Bullies in Power

            It was a sunny afternoon and the humid breeze blended with perspiration, causing my shirt to cling uncomfortably to my back. The Greyhound bus arrived early, which allowed about an hour to look around. Saint John, New Brunswick, is a quiet port city with many old buildings that mark its historical background. I probably would have taken more time to walk around, but the heat drew my attention to a restaurant sign advertising ice cream sodas. Air conditioning was a welcomed relief. I relaxed while gazing at sea gulls feeding from a sidewalk garbage can. Soon it was time to board the ferry.

            The trip across the Bay of Fundy was my first experience on the ocean. The rough ride certainly confirmed that I would not have been suitable for the navy. I looked over the side of the ship in hope of catching a glimpse of sharks. My impression of ocean travel had been formed from movies in which sharks always seemed to play a role. This naive expectation left me disappointed as we docked at Digby, Nova Scotia.

            Canadian Forces Base Cornwallis is located about twenty minutes from Digby and the taxi ride took me through some of the greenest farm areas I had ever seen. The salty ocean breeze had a unique smell which blended with the scent of dandelions to leave the air thick to breathe.

            As we approached the front gate of the base, the driver pointed to the guardroom and told me to ask the military police where to report. He appeared experienced at seeing recruits who, like me, had a lost look on their face as they stepped out of his car to walk into an unfamiliar place. He smiled and wished me luck. The butterflies in my stomach became increasingly active as I approached the door to the guardroom.

            My assignment to Eighth Platoon sent me to a barrack block by the beach, across from the wood hobby shop. As I walked in the front door, a corporal sitting at a large desk was directing recruits to their bed spaces. Not being familiar with military procedures, I stood without saying a word. He looked at me with an impatient stare and asked my name. My experience at speaking English was very limited and I didn''t know how to address this fellow. So I blurted out my name, trying to hide the heavy accent of my French-Canadian background. He pointed out that he was a corporal and that I was to address him as such. We would later discover that he was a recruit who had been in the militia and decided to wear his uniform on the way in. Even the other recruits, who had arrived earlier in the week, didn''t know he was just another recruit like us. It appears, shortly after arriving that morning, he had appointed himself to direct other recruits to their bed spaces. This was a mistake he would later regret.

            One of the staff suddenly appeared in the door and all I heard was the single word, "ROOM". It was a word that carried a specific meaning and the dead silence told me it was best if I too remained quiet and stood still.

            The staff member approached the corporal in uniform and screamed, "What are you doing in a uniform you ugly little man?  Stand at attention when I''m talking to you! You do know what that means don''t you? Who do you think you''re impressing here?"