Surprises

The problem with unexpected things is that you never know how to react, because of course, you never expected to be in that situation in the first place. And I know that sounds pretty obvious, but for the most part I don’t think anyone is ever really surprised past a certain point in their lives, a given age, or accumulation of experience. Everyone resorts to standard operating procedures to reduce any bizarre occurrence to its basic, previously experienced themes. But every now and then, we are taken completely off guard. These are the kinds of events that get you killed, or in day to day situations, confused, hurt, angry, frustrated, surprised, etc. In the military, just about everything you could ever expect has been thought of, planned out, war-gamed, adjusted, demoed, exercised, and written down. There is almost nothing for which a clear and concrete doctrine is not published, outlining in exact detail the standard reaction which you are to follow.

Weapon drills are the earliest building block of this kind of thinking that soldiers are exposed to. The core of any military force is the individual soldier and his service battle rifle. With this standard arm, the soldier can defeat the enemy and defend himself, and given this importance he must know the weapon intimately and be able to expertly operate it in under any conditions, most commonly the stress and confusion of battle, and quickly remedy any stoppage that occurs. When a soldier’s rifle ceases to function the enemy stops dying and his comrades begin to. Only a few weeks into basic training, when recruits can still barely dress themselves correctly, they begin to have the drills for the service rifle beaten into their heads. Failing the handling test is possibly the surest and simplest way to cease being a soldier and end up back on the streets selling pencils. Everyone remembers the call of the instructor, “Weapon fires, weapon stops!” and the immediate, unconscious canting of the rifle left to verify the position of the bolt.

This training continues with each new weapon system that is introduced to a soldier, so that reactions become completely automatic and that nothing short of a catastrophic failure can take the soldier and his weapon out of the fight.

And frankly, I think it’s a failure of both society and the public education system that we as people don’t receive this kind of training. How many times have you caught yourself or your friends lamenting indecisively over some difficult situation; a break-up, unemployment, depression, existential crisis, etc, and you just wanted to scream at yourself, or them, and get on with your life. It should be that easy, we should all snap to attention, analyze the situation, and react appropriately; feel sad for a week, go out to a bar, meet new member of opposite sex, bang! print resumes, hit street, find work, bang! start working out, switch up your routine, smile, bang! read a lot of Camus and Sartre, realize those old French bastards didn't know anything more about the world than you do, take a trip, get the fuck over it, bang!

But I suppose that would take all the fun out of life, not to mention all the fear, grief, frustration, and other amazing emotions that really are the core food groups of the human soul. Now I like to think that I have seen and experienced a lot of weird stuff, and that I’m pretty well rounded and capable, at least in that I can usually sort myself out whenever I encounter a new weird experience and keep moving on, but I learned this weekend that I really have no fucking clue how to react when you run into a stripper who is the spitting image of a girl you once seriously considered marrying, at the single, ridiculous, hidden away secret strip club in Fredericton that your buddies tricked you into going to.

So, that was pretty much the weekend. I have to be up for PT in a few hours, but I’m not sleepy and just lying on my bunk. I can’t help but laugh that the first time I ever went to a strip club it was by trickery, and that in the middle of this nasty place filled with hideous people, the one good looking employee was a startling and gorgeous clone of the last girl I dated. The world is a strange place, and thank gawd, because otherwise what the hell would we have to talk about on Monday?

We may be lonely but at least we’re laughing out here.

Boredom, Bunkbeds, and the Training System

Mail isn't a common thing these days in the military. Some people get lots of letters, but for the most part, e-mail and texting and telephones has taken over. Packages are still a thrill for everyone, but again, most of the time it's things we've ordered for ourselves. Shopping in the wonderful village of Oromocto is limited to groceries and the Canadian Tire. The single mall in Fredericton isn't much better, especially when the average infantry officer's tastes run to $20 socks and an ever increasing range of both strange and common place items remade in various combinations of gore-tex and camouflage. Waterproof breathable membranes are possibly the single greatest thing ever invented, after women and coffee of course, for the army.

Now I needed to get something shipped out to me (a completely unnecessary but warm and snively jacket that weighs slightly less and packs up much better than the issue equivalent) so I had to figure out my address. Which of course got me thinking, as did a customer service struggle to get my cell phone and internet access figured out for my new home in New Brunswick. I hate when you try to shop somewhere and they ask for your address, and I have to say, sorry, I don't have one. People usually roll their eyes as if through this refusal I am trying to make their underpaying job just that much more difficult. So then I offer something more specific, really specific, say, Bunk 4 (clockwise), Top, Room XYZ, Shack H#, CFB Gagetown, New Brunswick. Now, in this town that will get you a pizza delivered, but not a bill.

Thankfully everything was resolved and now my roommates and I can both order in food or socks, and access the internet without driving over to the not quite worth it coffee shop that is the only game in town for wi-fi. We've settled in here now, into this barren, wind-swept land where neat rows upon rows of young saplings grow to repent for someones idiotic decision to cut down all the trees on base, and where the morning gusts freeze our sweat to our faces as we run PT. Of course, 7 men in a room designed for 4 soldiers or 1 college student generates a fair bit of heat so we sleep warmly, wrapped in our camo ranger blankets, weening ourselves off of luxuries like sheets that must be forgotten for the year to come.

Now, the holidays are over and we have all been back to work for one or two weeks, but I can hardly call what we are doing work. Myself and most of my friends are members of the 72 strong and holding Infantry School Support Company, also known as PAT Platoon, also known as holding platoon, also known as 69 bored men and 3 bored women waiting desperately to go back on courses where they will hate every minute of their lives but at least be moving forwards, or some direction vaguely approximate. Here is our daily schedule:

6:00 AM: Wake up to 4 beeping watch alarms. 4/7 roommates jump out of bed, having worn their PT gear to sleep, drag on running tights, shoes, and hoodies, smash into every other bunk or chair in the room, and drag themselves out into the bright never-dimming lights of the hallway miraculously without waking the remaining 3 who get to sleep for another hour.

6:15 AM: Breakfast. Scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, either too much or not enough bacon. Fibre cereal with mango yogurt. Soy Milk, apple juice, coffee. Usually two coffees. We eat quick and then drag out the coffee to let our stomachs settle.

7:20 AM: Form up in the Infantry School building for PT. The trip from the mess to here being the coldest, most underdressed, and difficult part of the day, all 3 minutes of it. Run 5 KM fast, or 5KM at pace with pushups, or 8KM under pace, depending on the Captain's mood.

8:30 AM: Back in the shacks, shower, get dressed, lye on bunk, nap or read a book.

10:00 AM: Show up to the LAV hanger, stand around, gawk at veh techs working on the giant 8-wheeled armored vehicles, dream of commanding them one day. Hang around for 6 minute meeting.

10:15 AM 11:30 AM: Lye on bunk, think about lunch.

12:30 PM 01:55 PM: Lye on bunk, think about dinner, share pictures of ex-girlfriends with other roommates on facebook.

02:00 PM: 4 minute afternoon meeting. Nothing to do with you.

02:15 PM: Day officially over. Go to the gym to kill time. Fail.

So basically, I work for around 10 minutes a day, and exercise for 2 to 3 hours. The rest I mostly spend puttering around the shacks, trying to maximize the efficiency of my 7 cubic feet of personal space. Or watching movies, or nodding at my best friends across the room, because we've run out of things to say but at least we are together. Or planning which cougar bar we will go to on friday night, depending on if people are trying to go home with some girl or if we just want to have a chaotic night of east-coast lunacy. Either way.

Course starts again on February 11th. Hemmingway wrote that in war "we burn the fat off our souls." Well, waiting to go to war is where we pack those pounds on, and it is a sad irony that every day I train and improve my physical body that much more, but that every day, I lose another small piece of myself out here in the middle of nowhere, thinking of people 2 provinces, and yet a universe away.

Here's to a good soup in the mess tomorrow. I'm hoping for cream of broccoli.