No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (13 page)

Even if they didn’t engage in unsanctioned relationships, few members served longer than three years in a community. It has long been debated whether it is more advantageous for members to become knowledgeable, participating members of a community or to distance themselves in a quest for objectivity. In my era, becoming too close to the community was reason enough to be moved on. However, this approach has changed for two reasons: first, there is less money for transfers than there used to be, and second, it is now seen as beneficial for members to become immersed in local activities. Police–community relations are very much in vogue, and members are encouraged to interact with all segments of the community. Recruits arriving at their first posting now can remain there for years and may not relocate until they receive their first promotion 10 or 12 years later.

IN THE SUMMER
of 1965, I moved to my next posting in the company of my new wife. Valley Bluff was located in northeastern Alberta. A typical western Canadian prairie community, it was primarily inhabited by people of Ukrainian background. Although the area’s population was approximately the same as Willmore’s, the detachment complement was somewhat larger. There were no town police, so the RCMP had the additional responsibility of policing the town of Valley Bluff.

I had admired the members of the highway patrol working out of my former detachment, so when I indicated an interest in traffic enforcement, I was assigned to the Valley Bluff highway patrol. Upon arrival I met the detachment commander, a highly respected sergeant, along with the highway patrol corporal, who I later discovered leaned toward eccentricity. Corporal Kip Rollins, a former pilot with the RCMP Air Division, had been caught taking an unauthorized flight with an RCMP aircraft into US air space. He was stripped of his wings and reassigned to traffic enforcement. Functioning under Kip’s supervision was akin to sitting in on a poker game. One seldom knew what shift Kip himself was working or what his subordinates were expected to do. It was a classic example of a laissez-faire operation.

This former sky jockey seldom wasted time on niceties or stood on ceremony. One frigid winter day, a fatal motor vehicle accident occurred on a highway just east of town. Because of extensive damage to the vehicle, the dead driver could not be extricated. Kip ordered a tarp to be placed over the body to protect it from the unmerciful wind and cold; he then instructed the tow truck to remove the wreck. While the tow truck was en route to town, the tarp fell away from the corpse, exposing the body. As the twisted vehicle followed along behind the tow truck, the body was in full view lurching around inside the damaged vehicle. Understandably, horrified local citizens complained to RCMP headquarters. Corporal Rollins, never long out of hot water, spent a good deal of time unsuccessfully justifying his actions to management. There were few dull moments with this NCO at the helm. He moved on not many months after my arrival and was replaced, to my delight, by Corporal Gerry Tetzloff, the former highway patrol NCO from my first detachment, whom I deeply respected.

The mid-’60s was the muscle-car era in North America, and the “big three” manufacturers were competing to determine who could squeeze the most horsepower under the hood of the sportiest vehicle. It was particularly frustrating for the RCMP, which was loath to spend the extra dollars to equip police cars with more powerful engines. The young dependants of prosperous farmers in and around the community were buying Barracudas, Mustangs, Pontiac Grand Prix and Camaros. Returning home from jobs and universities on weekends, they terrorized the streets and highways. These rambunctious drivers virtually ignored the highway patrol, knowing they could simply accelerate away from an underpowered pursuing police car. Finally, in the late 1960s, the Force acquired high-performance vehicles that surpassed almost anything else on the road. We received our first hot rod police car with great satisfaction. Tucking in behind speeding muscle cars, we would swiftly overtake them and activate our emergency lights. The offenders would put the pedal to the metal, expecting to pull away, and were shocked when they realized their nights of wild freedom on the roads were a thing of the past. Now that they knew they could no longer outrun the police, high-speed pursuits became less common and a large measure of tranquility was restored to local streets.

Police work brought many lessons in tragedy and irony. On long weekends, we deployed extensive radar operations at strategic locations. It was not unusual to issue over 100 speeding citations during an eight-hour shift. On a typical long-weekend evening, the radar operation was set up on Highway No. 16, the busy east/west provincial highway. Corporal Tetzloff operated the radar unit while two of us occupied the interceptor car and stopped offending vehicles. After an exhausting eight-hour stint, we pointed out to Corporal Tetzloff that our hands and pens were wearing out. He finally relented, congratulating us on again writing over 100 citations. We dismantled our operation, feeling we had made a contribution toward reducing carnage on the highway. As we relaxed in the corporal’s residence sipping coffee and enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done, we received an urgent call about a serious accident just east of town. Arriving at the scene, we found two vehicles that had been involved in a head-on collision. Two young men were dead in one vehicle, and an entire family of seven perished in the other. No alcohol was involved, and it was suspected the young male driver of one of the cars had fallen asleep and veered into the path of the other vehicle. The irony became evident when we discovered the accident scene was no more than 100 yards from our recently concluded radar operation.

Another fatal accident brought an interesting visitor to the community. In the early ’60s, Japanese cars were a rarity on Canadian highways. The driver of an unusual car called a Toyota was travelling at a high rate of speed and apparently fell asleep and wandered off the highway. The car flipped end over end, coming to rest on its wheels. The body of the driver was found lying on the highway in front of the car. It was a mystery how he got there, as the windshield of the vehicle was intact. The traffic analyst surmised that as the car flipped several times, the driver was ejected out of the now-broken rear window precisely as the vehicle catapulted end over end. There were severe injuries to the victim’s face and head. The closest next of kin available to identify the body was none other than Sergeant Bill Thorne, one of the most feared and disliked physical instructors in the RCMP training division. Many of us had memories of Thorne positioned on a large scaffold in the RCMP gym, grinding recruits through their paces. The more intense the training session became, the more he enjoyed inflicting anguish. He was perhaps a legend in his own mind, but many decades of recruits resented him.

When Thorne arrived in our community, we were surprised by his humility. Completely absent were the arrogance, sarcasm and cruel comments. Curiously, this instructor had never served in the field, and he appeared to observe in wonder the varied and difficult situations that confronted us. It was obvious his reason for visiting was intimidating him, especially when he encountered our mortician. As I escorted Sergeant Thorne to the funeral home, he looked like he was about to face the gallows. He was extremely pale and unsteady on his feet, and appeared nauseous. Although the mortician was often compassionate and caring, full of sympathy for the bereaved, his demeanour with the police was much more pragmatic. When Sergeant Thorne arrived at the viewing room and the sheet was pulled back to reveal his deceased nephew, Thorne blanched, turned abruptly and rushed out, stating that it was not his relative. It took some encouragement to persuade him to return and have a closer look. The mortician explained that most of the facial bones had been broken. While Thorne looked on, the mortician attached a pair of forceps to the deceased’s nose and pulled. There was a squishing noise, and the face of the deceased took shape. The former terror of the gym shrieked out his positive identification and ran from the room. To soothe Thorne’s jangled nerves, we took him out for a beer to help him regain his composure. He spoke to his former students in wonder, repeatedly saying he could never do their job.

Two significant events occurred while I was posted at Valley Bluff. In December of 1965 our son, Liam, was born, and in 1966 I attained my five-year anniversary with the Force. To recognize the five-year milestone, the RCMP awards a single star, to be worn proudly on the upper left arm, designating a journeyman policeman. A five-year member is perceived as an authority figure by those with fewer years of service, and management considers him capable of serving in positions of leadership. There was minimal celebration of the star, but it gave me great satisfaction to receive this badge of accomplishment.

During this era, there were regular occasions for great celebration and camaraderie within the RCMP. In the spring and fall, promotion lists were released across the country. Potential recipients would await these notifications with bated breath. Many would provision the liquor cabinet, anticipating hosting a promotion party. On the day the lists were publicized, members travelled to the nearest detachments, where impromptu celebrations materialized. These events would vary depending upon the magnanimity of the promotee. Some would be frugal, whereas others spent hundreds of hard-earned dollars on lavish parties.

Another annual event that brought the membership together was the rifle and revolver competitions. All RCMP members had to compete in qualifications to maintain their proficiency with issued weapons at operational levels. A central location was designated for annual shoots. Candidates travelled in groups of four via police transport to what was most often a bona fide weapons range. Although a serious endeavour, all personnel delighted in gathering for the day to see old friends and catch up with news within the Force. Every division and subdivision headquarters housed at least one former or wannabe drill instructor holding the title of discipline NCO. Among his many duties was conducting the annual shooting qualifications. While much socializing and tomfoolery would occur after hours, the actual protocol on the shooting line was strictly observed and enforced by the range master. Members who attained a score designating them as marksmen would receive further badges of prestige featuring crossed rifles and revolvers. These badges of excellence were hotly pursued, and those who earned them were granted the right to wear them for the following year.

Rural detachments like Valley Bluff were just beginning to receive secretarial services. Up until the late 1960s, members were expected to do their own typing and filing. One surprising day, we were introduced to Elaine Pasoula, 19, fresh out of secretarial school and our first detachment stenographer. Our bastion of maleness was ill-prepared for the presence of a woman. The first priority was cleaning up the colourful language commonly used in the office. The detachment commander introduced a cuss box to which miscreants contributed a fine, and it regularly filled to capacity.

At first, no one was prepared to surrender his carefully assembled thoughts to some woman who knew nothing about police work. Elaine, initially timid, shy and inexperienced, sat unoccupied, witnessing members busy themselves at their typewriters. Finally, disgusted with our intransigence, she sauntered over to a member busily committing the details of his investigation to print, tore the paper from the roller of the typewriter and demanded to be put to work. Quite taken aback at her pluck, the member ceded his seat at the typewriter and watched, transfixed. From that moment on, Elaine began inexorably to take control of the office. Soon we were squabbling over her availability. She was an amazing asset to the operation, quickly learning the mystique of crime reporting and organizing our paperwork as never before. Within a year, it was difficult to tell who ran the entire operation—the sergeant or Elaine.