No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (25 page)

No matter how hard we tried to alleviate the stress of our appearance on the doorstep of a detachment, the audit experience was an ordeal for both for the auditee and the auditors. The conclusion of the exercise was a relief to all, and occasionally team members would blow off a bit of steam when it was all over. No doubt detachment members also did so after our departure. In September 1984, we had travelled by commercial aircraft from Corner Brook to Gander during Pope John Paul II’s Canadian visit. Newfoundland was his next destination. The papal visit was saturating the news media across the land, and there were numerous television segments showing the pope exiting an aircraft and prostrating himself on the tarmac to kiss the ground. As we left the aircraft in Gander, one of the audit team members, Spud Gallant, emulated the pope, falling to his knees and kissing the ground, then turning around to his amazed fellow passengers and uttering, “Thank you for the gifts,” a phrase also used by the pope. We were thankful that day that no one on the plane knew who we were.

On another occasion we visited the isolated community of Harbour Breton on the extreme south coast. After a long drive, we arrived at noon and started looking for a place to have lunch. The corporal directed us to the only establishment in town that catered to visitors. When we arrived, we found the place locked and a sign reading, “Out to Lunch.” Only in Newfoundland! That day we dined on potato chips and Pepsi. We also visited Burgeo, a town on the south coast made famous by author Farley Mowat. Just off the coast was Ramea Island, housing the small community of Ramea. I mentioned to Corporal McGuire, the NCO in charge, that I would like to visit Ramea. He informed me that it was a “mite lumpy” out there today. I glanced at the harbour and assured him I was comfortable in rough water. He raised his eyebrows but agreed to ferry me to Ramea in the detachment boat, a solid-looking Boston Whaler with twin outboards. As we made our way out of the harbour I was puzzled that Corporal McGuire had been hesitant, as the water was quite calm. About a mile out to sea, we began to encounter increasingly large waves of 12 feet or more. As the boat was tossed around vigorously, I told McGuire that I now understood what he meant by “a mite lumpy.” However, we now seemed committed to our course, and it appeared that it would be difficult to turn around in the rough seas. The corporal waited for exactly the right moment, then cramped the steering hard and leaned on the throttle. The boat wheeled around in the trough, and we headed back to the harbour. I had learned first-hand the power and danger of the North Atlantic.

The resourcefulness of RCMP members at isolated postings has always amazed me. We had included Hopedale Detachment as part of our audit sample. Situated on the east coast of Labrador, Hopedale could be the most isolated detachment in all of Canada. The detachment building is far and away the most modern structure in the community, which has a predominately Native population and also includes a Moravian mission. A corporal, his wife and two single members are stationed there. We arrived in the RCMP helicopter, and as I entered the detachment I noted a wheelbarrow parked by the door. It was painted in regimental blue and gold and had a crest on it. The corporal informed me the wheelbarrow was the detachment paddy wagon. There are no roads in the community, so if there was a report of an intoxicated person, the wheelbarrow was activated to retrieve the prisoner. There were no provisions for this conveyance in policy, but it was not made a subject of the audit report.

Each year, the division commander summoned his officers located throughout Newfoundland and Labrador to assemble in St. John’s to attend a Program Oriented Work Planning Meeting. In bureaucratese, this activity is referred to as a POWPM, not to be confused with powwow, even though there are similarities. At the gathering, the CO communicated his priorities and wishes and pontificated on the state of policing in the province. The RCMP’s internal managerial review process had recently been altered, and the CO requested that I make a presentation, as reviews fell under the purview of audit. Even though I had much experience speaking in front of groups, I was understandably edgy when it came to addressing my brother officers. The session was going well until one of my audience asked how frequently the managerial reviews were to be completed. Instead of using the word “yearly,” I chose to respond by stating “annually.” For reasons I will never fully understand, the word came out as “anally.” There was a brief silence, then pandemonium. I was barraged with trite observations such as, “Does that mean the audit officer is anally retentive?” Even the CO put in his two cents’ worth. I had lost my audience, and I was thankful my gaffe came at the conclusion of my presentation. I believe that was the moment I acquired a measure of infamy.

My duties as audit officer also led to confrontations not unlike those experienced by Henry Kissinger, the great conciliator and former US secretary of state. One such case involved a feisty subdivision commander and the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which came into force as part of the Constitution Act of 1982 and changed many everyday policing procedures. As it was new legislation, the commissioner had recently urged all of his COs across the nation to ensure compliance with the Charter. Accordingly, Chief Superintendent Henry had made it an audit priority. During the audit, we realized that a particular subdivision was not paying due diligence to certain aspects of the legislation. I discussed this informally with Inspector Clyde Courser, the inspector in charge of the subdivision. His amazing response to me was that he did not believe in or subscribe to the Charter, and it would never come into being in the province of Newfoundland. His next comment was, “You people from away should stop telling us how to do our job!” (“Come from away” is a Newfoundland colloquialism describing anyone not born and bred in the province.) Astounded, I said that if he were not prepared to retract his comments and begin complying with the legislation, I would be forced to make a formal finding in the audit report and further advise the commanding officer. Courser’s response was “Fill your boots!”

When I got back to headquarters, I briefed the commanding officer. Shocked, he suggested I might have misunderstood. He summoned Inspector Courser to appear before him forthwith. The inspector appeared and repeated his audacious comments to the commanding officer. The two combatants had known each other for most of their service and had long held diverging philosophies. There was little love lost between them, and during this encounter in the CO’s office, I felt like I was watching an enraged ball player in dispute with an umpire. The inspector’s comments had clearly become insubordinate, and he departed briskly. Chief Superintendent Henry contacted the commissioner in Ottawa to tell him what had occurred. Inspector Courser was personally contacted by the commissioner and commanded to comply with the requirements of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms immediately. He complied but subsequently resigned his commission and left the Force. It was a classic example of the suicidal defiance for which this officer was known. His rebelliousness had finally done him in. Interestingly, he attended university after leaving the Force and eventually obtained a law degree. It occurred to me that he had already decided his future prior to the audit and had decided to leave in a blaze of glory. Although confrontations during an audit were not common, they occurred frequently enough to make the job interesting.

Clyde Courser was clearly an anomaly within the officer corps. I have noticed a most curious transformation that occurs when one is honoured with the Queen’s Commission within a police organization. Members who have confronted daunting situations during their ascent up the law-enforcement ladder seem to misplace their intestinal fortitude upon becoming officers. These are individuals who have faced down rowdy barrooms full of drunks, been outnumbered and unbowed by outlaw biker gangs and placed in many circumstances where their personal courage has been tested. This courage is not only physical, as many of them have been harangued by intimidating lawyers, overbearing politicians and anti-social members of the public.

Yet the assertiveness and presence of mind that served these public servants so well seems to diminish with the assumption of executive rank. Is this because senior officers have learned the power of intimidation as they experienced it on their own personal ascent? I learned that the officer’s handbook outlined the courtesy of writing a letter to the commissioner to thank him for conferring the honour of a commission upon one’s humble person. This was still expected in spite of the gauntlet of screening, writing an exam, appearing before two levels of oral boards and preparing a lengthy paper. A path of rigorous personal preparation had replaced the old procedure of being solely endorsed by an officer; however, the requirement to thank the commissioner was still a necessity. It didn’t surprise me that many of the newly commissioned neglected to comply.

Analyzing the group dynamics of a typical police executive committee is as good a way as any to observe the hierarchy at work. These assemblies are usually highly confidential and can be found in session in command centres across the country. They consist of the commanding officer or chief constable, who is typically the chairman. Seated at the table are senior and junior officers who command some segment of the police operation. The commanding officer sets the agenda. Members of the committee will bring items to the table from time to time, but it is primarily a forum from which the commanding officer expresses his insights and philosophies on how his operation will be run. Opinions are welcome—providing they support or endorse the CO’s position. Dissenting views are considered somewhat of an inconvenience and can shine an uncomfortable light upon the originator. Former independent thinkers spend much time anticipating what the CO wants to hear, because that is what is acceptable.

There are many unspoken messages that must be gleaned and understood within the officer corps, and it can be a rather steep learning curve for the neophyte. I knew of one case where the CO would often return to his office after the supper hour to continue his weighty work. All of his underlings were aware of this habit, and several made a point of staying at their work stations until “Himself” departed for the evening. One member of the team often sat at his desk reading a paperback. He had no reason to be in his office other than the fact that the CO was on site. Many felt they had to be available in the event the great man needed to confer.

Another CO was very social and expected his minions to be on hand at the officer’s mess for any and all occasions. Dignitaries and even entertainers who had little or no relevance to the police operation were invited to dine, and the CO advised his officers that they were expected to be there, often in uniform. The mess would have a full complement for the evening, no questions asked. This occurred several times a month, but very few had the effrontery to decline these command performances.

This servility within the officer corps has diminished, but it still exists. Most commissioned officers will not challenge the CO, even if they disagree with his policy. This reluctance to speak up does not make for a dynamic organization and may be the reason police forces are so slow to change. Most successful COs have been through the RCMP acculturation process, and many expect the same fealty that was required of them during their ascension.

Although we no longer conclude our correspondence with the phrase, “I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant,” the tradition of conferring supreme power on the CO is alive and well. Having been a member of the “League of Frightened Men,” I have personally experienced these dynamics to a greater or lesser degree. They can pervade any corporate structure, but the paramilitary model of law enforcement predisposes this type of intimidation. It is entirely possible that this model, which served the RCMP so well in 1873, no longer meets organizational needs. In fact, in the 21st century a military hierarchy may be the worst possible model for the Force. Toward the end of my career, in about 1990, the officers were issued sparkling white shirts to distinguish them further from the ranks, who wore khaki-coloured shirts. I recall being referred to as a “white shirt” in what I perceived to be a spirit of good nature. Now when I hear members refer to “white shirts,” it usually has a negative connotation.

There are many examples of how the commissioned officer cadre indelibly stamps its members, some of whom should have had their rank insignia tattooed on their skin. In Victoria, BC, a veritable boneyard of retired officers continue to enjoy their station through retirement and beyond. There is a retired officer’s mess where the gentlemen can assemble and commiserate with one another without having to worry about “the lads.” This is indicative of the mindset of many commissioned members and illustrates how persistent these barriers to forthright communication can be. In today’s complex world, trying to run an efficient, effective organization with the restrictions of a military rank structure is surely a recipe for failure. It is incumbent on any chief executive of a police force in the 21st century to banish this suffocating environment in the interest of generating fresh ideas and innovative thought.