No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (3 page)

Soon all the searchers converged on the scene and began to scour the surrounding bush, while the captured man was interrogated. Finally breaking down, he identified himself as Mike Kuralak and gave a full confession about his part in the robberies and murder of Corporal Ralls. He implicated his brother, Bill, and a man named Bill Miller, who had just been released from prison. Miller was the leader and apparently the one who had murdered Corporal Ralls.

Police were closing in on the remaining fugitives and discovered early the following morning that one of them had gone to ground at another farm home. They surrounded the house and then entered to find Bill Kuralak asleep, fully clothed and with a loaded revolver under his pillow. When police found Miller later that morning, he was riding on a wagon and disguised as a teamster. When he realized he’d been discovered, he leapt from the wagon and fled into the bush. As a cordon of police closed in on him, a shot was heard. When they found his body, there was a self-inflicted bullet wound in his right temple. Further examination revealed a smashed bone above the ankle of his right leg and a gaping wound in his abdomen, believed to be from the gunfight with my father. Investigators were astounded at Miller’s stamina, given the severity of his injuries.

The work of the RCMP was just beginning, as they had to prepare for the trial of the Kuralaks. Thanks to some excellent forensic work, the weapons carried by the three accused were directly linked to the death of Corporal Ralls. During the trial, my father was vigorously cross-examined. Defence counsel suggested that he had brutalized his prisoner by knocking him unconscious during the arrest; however, the court concluded that he had only used as much force as was reasonably necessary, as Mike Kuralak had to be prevented from warning his partners. Bill Kuralak, the clean-cut, 23-year-old gunman, was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged in Regina on December 29, 1932. His 17-year-old brother, Mike, was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to 15 years in Prince Albert Penitentiary.

My father’s heroic actions earned him much attention and eventual early promotion. He remained in Kelvington, and it was not long before he distinguished himself in several other high-profile cases. He received his first detachment command at Kamsack, Saskatchewan. In the meantime he met an attractive red-headed nurse named Mary Violet Patricia McNamee, and—after a lengthy courtship while awaiting permission from the Force to marry—they were wed in 1937. I was born in Kamsack in 1940, and my sister JoAnne arrived two years later. (My youngest sister, Shari, came along 16 years later.) Dad became the detachment commander at Pelly, Saskatchewan, and moved to Yorkton in 1944 for a promotion to sergeant. By 1950 he had 20 years’ service and held the rank of staff sergeant.

As a child, I loved everything about my father’s office in Yorkton and would often go there. I guess I was considered somewhat precocious, and when I occasionally became a nuisance he would shoo me home. One day, when I was about 11 years of age, two of the plainclothes members were going out for a drive, and my father asked them to take me along to get me out of his hair. It was the dead of winter and I rode in the back seat. I knew both of these chaps and often bantered with them. I warned them to watch out because my dad was “the boss of them,” implying that these constables had to defer to me. They pulled the car over. There were no buildings, just bald prairie and snow. They commanded me to get out of the car, and when I did as they said they drove away, leaving me on the side of the road in –20°F weather. I could see the snow billowing up from the car as they disappeared. I felt totally abandoned. Just as I was starting to panic, the two drove up. They rolled the window down and wanted to know if I was going to behave. I told them I would, and they let me back in the car. I could see them exchanging glances and little smirks as we returned to the office. I promptly and indignantly told my dad what had happened. He asked me what I had done to deserve it. When I explained, he told me it was a lucky thing they had returned to pick me up from the highway, because some wouldn’t have. Somewhere in the exchange, I learned a lesson about humility and being accountable for my own actions.

My parents were happy in Yorkton, and when my father was offered a provincial magistrate position, he decided to retire from the RCMP. However, he changed his mind when he was also offered his commission in the Force. He was transferred to Regina where all sub inspectors received officer training. This consisted of instruction on sword handling, saluting techniques and the proper wearing of an officer’s uniform, as well as studying the officer’s handbook. (Today, the training has evolved into the Officer’s Familiarization Course, whose curriculum is much more contemporary in nature and includes almost no etiquette or decorum instruction but instead addresses the structure of the Force, the composition and functioning of policy centres and managerial decision making.) There was a large and opulent officer’s mess, and we lived in an officer’s home on the parade square of the training division. I suspect much of my father’s training took place in the mess. Being an officer at that time was a very exclusive club, and we were the ideal young family who looked like we had stepped right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

In 1953, my father was transferred to Victoria as the division staffing officer for the province. It was a very challenging period for him, as the Force had recently taken over policing in the province from the BC Provincial Police. Many provincial policemen had transferred into the RCMP and had much to learn about the organization. My father spent most of his time travelling to various detachments throughout the province.

Dad had always been my hero, and his influence on me was profound, but by this time I was a teenager. Elvis Presley loomed large in my life and was the cause of serious family disruption. Our first real fight was during Elvis’s first
Ed Sullivan Show
appearance, which we were watching on our first TV. Shocked by the depravity of Elvis’s gyrating pelvis, my father leapt up and turned the TV off to shelter us from this beast. I immediately turned the TV back on. The battle that ensued endured well into my late teenage years. My hair got longer as my father’s got shorter.

The culminating events in my teenage relationship with my father took place after his transfer to Whitehorse, Yukon, where he was the officer commanding. I became a full-time musician and party boy, playing in the Northernairs dance band in Whitehorse. My father and I barely spoke for at least two years. Through this transition I had lost most of my regard for anyone over 20, including my parents. However, when I emerged from adolescence, my love for the RCMP was intact, and I resumed my plan to join the Force.

I left the family home when I was 16. My parents transferred to Ottawa, where my father became commanding officer of G Division, a jurisdiction that encompassed the entire north but had its headquarters in the capital. He completed his career as senior personnel officer for the RCMP and retired in 1965. Although our later relationship was warm, it was never quite as adoring as it had been during my early years. He was a wonderful human being with a great zest for life and laughter and a huge personality. Whenever he was in a room, there would always be people gathered around him. That is how I will always remember him.

AS A BOY,
I attended the Roy Rogers Finishing School almost from the time I could walk. Classes were every Saturday afternoon at the York Theatre in Yorkton, a dusty prairie town. Along with my father, Roy was one of my earliest heroes. He taught me how to shoot straight, ride like the wind and always be on the right side of the law. He showed me it was possible to wipe out an entire nest of outlaws single-handed without even getting dirt on your fringed cowboy shirt. He taught me the difference between good and evil, and to always be kind to your horse.

When I was 18, I applied to join the RCMP. You had to be a male Canadian citizen, at least five feet eight inches tall, between 18 and 30 years of age, have a minimum education level of grade 10 and possess a valid driver’s licence. I met all the basic qualifications except for the minimum height. Recruiters decreed I failed to measure up, dashing my hopes of following in my father’s footsteps. Because I had played the trumpet since I was 10, my second option was to join a military band, so I elected to join the Canadian Army. Canada maintained a dozen military bands across the nation, one of which was based in Calgary. I successfully auditioned and became part of the trumpet section of the Lord Strathcona’s Horse Regimental Band as a full-time professional.

Yet I hadn’t totally abandoned my dream of joining the RCMP. The regiment also had a cavalry tradition and maintained a stable, where members could board their own horses for a nominal fee. Taking advantage of this, I purchased a young quarter horse, broke her to saddle and rode extensively during this period. Three years later, while visiting my parents, I discovered I had grown slightly, perhaps due to my long hours in the saddle. I was now officially tall enough to join the RCMP. I reactivated my application, had a fingerprint check and personal interview and was eventually presented with an offer of engagement, contingent upon resignation from the Canadian Armed Forces.

I returned to Calgary, obtained my honorable discharge from the army and was authorized to continue my indoctrination into the RCMP. My final hurdles were a complete medical checkup and a Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI) test, which was then the gold-standard test to detect personality disorders. After successfully proving my physical and psychological fitness, I was ordered to report to what was known then as Depot Division in Regina. On July 3, 1961, I became a member of “A” Troop. Assembled in Dormitory 3B was a motley, anxious group of 32 young men from across Canada, all apprehensive about our impending adventure.

Nine members of our group were francophone, several unable to speak English. Constable Rea, our troop leader and a recently graduated recruit, introduced himself as our supervisor. He openly expressed a dislike of francophones, decreeing at the outset that not one word of French be uttered. If a French recruit had the temerity to speak in his native tongue, fellow recruits were to discipline him in tried-and-true RCMP tradition—cold showers or blackballing (which consisted of restraining the victim and applying liberal amounts of black shoe polish to his testicles). Discriminating against candidates from Quebec was considered justifiable, as it accelerated their integration into the predominant English culture. Francophone candidates who managed to complete training were possessed of an iron resolve. I found it unimaginable that one could withstand the trauma of basic recruit training while not comprehending the commands. It was amazing, yet somehow understandable, how quickly they grasped basic profane English. Successful French-speaking recruits routinely returned to Quebec following training, their sole memories of English-speaking Canada being the agonizing months they spent at Depot. No doubt the degrading treatment they suffered as recruits caused residual resentment toward English Canada and the rest of the nation for the duration of their service. As they gained seniority and rose in the ranks, ill feelings lingered, echoing the antipathy felt by many in La Belle Province toward the rest of Canada.