by Ian Parsons
Current RCMP training puts greater emphasis on academia, but the physical-training and driver-training sections are equally important. The primary objective in contemporary police training is the dovetailing of all disciplines, and much of the basic recruit-training curriculum now appears under the umbrella of “Applied Police Sciences.” There is no tolerance for individual sections teaching solely to their course training standards and ignoring everything else in the curriculum. One thing has not changed, however: there are never enough hours in the day for recruits. Interestingly, expectations of performance are higher than ever. The setting and achieving of personal goals are paramount in today’s RCMP Academy.
Although it has been many years since my tenure at the RCMP Academy, there is still a family connection to this day. My daughter, Michelle, who has degrees in social work, is an assistant supervisor working within the Saskatchewan Ministry of Justice, Young Offender Programs, Corrections and Policing. Michelle lectures to RCMP recruits about her role in the justice system dealing with law enforcement relating to young offenders.
As my tour at the Academy came to an end, I was seriously looking toward retirement from the Force and considering a different line of work. While I was considering my future, my supervising officer approached me about competing for a Queen’s Commission, the door that leads to senior management of the Force. The officer corps has always been steeped in tradition and mystique. For years, admission into this exclusive upper echelon was likened to being knighted. We were all conditioned to dream of the remote possibility of reaching this level. As members travelled the lengthy and arduous career highway, many abandoned hope of reaching this pinnacle. There were many reasons for this: lack of preparation, location, marital and family status and cynicism accrued through years of dealing with the flaws of humanity. Because of my father’s career, I’d had the opportunity to view the officer corps from the inside, and it held considerable appeal for me.
Historically, candidacy for senior NCOs into the officer corps was initiated by a recommendation from an officer. As the Force entered the 21st century, leaders began to realize that this procedure might not always identify the most appropriate candidates. Although, even today, qualifying for a commission still requires a recommendation by an officer, such a recommendation now follows a rigorous series of hurdles consisting of a four-hour written exam, a research paper and an appearance before a board of senior officers. The candidates, all seasoned RCMP veterans, complete the exam in various locations across the country. Members have been known to peruse this exam and walk out of the room in defeat, and some do not withstand the verbal inquisition of the officer candidate board. When I was a candidate, the aggressive demeanour of some of the officers resembled the approach of instructors of Depot past. To many of us, it was akin to once again running the gauntlet.
A complex points system is used to calculate a candidate’s total scores, with annual performance appraisals taken into account. Once the scores are computed, successful candidates are placed on a list and await the telephone call from a representative from Officer’s Staffing Branch in Ottawa. A candidate is first asked whether he or she is still mobile and willing to serve anywhere in Canada. If the response is affirmative, he or she receives a posting.
The Officer Candidate Program was extremely stressful for me. I considered with trepidation how I would be able to lead the dynamic young men under my command if I was not successful in my quest for a commission. In the years to follow, 10 out of these 33 members would compete in the Officer Candidate Program. Two became commanding officers, and one attained the level of deputy commissioner. The success rate of this single group from the academic section far surpassed the Force-wide average of 5 percent.
I was fortunate to place second out of 397 successful officer candidates. Once on the list, I waited, hoping for officer vacancies. For 12 months my standing vacillated between number 1 and number 3 as each new batch of officer candidates was added into the list. To complicate matters, this was the era when biculturalism and bilingualism became a priority of the federal government. Departments were urged to redress the imbalance of anglophone versus francophone leaders. The RCMP was no exception, and the commissioner of the day decided to bypass unilingual English officer candidates at the top of the list in favour of those who were bilingual. Incensed, I applied for the position of chief of police in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. After the initial competition, the department’s deputy chief and I remained as the final choices. The deputy won the position, and I continued to await my fate within the RCMP.
CHAPTER 12
AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN?
AFTER ALMOST A year on the officer candidate list, I received my call from Ottawa. I had always wanted to serve in British Columbia, but my caller informed me I would receive a Maritime posting, in Newfoundland. Although devastated by this news, I conceded that it would be folly to refuse when I had gone so far in the process. I accepted and prepared to travel to Newfoundland as a newly minted audit officer. I was to be based in St. John’s, and my duties would consist of inspecting detachments and units throughout the province, acting under the direction and on behalf of the commanding officer.
This was also a time of great upheaval in my personal life. Lorraine and I had decided that we would go our separate ways and seek a divorce. Both of our children elected to remain in Regina, so I would be moving to Newfoundland alone.
An avid motorcycle enthusiast for some years, I was a member of the Blue Knights Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club and planned to travel to my new posting via motorcycle. The Blue Knights consist of some 8,000 law-enforcement riders with chapters across North America and Europe. I loaded my large-displacement Yamaha motorcycle with camping gear and struck out for Newfoundland, a distance of 3,000 miles. One of the attractions of travelling by motorcycle is the kinship bikers enjoy. Once dressed in leathers astride a bike, one assumes a measure of anonymity. People from all walks of life take to the road to savour the freedom of the motorcycle lifestyle. As I travelled across Canada, I encountered many of these riders. One evening while I was camped in an RV park, several riders rolled in, apparently members of an outlaw biker gang. Once they had set up camp, one of them strolled over and invited me to share a joint. I declined, pleading an early start in the morning. Life would have become rather interesting had they learned they had offered marijuana to a police officer.
As I travelled across various provinces and states I also experienced the discrimination often encountered by motorcyclists. On more than one occasion, I was turned away from an upscale RV park or motel. Perhaps my unshaven state and large bike contributed to the lack of hospitality. After one exhausting travel day, I needed to show my RCMP identification badge before the motel owner hesitatingly allowed me to lodge in his premises. When I finally arrived at my new Division Headquarters, I was greeted by raised eyebrows and looks of consternation. Even my commanding officer seemed somewhat distressed when he was told his new audit officer had recently arrived via motorcycle.
For the next three years, I lived out of my suitcase, travelling to every nook and cranny of Newfoundland and Labrador. Although there was some culture shock on my part, the people I encountered in my new posting were the kindest, most generous, fun-loving souls on the planet. Living in and travelling across this unique part of Canada gave me a great appreciation of the breadth and diversity of our country.
Shortly after my arrival in St. John’s, I had the great good fortune to meet Joan Dooley, a beautiful and vivacious divorced mother of two teenagers. Although she lived in the city, her home and heart rested in the tiny village of Adam’s Cove, about 80 miles by road around Conception Bay from St. John’s. You could gaze directly across the bay at the lights of St. John’s, which was only about 20 miles across the water. On the weekends we travelled to Adam’s Cove, where I was able to learn about and appreciate the wonderful Newfoundland people and traditions to a much greater extent than most visiting mainlanders. Joan’s father had long p
assed, but her mother, Marie Hollett, who was as charming as her daughter, always welcomed us fondly.
HUMBLE PIE
I am sharing this incident, which was experienced by a friend of mine, as a warning to all who might lose their perspective as they climb the ladder of success. He never forgot the humbling incident, particularly when occasional visions of grandeur slithered into his consciousness.
Some years ago, my friend had the good fortune to receive his commission. In addition to all the other accoutrements of office, he acquired the very distinctive mess kit that only commissioned officers have the privilege to wear. He was preparing to attend a function in Ottawa, his very first event as an officer.
He reverently laid out his new finery, donning the tight-fitting dress overalls known as banana pants, box spurs and congress boots. Then came the pleated white shirt with gold studs, along with a black bow tie. A natty blue waistcoat with tiny miniature regimental buttons was the next item, capped by the splendid scarlet short jacket, topped with two glorious crowns denoting his new rank of inspector. White gloves and the distinguished RCMP officer’s forage hat, complete with the shiny black visor and broad gold band denoting the status of a commissioned officer, completed the accoutrements. After ensuring he had forgotten nothing, he departed his residence, glancing in a full-length mirror for a final look. Delighted with the overall appearance, he couldn’t help but think to himself that he had finally arrived.
The soiree was being held at the Château Laurier in downtown Ottawa. Unbeknownst to the fledgling officer, Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians, a popular dance orchestra, was playing in and around Ottawa. As the new inspector emerged from his vehicle in front of the luxury hotel, a valet appeared to assist in parking. The valet looked the inspector up and down and asked the innocent question that would change everything forever: “You guys playing here tonight?”
Our arrival necessitated a community gathering in Marie’s large kitchen. As many as a dozen folks would be seated there, sipping Screech and occasionally breaking into song. To my untrained ear, the accents, rapidity of delivery and liberal use of colloquialisms made the conversation unintelligible. Unexpectedly, a machine-gun comment or question would be delivered my way, to which I’d respond, “Yes, of course,” never really knowing what I had agreed to. As time went on, my ear developed some appreciation for the dialect, but it was ever a challenge. Seated at the dinner table one night, I passed the bread and my neighbour said, “No thank, moi son, Oim blocked.” I initially thought he had a serious intestinal problem, when all he was saying was he was full. When someone else suffered a traffic accident, he told me his car was “all bent op.” Then there was the excitement of going out to the “toim” for a “scuff and a scoff.” I learned that a “toim” was a good time where one had a dance and a meal.
One afternoon, I was seated in Joan’s living room in St. John’s when her 14-year-old daughter walked in with a friend. She looked at me and said, “Say sompin, Ian.” I looked at her, somewhat puzzled, and asked her what she wanted me to say. She replied, “Anyting, ya talks fonny.” The girls giggled and left the room. I sat musing about how it felt to be in such a minority. Another afternoon, Joan wanted to wander in one of the local malls. I had other plans and exhibited some irritation. She looked at me, and in her best Bayman’s accent said, “Don’t go getting crooked wit me now, or I’ll be smackin’ the face right off ya!” How could anyone respond negatively to such an attack? I obediently went to the mall with her.
Learning to be a member of the officer corps was another lesson in a new culture. RCMP commissioned officers are clearly a cloister within a cloister. There were unspoken expectations within this exclusive band, and I found that I needed to pay attention to the slightest behavioural nuances. You were expected to have your morning coffee breaks with your brother officers, and it was noted who sat closest to the commanding officer. On Fridays there was usually a social gathering. There were two messes: one for NCOs and constables, the other for officers. Occasionally the two groups would assemble briefly in the NCOs’ mess, but almost never in the officers’. The line between officers and everyone else was always present, however subtle. It was a line I had great difficulty maintaining with my audit team. I was the sole officer and was initially treated with deference. However, as time went on we became very close and much of this stilted atmosphere dissipated. The game was certainly played while we conducted our business, but it seldom showed when we were not in session. I was absent from Division Headquarters much of the time with my audit team, so this delayed my indoctrination as an officer. The aura surrounding commissioned officers is another prevailing remnant of the “Olden Force,” even though the demands of a modern police organization have eliminated some of the former aloofness and separation.
Chief Superintendent J.B. “Dale” Henry, the commanding officer, was an insular man, steeped in the old tradition and placing little value in trivia or frivolity. He was egocentric and expected the policing universe to revolve around him. To Henry’s credit, he was very bright and capable—perhaps the most competent officer I served under during my commissioned years. My tenure with him spanned six years; we served in the Maritimes together, then proceeded to Manitoba for three more years. Consequently, two-thirds of my officer career was influenced by him. Chief Superintendent Henry was a consummate politician, who exhibited poise and ease when dealing with all levels of government. He knew his job thoroughly and in many ways exemplified an RCMP division commander. His preparation and attention to detail became obvious as we flew together to Newfoundland detachments to debrief his commanders after an audit. While I read my motorcycle magazine, Henry pored over files relating to the worksite we were about to visit. Upon our arrival, I learned the reason for his preparation. He would stop and greet constables by their first names, asking them how a specific investigation was going. These young men and women were astounded that their commanding officer had such intimate knowledge of their names and their work.
Henry tended to be a user, harvesting every iota of talent from subordinates and giving little in return. He expected dedication and consummate performance but rarely recognized exceptional service. His demeanour seemed to convey that any effort you expended was never quite sufficient. One could learn much from his ability as an organizer, but less in the way of stroking, nurturing and encouraging. To his credit, Henry was not a micromanager. If you had his confidence, you were granted ample latitude to perform tasks. Conversely, if he discovered his faith in you was misdirected, you would find yourself relegated to a position of minimal responsibility, or even subject to a transfer.
WHILE IN THE Training Division in Regina, I had assisted in forming a Blue Knights chapter. Having enjoyed being part of the group in the past, at my new posting I joined the St. John’s chapter. It consisted largely of members of the local municipal police force, which gave me an opportunity to get to know them. These connections would work to my advantage in my capacity as audit officer. As a group, we travelled to Bangor, Maine, to attend an international Blue Knights rally in the summer of 1986. Almost 3,000 riders from the law-enforcement community gathered for the event, coming from all parts of the USA and Canada. It was amazing to witness the Knights ride through the city of Bangor in formation, a sea of powder-blue vests with the distinctive Blue Knights logo.
The founders of the Blue Knights crafted a crest featuring a blue knight carrying a lance and sitting astride a motorcycle. A top and bottom rocker surrounded the crest. The top rocker identifies the Blue Knights, while the bottom designates the home chapter. This configuration is similar to outlaw biker crests and was meant to counteract the negative image by replacing the undesirable with something desirable. But the similarity in crest design is where any likeness to the outlaws ends. Blue Knight members wear powder-blue, police-style motorcycle helmets. They practise and promote safe motorcycle operation and project an image of goodwill and cooperation to the driving public. Even so, the arrival of a Blue Knights chapt
er on their big bikes may be intimidating until spectators learn that the riders are law-enforcement officers.
Occasionally, an undesirable minority skews this positive message. An American Blue Knights chapter appeared at the rally in Bangor with a design on their jackets that was offensive and troubling to all. The crest worn on their vests depicted an unauthorized death’s head or skull in place of the Blue Knight logo. They rode loud, unmuffled Harley Davidson bikes, obviously emulating the outlaws. The Blue Knights International Executive directed them to remove the offensive crests immediately, but they refused. They were summarily banned from all rally events and stripped of their chapter. It was clear the Blue Knights wanted any implied connection to the outlaw biker world eradicated.
MY WORK IN Newfoundland immersed me in the fractious world of internal audit. As audit officer, I was charged with examining all activities occurring within the RCMP operation in the province, essentially “taking the pulse” of the organization on behalf of the commanding officer. He headed the audit committee, which was composed of his divisional officers. This committee would decree who, where and what the audit team would examine. We were also responsible for assessing the level of public satisfaction. Our work took us to all corners of the province, and we were on the road much of the year. Once the data were collected, a report was submitted to the audit committee with findings and recommendations.
Unavoidably, the audit was negative, since the team was searching for noncompliance. Accordingly, the targets were not generally delighted when we appeared, and many received our assurance that “We’re here to help you” with cynicism and raised eyebrows. I soon learned that a good audit officer had to dedicate some of his time to alleviating his clients’ anxieties. The audit officer’s personality set the tone and had everything to do with the acceptance of the audit. I found that having a sense of humour and keeping things light during the process went a long way toward reducing stress.