Monty's Coming

A feeling of nervous expectancy hangs in the air this April afternoon. Cadet Officers, their sabers sheathed, stand at rest before the assembled platoons and squadrons of one hundred and ten officer cadets. Behind the reviewing stands, a dozen flags representing Canada, Britain, and the provinces cracked like rifle shots in the brisk wind while the Vandoos regimental band plays excerpts from current popular music. Dignitaries, be-medaled senior army officers and parents gaze upon the formation of officer cadets, their white web-belts drawing a straight horizontal line across a sea of navy-blue dress uniforms; silver bayonets fixed on lowered rifles sparkle as the occasional sunray peers between racing clouds. All await the arrival of the legend, Viscount, Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery.
And it begins to rain.

It was sometimes during the first week of March of 1953 when we first heard of Monty’s coming visit. I don’t know how he does it, but Benny, my roommate and friend, is always first to hear the latest news. We are having breakfast when Benny leans over and whispers, “Did you hear the latest?”
I knew he was going to tell whether I responded or not, but it pleased him that I do so. “Haven’t, what now?”
“Monty’s coming,” Benny says.
“Monty?”
“Field Marshal Montgomery.”
“That Monty!”
“The one and only, the legend himself.” Benny beams with pleasure at having surprised me once more with his scoop.
The Field Marshal’s exploits during the World War II had been the focus of our military studies; emphasis had been given to the campaign he had led at El Alamein in North Africa against Field Marshal Rommel, the “Desert Fox”. It had been a turning point in the war, a battle that had dealt the German Army its first defeat.
When is he coming?” I whisper.
“Don’t know exactly. I heard two weeks.”
“That would explain why the officers have been on edge lately,” I say, referring to Captain Gosselin, squadron leader Gagnon and commander Tilley, career officers all, and responsible for the welfare and discipline of three officer cadet squadrons designated as: Champlain, Maisonneuve, and Frontenac. Benny and I belong to Champlain squadron and Captain Gosselin is our squadron leader.
“They should be. Monty has a reputation for being a martinet, a real bad ass with officers,” Benny says.
“Shit! They’re going to double up on drills and physical training and final exams are only six weeks away,” I grumble.
Since September of 1952, the inaugural year of CMR (College Militaire Royal de St-Jean), the focus of our training had been placed more on form than on content. To the detriment of our academic performance putting on a good show had been the primary objective. We became masters of the parade square, our precision of execution rivaled Radio City Music Hall’s Rockettes. We were reviewed by governor-general, Vincent Massey, by prime-minister Louis St-Laurent, and by a half dozen other dignitaries and politicians whose names I forget; we marched in the St-Jean Baptist parade. We were performing monkeys for our commandant, Colonel Marcellin Lahaie, whose primary mandate was to promote a French speaking military college.
If anything, I underestimated the extent of the general chicken shit that was to be visited upon us in preparation for Monty’s coming.

For the next twelve days, we marched three times a day: after breakfast, after lunch, and after supper, each session lasting one hour. From 1600 hours to 1800 hours, we ran, jumped and swung through gymnastics as if preparing for the Olympics. I have no doubt that had the college been graced with a swimming pool they would have had us practicing synchronized swimming.
If captain Gosselin had been meticulous in his morning inspections of our barracks before, his search for dust or the stray piece of lint on a uniform now became downright obsessive. Locker inspection was Gosselin’s particular fetish. Uniforms were to be hung all facing to the right and beware his wrath should a cadet fail to do up all the buttons. Each drawer had a specific function, for instance one was designated to contain six pair of socks. When Gosselin found one pair improperly folded in Roger Lemelin’s drawer, he had the poor guy refold all six pair over again. Some days later, some inventive cadet came up with the idea of taking one sock and blocking it with cardboard, as a result he had six flawless cubical socks permanently on display, leaving him with three complete pair of socks, which he stored in a steel trunk at the foot of his bed, the only place not subject to inspection. The three sock drawer became a standard.

And so it went. On the evening before the fateful event, we were allowed to stay up past last post to put the final touches to our appearance. Boots were spit and polished to a mirror finish till we could see our reflection in the toe. Navy blue trousers were pressed to razor sharp creases. Web-belts and bayonet scabbards were stained with IT, a white water based paint. Brasso turned the copper fittings to molten gold. Rifles were burnished with shoe polish to a rich auburn hue and chrome plated bayonets sparkled like silver spikes.
Monty’s visit was planned to the last detail. Much to our own and no doubt captain Gosselin’s relief, squadron leader Gagnon’s Maisonneuve barrack was chosen for the great man’s inspection. Like a well planned military campaign, nothing was left to chance. However, the fates would be particularly mischievous that eventful day of April, 1953.

An hour has passed. What had started as a sprinkle of rain has become a torrent. And the band strikes up God Save the Queen as the first cars of Monty’s cortege arrive.
“Cadet Squadrons a…ten…shun,” cries the cadet commandant. One hundred and twenty boots slap the pavement, spraying water that has accumulated in depressions in the parade square.
Monty’s limousine, identified by the Field Marshall’s flags mounted on each side of the hood, comes to a stop in front of the reviewing stand. Two officers hop out of the car and hold the door open for Monty, easily recognizable in his traditional beret and simple khaki uniform. The Field Marshall emerges from the limousine and struts briskly to the reviewing platform.
“Present arms,” cries the cadet commandant.
Cadet Officers unsheathe their sabers and hold them vertically before their eyes. I grasp my rifle stock, which is slippery and mutter “One two three (flip the rifle up vertically with the right hand) “One” (grasp the rifle stock with the left hand as the right seizes the rifle butt) …”One two three” (bring the rifle forward in front of the body)…”One” (extend the rifle down to the full extension of the arms with the right and left hands). The right hand swivels to grasp the stock while the right foot is raised and slammed sharply behind the left.
Unfortunately, the usual unity we had strived for is broken when several cadets fail to firmly grasp their rifles. What should have resonated as two sharp beats sounds more like a drum role.
Monty salutes while the band plays God Save the Queen (again!) and cold water dribbles from my pillbox, seeps past my collar and flows down my spine. My goose bumps have goose bumps. The band plays O Canada. The dribbling has become a stream and water has seeped down my leg into my boots. My toes are drowning.
We stand rigidly at attention while the great man inspects us. As he saunters past I try to imagine the sight we must present. The rain has dissolved the water based polish on our web-belts, drawing white streaks down our dark blue uniforms, which have become sodden and baggy.
Rifles have become so slippery that when the command “Shoulder arms” is screamed, a number of cadets are nearly run through by their own bayonet. As we march past the reviewing stand every step we take raises fountains of water. And we splish-splash past Monty like a troop of water-logged performing ducks.
The ordeal is over, or so we of Champlain squadron think when we return to our barrack. In our urgency to get out of our soaked clothing all discipline is abandoned. Rifles lie about on the floor and on the beds, boots, wet socks, dripping web-belts and sodden uniforms are strewn about while we gambol about in our underpants and T-shirts. Suddenly, the door to our barrack slams open and a panicky voice shouts, “Monty’s coming – here.”
I look to Benny who has jumped up from his bed. “I thought he was supposed to …”
“That’s Monty for you,” Benny says, “He likes to do the unexpected.” He grins and glances about the room, “Guess we better clean up quick.”
The initial shock of being chosen for Monty’s inspection has worn off and is replaced by pandemonium. Ten rifles with bayonets still affixed to the barrel are piled into one locker. No sooner have we slipped into our wet uniforms, wet socks, and boots than the command “Attention!” is shouted and the windows vibrate as twenty boots strike the floor in unison.
Monty struts briskly into the room accompanied by two glowering Majors. There is a gleam in the Field Marshal’s eyes as he glances about the room. The place is a mess and his slight smirk at the sight looks triumphant.
I stand rigidly at attention, hoping that the trembling that has overtaken my body from donning wet and dank clothing is not apparent. From the corner of my eyes, I see Monty heading for the locker in which we’ve stored the ten rifles. He opens the door and is pulled back by one of his Aids as ten bayonet mounted rifles plunge from the locker nearly impaling him. The inspection is cut short when the great man is rushed away. I wait for the door to close before allowing myself to smile. When the rifles fell, I had imagined the next day’s headlines: impaled by ten bayonets, Field Marshall Montgomery becomes Vice-regal pincushion.
That should have been the end of our ordeal and Colonel Lahaie’s embarrassment, but unfortunately there was more to come.
At dinner, as Monty was about to give his speech, a stench that can only be described as a mix of a decaying corpse and the stench of an angry skunk emanates from the kitchen. One of the cooks has spilled perfume on a hot stove. Undeterred, the Field Marshall drones on for twenty minutes in his squeaky very British accent about the exciting challenges that face us, we, the pride of Canada, the cream of the crop, the green-faced, gagging cadets of College Militaire Royal de St-Jean.

It was Benny who later summed up the whole day’s fiasco best. “Poor Monty,” he said, “He’s nearly drowned while reviewing the troops, escapes being run through by wayward bayonets, and to add insult to injury, he’s gassed. If he thinks about it, El Alamein was a much safer campaign.”