by Ian Parsons
They’re still forming troops in my memory
and making sure that we used the saddle soap
On our supple fragrant tack.
Still shouting “Ride, prepare to mount”
As I hear again the leathery grunting squeak of the stirrups
And saddles along the assembled line of exhaling horses.
By sections and half sections through weather’s best and worst
Enough cold to freeze a breath and steam and ice a horse
Enough warmth to quickly sweat and bring froth to a horse’s coat
I remember the scent of the horse’s sweat
Its warmth and its wetness
Its feeling on my cheek as I hugged the horse’s neck
Its smell on my clothing
Its splash between my fingers as I “Made Much” to my horse.
I remember jumps, my grunts, the horse’s grunts, the awkward landings,
the surprise I was still mounted
And suicide lane and the order “quit reins, quit stirrups”
Tipping a forage cap was never so funny
As when doffed by a rider with weak knees
A rider with weak knees shouting “Good morning Corporaaal”
I remember “Roman Riding” and “field days”
That were more of a day-off than “General Equitation”
I remember a big inflated ball that stood as high as a horse’s withers
Except for “Gaul” of course, who stood seventeen hands
I remember the soft tilled soil of the Riding School
As opposed to the gumbo outside
That exacted such punishment to our ironed Strathcona boots
That were spit shined, be they Hart made or McDonnell.
I remember “the ride”, I remember the precision
I remember the gaits, the canter figure of eight
The pleasure of having missed hitting anyone in the crossover.
I remember wondering how the music kept in time so well
with the “bump trot”
And in the Riding School, there came those fleeting fantasies
of those great cavalries that had gone before
From the Cossacks on the steppes through to the Strathcona Horse
From the Charge of the Light Brigade to the United States Seventh
From the Great March from Dufferin of the Northwest Mounted.
They were all united somehow in one force, in one panorama,
One bonded unison.
Men and horses operating across time with pride and precision,
The pride and precision of Cavalrymen
The brotherhood of the saddle who had to “earn their spurs”,
They rise to ride again, though fleetingly,
As “A” Troop ’58 answers its last muster.
Now silvered and weathered and slower than those days of youth
As mounted troopers
We still maintain that pride of a great tradition
Of being that tradition’s last
We store up scents and sounds and wispy scenes
That rise to flood our thoughts from time to time
That none now make and few have leave to claim.
We horsemen, we brothers, we the eternally locked unit of man and mount
Can look upon the path we made to see that it made us
And sometimes see the glory that it was,
Its moments, its comrades, its mounts, all last a lifetime
And all these things still summon to our call
From that branded special corner of our Cavalry hearts.
The academic side of the curriculum continued to be extremely demanding. The remaining months of training were filled with hours of criminal law, federal statutes, report writing, forensic identification, memory and observation, practical training and firearms training. Typing, perhaps the single most important physical skill in police work, was taught in a concentrated fashion that produced competent typists within a few short hours. To compel practice and familiarity, recruits typed pages upon pages of criminal statutes after each law class.
The firing ranges were perhaps the only areas of training devoid of sarcasm and sadism. The emphasis was on safety and becoming proficient handlers of firearms. Many hours were devoted to the mechanics, care and maintenance of our weapons before we were allowed to actually fire them. Ammunition was carefully controlled and inventoried, and students had to empty their pockets at the end of each session. Although this critical aspect of recruit training was conducted with great professionalism, it was an era preceding modern workplace health regulations. Thousands of young men left training with irreparable hearing damage from using firearms without ear protection. Those few who dared to mention discomfort due to the constant explosions were told to place expended brass cartridges in their ears. Instead of deadening the sound, the cartridges actually amplified it.
Each day brought information overload, and we had to cram constantly for ongoing exams. Driver training and foot drill were also high-profile subjects. Our driver-training outings afforded us our first opportunity to be viewed by the public in our revered RCMP uniforms. Escorted into local cafés by our mentors, we would descend like a gaggle of geese, experiencing what all policemen fondly view as the cult of the coffee break. We ventured into rural areas surrounding the city to learn the basics of defensive and interceptive driving from an instructing corporal. All of our driver-training instructors were seasoned field personnel, happy to share their tales and anecdotes from the field. We hung on every word they uttered.
Although driver training was our first exposure to the public while in uniform, our shorn heads and formal manner made us readily identifiable even when we wore civilian clothes in downtown Regina during our off-duty hours. Almost since the RCMP began training recruits in Regina, there has been discernible polarization between local young men and RCMP trainees. It has ebbed and flowed through the years with the occasional eruption. Shortly prior to our arrival in the training division, several members of another troop attended one of the local dance clubs. They were confronted and outnumbered by a group of unruly youths. A scuffle broke out and several RCMP members were badly beaten, primarily because they were outnumbered. The perpetrators were well-known hoodlums who hung out regularly at a popular watering hole. The city police attended the melee, but no charges were laid due to identification issues. Being uncomfortable with possible negative publicity, RCMP management declined to take any further action.
The drill instructor of this particular troop was Sergeant Baldy Weathers, who was infamous for his fiery temper. When he learned of the incident, Sergeant Weathers decided to mete out some justice of his own. He gathered the entire troop and found them more than willing to become involved. The following weekend, armed with riding crops, the sergeant and his hit squad attended the establishment, sought out the troublemakers and soundly thrashed them. As the young men targeted were known bullies, even the locals endorsed the action. However, the RCMP powers that be were very unhappy with the spontaneous vigilante action and disciplined the sergeant and the recruits. They were charged in service court, where the participating recruits were fined and Sergeant Weathers was reduced in rank. In spite of this, he remained a member of the Force for many years, eventually regaining his stripes and enjoying legendary status for the remainder of his service.
FINALLY, AFTER ALMOST 10 months of an indescribable emotional and physical gauntlet, it was over. The remaining weeks were dedicated to our pass-out parade. We received our postings, and I learned I was to be stationed in Alberta. When graduation day finally arrived, the troop performed a drill and physical training display. A brief ceremony took place with family looking on, and we were on our way. RCMP basic training had been an odyssey unequalled in our young lives and would be remembered as an experience that few would want to relive, yet none would have missed. We were forever transformed and bound together by the blood, sweat and tears generated by those 10 trauma
tic months.
While most of us had gained confidence and maturity, some recruits left Depot Division with scars, both psychological and physical. RCMP candidates have always been rigidly screened, and most of those with unacceptable personality flaws or neurotic tendencies are eliminated. However, after being subjected to months of intense mental and physical rigours without the option of retaliating, it is safe to say that some pent-up emotions accompanied us as we departed. The need to lash out existed to varying degrees among recruits. In that era of little public scrutiny and police accountability, the combination of our punitive training experience and youthful exuberance sometimes exploded into very physical confrontations. Encountering an abusive, aggressive, drunken offender could be enough to turn a young policeman into an avenging angel. Sometimes a belligerent miscreant would suffer the consequences. It might even be surmised that a young policeman was subconsciously assuming the identity of a training instructor and the offender targeted was seen as the recruit.
As police training evolved and more was learned about human behaviour, it became clear the negative and punitive stress model employed for so many years could be improved upon. In the 1960s, the RCMP was still run like the NWMP in many ways, and our training was based on the cavalry-regiment tenets of the original 19th-century Force. Even though the curriculum was embellished with police-based subjects, the finished product was nothing more and nothing less than a well-trained soldier. We responded instantly to commands and learned to never question the directions of a superior. We were fodder for our first detachment commander, who had experienced an identical indoctrination. As young policemen, we hoped to be guided by commanders who could be emulated, but in most cases their management tools were forged by their own training and experience. Even if our commanders had the benefit of some in-service training, such courses focused on operational matters and investigational techniques rather than management skills. They devoted little time to motivating subordinates or encouraging career development. The system was tried and true and had worked for decades, but cracks were beginning to show even as we departed the training division to begin our careers.
CHAPTER 4
WELCOME TO THE FIELD
BIDDING OUR FAREWELLS, we dispersed across the dominion. Those of us with private vehicles were given a few days to travel to our destination. Wide-eyed and intimidated, the four of us who had been assigned to Alberta postings arrived in Edmonton from Depot and were sequestered in barracks at K Division Headquarters. Our quarters there were similar to those we had just vacated, and our movements were carefully monitored through curfews and room inspections. We wondered if we would forever have to endure the harshly disciplined way of life we had suffered through during training.
After a few weeks of escorting prisoners, serving summonses and conducting minor investigations on behalf of outlying detachments, we were paraded in red serge before Assistant Commissioner Lloyd Bingham. An impressive man with blazing blue eyes, he conveyed to us the constant requirement for professionalism and devotion to duty. With the sting of Depot still in our beleaguered psyches, the commanding officer’s message rang out as a stark prediction of our continuing monk-like existence.
I had just become part of a rigidly structured organization. The commissioner is the supreme head of the RCMP; a commanding officer, usually an assistant commissioner, is the chief executive of each province; and an officer commanding, a superintendent or inspector, is the head of what was referred to as a subdivision. Each province was divided into several geographical subdivisions, to which a number of detachments would report. Senior and junior non-commissioned officers (NCOs) were our direct and secondary supervisors. Even with the rigid cavalry-style structure, detachment commanders were given considerable autonomy with respect to day-to-day operations. They were subject to the regular scrutiny of section NCO staff sergeants, who roamed their subdivisions and reported to the officer commanding.
After a few weeks in Edmonton, I was posted to a town I’ll call Willmore, where I would be the sole unmarried member of a seven-man detachment. I was excited and delighted when I learned that the town was nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. It had the reputation of being a busy detachment, a good place for a fledgling policeman to learn his law-enforcement craft. Packing my sparse belongings in my car, I headed west. The trip took about two hours, and my mind reeled with questions as I drove. Where would I live? Who would be my superior? Would I be accepted? I was attired in my best and only suit and tie, shoes shined and hair newly cut in the hope of making a good impression. As I neared the community, my stress intensified. Suddenly, it was in front of me—the red-brick building housing the detachment office and the quarters of the corporal in charge. I parked carefully in the parking lot and proceeded to the main entrance. The door was unlocked, and I entered. As I stood at the front counter, I could see a uniformed member sitting in what appeared to be the detachment commander’s office. He did not acknowledge me. I cleared my throat to attract his attention. Glancing up, he seemed to comprehend my presence. Rising from the desk unsteadily, he promptly closed the office door. I was again alone in the detachment, standing at the counter for what seemed an eternity.
ACCELERATED PROMOTION
Corporal James Oliver Fripps was the senior single man living in barracks at Division Headquarters in Edmonton in the early ’60s. For several years, he had assumed the weighty responsibility of organizing the annual regimental dinner. Jim had a penchant for living like a country squire, even though cloistered in barracks. His barrack room was opulent, like something one would find in a posh hotel. If you knew where to look, there was even a stocked bar. Being invited into Jim’s quarters as a junior man meant you had arrived. Jim was highly respected for his intellect and renowned for his crackling wit.
On this particular occasion, he had done another exceptional job of setting up the regimental dinner and ensuring it went smoothly. Assistant Commissioner G.B. McLelland, the commanding officer, invoked the custom of his officers serving the meal to the men, which they did with aplomb.
During the debriefing of the event, the CO complimented Corporal Fripps on the splendid manner in which he had choreographed the evening. He went on to say he hoped that the corporal would be on hand for organizing the dinner the following year. Jim, with the usual twinkle in his eye, glanced at the CO and replied, “If it’s all the same to you, Sir, next year, I would just as soon be a waiter!”
Finally, a police car drove into the parking lot, and a member emerged. He apologized and introduced himself as Bill McCoy, the senior constable. He seemed embarrassed, but showed me to my quarters, helped me with my luggage and took me for lunch. I enquired about the other member I had seen back at the office, but McCoy gave me no explanation.
As I settled into my work at the detachment and got to know the other members, I learned that the NCO I had initially encountered was an alcoholic who had been under the weather on the day of my arrival, at 10:00 a.m. Rather than confront me, he had shut the door to his office and made a phone call, presumably to McCoy. This NCO would have quite an impact on my early days at the detachment. Several nights after my arrival, I made my first liquor seizure, of which I was justly proud. It was quite late when Constable McCoy and I returned to the office, and I was instructed to lock my seized exhibit in the NCO’s office pending our return the following morning. Arriving early the next day to deal with my seized liquor, I discovered that two bottles of beer were missing from the carton. It appeared the alcoholic NCO had liberated a portion of my exhibits. As was the case in the good old days, this behaviour was overlooked. Constable McCoy told me to ignore the incident and replenished the open carton with the purchase of two identical bottles.
MOIETY
Back in the Jurassic era, circa 1960, serving members of the RCMP received a bonus each year, usually around Christmas. Affectionately referred to as a “moiety cheque,” it usually amounted to $25 to $35 and was drained off what was then known as the Benefit Tru
st Fund. It seems like a pittance now, but it was a rather princely sum then, often used to bolster the supply of Christmas cheer in RCMP residences across the land.
I had just arrived in Willmore, fresh out of training. Six of the members there were well established and married. Then there was me, recipient of wisdom and knowledge from these half-dozen personal heroes on a daily basis. I was taking every precaution to avoid obvious mistakes and not make a nuisance of myself, and striving to establish my credibility with my co-workers.
It was early December, and on top of my $250 monthly pay cheque, the corporal conferred upon me my very first moiety cheque. In addition to this good news, I learned that there was to be a detachment Christmas dinner at one of the members’ homes. Everyone was expected to attend. I arrived at the dinner party dressed to the nines. Everyone was gathered in the living room idly chatting.
Anxious to become involved, I made eye contact with one of the members and enquired in a rather loud voice what he planned to do with his moiety cheque. There was an instant, dead, cold silence. One of the wives asked, “Moiety cheque? What on earth is that?” Curiously, none of the wives, some of whom had been married to the members for years, had any knowledge of the moiety cheque.
The evening dragged on. Most left early. My brief career lay in tatters. I received the silent treatment for days and washed police cars for weeks. People sentenced to the gulag had better lives. Just when I had given up all hope and was contemplating applying to join foreign armies, my transgression was forgiven. Then there were weeks of fending off snide comments from members as my fame spread throughout the subdivision and further. It was a hard lesson learned. Never before had I inserted my foot so far in my mouth than on that lonely Christmas evening many years ago.
As my career unfolded I learned that many NCOs of this era suffered from alcoholism. While this was a common affliction among middle managers in many professions at the time, much of the excessive drinking within the RCMP was due to stress caused by inadequate personnel and long hours. There was a stark contrast between the discipline and compliance with the rules espoused in the training division and reinforced by management and the realities of detachment policing. Much of the blurring of lines between on- and off-duty behaviour was attributable to the lack of shift work at smaller outposts. Members were expected to be available to attend to any kind of emergency and were never truly off duty. Accordingly, we all tended to take advantage of spare moments when the phone didn’t demand our attention. The unwritten philosophy was “work hard but play hard.” Three hundred–hour work months were the rule rather than the exception, and this grinding workload encouraged some rule bending when it came to socializing on the job. It was not uncommon for on-duty members to drop in on a party if there were no demands for their services. In spite of this informality, calls were rarely missed and work assignments always completed. The countless examples of good and ethical police work far outnumbered the rare examples of neglect.