No Easy Ride

by Ian Parsons

  The riding stable staff was devoted solely to the horses, which were pampered, groomed, pedicured and fed as though they were sacred beings. RCMP mounts had evolved from providing everyday transportation during the Force’s early years to serving in ceremonial occasions after the advent of the automobile. These changing needs called for a different type of horse, and a breeding program was started in 1939. In 1943, the program became more sophisticated as Clydesdales, Percherons, Hanoverians and Trakehners were bred with thoroughbreds to produce a heavier-boned, well-mannered, hardy horse. The RCMP mount transformed into the majestic black animal now seen in the musical ride, approximately 16 hands in height, weighing between 1,200 and 1,300 pounds.

  The 60 horses in the Depot stables were all offspring of the breeding program, though some exceptions in colour, weight and height were forgiven for training purposes. These haughty creatures were the stars of the show, and they were acutely aware of it. Much like people, they possessed distinctive personalities, some engaging, some wary, some cranky and some downright vicious. When the list was posted on the day previous to a ride, we were keen to find out which horses we had been assigned to. If you were unfortunate enough to draw Waco, a red-haired biter, you knew she would put a welt on you before the day was out. Those assigned Wasp and Rogue were assured a relatively easy ride, as both reflected their docile Clydesdale heritage. Still, they presented their own challenges; they were large in girth and stood 18 hands high, making a graceful mount almost impossible. Imp and Epic were small, dainty, responsive animals that were a pleasure to ride. Gorse the horse was slow-witted and slow-moving.

  One of the most interesting characters in the entire stable was a gelding named Rob Roy. He was a beautiful animal, and it was easy to see why he used to be a stud. After being replaced by two younger stallions, he was gelded and put into the riding pool. He developed a most interesting, albeit annoying habit that may have illustrated his disgust at losing his stallion status. When lined up for any kind of inspection, Rob Roy let his very sizable tongue hang out of his mouth, protruding some six to eight inches. Instructors delighted in taunting new riders who were unaware of the unusual habit. A recruit who had drawn Rob Roy would stand at attention beside his mount, awaiting inspection. An instructor would bellow at the neophyte, commanding him to get his mount’s tongue back into its mouth. The terrified recruit would desperately attempt to reinstall Rob Roy’s tongue, to no avail. He would be upbraided for having no control over the horse, with additional observations on the unlikelihood of him ever becoming a policeman.

  Our riding instructor was Corporal Landers, a lithe young man born to the saddle and barely older than his charges. Our first mounted foray took us onto the bald prairie in troop formation. After an hour on the trail, we halted for a break and enjoyed an informal chat. Terry Mulligan, who hailed from mountainous British Columbia, gestured gleefully to a small mound where the revolver range was located. He jokingly asked the corporal if it was the largest mountain in Saskatchewan. Corporal Landers, who was a Saskatchewan native, glared at Mulligan, commanding him to dismount. Dressing him down as a smart ass, he ordered him to start running. Mulligan immediately obeyed, loping across the prairie. The corporal spurred his horse, Laura, into action. Ears laid back and teeth bared, she pursued the recruit, running him to the ground. Landers commanded Mulligan to get up and run, then repeated the process. This continued for the duration of the return trip to the stables, by which time Constable Mulligan was a mass of torn clothing and cuts. It became glaringly obvious that flippancy with a riding instructor invited disaster. We were beginning to understand that the objective of equitation was not to transform us into accomplished horsemen, but to further test our mettle. The riding program was an opportunity to assess the courage of individual recruits by placing them in sometimes terrifying situations, limited only by the instructor’s imagination.

  Recruits were responsible for all menial daily stable duties. Each morning, selected troops would appear at reveille to scour stalls, followed by feeding and grooming. Many of the horses made sport with recruits, kicking and biting them. The more timid members were sent into box stalls to groom the stallions. Unfettered, the powerful beasts challenged anyone who entered, baring their teeth and striking out with their hooves. It was a daunting experience for someone who was city-bred and had never encountered such an intimidating animal. During morning stable duty, the horses were led to water troughs located at the centre of the barns. Recruits were detailed two horses each, leading them by the halter. Enjoying their bit of freedom, the horses took the opportunity to kick and bite the recruits and each other. Trying to maintain control of two horses while they watered and kibitzed was a daunting challenge. The instructors waited until the horses were lined up to drink, then fired a rifle containing a blank cartridge, startling the horses and creating additional havoc. The unfortunate recruits caught in the melee were tossed to and fro as they clung to the animals, occasionally incurring injuries.

  During one afternoon session, the troop was riding in single-file formation in the indoor riding ménage. Several instructors sat on their horses in the centre. Suddenly, Corporal Landers spurred his horse into action, hurtling straight for me with Laura’s ears back and teeth bared. My horse and I were almost bowled over when they collided with us. As he hurled several obscenities my way, it was clear that Landers had just learned I was the son of a commissioned officer. Landers assured me that my life would be a misery henceforth, and he fulfilled that promise for the rest of our time in the stables.

  As equitation training progressed, we began to grasp rudimentary musical ride movements. The troop would move four abreast, trotting and cantering under the tutelage of the instructor. The constant, repetitive commands from those days will resonate in my memory forever: “Ride, trot!” “Get your lower legs back!” “You there on Rob Roy, take the rear of the ride!” “Four feet, nose to croup!” One curious city-bred pupil innocently asked an instructor what a “croup” was. The instructor escorted him over to the hindquarters of a mare standing in her stall. He lifted the horse’s tail and urged the young member to peer closely. When the recruit got into position, the instructor placed his hand at the back of his student’s head and rammed his face into the rear portion of the horse. “That, young constable, is a croup,” explained the corporal.

  Frequently, the horses became spirited at the canter, bucking and making it difficult to hold one’s seat. Tex Burris, a tough, wiry young man from Ontario, tried to control his steed while it bucked and sidestepped. As the troop moved at the canter, Burris lost his balance, tumbling over the flanks of the horse. As he went down, the horse kicked, striking him. The ride was immediately halted. Unable to stand, Burris tried to pull himself along with his arms. Corporal Landers, astride his horse, stood over Burris, commanding him to stand. When it became obvious Burris was injured, the corporal delegated two of the troop to “remove the rabble from the riding school.” More concerned about the horse than the recruit, he then called for someone to examine it for injuries. Later, Burris was found to have a broken pelvis.

  In the jargon of recruits, a “perfect day” consisted of PT, foot drill and swimming in the first half of the training day, followed by equitation for the latter half. These activities were physically demanding, and we had to go through hours of kit preparation before we rode. Prior to a morning or afternoon ride, recruits were expected to attend the stables and scour their tack. Our work was closely inspected at the start of the class. Any recruit whose saddle and bridle were not properly presented would be paraded to the sergeant major and punished with extra duties in the form of guard mount or fatigue duty, which encompassed all hard labour such as rubbing, cleaning, mopping and polishing.

  As our training continued, a Saskatchewan winter descended. Daily temperatures in December were often lower than 30 below. On weekends, two troops were assigned to the stables for a morning exercise ride. Prior to going out into the cracking cold, the horses were fed hot bran. The
aroma of breakfast cooking caused the horses to nicker and impatiently stomp their hooves. Once the horses had eaten, the recruits saddled up, put on the famous RCMP buffalo coat to fend off the cold and ventured out. The horses, having been confined to the stables overnight and now filled with hot bran, were restless, mischievous and strangely eager to leave their warm home. As the mounted troop exited, and the horses hit the cold air, a chemical reaction seemed to occur. One of the horses would release a gigantic fart, bucking and kicking as he expended his gas. This signalled to the others to do likewise, and chaos would reign. On one occasion, before control was regained, furry mounds of buffalo fur, breeches and spurs were randomly distributed in the snow adjacent to the horse barn. To a man, the troop had been involuntarily dismounted. The instructors were greatly entertained by the fiasco and roared at the riders to recapture their horses and remount.

  Over and above our equitation duties, four members of our troop had joined the training division’s drum and bugle corps. Volunteers came from various troops, and the band would play simple marches during the traditional one o’clock parade following the lunch hour. The only troops excused from the parade were those assigned to afternoon equitation. Realizing the band was the darling of Sergeant Major MacRae, and knowing he was watching us carefully, we had volunteered for his band to convey our enthusiasm and troop spirit. This display of initiative worked in our favour until we missed our afternoon ride because we were performing with the bugle band on the parade square. As the troop lined up for inspection prior to the ride, Corporal Landers noticed it was conspicuously reduced in number. He demanded to know where the missing four members were. When he learned we were on the square playing in the bugle band, he waited for our appearance, some 30 minutes late. Landers promptly rechristened us with names to reflect our musical endeavours: Beethoven, Mozart, Ravel and Strauss. As a penalty for our late appearance at the riding stables, we received extra attention during the equitation session. Following the harangue by the riding instructors, the four of us decided not to arrive late for another equitation class. When equitation was scheduled for the troop, we were present for riding inspection.

  Later that day we were summoned to the office of the sergeant major, who demanded to know why we were absent from the band. After our explanation, he made it absolutely clear what would happen to us if we again failed to appear with the bugle band. When we asked him how we should cope with our riding instructor, he said to leave that to him. We could only imagine what transpired between the riding staff and the sergeant major, but no words were spoken when we appeared late for our next equitation class. However, we were still called by our musical names while in the stable and were appropriately persecuted in small ways for the remainder of our riding days. We were assigned difficult horses, given the less palatable jobs in the stables and frequently assigned the intimidating task of grooming the stallions, in addition to many other tasks that would make our lives more difficult.

  My musical talents would further complicate my quest for a law-enforcement career. At the halfway point of our training, I was summoned to the personnel office and asked if I had any interest in joining the RCMP band in Ottawa. I respectfully declined, telling the interviewer I wished to work as a policeman. Several weeks later, they once again contacted me, this time informing me that I was to go to Ottawa at the conclusion of training to join the band. At the time, the RCMP band was only a part-time organization with musicians holding down administrative jobs and playing as and when required. Extremely agitated and disappointed, I explained that prior to joining the RCMP I had been a member of one of the premier regimental bands in North America. I said that if they assigned me to the RCMP band, I would return to the regimental army band. No doubt my response caused some irritation, but I heard nothing more about this and was allowed to continue on my path to a law-enforcement career.

  LIFE SAVER? I THINK NOT!

  His name was Willie George. Willie was one of two “stallions in waiting” in the RCMP stables. He was as black as his heart and stood 17 hands high; his eyes burned with hatred. He resided in a box stall, and when there was a mare in heat nearby he created unimaginable havoc. He would bang his stall constantly, and his snorts and screams would fill the entire barn. Recruits ceased to be assigned to groom him as he had injured so many of them. Only two of the most experienced riding instructors would saddle and ride him.

  Having owned a horse prior to joining the Force, I fancied myself something of a “horse whisperer.” I discovered that Willie had a weakness for Wint O Green Life Savers, so I would stop by his stall from time to time and give him this treat. As time wore on, I noticed he would look for me. He seemed almost civil as I fed him the Life Savers, and my confidencein dealing with him was growing, as was the admiration from my troopmates. I eventually gathered the courage to open his door and feed him the Life Savers face to face. Things were going quite well for Willie and me, and my fame as a horse handler was spreading.

  Occasionally, recruits were assigned stable orderly duties. This meant that two of us would be in the stables all night, cleaning gutters and feeding and watering the horses. On this particular evening the horses had just received their nightly ration of oats. This was obviously the highlight of the horses’ daily routine, and their anticipation was palpable as the oats were doled out. Willie George had just been given his share and was munching contentedly. I opened his door and approached him with my stash of Life Savers. We shared a bond now. But when I held out my hand, he nudged it away. I must have totally forgotten whom I was dealing with. I approached him again with the Life Savers. I cannot recall precisely what happened next, but suddenly I felt a searing pain in my upper arm. Then I flew through the air and smashed against the stall, crumpling in the corner. I looked up at four long black legs and the stallion’s head as he quietly munched his oats, then I quietly crawled out of the stall. Willie George had bitten through my pea jacket, inner jacket and shirt and thrown me across the box stall. Our relationship was over, as was my brief career as a tamer of stallions, and I was left with feelings of abject humility. I never bought Wint O Green Life Savers again.

  As the troop moved through the equitation program, we developed some semblance of rapport with our instructor. Christmas was approaching, and we asked Corporal Landers if we could buy him a holiday drink. Amazingly, he invited the entire troop to his home one Saturday afternoon. His wife was absent when a large number of us arrived there, liberally supplied with bottles of Christmas cheer. As the afternoon went on, several of the revellers became inebriated. Eric Crampton developed an infatuation with the corporal, depositing his six-foot-three-inch, 230-pound body in his lap, hugging him enthusiastically. No amount of coaxing from the victim or troop members would sway him from his drunken fondness. Another guest fell over the large ornate Christmas tree, knocking it down. Still another staggered down the basement steps, spilling a drink and putting a dent in the washing machine. By the time the troop departed, we knew we had overstayed our welcome.

  Even though several troop members immediately returned to the scene of the crime to clean up and make things right, it was glaringly evident that our rapport with Corporal Landers was forever sullied. When “A” Troop returned to the riding academy to continue our equitation training, we realized we would be paying for our indiscretions. For the remaining 50 hours of our riding classes, we were seldom astride our steeds. Instead, we performed all of the required formations on foot while leading the horses. At the conclusion of our riding pass out, Corporal Landers, in the company of the entire riding staff, informed us we were the worst troop to ever pass through Depot. We were told to exit the stables and never come back.

  We returned to the rest of our training curriculum with enthusiasm, thankful that equitation was behind us. For many of us, any love and admiration we held for horses would be forever tainted as a result of our RCMP training experience.

  THE LAST POST

  The following poem was written by Constable J.K. Crosb
y (January 19, 1939–March 25, 2009), a member of RCMP “A” Troop, 1958, at “Depot” Division, Regina, Saskatchewan. “A” Troop gathered for a reunion in 1994, where Ken Crosby presented these memories of equitation training.

  On quiet days a sudden flash, a scent,

  A sound, or something else to stir the other time

  A shout, a distant roll of drums

  A marching tune or bugle on the wind

  Can summon up the pride of what has been

  The memories report for watch again

  A clopping horse’s hoof re-echoing on the pavement

  Although there be no horse

  The ammonia blast of the overnight void

  Although there be no stalls

  The warmth beneath the curry comb and brush

  The warm neck to lay a head on

  The gruffness that hid the real affection

  The strength, the firmness of shoulder and haunch,

  The might, the fright, her of me, and me of her.

  A fright to overcome with persistence and love.

  The warmness of the horse’s teary eye

  Its nodding head approving the affection given

  Responding with a recognition that

  Although ridden by others, the horse was truly yours.

  Their names flash by from time to time

  My “Gypsy”, a “Rebel”, “Dawn” and “Gail”

  A “Rogue” that really wasn’t and a “Faux Pas” that was

  I remember “Newton” biting Sam Strang’s thumb

  Strang the Roughrider, Harry Armstrong, Ralph Cave,

  Jesse Jessiman