Roommates in recruit camp seemed to be randomly assigned resulting in some interesting pairings across the Cadet Wing, Stone Boaters being no exception.  In my case, I was teamed up with Bill Panter, proficient polisher, presser, bed-maker, parade square paragon, sharp-shooter, and master of many military arts even before the start of recruit camp.  As for me, I soon quite accurately – and through serious lack of effort – earned the nickname “Pigpen.”  As for marching, perpetual confusion between my left foot and right foot and connecting them with that infernal bass drum had me out on remedial drill well into recruit camp.

Bill was also a math prodigy allowing him to catch up on much needed sleep during math, physics, and chemistry classes, earning him his “Pitter” nickname. As for me, when it came to math I might as well have been asleep:

“Dr. Rang, what does this calculus mean?”

“Mr. Barber, don’t worry about what it means. Just take co-sine theta d-theta, plug it into black box, and out come the answer.”

“But Dr. Rang, why?”

“Don’t worry Mr. Barber. Just remember black box. Simple.”

Hmmm. Simple for you Dr. Rang. By the end of first year Dr. Rang and my math tutor Dr. Smith seemed to agree I could be awarded 51% in math in exchange for a promise I would never, ever design a bridge, an electrical circuit, calculate chemical ratios, work on an engine, or plan a roadway.  Promise given, promise kept.

So one evening while I was sitting at my desk struggling through the first of several recently assigned incomprehensible math problems, Bill had already breezed through the whole assignment, given up on trying to explain calculus to his thick-headed roommate,  finished polishing his boots to their customary high gloss. Presumably he was looking for some diversion. When I finally looked up again, Bill was standing there with a full-length 2H pencil, pointy end down – fortunately - hanging from his left nostril and a second full-length 2H pencil, pointy end projecting outwards – fortunately - from his right earhole.  I was rendered speechless and then temporarily lost track of time.  When I came to, albeit still in a bit of a daze, I peered at Bill again and then back down at the assignment, and concluded that it might be easier to try to solve that calculus problem.

Across the hall from our room resided another mismatched pair, 12222 Dan Eustace from Toronto and Jim “the Wish” Wishloff.  I recall Dan’s college number because I had the misfortune of standing in the hall directly across from him every morning during inspection. When asked to report, he would quite literally spit out “12222” putting me directly in the line of fire. “Mr. Barber, why is there spit dripping off your left cheek? Take a circle.”  “Yes Mr. Sullivan.”

And then there was the legendary “the Wish”, strong farm boy and Junior A hockey player from small town Westlock, Alberta whose favourite phrases “just give ‘er” and “let ‘er buck” were soon adopted by the rest of us.  Jim had been in trouble – not uncommon for him – shortly before the pencil incident. CFL Joe King had called him out one morning during inspection.  “Mr. Wishloff, your mother telephoned long-distance the Frigate last night quite worried about you.  Do you know why Mr. Wishloff?”  “No Mr. King, I am fine. Just last night I was letting ‘er buck on circle parade.”  “Well Mr. Wishloff it seems like you have been sending empty envelopes addressed to your mother. And she is wondering why there are no letters in all these empty envelopes and what has happened to you.”  “Mr. King, you ordered us to write to our parents to let them know we are okay and what with all the circles and boot polishing I didn’t have time to write anything so I just sent envelopes to let her know I was okay.”

So on the same night in question, Bill, dressed in white gym shorts, cripplers, and our blue Frigate gym shirt - pencils firmly projecting from nostril and earhole - also decided to present himself to Dan and the Wish just across the hall.  Dan’s desk was closest to the door; he was seated, head down and intensely focused on the same math problem as me, likely with a similar degree of befuddlement. Hearing a bit of commotion he turned his head and looked up to see Bill towering over him, silent, with said pencils in nose and earhole. Dan took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, put his glasses back on: “Well Bill, it doesn’t surprise me a bit.” He turned back to his homework as if Bill’s presentation was the most ordinary thing in the abnormal days of being a Frigateer recruit.

Just as I never got a satisfactory answer from Dr. Rang about the mysteries of calculus, I continue to wonder why the pencils, why the nose and earhole, why Bill, why?