“Me neither, but I won’t get that chance. I’ll be staying at the Camp X base, as far as I know.”
Ruby’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not training to be an agent? That means you’re what?”
“I’m in communications,” Dot said. “I don’t know any more than that yet.”
Across the room, Gordon stood and carried his empty meal tray to the front. He gave the girls a tentative smile as he passed.
“Guess we should go,” Ruby said, shoveling what remained of her breakfast into her mouth. “Lecture hall, right? Not my favourite.”
Dot didn’t mention that it was hers. She could feel the fragile threads of a new friendship possibly forming, and she didn’t want to mess it up by appearing overly keen.
When they walked into the hall and saw what was written on the blackboard, Ruby stopped short. “Explosives? This is going to be fun!”
Before that morning, Dot hadn’t known there were almost two dozen different types of explosives, all based on combinations of ammonium picrate, TNT, pentaerythritol tetranitrate, RDX, and powdered aluminum. She wasn’t sure if she would ever need to use any of that knowledgein the future, but it was interesting learning how it all fit together. Ruby peered over, looking impressed by Dot’s detailed notes, so Dot helped her spell the chemical names properly. After that, they had a brief lesson on pistol shooting. Dot dutifully sketched all the diagrams on the board and added notes from the lesson.
Then their short, wiry instructor closed his book. “Let’s put these lessons into action. Back field. On the double.”
Dot glanced at Ruby, who was practically in raptures at this news. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised that this was their next step. It only made sense that they’d be testing out their new knowledge. But explosives? Guns?
“You have learned the basics of explosive theory,” the instructor said, stopping in a field by a melting pile of blackened snow. Beside him was a small black box. “Now you will witness what they do.”
He reached down, pushed a button on the box, and the earth exploded about forty feet away. Dot dropped. It was a few seconds before Ruby could coax her out of her panicked crouch. Next time she swore she would be better prepared. And she would cover her ears.
How on earth had she ended up in a place where they’d expect her to fire explosives?
On to the next part of this morning’s lecture: the six trainees marched to a different section of the field, where a younger, stony-faced instructor put a pistol in Dot’s trembling hands. The metal felt cold and unfamiliar, and she didn’t like it at all. She wanted to hand it back, but the knees of her uniform still bore mud stains from the explosives’ demonstration, and she refused to embarrass herself again.
One by one, the students stood and were taught what to do. Quiet Gordon, the radio operator, went first. He took the gun, fired, and hit the target as if it was the easiest thing in the world. The next two boys each attempted it a few times before they were successful. Ruby and the last boy took a few tries, and they eventually got it. Dot observed everyone, mentally breaking down positioning, posture, speed, and whatever else she could see so that she could shoot as naturally as Gordon had.When it was her turn, she stood beside the trainer and let him force the fingers of both her hands into the right position around the weapon. His boots nudged hers so her feet were set apart.
“Hold the pistol in front, and grip it tight. Picture your shoulders and your hands in an isosceles triangle. Do you remember that shape from math class?”
“I remember everything from math class,” she told him flatly.
“All right. That’s your target.” He pointed. “Look straight at it, squeeze the trigger slowly, and brace yourself for the kick.”
Dot squinted down the field about sixty feet and saw a large paper target. At least she assumed it was large. The fact that she was supposed to hit it made it seem impossibly small. Following instructions, she loaded the gun, took off the safety, aimed, then pulled the trigger. Two things happened. The first was the kick that he’d warned her about, which knocked her back a step. The second was a rush of disappointment that she hadn’t hit anything remotely near the target. She aimed and fired again and again, reminding herself that this was just physics. She could master this if only she thought through it logically. The instructor encouraged her, angling the pistol this way and that, checking her grip, and assuring her that every shot fired brought her a little closer. That wasn’t enough for Dot. She worked at it without ceasing for the rest of the hour, increasingly frustrated, but in the end she walked away a failure. She had not hit the target even once.
After a quick lunch, the class headed back outside where they met yet another instructor. This one was probably about thirty, with slicked-back gold hair that was thinning on top. He cheerfully introduced himself as Mr. Turner, then indicated the running track.
“I, ladies and gentlemen, am in charge of torturing you.” He gave them a bright smile. “Time to sweat. Let’s go. If you stop, you drop and give me ten push-ups.”
Dot stepped onto the track, aware that this was going to hurt. She hadn’t run laps since her training at Saint-Hyacinthe. After a few rounds, every muscle in her body burned, but she refused to be the only one toslow to a walk. Failing now would be beyond humiliating, and after the firing-range fiasco, she doubted her fellow Camp X trainees would let her live it down. Ignoring her screaming muscles, Dot focused on the loose streams of curls bouncing against Ruby’s back, and she managed to match her friend’s pace. When they finally left the field, Dot could barely walk, but she wasn’t the only one. Even the men staggered alongside her, their hair and clothing dark with sweat.
“What’s next?” Dot whispered to Ruby.
“Bed?”
That made Dot smile. “It’s only two o’clock.”
“Okay!” Mr. Turner said, walking backward in front of them. “Now we have something really fun for you.”
Behind him loomed the parachute tower. Behind the rest of them, one of the other trainees threw up. Dot felt her own stomach roll.
Mr. Turner grinned. “Well done. Now, I need a volunteer…”
“Petty Officer Wren Wilson?” a voice called.
She spun toward it. “Major Nelson!”
