Read No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP Online
Authors: Ian Parsons
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Law Enforcement, #BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Law Enforcement
Over and above our equitation duties, four members of our troop had joined the training division’s drum and bugle corps. Volunteers came from various troops, and the band would play simple marches during the traditional one o’clock parade following the lunch hour. The only troops excused from the parade were those assigned to afternoon equitation. Realizing the band was the darling of Sergeant Major MacRae, and knowing he was watching us carefully, we had volunteered for his band to convey our enthusiasm and troop spirit. This display of initiative worked in our favour until we missed our afternoon ride because we were performing with the bugle band on the parade square. As the troop lined up for inspection prior to the ride, Corporal Landers noticed it was conspicuously reduced in number. He demanded to know where the missing four members were. When he learned we were on the square playing in the bugle band, he waited for our appearance, some 30 minutes late. Landers promptly rechristened us with names to reflect our musical endeavours: Beethoven, Mozart, Ravel and Strauss. As a penalty for our late appearance at the riding stables, we received extra attention during the equitation session. Following the harangue by the riding instructors, the four of us decided not to arrive late for another equitation class. When equitation was scheduled for the troop, we were present for riding inspection.
Later that day we were summoned to the office of the sergeant major, who demanded to know why we were absent from the band. After our explanation, he made it absolutely clear what would happen to us if we again failed to appear with the bugle band. When we asked him how we should cope with our riding instructor, he said to leave that to him. We could only imagine what transpired between the riding staff and the sergeant major, but no words were spoken when we appeared late for our next equitation class. However, we were still called by our musical names while in the stable and were appropriately persecuted in small ways for the remainder of our riding days. We were assigned difficult horses, given the less palatable jobs in the stables and frequently assigned the intimidating task of grooming the stallions, in addition to many other tasks that would make our lives more difficult.
My musical talents would further complicate my quest for a law-enforcement career. At the halfway point of our training, I was summoned to the personnel office and asked if I had any interest in joining the RCMP band in Ottawa. I respectfully declined, telling the interviewer I wished to work as a policeman. Several weeks later, they once again contacted me, this time
informing
me that I was to go to Ottawa at the conclusion of training to join the band. At the time, the RCMP band was only a part-time organization with musicians holding down administrative jobs and playing as and when required. Extremely agitated and disappointed, I explained that prior to joining the RCMP I had been a member of one of the premier regimental bands in North America. I said that if they assigned me to the RCMP band, I would return to the regimental army band. No doubt my response caused some irritation, but I heard nothing more about this and was allowed to continue on my path to a law-enforcement career.
LIFE SAVER? I THINK NOT!
His name was Willie George. Willie was one of two “stallions in waiting” in the RCMP stables. He was as black as his heart and stood 17 hands high; his eyes burned with hatred. He resided in a box stall, and when there was a mare in heat nearby he created unimaginable havoc. He would bang his stall constantly, and his snorts and screams would fill the entire barn. Recruits ceased to be assigned to groom him as he had injured so many of them. Only two of the most experienced riding instructors would saddle and ride him.
Having owned a horse prior to joining the Force, I fancied myself something of a “horse whisperer.” I discovered that Willie had a weakness for Wint O Green Life Savers, so I would stop by his stall from time to time and give him this treat. As time wore on, I noticed he would look for me. He seemed almost civil as I fed him the Life Savers, and my confidencein dealing with him was growing, as was the admiration from my troopmates. I eventually gathered the courage to open his door and feed him the Life Savers face to face. Things were going quite well for Willie and me, and my fame as a horse handler was spreading.
Occasionally, recruits were assigned stable orderly duties. This meant that two of us would be in the stables all night, cleaning gutters and feeding and watering the horses. On this particular evening the horses had just received their nightly ration of oats. This was obviously the highlight of the horses’ daily routine, and their anticipation was palpable as the oats were doled out. Willie George had just been given his share and was munching contentedly. I opened his door and approached him with my stash of Life Savers. We shared a bond now. But when I held out my hand, he nudged it away. I must have totally forgotten whom I was dealing with. I approached him again with the Life Savers. I cannot recall precisely what happened next, but suddenly I felt a searing pain in my upper arm. Then I flew through the air and smashed against the stall, crumpling in the corner. I looked up at four long black legs and the stallion’s head as he quietly munched his oats, then I quietly crawled out of the stall. Willie George had bitten through my pea jacket, inner jacket and shirt and thrown me across the box stall. Our relationship was over, as was my brief career as a tamer of stallions, and I was left with feelings of abject humility. I never bought Wint O Green Life Savers again.
As the troop moved through the equitation program, we developed some semblance of rapport with our instructor. Christmas was approaching, and we asked Corporal Landers if we could buy him a holiday drink. Amazingly, he invited the entire troop to his home one Saturday afternoon. His wife was absent when a large number of us arrived there, liberally supplied with bottles of Christmas cheer. As the afternoon went on, several of the revellers became inebriated. Eric Crampton developed an infatuation with the corporal, depositing his six-foot-three-inch, 230-pound body in his lap, hugging him enthusiastically. No amount of coaxing from the victim or troop members would sway him from his drunken fondness. Another guest fell over the large ornate Christmas tree, knocking it down. Still another staggered down the basement steps, spilling a drink and putting a dent in the washing machine. By the time the troop departed, we knew we had overstayed our welcome.
Even though several troop members immediately returned to the scene of the crime to clean up and make things right, it was glaringly evident that our rapport with Corporal Landers was forever sullied. When “A” Troop returned to the riding academy to continue our equitation training, we realized we would be paying for our indiscretions. For the remaining 50 hours of our riding classes, we were seldom astride our steeds. Instead, we performed all of the required formations on foot while leading the horses. At the conclusion of our riding pass out, Corporal Landers, in the company of the entire riding staff, informed us we were the worst troop to ever pass through Depot. We were told to exit the stables and never come back.
We returned to the rest of our training curriculum with enthusiasm, thankful that equitation was behind us. For many of us, any love and admiration we held for horses would be forever tainted as a result of our RCMP training experience.
THE LAST POST
The following poem was written by Constable J.K. Crosby (January 19, 1939–March 25, 2009), a member of RCMP “A” Troop, 1958, at “Depot” Division, Regina, Saskatchewan. “A” Troop gathered for a reunion in 1994, where Ken Crosby presented these memories of equitation training.
On quiet days a sudden flash, a scent,
A sound, or something else to stir the other time
A shout, a distant roll of drums
A marching tune or bugle on the wind
Can summon up the pride of what has been
The memories report for watch again
A clopping horse’s hoof re-echoing on the pavement
Although there be no horse
The ammonia blast of the overnight void
Although there be no stalls
The warmth beneath the curry comb and brush
The warm neck to lay a head on
The gruffness that hid the real affection
The strength, the firmness of shoulder and haunch,
The might, the fright, her of me, and me of her.
A fright to overcome with persistence and love.
The warmness of the horse’s teary eye
Its nodding head approving the affection given
Responding with a recognition that
Although ridden by others, the horse was truly yours.
Their names flash by from time to time
My “Gypsy”, a “Rebel”, “Dawn” and “Gail”
A “Rogue” that really wasn’t and a “Faux Pas” that was
I remember “Newton” biting Sam Strang’s thumb
Strang the Roughrider, Harry Armstrong, Ralph Cave,
Jesse Jessiman
They’re still forming troops in my memory
and making sure that we used the saddle soap
On our supple fragrant tack.
Still shouting “Ride, prepare to mount”
As I hear again the leathery grunting squeak of the stirrups
And saddles along the assembled line of exhaling horses.
By sections and half sections through weather’s best and worst
Enough cold to freeze a breath and steam and ice a horse
Enough warmth to quickly sweat and bring froth to a horse’s coat
I remember the scent of the horse’s sweat
Its warmth and its wetness
Its feeling on my cheek as I hugged the horse’s neck
Its smell on my clothing
Its splash between my fingers as I “Made Much” to my horse.
I remember jumps, my grunts, the horse’s grunts, the awkward landings,
the surprise I was still mounted
And suicide lane and the order “quit reins, quit stirrups”
Tipping a forage cap was never so funny
As when doffed by a rider with weak knees
A rider with weak knees shouting “Good morning Corporaaal”
I remember “Roman Riding” and “field days”
That were more of a day-off than “General Equitation”
I remember a big inflated ball that stood as high as a horse’s withers
Except for “Gaul” of course, who stood seventeen hands
I remember the soft tilled soil of the Riding School
As opposed to the gumbo outside
That exacted such punishment to our ironed Strathcona boots
That were spit shined, be they Hart made or McDonnell.
I remember “the ride”, I remember the precision
I remember the gaits, the canter figure of eight
The pleasure of having missed hitting anyone in the crossover.
I remember wondering how the music kept in time so well
with the “bump trot”
And in the Riding School, there came those fleeting fantasies
of those great cavalries that had gone before
From the Cossacks on the steppes through to the Strathcona Horse
From the Charge of the Light Brigade to the United States Seventh
From the Great March from Dufferin of the Northwest Mounted.
They were all united somehow in one force, in one panorama,
One bonded unison.
Men and horses operating across time with pride and precision,
The pride and precision of Cavalrymen
The brotherhood of the saddle who had to “earn their spurs”,
They rise to ride again, though fleetingly,
As “A” Troop ’58 answers its last muster.
Now silvered and weathered and slower than those days of youth
As mounted troopers
We still maintain that pride of a great tradition
Of being that tradition’s last
We store up scents and sounds and wispy scenes
That rise to flood our thoughts from time to time
That none now make and few have leave to claim.
We horsemen, we brothers, we the eternally locked unit of man and mount
Can look upon the path we made to see that it made us
And sometimes see the glory that it was,
Its moments, its comrades, its mounts, all last a lifetime
And all these things still summon to our call
From that branded special corner of our Cavalry hearts.
The academic side of the curriculum continued to be extremely demanding. The remaining months of training were filled with hours of criminal law, federal statutes, report writing, forensic identification, memory and observation, practical training and firearms training. Typing, perhaps the single most important physical skill in police work, was taught in a concentrated fashion that produced competent typists within a few short hours. To compel practice and familiarity, recruits typed pages upon pages of criminal statutes after each law class.
The firing ranges were perhaps the only areas of training devoid of sarcasm and sadism. The emphasis was on safety and becoming proficient handlers of firearms. Many hours were devoted to the mechanics, care and maintenance of our weapons before we were allowed to actually fire them. Ammunition was carefully controlled and inventoried, and students had to empty their pockets at the end of each session. Although this critical aspect of recruit training was conducted with great professionalism, it was an era preceding modern workplace health regulations. Thousands of young men left training with irreparable hearing damage from using firearms without ear protection. Those few who dared to mention discomfort due to the constant explosions were told to place expended brass cartridges in their ears. Instead of deadening the sound, the cartridges actually amplified it.
Each day brought information overload, and we had to cram constantly for ongoing exams. Driver training and foot drill were also high-profile subjects. Our driver-training outings afforded us our first opportunity to be viewed by the public in our revered RCMP uniforms. Escorted into local cafés by our mentors, we would descend like a gaggle of geese, experiencing what all policemen fondly view as the cult of the coffee break. We ventured into rural areas surrounding the city to learn the basics of defensive and interceptive driving from an instructing corporal. All of our driver-training instructors were seasoned field personnel, happy to share their tales and anecdotes from the field. We hung on every word they uttered.
Although driver training was our first exposure to the public while in uniform, our shorn heads and formal manner made us readily identifiable even when we wore civilian clothes in downtown Regina during our off-duty hours. Almost since the RCMP began training recruits in Regina, there has been discernible polarization between local young men and RCMP trainees. It has ebbed and flowed through the years with the occasional eruption. Shortly prior to our arrival in the training division, several members of another troop attended one of the local dance clubs. They were confronted and outnumbered by a group of unruly youths. A scuffle broke out and several RCMP members were badly beaten, primarily because they were outnumbered. The perpetrators were well-known hoodlums who hung out regularly at a popular watering hole. The city police attended the melee, but no charges were laid due to identification issues. Being uncomfortable with possible negative publicity, RCMP management declined to take any further action.