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 (17 page)
UPON ARRIVAL AT
the training division, I was reassured to see that the sadistic and torturous methodology of the old-time instructors had fallen out of favour. Radical changes were taking place in the training curriculum and in the Force itself. The hours once devoted to equitation were now freed up for more relevant and contemporary topics. More time was allotted to academic subjects such as criminal law, federal statutes and practical training. The introduction of female recruits loomed as an additional engine of change. Training for new instructors included teaching through the establishment of learning objectives, giving the program much-needed structure. The study of human relations was in its infancy, but Corporal Dal Langenberger, the NCO in charge, was attempting to re-mould the former “cavalry curriculum” of PT, foot drill, riding and harassment, which aimed to “break” the candidates. Another welcome addition was the presence of French-language counsellors to assist unilingual francophone recruits.
In spite of the changes, high expectations prevailed. The Depot training experience was still stressful for recruits. We were starkly reminded of this when a young man took his own life. The timing of the incident was especially disturbing, as his troop had just completed their entire program and celebrated their ceremonial pass-out ceremony. The following day, as troop members prepared to embark to their respective postings, they returned from the midday meal to find their comrade lying dead in their dormitory with a self-inflicted gunshot wound, his issue service revolver at his side. His family, who had been on hand to share the elation of his graduation, had not yet departed and had to be notified. He left no note to explain his state of mind at the time. It remained a total mystery why he had killed himself at the culmination of his lifelong dream. The tragedy put a pall upon the training division for some time.
As the saying goes, you don’t have much opportunity to contemplate your options when you are up to your ass in alligators. That is the fundamental plight of every law-enforcement officer. He or she is constantly dealing with the ugly underbelly of humanity. It is impossible not to be cynical when witnessing the depravity of mankind on an almost daily basis. Working at the training division was like finding an oasis in the morass of human misery. I benefitted from ordinary working hours with weekends off, and the academic environment gave me the opportunity to question, read, debate and analyze. There were opportunities to discuss hypothetical scenarios and dissect real-life situations that went wrong. It was a priceless opportunity at a most critical period in my service.
A SERGEANT MAJOR NEVER FORGETS
Music has always been part of my life. During basic training I became involved with the recruit bugle band. There was little else about me that would warrant the attention of the sergeant major, the man who ruled Depot. Sergeant Major MacRae owned the drill square and struck terror and awe in the hearts of all creatures daring to encroach on his sacred ground. He strutted like a peacock and roared like a lion.
One crisp winter’s day, just before Christmas of 1961, Sergeant Major MacRae summoned me to his lair in the administrative block of Depot Division. As I stood at rigid attention, he instructed me to assemble a small quartet of brass musicians from the recruit population. On Christmas Eve, we would go around the square under the streetlights and play Christmas carols to the homes bordering the square. His final instructions were that under no circumstances would we sub-humans (recruits) enter any of the said residences. Even if an invitation was extended, we were to decline, play our yuletide music and return to barracks immediately after our mission.
Christmas Eve arrived under a blanket of subarctic air. The temperature was -30°F, so we had to soak our instrument valves in alcohol to keep them operational. Alcohol, incidentally, was not to be used to warm the cockles of our valueless hearts. Off we trundled, bundled up in several layers of sweaters beneath our pea jackets. Things were going well in spite of the cold evening. As we stood under the streetlights and played our carols, residence lights flashed on and off in appreciation.
As we assembled beside the home of Inspector Mortimer, a newly commissioned officer, he opened the front door and invited us in out of the cold. I respectfully declined, informing him of restrictions from the sergeant major. He responded by saying that it was Christmas Eve and 30 below, and promptly ordered us into the house. The home was full of guests. We were led into the living room in front of a roaring fireplace. After playing some carols, we initially declined but eventually gratefully consumed some eggnog. It was a wonderful respite, and we rewarded the occupants by breaking into some Dixieland numbers. After a period of revelry, we bade our adieus and continued on around the square, our playing much inspired by the demon rum.
At the end of the following training day, I received a curt message to report to the sergeant major. I headed to his office, hoping for some praise about our carolling the previous night. As I approached the man I feared most on this globe and saw the thundercloud on his brow, I sensed impending doom. While I stood rigidly at attention, Sergeant Major MacRae, not in a gentle voice, asked if I recalled his final order the day before. Before I could answer, he emphatically reminded me of his explicit instruction not to enter any Depot residence while on our carol patrol. My explanation that we were under orders from a commissioned officer only brought more abuse down on my poor trembling shoulders. Rather than receiving kudos for a job well done, I was told in a most colourful manner that any future I might have had in the force was in severe jeopardy. The conversation was abruptly concluded, and I was summarily dismissed. I relayed the sergeant major’s compliments to my cohorts, and together we considered our futures with some trepidation.
Ten short years later, I had the good fortune to be transferred to Depot as an academic instructor. In spite of the carolling incident, I had always had the greatest awe and respect for Sergeant Major MacRae. One of the highlights of my return to Depot was meeting him again, as he was now Inspector MacRae and the division training officer. As new instructors, we were invited to the administration building to have morning coffee and meet this legendary denizen of Depot, this time as subordinates, not recruits.
As a large number of us gathered, we heard the sound of his boots clicking down the hall. He appeared, resplendent in dress blue tunic, breeches and boots. A large stogie extended from his luxurious handlebar mustache. He looked as fearsome as Attila the Hun. We all stood at attention as he entered the room. He glanced over the crowd, and his eyes came to rest on me. I felt flattered that he would single me out among my peers. Then, in his booming baritone and with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I thought I told you to stay the Hell out of the officers’ houses!” He then wheeled smartly and left. My amazed co-workers demanded to know how I could have offended the training officer so quickly. I told them it was too long a story.
Bill MacRae still chuckles when I remind him of the incident. One of my lifelong heroes, this revered and charismatic man is now in his 80s. We remain friends to this day, though even these many years later it is discomfiting to address him as “Bill,” for he will ever be “Sir.” His complexity and contrasts as a man, and his many and varied legacies to the RCMP Academy are lasting treasures.
During my initial year at the training division, I taught typing, report writing and practical training, which exposed recruits to simulated police situations. My second year was dedicated to teaching criminal law. Finally, I was assigned to the federal statute unit, an area I was quite unfamiliar with. I was fortunate to be working with Corporal Langenberger, an innovator whose influence would endure for the rest of my career. In addition to federal statutes, he proposed a block of training dedicated to human relations. One would expect this type of training to be offered in a police-training curriculum, since law enforcement is almost entirely concerned with human behaviour.However, the traditionalists of the training academy took exception to anything smacking of psychology. They resisted vocally whenever an opportunity presented itself—on the worksite, in the coffee room or in the Corporal’s Mess. Fortunately, Corporal Langenberger had the ear and support of both the chief academic instructor and Inspector MacRae, the training officer.
Corporal Langenberger proposed an introductory salvo of 18 hours of basic psychological theory enhanced by role playing that addressed domestic crisis intervention, one of law enforcement’s most deadly types of interactions. He invited actors from the local professional actors’ guild to play quarrelling couples whose arguments escalated to a potentially violent level. The recruits watched the actors and witnessed the escalating circumstances as spectators. At the moment when the police might be called to intercede, random pairs of recruits were chosen to enact an intervention, applying the skills they had learned in the classroom. Initially, the methodology was trial and error, and both the actors and the fledgling policemen made mistakes, but as the scenarios evolved the settings became more realistic. Recruits gained valuable knowledge and made their errors during training rather than in real life. The experience had a great impact on the students; in critiquing their Depot experience, they marked domestic crisis intervention training as the most relevant and significant information they had learned. When recruits who had been trained in this area went out to work in the field, their supervisors expressed amazement at their coolness and presence of mind when they encountered their first family quarrel.
SHOW US YOUR DELTOID
In the early ’70s, the physical training staff at Depot were headed up by an enlightened senior NCO with a master’s degree. He decided to augment the recruit’s physical training experience with some basic knowledge of physiology. Accordingly, the recruits were given lectures in anatomy. Following their classroom sessions, recruits assembled in the gym at the commencement of their PT class. Instructors would call out a troop member’s name and demand that he identify a bone or muscle on their person.
During this particular era, a young man named Bayman arrived from Newfoundland to begin his basic recruit training. From the outset, it was obvious that he was going to have some difficulty adjusting to the mystique and dogma of the RCMP Academy. One of the first indications of a problem arose when he encountered one of the drill instructors. As the young Bayman walked by the drill corporal, he acknowledged him with the folksy greeting, “How she goin’, my son?” The corporal, after recovering from apoplexy, shook his drill baton and explained in no uncertain and very colourful terms how an NCO is to be addressed in a military setting, specifically by rabble such as a recruit. The islander took the discussion in stride. When he felt that the conversation was coming to a close, he departed with a “God luv ya.” The corporal vowed that he would witness the youngster’s demise if it were the last thing he did.
Word of the problem recruit quickly spread, as did his infamy. He continued to be unflappable and, to the chagrin of the instructors, unstoppable. In spite of being a very open target almost everywhere he went, our candidate from the east coast remained irrepressible and progressed quickly through the training experience. The instructors compared him to crabgrass. They just could not be rid of him.
Now I fast forward to the troop in the gym. Yes, it was his troop, during the first class after lunch in mid-July, and the gym was full of summer tourists. During the oral quiz in the gym, several anatomical areas had been correctly identified. Suddenly, the Maritimer’s name rang out, and the instructor demanded, “Show us your deltoid.” The recruit responded slowly and with apparent confusion. “I can’t, Corporal,” was the reply. Again the instructor roared out his name, “Show us your deltoid, you rabble!” In an instant, the recruit’s shorts were down. His jock strap remained in place, but the gesture clearly indicated where he thought his deltoid was located. There was an instant furor in the gym as onlookers roared with laughter. Even the instructors supervising the troop lost their composure and could not contain their laughter.
Not long after this incident, the physiology classes seemed to fizzle. The Newfoundlander became the toast of Depot. He was known forever after as Deltoid. Interestingly, the recruit from round the bay graduated successfully and went on to serve in the Maritimes, where he became a highly respected detachment commander.
Langenberger invited professors from the University of Regina to lecture blocks on psychology, sociology and perception. The recruits were exposed to opinions sometimes diametrically opposed to their own. Since they would contend with these divergent philosophies in everyday life as peace officers, it was essential that they gained this broader understanding. As time progressed, additional hours were found for sessions on policing minorities. Doctors Bruce Sealey and Neil MacDonald, amazing professors from the University of Manitoba, helped to revolutionize cross-cultural training and aboriginal policing across Canada. Dr. Ted Van Dyke, a cultural anthropologist, gained renown and credibility as a result of his work at Depot. He went on to become a foremost authority in his field.