert in their hollow, staring intensely through their rifle scope; prepared, nay eager, to challenge all that approached. Master Corporal McLean was impressed by my dedication, and even complimented Freddo on my stealthiness: apparently he had passed our trench several times during his tours of the battleground, and I was lying so still that he didn't even notice my hiding place.

This strategy, of course, all fell apart eventually, when Master Corporal McLean did happen upon my carefully camouflaged hollow, seemingly attracted by a strange, intermittent growling sound. Being that I was sound asleep, I have only Freddo's narrative to recount here: perhaps wondering if he had stumbled upon the lair of a wild animal, Master Corporal crept forward, sharp stick at the ready, halting suddenly as he spied the tip of a rifle poking out from the mound of grass in question.

“STEVENSON! What the fuck!!??”, he commented, and then paused, evidently waiting for me to request a password. When none was forthcoming, he moved closer, and waved his hand in front of the rifle barrel, assuming that my unwavering vigilance at the scope would register this action. Still no response, aside from an even louder snore.

Damn.

“AT ATTENTION!! NOW!!!” I staggered to my feet, still half asleep. Nearly dancing with rage, Master Corporal McLean reminded me that the forest was dense with both flora and fauna, and gleefully implied that my nasal roars might elicit an undesirable romantic engagement.

“I hope you are aware, Stevenson, that you sound like a bear in heat: try to keep that in mind the next time you choose to fall asleep ON DUTY!!!!” Fifty pushups, enhanced by boot on back.

I certainly did want to try, but my craving for repose far outweighed my fear of being mounted by an amorous Ursus Arctos, so I waited until Master Corporal McLean had stalked off, and wriggled back into my comfortable nest. Unwilling to surrender this precious resource, I attributed the anticipated negative consequences to the cost of doing business in the army, and continued to get caught and disciplined. Thankfully, though, not by any bears.

Chapter 13

“WHAT THE FUCK????!!!!!!”

- 'Matthew'

I have never been interested in guns; in fact, I didn't even like to make gun shapes with my thumb and index finger when playing Cops and Robbers on the playground. Remote “killing”, even at that age, seemed like such a cowardly act. If someone casts aspersions upon your orthodontic headgear, or questions your interpretation of the dodgeball rules of engagement, the correct response is to kick the offender smartly in the shin, not run away and “shoot” them from behind the monkey bars. Plus, guns are scary looking: gleaming black, hard-edged, sinister devices that were everywhere in the kind of movies I hated, used by characters that I suspected did not attend the Church of The Golden Rule. There isn't much of a gun-worship culture in Canada, so my perspective was indifferent at best, mostly negative. When I was informed that I would be expected to not only fire a rifle in the army, but actually sleep with one, I prepared myself for the worst.

The first day on the firing range was equally fascinating and terrifying. Never having even seen a real rifle before, let alone actually touched one, I had to reluctantly admit that it really was a remarkably intriguing little piece of machinery. However, holding a fully loaded weapon scared the shit out of me, and I started to shake so violently that I couldn't even get a good look through the sight. We were being taught to hit a target at varying distances, from standing, kneeling and prone positions, and the instructor briskly moved through his talking points: never, EVER point a loaded, or unloaded, weapon at anyone, including yourself; keep the safety on until you are ready to fire; never, EVER rest your trigger finger on the trigger itself, instead, hold it parallel to the barrel, pointing down-range, until you have released the safety and are in position to shoot; regulate your breathing and relax your muscles, but not too much; grasp the rifle firmly, but not too firmly; and squeeze the trigger without pulling it. With all of this new information spinning crazily through my head, and trembling like a leaf, I knelt down on the ground, wiped away the waterfall of sweat pouring into my eyes and tried desperately to line up the target, carefully released the safety, held my breath...and fired.

Oh. My. God.

Everything changed in that instant. My body stilled, my mind opened up, and by the time the smoke cleared, I knew this was something I had been born to do. Master Corporal McLean was speechless, standing behind me with his mouth gaping open like an idiot, paralyzed with astonishment. Bullseye.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, he sneered, “Beginner's luck, Stevenson! Enjoy it while you can, because that sure won't happen to YOU again!” I cocked my rifle, preparing my second shot. I felt confident and relaxed, even cheerful in a way that I thought the army had brainwashed out of me forever. I was suddenly and completely in my element, and even the cloud of halitosis emitted by the grimacing face of our Master Corporal from over my left shoulder could not distract me from the task at hand. I lined up the target, breathed in and out, waited until I felt just so, moved my finger smoothly to the trigger, and squeezed.

Bullseye again.

Master Corporal McLean froze for a second and then coughed awkwardly, murmuring, “Keep practicing, Stevenson, maybe you'll get it right some day”, and stalked off. When I went back to sit on the bench, my whole section just stared at me blankly. Freddo couldn't stop smiling: evidently proud, for the first, and probably last time, to be associated with Private Stevenson. That was a very good day, and I wondered if perhaps my accidental enrollment in the military would not turn out to be a total disaster. The following week I was notified that Master Corporal McLean had approved my promotion to Sniper School, and, from henceforth, I hated him just a little bit less.

My sniping skills seemed harmless, for lack of a better term, until I received a strange letter a few years later, bearing an official Government of Canada postmark, while living above a tiny pub in East London. I had been honorably discharged at the end of my service, and it never even crossed my mind that I'd ever hear from the army again. Furthermore, I had just moved out of a friend's parents' basement and relocated to The Railway Arms, a spontaneous decision I had not shared with my Canadian friends and family, and hardly anyone in England either—I hadn't even changed my address with the Royal Mail yet. So, imagine my surprise when I opened the letter and discovered that, not only had the army somehow found me, but worse yet, my unit was listed for mobilization, and they hoped I would be available to pop by and do a bit of peace-keeping on their behalf if the opportunity arose.

This was inconceivable, and unacceptable. I immediately began plotting avoidance strategies. Get new teeth and fingerprints and change my name? Marry a soldier on the other team and plead conflict of interest? Flee to America? I didn't answer the letter and was not contacted again, but as far as I was concerned, this false alarm was a sign. I was scared straight: I vowed to never touch a firearm again, and would try as hard as I could to forget everything I had learned.

This proved to be a little more difficult than expected. A couple years ago, my partner, whom we shall call “Ralphie” (anyone familiar with soppy holiday movies should get this reference), wanted a Red Ryder BB gun more than anything for Christmas. Even though I strongly disapproved, I bought it for him, and enjoyed several months of goodwill and get-out-of-jail-free cards as a result. One afternoon, he and a good friend, “Matthew” were plinking out back in the train yard behind the Fisch Haus. I had wandered out to say hi, and found Matthew deep in concentration, firing away at a beer can perched on an old tire about 30m away. He hadn't hit it yet, and had already wasted several million bbs trying, so I generously offered to save him the ammunition and frustration, and knock it off for him. Matthew snorted derisively, and passed me the rifle, positing the theory that it would be folly for me to even try. Raising his eyebrows and stifling a smile, Ralphie looked on with interest, clearly not wishing to ruin the surprise in any way. Matthew had a tendency to assume superiority in some matters, and was not overly modest in his demeanor, so Ralphie was understandably loath to hinder the inevitable, and vicariously satisfying, resolution of this turn of events. I shot a practice round at a train car in the opposite direction, to get a sense of the Red Ryder, and then spun back around to take aim at the beer can. By this time, Matthew was cackling away like an old lady, blatantly eager to witness my failure, as I, too, can be occasionally and similarly non-humble, so this evidently felt like payback to him.

I breathed out smoothly, inhaled, rested for a moment until 'the feeling' came over me, and then pulled the trigger. The can, of course, flew off the tire and skittered out of sight.

Hearing someone scream, “WHAT THE FUCK????!!!!!”, at me had never felt better.

Chapter 14

Sending a rocket into enemy territory is not a task to be taken lightly. There may be modern weaponry available from a certain gentleman importer/exporter in Libya that renders this process as straightforward as possible, but the Canadian Armed Forces tends to eschew this type of questionable transaction and instead employs an ancient technology named Carl. Carl Gustav, specifically. The Carl Gustav rocket launcher is a weapon produced in Sweden, marketed to those in the know as a “recoilless rifle”. I am willing to concede that it is anti-armor, anti-fortification, anti-personnel, but unfortunately not anti-recoil. In fact, it is so un-recoilless that firing it usually takes a village. One person attempts to balance the unwieldy 15kg object on their shoulder, one person helps to balance the person balancing it, another person supports the balancing helper to fortify them against the non-existent recoil, and then several more people are encouraged to lean in themselves and create a complex human buttress system to further reinforce the entire structure...and so on and so on. Complicating this entire scenario is the threat implicit in the omnipresent “NEVER DROP YOUR RIFLE” subtext: a command that is rather difficult, as I unfortunately discovered, to obey when you have been knocked unconscious by the recoil of a recoilless rifle.

Chapter 15

I was in London a few years ago, staying in a neighborhood close to Buckingham Palace. Most mornings, "Ralphie" and I would go jogging in Hyde Park, and often run into, occasionally almost literally, some marching or mounted group of highly polished and flamboyantly-attired ceremonial troops, parading off to relieve their colleagues from guard duty. We saw mirror-breastplated calvary guards on massive black horses, red tufted shako-sporting bands, grim-faced police details; and, of course, the big crowd pleaser, the infamous Busbies.

However, they do things a little differently in Merrie Olde England. What a bunch of lightweights. In Canada, an entire battalion gets involved, complete with extensive marching band and officious motorcycle escorts. The processional route from the Cartier Square drill hall in downtown Ottawa to Parliament Hill winds through the city for more than a kilometer (some mornings it felt like twenty). The entire phenomenon is definitely a site, and sound, to behold: hundreds of shiny steel toe and heel tap boots clacking in perfect unison, bagpipes wheezing and screeching away, big bass drums echoing off adjacent buildings, pomp and circumstance flowing like electricity...but in London, there are maybe only twelve or fifteen guards, and I definitely felt their band was lacking in both enthusiasm and wind-power. They march down The Mall to the Palace, which could certainly be very dramatic in theory, but the tiny contingent gets a bit lost in the crowd. To be fair, their marching is up to the standards that I would expect from such noble stock, and they do a mean back-and-forth between their guard boxes, when approached by tourists.

This carefully choreographed duet is a stationary guard's best option if the humanity gets too overwhelming. My buddy Freddo and I developed quite a routine when guarding the Governor General's residence, due to the fact that female guards were still a relative novelty. Word had apparently gotten out that there were a few in the Grenadier regiment, one of who could, presumably, be available for perusal/antagonism when identified. As busbies are required to maintain an unresponsive demeanor when on duty, most tourists will approach boldly, with the sole, and gleefully malicious, intention of breaking your concentration. Usually, they'll just try to make you laugh or frown, but occasionally someone will have over-served themselves with Sleeman shandies over brunch, and kiss you right on the lips. Freddo is a bit shorter than I, and was rather more slight of build; plus, his Italian ancestry  stained his lips much redder than my pale Canadian ones, and made his dark brown eyes extra large and luxuriantly-lashed. Gender was difficult to identify under the bearskin hat and tight red coat, so when people came out to see the female guard, they inevitably picked the smaller, reedier one, the beautiful busby with full red lips and long black eyelashes. Thus, Freddo became the very reluctant recipient of far too many gallant advances from the wrap-around-mirrored-sunglasses-upside-down-on-ballcap-brim contingent, assumedly his absolute least desirable target demographic for any kind of romantic adventure.

Avoiding these gentlemen is relatively easy though, as stationary guards are offered the option to relieve the tedium of ignoring both humans and insects (I have a horror of wasps, and I count it among one of my biggest triumphs that I was able to prevent myself from flinching as a wasp investigated my nasal cavity with an alarming thoroughness one afternoon) by performing a little marching number back and forth between their boxes. The guard in need of repose signals his or her intention by slamming the butt of their rifle on the concrete—at attention, the rifle is held near the top of the barrel with the butt on the ground, carefully placed near the right toe—and then both guards, in perfect synchronization, fling their rifles up to their shoulders, pivot on their heels towards each other in an authoritatively-stomped ninety degree turn, and march furiously back and forth until the interested parties have fled in fear. From a bystander's perspective, this whole routine is an arresting spectacle, especially if one is not aware that the busby guards are even allowed to move; or, more terrifyingly, if the offender has already taken the liberty of positioning him or herself within smooch range. Furthermore, bayonets are affixed throughout guard duty, so Freddo and I enjoyed many happy hours bearing down on unsuspecting tourists, glowering menacingly and stamping our big boots, spinning our knife-topped rifles around like majorette's batons.

I am sorry to report that I tried to sneak up on a busby in London, in order to provoke a similar response, but a group of schoolgirls beat me to it, so I only caught the tail end of the show. They were shrieking with gratifying astonishment and fear by the time I had arrived, and I could very clearly see a glint of satisfaction in the guard's eye as they scattered like mice.

A side note: like my English counterparts, my own impassive face has probably shown up in the vacation snapshots of literally thousands and thousands of tourists. Little did they know that, under my fabulous outfit, I was wearing a pair of old rippled up panty hose on my head, to keep my hair pulled back under my bearskin hat; had probably stashed an extra peanut butter and jam sandwich up in there as well; was tightly bound in an adapted sports bra, to create the illusion of an androgynous figure; my feet, bedazzled by numerous and more varied types of blisters than have populated that neighborhood before or since, were melting and itching in 100% wool socks; a complicated truss bandage system was stuffed into my trousers, supporting a groin injury sustained whilst storming a WWI-style trench during war games earlier that summer...all discomforts that inspired in me an intense and desperate desire to scare the shit out of some obnoxious tourist, camera in hand and leaning in for a kiss.