No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (4 page)

On the first morning of training we were issued a basic uniform of green fatigues. We were now identifiable as rabble, which made us fair game for instructors and senior recruits alike. Constantly hounded, yelled at and scourged, we reeled from place to place for the first week. Forbidden to march, we moved about as a frenetic amoeba, always on the double. Thankfully, new troops arrived each week to begin their training, which lessened some of the pressure on us. During those first two weeks an astounding amount of kit and clothing was issued to each man. To neophyte policemen, the regalia and equipment were mysterious and alluring.

Rank, seniority and structure were the mortar that held together the bricks of the Academy. The senior troops felt they had as much authority and influence over our miserable lives as the instructors. The senior squads resided in a separate building connected to our 32-bed dormitory by a steam-heating tunnel. One evening, as we sat cloistered in our dorm, we heard a strange rumbling sound. Suddenly, the doors exploded open and we were invaded by two troops of seniors. We stood little chance, as they outnumbered us two to one. They upended our beds scattered our kit and hauled many of us off to the showers. The raid was over in minutes, the horde disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. These dorm invasions occurred sporadically during our time in Depot. Occasionally there were injuries and damage, but nothing was ever reported. From time to time, directives were issued from the upper echelon describing the raids as unacceptable, yet little was ever done officially to stop them. Hazing was part of the training experience, but a sad reflection of man’s innate cruelty to man.

Our first physical training (PT) session consisted of a five-mile run, clearly meant to cull the weakest. Instructors ran with us, spelling each other off as they tired so they could keep up a blistering pace. Several of our group fell by the wayside, collapsing from exhaustion. Following the run, we were reassembled only to be berated and insulted by the instructors. According to the physical training staff, the likelihood of any of us surviving Depot was faint. For $150 a recruit could buy his way out of training, and they encouraged us to do this immediately. Apparently, the organization was very difficult to enter but quite simple to exit. Much discussion took place that evening, with some of my discouraged troop-mates considering their options.

To some recruits, the physical segment of RCMP training was cruel, even sadistic. There is no question it was rigorous and tough, typifying the stress model used by police and military organizations during that era. Instructors sincerely believed the harsh treatment they inflicted would prepare their charges for the stresses and strains of police work. As law-enforcement training evolved, a more humane but equally demanding regimen was adopted. However, back in the early 1960s, a typical session involved the troop working to a fever pitch through running and calisthenics. In varying states of exhaustion, recruits were forced to roll on the gym floor until they became nauseous. Many would lie in their own vomit, too winded and demoralized to move. These sessions were commonly referred to as torture periods.

Boxing and police-hold instruction presented additional opportunities to test individual courage. The troop members were arranged in a circle around a mat, and two individuals were selected to don boxing gloves and pummel each another. Very little actual instruction took place, even though several of the instructors were experienced boxers. If a recruit possessed boxing training or talent, he would be chosen to spar with an instructor. The combination of the recruit’s hesitancy to strike his mentor and the instructor’s skills usually resulted in a one-sided affair. Our instruction in effective police holds followed a similar pattern. Any PT session could quickly regress into a torture period if the instructors detected any kind of infraction, real or imagined. Over time, we also received formalized training in gymnastics.

The swimming instructors held their own enlightened approach to training. Even those of us with experience in the water learned to dread these draconian sessions. The swimming program began at the edge of the pool, where we learned accepted RCMP movements. A particularly sadistic sergeant we secretly referred to as “Captain Chlorine” presided over the mayhem. We lay spread-eagled on our stomachs while instructors with bamboo canes “guided” us through the drill. Any deviation from the accepted method was corrected with sharp strikes on the legs and feet. When it was time to move into the pool, non-swimmers were forced to jump off the high board into the deep end. When it looked like they were about to drown, they were pulled from the pool with the assistance of long poles. At the end of the swimming course, the more competent members of the troop were tested for the Red Cross award of merit. In one segment of the test, the instructor posed as a drowning swimmer. When the recruit approached the panic-stricken “victim,” he attempted to place the victim in a towing position. If the recruit did not perform exactly as taught, the instructor would grab him in a death grip and take him to the bottom of the pool. Release only occurred when the rescuer was on the brink of panic himself.

Within a month, the pressures of training began to take their toll, and several of the troop decided to leave. By the sixth week, nine members had resigned. It occurred to our instructors that they might be able to completely eradicate “A” Troop—now reduced to 23 members—if they maintained the intensity. They redoubled their efforts to eliminate those of us who remained. In their zeal to decimate our numbers, the physical training staff identified three of us as being under the magic minimum height of five foot eight. Even though we were coping with the challenges being thrown our way, we were measured once, twice and three times. Still not satisfied, they called in experts from the provincial weights and measures ministry. The process went on for several weeks and was thoroughly demoralizing. Finally we appeared before the division medical officer. I recall sitting in his office when he concluded his interview by asking me if I wished to continue my training. My response was resoundingly positive. He finally put an end to our misery by certifying in each of our files that we met the minimum-height requirement.

The arbitrary minimum-height rules introduced us to discrimination that exists in a general way in many societies but is particularly rampant in a military setting. In the RCMP the mean height is somewhere between five foot ten and six foot two, and those who fell on either side of this “ideal” height range were constantly reminded of it. Members on the tall end of the scale also suffered constant, repetitive and often tasteless comments about their seeming affliction. In calling out members who were above or below the mean height, the training staff communicated the God-given right of all to identify physical aberrations. Throughout my years on the Force, I was subjected to comments regarding my height (though civilians have rarely commented on it). Usually it was good-natured ribbing, but sometimes there were overtones of cruelty and sarcasm. It is a strange and somewhat motivating cross to bear. Singled out for what some labelled a physical deficit, I was even more determined to perform to the best of my ability. Even during gatherings of retired RCMP veterans, there are invariably comments about one’s extra height or lack thereof.

To ensure the survival of our small squad, bonds developed and vows were made. As we came to know each other better, individual personalities emerged and added to the tapestry of the troop. Parker was our right marker, the one who formed us up for parade, called the roll and generally responded on our behalf to commands. Markers were selected for their military bearing and appearance in uniform. We learned that these physical attributes were used to identify leaders, though it was clear even during basic training that an impeccable appearance did not always indicate an effective leader. Our right marker was a classic example. Parker was a true peacock, always looking the part and projecting a noble presence, but in reality he was a scoundrel in sheep’s clothing, constantly looking for ways to create havoc and disarray. He was responsible for a number of incidents that shone a negative light upon us. During our orientation to the small arms range, the instructor demonstrated his prowess with a .38 special revolver. After firing several rounds at the target, he realized none of the rounds had even hit the paper upon which the target was mounted. Puzzled, he walked down the range, only to find his rounds had not even made it to the target and were lying on the floor. He checked the box of shells from which he had loaded the weapon and discovered that all the bullets in the box had been tampered with. Someone had removed the lead and emptied out some of the powder. Enraged, he demanded to know who was responsible. No one admitted to the prank, so the entire troop was confined to barracks. After several days, Parker confessed. He was further punished for his stunt, but the troop carried the stigma of his actions. His actual career in the force was very brief, as he fell into several serious disciplinary jams related to finances and was eventually dismissed.

Also in our midst was a young Charney Biln, the first Sikh ever to join the Force. His first posting would be in Drumheller, Alberta, where he was immediately accepted and respected by the community. Tragically, Charney and his new wife lost their lives in a traffic accident just three years into his service. Francois Dubois, one of our prevailing French-Canadian candidates, was so physically attractive that women would actually stalk him when he walked the streets of Regina. Young and inexperienced, Francois was completely mystified by the strange spell he cast over the opposite sex. He too would die in a traffic accident early in his service.

Dick Havers, the eldest of our group, was a 25-year-old who had left the Air Force to join the RCMP. His air of superiority thrust him into almost daily conflict with instructors. Dave Tough, a young man from the Maritimes, was so physically awkward he could not swing his arms and march at the same time. Tough suffered unmercifully at the hands of PT instructors. His common sense and mature philosophy were in direct contrast to his deficient coordination, though. He persevered through the agony of training to become one of the most successful of our number in his police career. Another troop-mate, R.R. Bouck, went to British Columbia where he had a distinguished career in detachment policing, winning two commissioner’s commendations for bravery. Terry David Mulligan, one of the youngest in the troop, briefly served in Alberta, where he discovered his talents lay in the field of broadcasting. He left the Force after three short years and went on to be a radio and television personality in the Vancouver area. Don Gamble, a farm boy from Gull Lake, Saskatchewan, became one of Canada’s foremost handwriting experts while serving with the RCMP Crime Detection Laboratory. There were clowns and cut-ups, young men of serious mien, naïve farm boys and those who really had no idea why they were there. It was amazing to witness the melding of divergent personalities into a single cohesive unit.

After a few short weeks, Sergeant Major MacRae, perhaps the most highly visible symbol of power and authority in the training division, met with us in a classroom. He informed us that our diminished number was creating logistical problems since the curriculum was predicated on 32-man units. He was considering dissolving the troop and distributing its individuals to incoming squads. We pleaded with him to allow the troop to remain intact, assuring him we would cope with the challenges. He reluctantly agreed, granting us a trial period. As a troop, we set objectives to match the other troops and exceed their performance if possible. In the ensuing weeks, we were able to withstand everything the instructors threw our way and managed to settle into a routine. Our small troop coped with all the duties of a larger squad and earned a measure of unique regard from the training staff.