In 1994, I was unexpectedly promoted to Major and posted from flying the Challenger aircraft in 412 Sqn (the VIP Transport Squadron) to be the Deputy Commandant of the Canadian Forces Recruit School in St Jean, Quebec.  This was a bit of a culture shock as my career to that point had been exclusively in Air Force units. 

The Recruit School in St Jean had previously been responsible for training Francophone recruits for the CF.  It was heavily army-oriented and most of the staff were Van Doos.  The recent closure of the base in Cornwallis, NS necessitated the Anglophone recruit school be amalgamated with its French counterpart in the “Mega” in St Jean.  I was brought in as the Deputy Commandant to give the staff a more rounded CF flavour.  When I arrived, there was only one other Air Force officer (a nurse), a number of Air Force senior NCOs, as well as a few Navy types. 

The expected arrival of an Air Force VIP pilot set the army types astir and they prepared a welcome for me in the finest traditions of shock and awe that the army is known for. 

After parking on my first morning, the first thing I saw as I stepped out of my vehicle was an MP squad car blocking me in.  In the twinkling of an eye, I was in front of the MP Commander at the guard house having to produce my ID and explain why I was on his base.  After what must have been an adequate explanation, I was delivered back to my car to find a ticket on the windshield for not having backed in to the spot - as was apparently required on an Army base.  

After being collected at the front door of the School by the Chief Standards Officer (a Van Doo Captain), I was introduced to the Commandant (a Van Doo LCol) for a quick hello before getting a tour of the facilities.  We started off in the office of the Captain which was two doors down from the Commandant with broad windows overlooking the main entrance to the school, brand new furniture with an up-to-date computer, and the largest monitor I had ever seen.  He explained that, as the Standards Officer, he needed to be near the Orderly Room. 

 My office, on the other hand, was way down the hall at the other end of the unit behind a set of metal stairs that large groups of recruits were hammering up and down every few minutes, heading to or from their quarters with not enough time to walk normally.  It was basically a store room full of filing cabinets and old NBCW gear with no windows, someone else’s sweaty gym strip hanging in the corner, no computer, a beat up rotary phone, and an old cast-off desk and rickety office chair.  But hey, it’s the first private office I had ever had in my career so who was I to complain! 

After a few other incidents that day, no one could contain their mirth and the truth came out that they were all (including the Commandant) having me on.  The Captain’s office was actually mine and the parking ticket was cancelled. 

My posting to a bilingual (but mostly French unit) was probably to be expected as I had only just recently attained my Functional Bilingual levels.  This minimal proficiency did not prepare me for the fast-talking Quebec French of most of the support staff at the Base that I had to deal with.  I eventually improved and became more comfortable in my second language.  It certainly gave me more respect for the many francophones who joined the CF with little or no English ability and thrived nonetheless. 

And now on to the incident that the title of this story refers:

On Friday mornings, the entire unit would gather for coffee and donuts and for a half hour of socializing and announcements about upcoming events.  On one such occasion, I found that the LCol was away due to a death in his family.  It therefore fell to me to make the announcements (en francais) preceded by an explanation of why the boss wasn’t there.  As was my habit, I rehearsed in my mind what I would say to avoid having to speak off the cuff. 

 I began:

“Le patron n’est pas ici ce matin parce que son belle mere est morue.”

 There were somewhat puzzled looks on the faces of the French staff but all the English guys and gals seemed to get it.  I continued on and soon we were all back at work training recruits.  Later that morning someone asked if I was aware that I had called the boss’s mother-in-law a cod fish!? 

In my preparation, I had figured the past participle of mourir would be similar to other verbs like courir (couru) and devenir (devenu).  Unfortunately, that is not the case – “mort” is the correct past participle and morue is … well … cod fish. 

Our School Chief Warrant Officer was another Van Doo whose English was probably not as good as my French.  I asked him one day if he thought the French staff understood me when speaking to them in French.  In the way of all wise CWOs when asked such a question, he said in his heavy accent, “Well sir, it’s like dis, da Henglish gots to listen to me and da French gots to listen to you.”

 I eventually moved on from that position back to the fold of the Air Force; but I do feel that the out-of-element experience broadened my overall perspective for the rest of my service.