Out standing in the fiel.., p.25
Out Standing in the Field, page 25
I got back home in April 1994 and was finally reunited with Kevin. We celebrated his participation in the Olympics, and caught up on each other’s hectic lives, trying to savour the precious moments together before we were separated again, as he was being posted to Ottawa that summer. We became a bigger family as I watched Maggie deliver a litter of kittens in our laundry basket one Saturday morning. Three tiny steel-grey balls of fur and one little tiger, striated with shades of orange, black, and brown, now squirmed around a cardboard box in our living room. For a few short weeks, Kevin and I, and our little family of kittens, got a taste of normal. Blissfully happy normal, when you wake up to a sleepy face beside you, go to work but then come home to a “how was your day, honey?” But it was a fleeting normality, frail and fragile like the spring crocuses peeking their heads out of the few inches of warm ground around the foundation of the house. Kevin was moving to Ottawa that summer and I was probably going to go on exercise, then on an advanced course in Gagetown.
On Saturday morning of the Easter weekend, I was sitting in bed cuddling Maggie and reading a magazine when Kevin walked in with a tray of coffee, toast, and cantaloupe chunks. He put the tray down on the bed and asked me how I liked my coffee before adding cream and sugar. We had been together for nearly five years, and he still didn’t know how I liked my coffee. How could he? I could almost count on one hand the times we had shared breakfast together. That made me so sad. We’d spent less than eighteen months together in the years since we’d met, and only three months in the two years since we’d become engaged. We were both desperately trying to savour the time we had together, but knew that our current situation was incompatible with having a healthy relationship. We couldn’t ignore that our respective priorities were not conducive to deepening our relationship and would be an even bigger challenge if we decided to have children. Both captains with promising careers, tough choices would have to be made by one or both of us.
“We’re scheduled to return to Yugoslavia next year,” I said to Kevin on Saturday evening as we played with the kittens in the living room. “That means three months of pre-deployment training prior to leaving for another six months. I’ll probably be deployed on exercise for the better part of the summer, then Gagetown for an advanced course in the fall.”
“And I’ll be in Ottawa pushing a pencil for a while,” he said. “I doubt I’ll be competing in any more biathlon races. I think I want to do something else for a change.” Kevin had been training and racing for the last four years, with only the occasional military involvement in between. He’d been taken off the career fast track willingly, but given his potential, he could now easily be reconsidered for a brilliant career. He was in the midst of considering his options. His initial contract with the cf was nearing its end and he didn’t know if he wanted to renew it for another seven years until being eligible for retirement, or decide to do something else altogether with his life. Either way, we’d be separated for the next year and a half. We were both methodically laying our cards on the table, a veritable show of how impossible our situation was going to be.
“That doesn’t give us much time to go on a honeymoon,” I blurted out, not knowing how to broach the topic of getting married. I was prodding us into choosing each other, into making a commitment that would have us compromise everything but our relationship. Neither of us would be capable of doing it, and I think we both knew it.
He told me I was the woman of his life, but that he wasn’t ready to get married. “We haven’t even spent a whole week together in the last two years,” he said in his defence. He was exaggerating, but not by much. “Why don’t we just keep things as they are now?”
“Because I have to make some career decisions, and if I ask the military to send me wherever you go but then you’re not ready to get married, what’s the point? I will have made concessions and you will have given up nothing. It just doesn’t seem fair.”
The truth was, I didn’t want to get married either. I felt it was expected of me. It was what I was supposed to do at my ripe old age of twenty-eight. I wasn’t ready to hear my biological clock ticking, but I was reminded of it regularly by people around me who were now focusing on having a family. By pressuring Kevin into a commitment, I knew he would back out and I wouldn’t have to. I was using his refusal to get married as a smokescreen to slip out the back door, guiltlessly, so that I could give everything I had to the military, instead of being anchored by a relationship. He was the fall guy.
On Easter morning, after a long night of crying, hugging, and desperately trying to find ways to hold on to each other without giving up anything else, we decided to go our own separate ways, finally coming to terms with what we had known was inescapable.
My aunts and uncles all mostly lived in Quebec City. I met up with them to go to church that morning and have Easter brunch. My aunt Collette, my father’s oldest sister, saw my red swollen eyes and took me in her arms knowingly. She let me squat at her house for a few days until Kevin could finish packing, all the while fussing about my weight, my hair, my makeup, or lack of it. I needed to feel loved and she was up to the task. She ran me a bath and comforted me when inevitably the tears came.
twenty-six
Engaged and Destroyed
It didn’t seem like the war in Bosnia was ready to let up any time soon. In the summer of 1994, a year before my battalion was scheduled to return to the former Yugoslavia for a second tour of duty, I accosted my battalion deputy commanding officer (dco) during lunch at the officers’ mess to discuss my career options. A couple of weeks after my separation from Kevin, I had sent a letter to our new commanding officer, requesting a transfer to the Airborne Regiment for my next scheduled posting in 1995. “Sir, I am fit, motivated, and already qualified as a paratrooper,” said my memorandum, further explaining that given my unique background in both logistics transport and infantry, I would be a great asset to the Airborne Regiment. I considered making the letter mushy: how being in the Airborne Regiment had been my dream since I’d turned fourteen years old, and how I already had a maroon beret with the airborne cap badge tucked away in my barrack box, already perfectly shaped and moulded to my head. At the last minute, I stuck to non-emotional arguments: I was qualified, fit, and available. It took three days for the letter to come back with a big NON! scribbled above his signature, with no other explanation. I thus decided to call in the artillery. I made a list of all the arguments he should consider before refusing my request and made copies of every letter of appreciation I’d received in the last five years. Like a top-notch lawyer, I practised the delivery of my final arguments for the face-to-face meeting I had requested in order to plead my case.
He refused all my requests to meet with me to discuss it.
“Come hell or high water,” I wrote in my diary back then, “I will be Airborne one day.”
I was young and still had lots of time to make that happen. In the meantime, however, I was starting to lose patience at being sidelined whenever the battalion participated in exercises or was deployed for training. I was often tasked to prepare, plan, and coordinate all the operational or administrative requirements for our missions, but when it came time to actually conduct manoeuvres, I was forcibly pushed aside and given duties that required me to stay back at the office. It was disheartening, unfair, and frustrating.
At that time, in addition to three basic infantry companies, an infantry battalion had four specialized advanced platoons: pioneers, reconnaissance, mortar, and anti-armour. Each had very specific support duties to the battalion. Pioneers conducted construction and demolition operations such as building or destroying roads and bridges, and performed mine clearance. The reconnaissance platoon dispatched advanced troops to reconnoitre the enemy’s front lines, gather intelligence, and find the best routes for the battalion’s advances. The mortar platoon provided additional light artillery fire support for the battalion’s manoeuvres. Finally the anti-armour platoon, equipped with Tube-launched, Optically tracked, Wire-guided (tow) Missile Systems, could engage the enemy’s tanks and vehicles within a range of 3,750 metres.
My sights were set on the anti-armour platoon. The thought of commanding the most powerful long-range weapons in a battalion greatly appealed to me.
While still in my red scarlet uniform after the practice run of the Changing of the Guard at La Citadelle, I approached my dco in the basement of the officers’ mess of the Citadelle, where officers met for lunch. The steel soles of my Wellington boots made a clicking sound on the old stone floor of the hallway as I approached my dco and asked his permission to join him for lunch, although I wasn’t about to eat while wearing my immaculate scarlet tunic. Because of the hot July weather, I wore nothing but a camisole underneath and so I couldn’t just peel off the outer layer. He smiled, pulled out a chair on his left, and I sat, wasting no time to dive right into my request.
“Sir, what do I need to do to be given command of the anti-tank platoon? I don’t think I can stand another six months in Yugoslavia, holed up in a duty room. I need to be out in the field with troops, sir.” The desperation in my voice was unmistakable. I expected resistance and once again I had prepared a series of arguments, this time to convince the dco of my need to go on the next advanced anti-armour course. “Sir, I’ve done all —”
“Well, we’re sending you on the anti-armour course in September and if you do well on the course, we might consider it. No promises. That good for you?”
That’s all he needed to say. I nodded exuberantly and my boots barely touched the floor as I floated out of the officers’ mess.
September came none too soon and with enthusiasm I packed my combat gear and drove to Gagetown in my light blue convertible Mustang, listening to ac/dc’s The Razor’s Edge album all the way there. Kevin had picked up the last of his things a few weeks prior, as well as Maggie and the little tiger kitten he’d decided to keep. New homes had been found for the rest of the litter. Our house was a sad place now, a shadow of the happiness we had once shared and I was grateful to leave it all behind. It was too quiet, too full of empty promises and memories.
The familiarity of the eight-hour drive down to Gagetown was comfortable, so I tuned out the world and thought only about the upcoming course. I was torn between feeling excited at the thought of being out in the field again, and apprehensive at the wrenching memories from Phase 4 training to which I was going back. Gagetown had never been a welcoming place for the likes of me, and it too held empty promises and memories. Gut-wrenching memories.
There were still no other women in the infantry then, so I found myself once again being guided to the single room at the end of the same barracks I’d slept in during infantry phase training. There were two bunk beds in the room now, which meant I would have an extra wool blanket for the cold fall nights. I grabbed the chair beside my desk and brought it over to the radiator. I took my running shoes off and put my perpetually cold feet on it while I contemplated the weeks ahead of me. I was always apprehensive of meeting new classmates and instructors, as well as tense about whether or not I would be able to meet the standards for the course. I had been well programmed to anticipate the worst now, as if every course, every exercise, every new team was going to be hostile territory.
This time I was wrong.
The anti-tank course was loaded with junior officers, and a few non-commissioned members from across the country. There was only one other Van Doo on the course, a master corporal who would ultimately be working for me if I became the anti-armour platoon commander. The atmosphere was entirely different than my past phase training, with a multi-disciplinary, more mature team. I hadn’t dared to hope for such a conciliatory, welcoming atmosphere that would be more accommodating to me. I was pleasantly surprised.
The instructors comprised two officers, a captain and a lieutenant, and three non-commissioned members from the different regiments across Canada, possibly some of the best tow gunners in the country. From them, we learned how to deploy tows Under Armour (tua), weapon systems that were mounted on armoured personnel carriers (apcs). From offensive manoeuvres demanding that we provide anti-armour fire support to the assault teams, to defensive operations where we would protect our battalion’s foothold on acquired ground, the deployment of tuas was fast-paced and challenging.
The mechanized field manoeuvres with tuas were different than those I had learned in Phase 4 with normal apcs. We had to find the best strategic location to place our tuas in order to support the battalion’s advance, engage the enemy from as far away as possible, and time the entire attack so that our vehicles would not be vulnerable to the enemy’s air and artillery strikes. It was fascinating, thrilling, and demanding. I thrived.
I received orders to lead an attack. It was a complex assault and my platoon was to be the ground firepower for a major offensive battle. Normally when I received orders, the course captain would sit beside me while I prepared my battle plan, all the while asking me why I wanted to be in the infantry, and subsequently lecturing me on the multitude of reasons why women should not be in combat arms. It was nearly impossible to tune it out, so this time I walked away a distance to isolate myself from his badgering.
Upon seeing me rush to calculate distances, timings, and tactics, Warrant Officer Jean-Marc Godin, another of the course’s instructors, came over to where I was intently scrutinizing the map, then went to sit on a fallen log and said, “Captain Perron, come over here and sit down.” Time was so precious when planning these assaults that his relaxed tone and calm demeanour were totally incompatible with the adrenalin rush and energy I was experiencing, but I reluctantly acquiesced to his demand. I sat beside him on the log, and he pulled out a cigar and offered it to me. I declined, and he proceeded to light it, take a puff, and then exhale like he’d been holding his breath for the last five minutes. He smiled, contemplated the lush autumn forest around us, and softly whispered, “Ahhhhhh,” as if repeating a mantra he’d practised for years. My sense of urgency rebelled against his time-out for meditation and my agitation was evident. I glanced at my watch impatiently.
“For fuck’s sake, Captain Perron, take a deep breath. Close your eyes for a few minutes and visualize the attack.” He spoke calmly, slowly. “If you don’t see it in your mind, you won’t see it on the map, much less on the ground. Always,” and he emphasized this by pausing a few seconds, “always take time to visualize. It is the most crucial part of your plan and it is one you should never compromise. It sharpens the saw.” I didn’t have time to sharpen the goddamn saw; I had an attack to mount! “Have you ever heard of the woodcutter who strained to saw down a tree?” he asked, and when I shook my head, he proceeded to tell me the story.
A young man who was watching the woodcutter cut down a tree asked, “What are you doing?”
“Are you blind?” the woodcutter replied. “I’m cutting down this tree.”
The young man continued, “You look exhausted! Take a break. Sharpen your saw.”
The woodcutter explained to the young man that he had been sawing for hours and did not have time to take a break.
The young man pushed back … “If you sharpen the saw, you would cut down the tree much faster.”
The woodcutter said, “I don’t have time to sharpen the saw. Don’t you see I’m too busy?! ”
“Captain Perron,” said wo Godin in a hypnotically calm whisper, “remember to sharpen your saw.”
I would be a very lucky platoon commander to have a second-in-command like wo Godin, I thought. Warrant officers can make or break young platoon commanders. Having been promoted through the ranks instead of joining the army as officers, they have acquired battle smarts and their many years of experience enable some of them to be unforgettable leadership mentors. That is, if the coachee is willing to listen. I would learn so much from a warrant officer like Jean-Marc Godin.
It was unbelievably uncomfortable, but I took the time to breathe, take in my surroundings, watch my classmates in the distance prepare for the assault (one of them was peeing on the road wheel of the tracked tua), and to visualize what the successful manoeuvre would look like. Those precious breaths filled me with confidence and strength. I felt powerful. I even relaxed a little. I grasped what he was trying to tell me.
“What are you thinking now?” wo Godin asked quietly.
“I’m thinking that it’s not fair that I can’t take a leak standing up. I mean, like on the road wheel,” I replied only half jokingly and pointed to my colleague who was now zipping his pants. wo Godin laughed, shook his head in disgust and said, “Okay, get out of here and on with it now.”
For the next two hours, the attack progressed and went amazingly well, as if its choreography had been rehearsed and practised repeatedly prior to the grand performance, with all the kinks removed. “Niner, this is Seven-Niner, engaged and destroyed, sir!” was the traditional confirmation of a successful mission. I proudly repeated those words to my battalion commander on the airwaves, pleased with myself and my tow gunners.
I approached the course commander for my evaluation. I knew I had performed well since he had very few comments. No praise, no complaints. I went to see wo Godin to get some real feedback.
“It was well done, Captain,” said wo Godin nonchalantly as if he’d expected nothing less. “Actually, it was close to perfect, except for the artillery that never showed up. Shit happens.” Given that artillery fire was always simulated, it was the course instructor who decided if it showed up or not depending on his mood. Most often, in a gesture of self-importance, they did not make the artillery show up so as to show the world the importance, and the reliability, of our tow firepower. “Now, what will you always do from now on before writing orders, Captain Perron?”
