No Easy Ride

by Ian Parsons

  Rank, seniority and structure were the mortar that held together the bricks of the Academy. The senior troops felt they had as much authority and influence over our miserable lives as the instructors. The senior squads resided in a separate building connected to our 32-bed dormitory by a steam-heating tunnel. One evening, as we sat cloistered in our dorm, we heard a strange rumbling sound. Suddenly, the doors exploded open and we were invaded by two troops of seniors. We stood little chance, as they outnumbered us two to one. They upended our beds scattered our kit and hauled many of us off to the showers. The raid was over in minutes, the horde disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. These dorm invasions occurred sporadically during our time in Depot. Occasionally there were injuries and damage, but nothing was ever reported. From time to time, directives were issued from the upper echelon describing the raids as unacceptable, yet little was ever done officially to stop them. Hazing was part of the training experience, but a sad reflection of man’s innate cruelty to man.

  Our first physical training (PT) session consisted of a five-mile run, clearly meant to cull the weakest. Instructors ran with us, spelling each other off as they tired so they could keep up a blistering pace. Several of our group fell by the wayside, collapsing from exhaustion. Following the run, we were reassembled only to be berated and insulted by the instructors. According to the physical training staff, the likelihood of any of us surviving Depot was faint. For $150 a recruit could buy his way out of training, and they encouraged us to do this immediately. Apparently, the organization was very difficult to enter but quite simple to exit. Much discussion took place that evening, with some of my discouraged troop-mates considering their options.

  To some recruits, the physical segment of RCMP training was cruel, even sadistic. There is no question it was rigorous and tough, typifying the stress model used by police and military organizations during that era. Instructors sincerely believed the harsh treatment they inflicted would prepare their charges for the stresses and strains of police work. As law-enforcement training evolved, a more humane but equally demanding regimen was adopted. However, back in the early 1960s, a typical session involved the troop working to a fever pitch through running and calisthenics. In varying states of exhaustion, recruits were forced to roll on the gym floor until they became nauseous. Many would lie in their own vomit, too winded and demoralized to move. These sessions were commonly referred to as torture periods.

  Boxing and police-hold instruction presented additional opportunities to test individual courage. The troop members were arranged in a circle around a mat, and two individuals were selected to don boxing gloves and pummel each another. Very little actual instruction took place, even though several of the instructors were experienced boxers. If a recruit possessed boxing training or talent, he would be chosen to spar with an instructor. The combination of the recruit’s hesitancy to strike his mentor and the instructor’s skills usually resulted in a one-sided affair. Our instruction in effective police holds followed a similar pattern. Any PT session could quickly regress into a torture period if the instructors detected any kind of infraction, real or imagined. Over time, we also received formalized training in gymnastics.

  The swimming instructors held their own enlightened approach to training. Even those of us with experience in the water learned to dread these draconian sessions. The swimming program began at the edge of the pool, where we learned accepted RCMP movements. A particularly sadistic sergeant we secretly referred to as “Captain Chlorine” presided over the mayhem. We lay spread-eagled on our stomachs while instructors with bamboo canes “guided” us through the drill. Any deviation from the accepted method was corrected with sharp strikes on the legs and feet. When it was time to move into the pool, non-swimmers were forced to jump off the high board into the deep end. When it looked like they were about to drown, they were pulled from the pool with the assistance of long poles. At the end of the swimming course, the more competent members of the troop were tested for the Red Cross award of merit. In one segment of the test, the instructor posed as a drowning swimmer. When the recruit approached the panic-stricken “victim,” he attempted to place the victim in a towing position. If the recruit did not perform exactly as taught, the instructor would grab him in a death grip and take him to the bottom of the pool. Release only occurred when the rescuer was on the brink of panic himself.

  Within a month, the pressures of training began to take their toll, and several of the troop decided to leave. By the sixth week, nine members had resigned. It occurred to our instructors that they might be able to completely eradicate “A” Troop—now reduced to 23 members—if they maintained the intensity. They redoubled their efforts to eliminate those of us who remained. In their zeal to decimate our numbers, the physical training staff identified three of us as being under the magic minimum height of five foot eight. Even though we were coping with the challenges being thrown our way, we were measured once, twice and three times. Still not satisfied, they called in experts from the provincial weights and measures ministry. The process went on for several weeks and was thoroughly demoralizing. Finally we appeared before the division medical officer. I recall sitting in his office when he concluded his interview by asking me if I wished to continue my training. My response was resoundingly positive. He finally put an end to our misery by certifying in each of our files that we met the minimum-height requirement.

  The arbitrary minimum-height rules introduced us to discrimination that exists in a general way in many societies but is particularly rampant in a military setting. In the RCMP the mean height is somewhere between five foot ten and six foot two, and those who fell on either side of this “ideal” height range were constantly reminded of it. Members on the tall end of the scale also suffered constant, repetitive and often tasteless comments about their seeming affliction. In calling out members who were above or below the mean height, the training staff communicated the God-given right of all to identify physical aberrations. Throughout my years on the Force, I was subjected to comments regarding my height (though civilians have rarely commented on it). Usually it was good-natured ribbing, but sometimes there were overtones of cruelty and sarcasm. It is a strange and somewhat motivating cross to bear. Singled out for what some labelled a physical deficit, I was even more determined to perform to the best of my ability. Even during gatherings of retired RCMP veterans, there are invariably comments about one’s extra height or lack thereof.

  To ensure the survival of our small squad, bonds developed and vows were made. As we came to know each other better, individual personalities emerged and added to the tapestry of the troop. Parker was our right marker, the one who formed us up for parade, called the roll and generally responded on our behalf to commands. Markers were selected for their military bearing and appearance in uniform. We learned that these physical attributes were used to identify leaders, though it was clear even during basic training that an impeccable appearance did not always indicate an effective leader. Our right marker was a classic example. Parker was a true peacock, always looking the part and projecting a noble presence, but in reality he was a scoundrel in sheep’s clothing, constantly looking for ways to create havoc and disarray. He was responsible for a number of incidents that shone a negative light upon us. During our orientation to the small arms range, the instructor demonstrated his prowess with a .38 special revolver. After firing several rounds at the target, he realized none of the rounds had even hit the paper upon which the target was mounted. Puzzled, he walked down the range, only to find his rounds had not even made it to the target and were lying on the floor. He checked the box of shells from which he had loaded the weapon and discovered that all the bullets in the box had been tampered with. Someone had removed the lead and emptied out some of the powder. Enraged, he demanded to know who was responsible. No one admitted to the prank, so the entire troop was confined to barracks. After several days, Parker confessed. He was further punished for his stunt, but the troop carried the stigma of his
actions. His actual career in the force was very brief, as he fell into several serious disciplinary jams related to finances and was eventually dismissed.

  Also in our midst was a young Charney Biln, the first Sikh ever to join the Force. His first posting would be in Drumheller, Alberta, where he was immediately accepted and respected by the community. Tragically, Charney and his new wife lost their lives in a traffic accident just three years into his service. Francois Dubois, one of our prevailing French-Canadian candidates, was so physically attractive that women would actually stalk him when he walked the streets of Regina. Young and inexperienced, Francois was completely mystified by the strange spell he cast over the opposite sex. He too would die in a traffic accident early in his service.

  Dick Havers, the eldest of our group, was a 25-year-old who had left the Air Force to join the RCMP. His air of superiority thrust him into almost daily conflict with instructors. Dave Tough, a young man from the Maritimes, was so physically awkward he could not swing his arms and march at the same time. Tough suffered unmercifully at the hands of PT instructors. His common sense and mature philosophy were in direct contrast to his deficient coordination, though. He persevered through the agony of training to become one of the most successful of our number in his police career. Another troop-mate, R.R. Bouck, went to British Columbia where he had a distinguished career in detachment policing, winning two commissioner’s commendations for bravery. Terry David Mulligan, one of the youngest in the troop, briefly served in Alberta, where he discovered his talents lay in the field of broadcasting. He left the Force after three short years and went on to be a radio and television personality in the Vancouver area. Don Gamble, a farm boy from Gull Lake, Saskatchewan, became one of Canada’s foremost handwriting experts while serving with the RCMP Crime Detection Laboratory. There were clowns and cut-ups, young men of serious mien, naïve farm boys and those who really had no idea why they were there. It was amazing to witness the melding of divergent personalities into a single cohesive unit.

  FOR INSPECTION

  One of the more impressive movements performed by RCMP recruits during their dismounted cavalry drills is a movement called “For Inspection, Draw Revolvers.” The 32-person troop lines up in two rows of 16. The right marker is situated at the extreme right front and choreographs the action with head movements.

  On a sunny July day, our troop was preparing for our drill graduation. Being the senior troop, we were at the front of the daily noon parade. This parade is a time-honoured tradition. It takes place on the main square in the training division and launches the recruit troops to their afternoon classes. Knowing that we were going to be demonstrating the “For Inspection” movement, we anxiously awaited the order from the sergeant major, which came suddenly.

  Our right marker took three smart paces to the front and snapped an “eyes left,” his every move scrutinized by his troop-mates, acting in unison and on cue. When the right marker nodded his head slightly, we simultaneously moved our right hands and slapped our revolver holsters. Another nod and the holster flap was undone, right hand on the weapon. On the order from the sergeant major, revolvers were drawn and held with the elbow bent at a precise 45 degree angle, ready for inspection. As the weapons moved like lightning to this position, the right marker snapped his head to the front and took three paces back to be in line with the troop. Much to the his horror, when he moved his head to the front, he saw a condom hanging from the barrel of his revolver, placed there in advance by some prankster. Was there a lesson to be learned here concerning the securing of one’s personal revolver at all times?

  Our right marker was outraged! Was this an indictable offence? Would his all-too-brief career be terminated because of a condom? He was frozen in terror, unable to react. As the sergeant major approached, the right marker uttered a silent prayer to assist him in his departure from this world. The sergeant major faced him with a look of total scorn and disgust. Gingerly, he lifted the condom from the barrel of the gun with his drill baton, sauntered over to the parade square curb and relegated the offending item to the tarmac.

  The parade continued to its conclusion. The throngs of spectators gathered to view the parade seemed to have missed the debacle. Following the parade, the “usual suspects” were intensely interrogated. The code of silence was invoked and no leads surfaced to identify the culprit. Life went on. Our right marker likely remained celibate for the remainder of his days.

  After a few short weeks, Sergeant Major MacRae, perhaps the most highly visible symbol of power and authority in the training division, met with us in a classroom. He informed us that our diminished number was creating logistical problems since the curriculum was predicated on 32-man units. He was considering dissolving the troop and distributing its individuals to incoming squads. We pleaded with him to allow the troop to remain intact, assuring him we would cope with the challenges. He reluctantly agreed, granting us a trial period. As a troop, we set objectives to match the other troops and exceed their performance if possible. In the ensuing weeks, we were able to withstand everything the instructors threw our way and managed to settle into a routine. Our small troop coped with all the duties of a larger squad and earned a measure of unique regard from the training staff.

  The foot drill instructors rated high on our fear quotient. They seemed to be rewarded within the RCMP hierarchy for their haughtiness and arrogance. Tall, slim and prepossessing in their gleaming leather and shining brass, they strutted about the complex, swinging their distinctive batons. Their raison d’etre was to discover anything that might deviate from a perfect recruit turnout. Five o’ clock shadows, scuffed boots, undone buttons or specks of lint were all small victories to be discovered by these stentorian-voiced nitpickers. Political correctness was unheard of back then, and ethnicity, skin colour or unusual names were all sources of great interest and delight. One unfortunate recruit with African genes and a French name was immediately christened “Coon Frog” and addressed by that name for the duration of his stay in the training division. French names were ridiculed and bastardized, as were Slavic and Italian names.

  RCMP foot drill formations are based on mounted cavalry drills, where troops moved in eight-person sections. They are extremely precise, requiring hours of practice. We were a cavalry regiment but carried rifles during drills, which made the movements more complex. Complete and utter stillness was expected until an order to enact a specific movement was issued. Miscues were not tolerated and miscreants were sentenced to 25 push-ups, to be completed immediately while attired in boots and breeches. At the whim of the instructor, the troop would be commanded to break into double-time movement for the duration of the drill hour. By the time it ended, our tunics and high brown boots were stained with white sweat marks.

  One shimmering prairie July day, the commanding officer was escorting a group of clergy about the grounds. When they entered the beautiful regimental chapel, they discovered three recruits in full dress kneeling at the altar. When asked about their seeming devoutness, they explained their drill instructor had found them so despicable on the drill square that they were sent to the chapel to pray for forgiveness. Drill instructors were routinely hated at the outset of training, but then, strangely, they would emerge to become the best loved of all instructors. Many of us attributed this strange outcome to Stockholm syndrome.

  In our first two months at Depot, we faced many tough challenges. Most of us had survived the initial hurdles put in our way, but a bigger barrier lay ahead. The recruit population typically regarded the riding stables with fear and awe, and we were about to learn why.

  CHAPTER 3

  RIDE, TROT!

  “PARSONS, YOUR MOTHER shoulda thrown you out and kept the afterbirth, you useless little man!” Those words uttered by my riding instructor remain with me to this day. In 1966, equitation training was withdrawn from the curriculum. The stables in Regina were closed and the horses moved to Rockcliffe, Ontario, which became the home of the RCMP Musical Ride. This decision tr
ansformed the Academy in Regina forever. Although many senior RCMP officers subscribed to Winston Churchill’s oft-repeated phrase, “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man,” this change freed up 140 hours within the curriculum for more contemporary law-enforcement topics. But in 1961, the stables influenced the entire Depot experience, both positively and negatively.

  After two months at Depot, we began our mounted training, which was in addition to academic subjects, practical training, typing classes, PT, swimming and foot drill. Our indoctrination into equitation presented another rite of passage, complete with unique and intense rituals and routines.

  Some members of the troop had never been up close and personal with a horse. These magnificent animals were like spoiled children and took advantage of every opportunity to show recruits that they were the prima donnas of the paddock. We had to earn our spurs, so these essential tools were denied us for the first 60 hours of riding. The horses were aware of this and generally ignored us, even when we were astride them. The riding staff hounded us constantly to move our mounts along, but no amount of urging with knees and heels would work. We functioned with minimal responses from our steeds and maximum yelling and insults from the riding staff. After hours of recalcitrant horses and assaultive instructors, we were finally allowed to don our spurs. Each and every man looked forward with glee to the next riding session when we could force our will upon our stubborn mounts; however, when the distinctive jingle of spurs reached the horses’ sensitive ears, they suddenly complied with every command. We would seldom have the opportunity to inflict our revenge. The few who tried quickly learned how challenging it was to control a horse’s enthusiasm when it was even slightly goaded by a spur.