Read No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP Online
Authors: Ian Parsons
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Law Enforcement, #BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Law Enforcement
No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (11 page)
DURING MY TIME
at Willmore, I served temporarily at two adjacent detachments. Mountain View was located in one of Canada’s national parks, and Mofort was a small rural community north of Willmore. Both were brief tours, but I learned a great deal. Sadly, I also worked under two more detachment commanders suffering from alcoholism.
I arrived in Mountain View during the summer of 1962, and my experience there can only be described as bittersweet. Since the detachment was located in a national park, members were required to wear red serge while on duty. The detachment commander was Corporal Wallace Warren, a fearsome-looking man sporting a large handlebar mustache. A Second World War veteran, he proudly displayed two rows of campaign medals on his left breast. When I reported for duty, he projected a distinct aura of authority and even intimidation. As I stood at attention, he rattled off his expectations, informing me I was to appear before him after lunch in red serge.
After lunch, I presented myself as ordered. Inspecting me thoroughly, the corporal expressed his concern about sending me downtown in red serge. His worry was due to my height, and he told me to keep moving because the dogs might mistake me for a fire hydrant and piss on my shiny high brown boots. He then instructed me to remove my spurs and don a set of green coveralls. After complying, with some puzzlement, I was told that as junior man my first duty of the day was to go to the liquor store and purchase a case of beer, the coveralls being my disguise. That errand set the tone and routine for the rest of the summer. This paragon of authority turned out to be a paper tiger driven by a great thirst. Routinely, the day-shift members and the odd local civilian could be found ensconced in a barrack room drinking beer. I felt a sense of impending disaster permeating the work environment.
One afternoon, with the detachment entrance unlocked and no one tending the counter, the day-shift members gathered in a small room for a beer. There was a timid rap on the door leading to our retreat. Corporal Warren commanded, “Enter!” Standing at the opened door was Superintendent Little, the officer commanding the subdivision. While we all froze in terror, Little’s response was apologetic. He explained he had driven out from the city for the day. An avid golfer, he requested the free RCMP golf passes issued to the detachment by a famed local golf resort. Corporal Warren, breathing a sigh of relief, immediately obliged him, and Superintendent Little departed without a word of concern. Had the superintendent exercised his responsibilities as a manager and taken us to task, perhaps what happened later could have been averted and Corporal Warren’s career saved.
HARLEY HEAVEN
As I face my 70th year, the sting of embarrassment has faded to the extent that I can now share this incident. Part of the Mountain View detachment fleet was a Harley Davidson police motorcycle. Because there were no members authorized to operate the bike, it languished unused in the detachment garage. I had long been a closet motorcyclist and wished mightily that I might one day even command my own police bike.
One glorious summer afternoon, I noted that the downtown area seemed awash with attractive damsels, as was frequently the case. The detachment commander had left me to my own devices. It occurred to me that one quick patrol astride a police motorcycle in red serge would give me a high profile that might lead to an innocent dalliance. In addition, it would elevate the general traffic-enforcement identity of the detachment. As I entered the detachment garage, the splendour and majesty of the police motorcycle was undeniable. The key had been hanging very vulnerably in the corporal’s office. I turned it in the ignition and the Harley thundered to life. I quickly shut it off, cowed somewhat by the power of the beast.
As I returned to the detachment with the key, the vision of myself upon the Harley returned. The dark side won, and I returned to the garage, climbed onto the cycle and turned the key. As it rumbled, I wrestled with the clutch and shift lever, feeling more comfortable all the time. Opening the garage doors, I slowly and carefully teetered out onto the street. As I approached 10 miles per hour, I gained more and more confidence. The bike seemed to stabilize as I approached 15 miles per hour.
As I neared my first intersection, I realized it was time to apply the brakes. Sadly, I had not been briefed as to the importance of removing spurs while on motorcycle patrol. Spurs are very useful to guide a horse; however, they tend to get caught on a motorcycle, which is precisely what occurred next. I tried to put my foot out to balance the bike as it came to a halt, but my spur had become entangled and refused to release my balancing foot. Suddenly I was lying on the road under 1,500 pounds of iron that was patiently thumping away at an idle.
I was very disappointed at the lack of assistance from the public. I lay on my side in my scarlet tunic under the ticking Harley, as passing motorists honked. It seemed to take an eternity to work my way loose from this iron beast, though it was probably just seconds. I managed to return the Harley to its upright position and pushed the motorcycle back to the detachment. Meanwhile, several young women drove by, waving and giggling. When I finally got the bike back into the garage, the corporal was there to greet me. Once again I found myself in fatigues, washing police cars and doing general chores around the detachment. It took some time to work myself back into uniform. When I did, the corporal thought it appropriate that I spend much of my shift on foot patrol, meeting the trains and greeting older ladies as they disembarked. A couple of them asked if there were any local RCMP members who were truly mounted. One of them seemed offended by my rather curt response.
One sunny summer day as the afternoon waned, the day shift migrated to Corporal Warren’s quarters, situated behind the office. Two members were present along with the corporal, his wife and a local civilian. Corporal Warren was well into his cups and had donned a custom-made, western gun holster containing his .45 calibre revolver adorned with pearl handles. Without notice, Warren drew the revolver, spun the cylinder, snapped it back in place, and aimed the weapon at the civilian, pulling the trigger. One of the more quick-thinking members lunged, seized the gun and disappeared into the kitchen. While there, he checked the revolver, which contained a live round. It was only by sheer luck that a civilian wasn’t murdered that day. The corporal had evidently got it in his mind that the guest had designs on his wife, and the horrifying incident may have been Warren’s drunken way of warning the man off.
As was almost always the case, the incident was buried. Feeling jaded by the questionable manner in which this situation was handled, I returned to my home detachment in Willmore. Soon I learned that matters had gone from bad to worse in Mountain View. Corporal Warren’s behaviour had deteriorated, causing one of the members to register a complaint. It was the beginning of the end for the detachment commander. He was relieved of his command and eventually retired, medals intact but reputation in tatters.
My second temporary posting was during the winter of 1963, when I worked at the Mofort detachment. There, I was saddened to witness the mistreatment of local First Nations people and how it was even sanctioned by statute. On occasion I observed Corporal Brothers, the Mofort detachment commander, travelling to a local Cree reserve and randomly pulling into a residence. He would enter the home, without a warrant and sometimes forcibly. If open liquor was found, it would be seized and the occupants charged and often arrested. The Indian Act, an antiquated federal statute, prohibited liquor in dwelling houses on a reserve.
As shocking as this scenario was, it happened routinely all over Canada on First Nations reserves until the discriminatory sections of the act were repealed in the 1970s. Frequently children witnessed their parents being arrested and taken away. Because the dependants could not be left alone, they too would be taken into custody by social agencies. Entire families were traumatized by something as innocuous as a six-pack of beer. Seeing the uniformed federal police force as the invaders of their homes, Native children grew up fearing and hating the RCMP. Witnessing this arbitrary and intolerant enforcement policy profoundly affected my ideas about First Nations policing.
In spite of his intolerance, oppressive tactics toward aboriginal people and bad temper, Corporal Brothers taught me a lot. He was well-versed in policy and ensured my investigations were thorough and concise. However, as was the case with many of my initial NCOs, I also learned much about how things ought not to be done.
One morning Corporal Brothers told me he was off to the city to visit some of his cronies. As he departed in one of the police vehicles, he said that if anyone asked where he was, I was to say he was off in the district on police business. He failed to return that day, and there was no sign of him the day after. On the third morning, I received a call from Staff Sergeant Sangster in RCMP headquarters in Edmonton. He wished to speak with the corporal, and when I stated that he was currently out of the office on police business he accused me of not knowing where my detachment commander was. Knowing Staff Sergeant Sangster did not suffer fools gladly, I was taken aback. He went on to explain, with little patience and a razor’s edge in his voice, that one of our detachment vehicles was parked in the Division Headquarters lot with four inches of snow on it and had not been moved for two days. He suspected the corporal was somewhere other than “in the district conducting police work” and told me to find him forthwith and direct him to report back to Division Headquarters. With these instructions, he hung up the phone. Panic-stricken, I began phoning locations where I thought the boss might be lurking. As I searched, it occurred to me that anyone who would take a police car into the city, blatantly park it in plain sight and go on a bender was either blindly arrogant or patently stupid. Eventually I located the absentee corporal and explained his situation, leaving him to his own devices. He immediately contacted Staff Sergeant Sangster, assuring him he was returning to his post. I suspect the phone lines were smoking when the subdivision NCO was done with the corporal. He showed up at the detachment a couple of hours later looking somewhat worse for wear.
GUIDANCE ON ATTENDING SCENES OF CRIME
During my tenure at Mofort detachment I was nearing three years of service and had attained a certain comfort level in my law-enforcement career. It might even be fair to say some complacency had settled in, and perhaps this is the reason I ran afoul of my detachment commander. As a matter of routine in a small two-person operation, the office was closed on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. In my capacity as second man I was not free of all obligations and had to be available for calls, and I received a call at home late one Saturday afternoon.
Someone had broken into a farm residence some 20 miles from town. I asked the complainant a few cursory questions, assuring him we would be out to see him the following Monday. There must have been some guilt pangs, as I attended the office to type out a complaint describing the incident and left it on the corporal’s desk.
On Sunday I received another call, this time from my corporal who had been in the office to read incoming complaints. He ordered me to report to the detachment forthwith. The tone of his voice told me something was amiss, so I hied over there. The corporal demanded to know why I had not attended the scene of the reported crime. Confronted with a thundering barrage of demeaning comments, I failed to cobble together any kind of a rebuttal. The corporal concluded by ordering me to return to my quarters, get into uniform and patrol to the farm immediately to commence an investigation. Routinely, when called out after hours, our uniform consisted of “straight blues,” which were ordinary pants with a yellow stripe, uniform shirt and tunic. However, in this case, as part of the punishment, I was ordered to wear the uniform of the day, which included breeches and high brown boots. It’s safe to say that I never again neglected to attend the scene of a break and enter.
Although an example of the kind of personalized service each and every complaint and citizen received, it exemplified how little regard managers paid to hours worked. In years to come, with the advent of overtime, detachment commanders were forced to make difficult decisions about reducing levels of service to the public. The changes had to have an impact on public cynicism regarding their police. As in so many other professions, the days of “house calls” were numbered.
SHORTLY AFTER MY
arrival in Mofort, the detachment commander departed on annual leave, placing Jim Foreman, the senior constable, in charge. He was a capable, well-respected individual with sufficient service and qualifications for promotion and appointment to his own command. Jim, along with his charming wife, Lil, and their two children, adopted me and insisted that I share in their activities. There was a small highway patrol adjacent to the detachment, but located in separate quarters. The detachment itself was a small structure within NCO quarters. Both highway patrol members were single, and the three of us boarded with another family in a large home.