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CONSTABLE FOR LIFE
CHRONICLES OF A CANADIAN MOUNTIE
Chuck Bertrand
By Chuck Bertrand
Copyright 2009 Charles (Chuck) Bertrand
Smashwords Edition
This book is also available in print. Contact the author at:
mailto:constableforlife@eastlink.ca
or
http://www.constableforlife.com/
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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DEDICATION
Dedicated to my family
and to the men and women
I have worked with
over the years.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to my beautiful wife, Annette, for being my computer guru, but more so, for your undeniable patience in accompanying me through the many years it has taken to bring these stories to fruition.
To my sister-in-law Hella Bertrand, the editing Goddess, thank you for sharing your expertise, thoughts and ideas.
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INTRODUCTION
My name is Chuck, although over the years as a police officer, I have been anointed a variety of other very descriptive names.
I am retired, having served 28 remarkable years with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. My beloved family and I were privileged to have spent 23 of those incredible years in the majestic Yukon Territory.
This book is a collection of stories surrounding my unique career in and around the Mounties. To tell you the truth … I remember saying this as I was testifying in court in Carmacks, Yukon. The learned judge peered over his glasses, and with a twinkle in his eyes asked, “Constable, so … what have you been telling us up until now?”
The truth as to why I have compiled and written these stories is in answer to many friends and colleagues who, over the years, have listened to me relating my many escapades. Often, and usually after a rum or two, one of the avid listeners would exclaim, “Chuck, you should write a book.”
I have come to learn there is a big difference between telling stories and putting words to paper. Both are two different mediums. In this work I have attempted to weave these mediums together and I hope you enjoy the end result.
Not all my chronicles are humorous in nature, for in reality, police officers are the custodians of society. As such, my etched words, based on my experiences, will delve into the world of the good, the bad and the ugly.
As to the veracity of my tales, they are what they are. Some enhancement and embellishment have no doubt squirreled their way in over the years, thereby making my recounting far more enthralling. Name changes have also been made where deemed necessary. Without further ado, please accompany me on my unique journey as a Constable for Life in the RCMP.
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STOPPED DEAD
The year was 1976, my first summer in Fort McMurray, Alberta. Earlier that year I had been transferred, by request of the Force, from Ottawa to Fort McMurray. The reason why I was transferred is for a story to be told later on.
This particular anecdote starts with me coming in for a day shift. Upon my arrival I was requested to escort one of our prisoners to the hospital. The prisoner had been arrested the previous night on a Canada-wide warrant out of Winnipeg, Manitoba, on allegations he had been involved in an armed robbery. As I was newest to the detachment, and with only two years of service, the task of escorting the prisoner to the hospital was easily pawned off on me.
At the hospital, the prisoner was initially examined and treated in emergency. While waiting for the results, all I could envision was myself being in a movie scene where the cop’s job was sitting outside the prisoner’s room on guard. I anticipated a full day of boredom.
After the examination, I learned that my charge was suffering from severe blood ulcers and that the doctor wished him to remain in the hospital for the balance of the day. My earlier prediction seemed to be turning into reality.
In reporting the results back to detachment, my esteemed corporal graciously informed me that I was the poor schmuck to be honoured with this onerous detail. I was advised that another member would come by later to relieve me so that I could have lunch and lighten the load off my innards. An apologetic colleague did show up some four hours later, claiming they had been very busy at the detachment. I actually believe they had forgotten all about me.
Later that afternoon, when it was getting close to the end of my shift, the prisoner’s doctor advised me that my charge had stabilized to the point where he could be returned to cells for the night. However, the doctor wished his ailing patient to be readmitted to the hospital the following morning. I realized immediately that until this detainee was shipped off to Winnipeg, I would be his personal babysitter. It must have been because I had done such an admirable job that first day that I was awarded this task for the remainder of the week.
It became a daily routine. Around 8:00 a.m. every morning I would escort my prisoner to the hospital where we would stay until about 3:00 p.m. when, again, I would shepherd him back to cells. Except for the trip to and from the hospital, my days were very ho-hum.
To help pass time during the long hours at the hospital, I entered into dialogue with my prisoner. Initially our talks were guarded, but by the third day our conversation had become quite candid.
The prisoner related stories of his troubled youth. I listened cautiously; cognizant that he could be feeding me a line. Yet, as was my nature, I tended to empathize. This empathy was no doubt a germination of my previous profession.
I told him that prior to becoming a police officer I had been a high school teacher and had encountered and worked with many teens who lived troubled lives, somewhat similar to his own.
This revelation led him to the question I have been asked many times during my 28-year career with the Mounties. “Why did you leave teaching to join the RCMP?”
I related that as a young high school teacher, it soon became apparent to me that some of the teenagers (who were often only a few years younger than I was) were hurting. Many of these young men and women were emotionally and psychologically maimed, and in many cases, were being raised in very troubled families.
I quickly realized how naïve I was of the many sins of the world. Reality set in that not all families were, for lack of a better word, normal. I had been fortunate to be raised in a loving and caring environment. This, I soon learned, was not the case for all.
As an example, in my first months as a physics and science teacher I would assign 20 homework questions. I was realistic that not everyone always completes his or her homework. Enquiring and digging deeper as to why some just didn’t seem to get with the program, I soon discovered from other teachers, counsellors, and classmates, that often these students were carrying a lot of personal baggage.
Some left the safety of the school only to go home to alcoholic parents who belittled and bullied them; others to nights of sexual abuse. Some were poor and worked nights to help feed their siblings. Some walked the streets living another life. Some drifted from friend’s house to friend’s house in order to avoid the traumas of home life. The completion of the 20 physics problems I had assigned was but another sliver in their splintered lives. I was acquiring an ugly glimpse into the many closets of mankind.
My prisoner’s eyes began to water and I knew I had hit a nerve.
Continuing with my story, I explained how I had attempted to intervene and cause some change, but as a developing teacher I felt powerless and constrained by the rules of my profession.
In my third year as an educator an old vision resurrected itself. It was that of my cousin Doug, in his Mountie uniform. As a young boy I had an opportunity to spend my summers in northern Ontario with my aunt and uncle. When I wasn’t out fishing or doing chores, I would pour over the photographs of their distinguished son Doug, wearing his impressive uniform. From those early years I always held the thought that maybe I, too, would one day wear the Mountie red serge.
I had been raised with the belief that if you were in trouble and needed help you could always go to the police. Perhaps this notion was somewhat naïve, but deep down in my heart, I truly believed that if I became a member of one of the best police forces in the world, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I would be in a better position to help those in need, particularly youth. As such, I applied to the Force, and by July of the following year I was en route to the RCMP academy in Regina. As the saying goes, the rest is history.
For the balance of the week my prisoner and I continued to wile away the hours, conversing about many worldly thoughts and ideas. Saturday evening turned out to be his last night in Fort McMurray, as he was being shipped out to Manitoba the following day. On the return trip from the hospital that night, I felt somewhat sorry for my charge, who was still complaining of severe stomach pains. Contrary to Force policy, I allowed him to sit up front, uncuffed, in the police car.
As on previous days, I parked the police car on the street, in order to allow other members access to the single, secure prisoner bay. I then radioed in I was 10-7, my prisoner and I having arrived at the police station.
Simultaneous to my stepping out of the car, I heard the front passenger door open and footsteps running away. I was stunned. This supposedly very sick young man was now sprinting like an Olympian. I immediately took up the chase. All I was thinking at the time was, “Don’t ever, ever let your prisoner get away!” These words had been hammered into us during training.
I knew I would be in shit for not cuffing the prisoner and for letting him sit up front, but there was no way I was going to lose this guy. This, I soon learned, was easier said than done.
Laden down by all the equipment carried on our gun belt, and the wearing of heavy, thick-leather, vibram-soled ankle boots, I was no match for the fleet-footed running-shoed escapee. The chase was on.
Unknown to me, a concerned citizen, viewing the ongoing pursuit from his living room window, phoned the police to advise that he had observed a constable running down the street after a young man, and that they were headed toward the highway. The police dispatcher was somewhat surprised to receive the call. In my haste to capture the runaway, I had neglected to radio in the circumstances. As a result, an “officer requiring assistance” broadcast was made, providing skimpy details.
The escapee crossed the highway and ran into the dense bush. I was still in pursuit but seemed unable to gain ground. After half an hour of us trudging through the gnarly woods, I was thinking that if we continued on like this we would end up in Russia. The going was hard and dusk was quickly descending upon us.
In desperation I decided to pull my revolver out and fire a warning shot. My thoughts ricocheted back to training where the firearms instructor, given a similar scenario, had advised us that warning shots were against Force policy. However, in a low murmur he uttered, “But, do whatever it takes to get your man.” He then added, sporting a grin, “You never heard this from me.”
I fired into the air, hoping this would terminate the chase but my escapee, still thrashing through the woods, yelled back, “The only way you’re going to catch me is to shoot me.”
With the dark fast encroaching upon us, and recognizing with the status quo I had little chance of capturing my hombre, I once again took my revolver out of the holster and, with a little more precision, fired a shot. The escapee stopped dead.
Standing at attention before the Sergeant later that evening, as anticipated, I received a very animated tongue-lashing for not cuffing the prisoner, for not putting the prisoner into the secure back seat of the police vehicle, for not radioing in when the escape happened, and particularly, for firing two unwarranted shots. All of the above, I was duly informed, were actions totally contrary to Force policy.
The Sergeant also cautioned that, for the sake of elongating my career in the RCMP, I might wish to give consideration to editing my report. Sagely, he pointed out it appeared I did not recognize the effect or perception cultivated by my words “I fired a second shot and he stopped dead” might be interpreted. Consequently, I guardedly rewrote the report.
In recounting this escapade, I am often asked why the prisoner did not keep on running after I fired the second warning shot, as he did on the first. Perhaps it was because the second warning shot was a little closer to the escapee’s hearing, resonating the fact that I meant business.
It should be noted that an inspector with the RCMP made a special trip from Edmonton to have a little tête-à-tête with me. He vehemently reinforced the Sergeant’s chastisement, but to my pleasant surprise, also commended me for recapturing the escapee.
Leaving the detachment that day, there was little doubt in my mind that, should I continue on with the RCMP, this would not be the last occasion when I would be summoned into a superior’s office to account for my actions.
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JOINING UP
My saga with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police started approximately one year prior to signing on. After several months of contemplating changing professions from teaching to that of becoming a peace officer, I took the plunge and attended at the Montreal detachment of the RCMP in order to commence my application with the Force.
I met with a recruiting officer who, after a few preliminary questions, advised me that he would need to take some initial height and weight measurements. He acknowledged that my 5 foot 11 inch, 155-pound stature was adequate for admission into the Force, but that he had one more measurement to take, and that was of my chest.
My mind reflected back to some 15 years earlier. I was 10 years old at the time and had just returned from one of the greatest summers of my short life. Mom and Dad had made arrangements for me to spend that summer with my Aunt Francis and Uncle Aubrey at their home by Pinal Lake, a small lumber town approximately 45 kilometres outside of Chapleau in northern Ontario. It was a sensational summer, filled with some of the best fishing in the world, swimming in the lake which abutted their back yard, playing ball with the local kids, and assisting my patient uncle by chopping and cording their firewood for the coming winter.
No sooner had I descended from the C.P.R. train in Montreal, into the arms of my beloved parents, when I excitedly began telling great fish stories and of my wish to join the RCMP, just like my cousin, Doug, my aunt and uncle’s son. After a couple of weeks of blabbering on about joining the Mounties, my dad, to his credit, accompanied me to the Montreal detachment. Perhaps he thought a reality check was in need.
Picture my father, who was very small in stature, standing only 5 feet 7 inches, and me, a tiny 10 year old, walking in and being met by the biggest man we both had ever seen. This mountain of a Mountie cordially played along with my aspirations to join the Force. He had me step on that same scale to be weighed and measured and also requested that I remove my shirt so that he could take my chest measurements.
He then explained the basic requirements at that time for joining the Force. One had to be male, of sound and moral character, have no criminal record, be at least 18 years of age, be a minimum 5 feet 8 inches, possess a high school leaving certificate or higher, and – this is where my dad and I really became confused – have a chest measurement of 84 inches. We all agreed I had a few years and inches to go before attempting to apply.
On our way home all my dad and I could talk about was how big that Mountie was. My dad was still quite perplexed about the 84-inch chest measurement, to the point that when we got home, he retrieved a tape measure from his workshop and went outside and measured the girth of a very large maple tree on our front lawn. It was 53 inches in circumference. Even the big Mountie wasn’t that big, my dad exclaimed.
Thinking back, I remember my strongly opinionated Irish mother adding her two-cents worth, believing that the 84 inches must have been a combined measurement. I also recall my dad and her having a little disagreement about this.
I was jolted back to reality when the Corporal asked me to take my shirt off. He asked me to inhale and then exhale, taking chest measurements each time. Looking somewhat baffled, he proceeded to take another set of measurements. I could tell by the Corporal’s body language that there was a problem. He explained that although my total chest measurements inhaling and exhaling surpassed the required 84 inches – check mark for Mom – I did not have the minimum 2 ½ inch difference between the inhale and exhale measurements. I had skewered myself. In thinking that I had to get a larger total number, I had neglected to exhale fully.
I tried to explain but the Corporal would have none of it. He told me to return in a few weeks after doing a ton of push-ups. I left dejected, but not deflated. To achieve the necessary goal of the 2½-inch difference, I decided to return to the place where my dreams of joining the Mounties were first formulated – my aunt and uncle’s home in northern Ontario. I opted to surprise them by showing up unannounced.
I telephoned my younger sister, Pat, and asked if she wanted to ride shotgun, as the thought of driving 1,100 kilometres by myself, the majority of which was along the majestic, yet monotonous Lake Superior, did not appeal to me. Pat graciously accepted and the following day our adventure began.
Now, my little old Volkswagen was a classic. It was light green in colour, with a single blue racing stripe, hand-painted, down the full length in the middle. The words “Jay Peak Ski Patrol” were amateurishly stencilled on the doors. The motor ran great, the gas mileage was super, but the starter was as reliable as my father barbequing a steak medium rare. To this day, Pat claims I brought her along for the sole purpose of helping to push start the old bug, which was exactly what she did for the majority of the trip, unless, of course, I was able to park on a decline.
We soon developed a clockwork routine. With the driver’s side door open, I would push on the doorframe, simultaneously steering, while Pat would be heaving from the rear. At the appropriate speed I would jump in, engage the clutch, turn the ignition, and put the transmission into second. My faithful sister (4 feet 11 inches, 90 pounds soaking wet) would continue shoving with all her mini-mouse might. I would pop the clutch and, voila, with a jerk and a bump, the motor would hopefully come to life.
Two days and several push-starts later, we finally reached Pinal Lake. Immediately my mind drifted back to those pleasant younger years, recalling that all appeared the same, but now so much smaller.
It was noon when we pulled in behind my uncle’s old, reliable Pontiac. Leaving my sister Pat to fend for herself, I bounded up the walkway. Hurtling up the steps, I pushed open the screen door, yelling, “What’s cooking?”
To my surprise, not only were my Aunt Frances and Uncle Aubrey at the kitchen table, but so too, were my Aunt Pat and Uncle Pat, who were visiting from Toronto. All appeared mesmerized, not only because of our unannounced arrival, but the fact, as my Aunt Frances later explained, my name had just come up in their conversation with regard to how much I enjoyed eating. Joyously, we all gathered for hugs and kisses. It was as if I had never left.
Once the dust had settled, and a couple of extra chairs were squeezed around the kitchen table, I stated the primary purpose for my visit. With a grin and a glint in his eye, my uncle responded that a winter’s worth of firewood was waiting to be split, hauled and stacked. I relished the opportunity, and after two arduous weeks of chopping several cords of wood, doing hundreds of push-ups each day, swimming, fishing, and eating lots of good, wholesome food, my sister and I tearfully said our good-byes and jump-started the VW back to Montreal.
I attended the recruiting office within a day of my return and met with the same Corporal who had previously dealt with me. Astonished with the improved 4 ½ inch difference between my inhale and exhale measurements, he exclaimed, “Obviously you really want to get into the Mounties.”
“You betcha,” I responded.
Thus my application with the RCMP began. For the following six months I went through a series of tests and security checks. The RCMP even arranged and paid for me to get allergy shots to see if the shots would curtail my bad allergies and hay fever, which they did.
In April 1974, after not hearing from the Mounties for three months, I decided to call the recruiting Corporal in charge of my file to check what was happening. I will never forget that particular day or call. I was on a prep period from teaching and in the teacher’s phone room. I phoned and, after some transfers, spoke to my recruiting Corporal. I explained that the last time we had talked he had told me that my application was going well and that he would contact me. He never did. I was wondering if something had gone wrong.
The Corporal asked if he could phone me back shortly. Putting down the phone I began to sweat profusely. My hands started shaking and my right knee bouncing. I am sure my blood pressure skyrocketed. It was at this particular time I knew that I truly wanted to become a member of the RCMP. My mind glimpsed into the future. I would be a Mountie, working up North, helping kids and would have a loving and caring family.
The phone rang. The Corporal immediately apologized for not contacting me earlier. He then asked when I would be available to come in for an interview with the staffing officer.
I left that little room knowing I was about to embark upon a new adventure. I will forever be grateful for the path my life took that day.
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OFF TO REGINA
Next to my marriage to Annette and the birth of our children, Renée and Mike, my joining the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on July 19, 1974, one of the most renowned police forces of the world, was a highlight of my life that I shall never forget.
Back in 1974 the signing on as a member of the RCMP was an auspicious event. Successful candidates, who would soon be embarking on a new career, were ceremoniously ushered into an ornate office and introduced to the division’s Commanding Officer. Once having signed the official documents, you became a member of this very distinguished Force.
The Corporal who had dealt with my application called me at home a few days prior to this occasion. He knew I would be driving to Regina, Saskatchewan, the training depot of the RCMP, and inquired if I would be willing to take another recruit, who would also be in my troop, with me on the trip. The Corporal explained that the lad was French-Canadian and spoke little to no English. As I was a few years older, and considered somewhat bilingual, they believed I could ease Pierre into the English-Canadian way of life. I felt somewhat honoured, and looked forward to have a companion on such a long journey.
I had intentionally neglected to comment to staffing on my mode of transportation, an old, white, Ford Econoline van. I had proudly purchased this aged, retired fish-hauling van the previous spring. Large patches of grey paint covered the commercial lettering on the side panels. This $500 jewel was perfect for my unpretentious needs. In an attempt to enhance the rustic interior, I had amateurishly insulated and paneled the inside.
This old van had served me well during the past winter. As a former ski patroller, I had been offered a deal from a local ski club that I could not refuse: free skiing in the Laurentians and Eastern Townships along with fuel compensation, in return for accompanying wounded skiers from the slopes to the hospitals in Montreal. My task was to follow the ski-bus in my old van and, at the end of the day, take the broken boned-skiers back to Montreal in relative comfort. I particularly enjoyed aiding the lovely damsels in distress.
After Pierre and I both signed over our souls to the RCMP, I was introduced to his proud and loving parents. Almost instantly, Pierre and his family recognized that I spoke a very unique dialect of French. As for me, it quickly became evident that Pierre was definitely unilingual, and I couldn’t help but envision an interesting adventure ahead of us.
While still at the detachment, I suggested Pierre might wish to change into more comfortable clothes for the trip west. As for myself, I would switch into my shorts once we got to the van. While Pierre went off to change, his parents proposed they accompany us to the van to see Pierre off, thus prolonging the inevitable goodbyes. I inwardly feared that if they saw the condition of my van, they wouldn’t let their precious son travel with me. In an effort to dissuade them I explained that the van was parked a fair distance away and that this was an ideal opportunity for Pierre and I to get better acquainted prior to setting off. Much to my relief, they agreed with my masked proposal.
Pierre soon returned, smartly dressed as if he were a model for Gentleman’s Quarterly. Following hugs and a tearful farewell, and promises on my part to take good care of Pierre, we set forth on our new adventure.
After a couple of blocks toting Pierre’s numerous travel bags in the hot, muggy Montreal heat, I jokingly suggested we should have caught a taxi from the detachment to the van. Pierre sarcastically asked if the plan was to walk to Regina, and, if that was the case, a taxi might have been the right call.
Pointing out my van in the distance, I observed Pierre’s eyes widen, a look of awe crossing his face. Upon closer inspection his mouth fell open. In my stammering French and used-car salesmanship, I tried to elaborate that the interior looked much better than the exterior, but this did not seem to sway his hesitation. Definitely the bungee cords securing the rear doors together did not improve his outlook.
Untangling the mass of bungee cords, I opened the rear doors, hoping that once Pierre looked inside his attitude would somewhat improve. Pierre hesitantly peeked in. His body language spoke volumes. He turned to me with a soundless expression, “Are you really expecting me to drive half way across Canada in this?”
In an effort to thwart his hesitancy, I jumped into the dilapidated van and quickly changed. While doing so, I could see Pierre pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette, similar to an expectant father embarking on a journey to who-knows-where.
With exaggerated enthusiasm, I bounced out of the vehicle, having changed into cutoffs, sandals, and an old T-Shirt. Looking somewhat like the odd couple, Pierre reluctantly allowed me to place his valued possessions into the bowels of the van, making sure they were pushed as far forward as possible. With all his gear stowed, I now demonstrated the unique combination of how to close and secure the rear doors using the colourful bungee cords, proudly explaining I had bought these new cords specifically for our trip out west.
Leading the way, I approached the passenger door, hefting it upward in order to open it. While supporting the weight of the door with one hand, I waved Pierre into the vehicle. Cautiously, like a leery individual about to climb onto an old carnival ride, Pierre gingerly sat down. Once I had wiggled the door back into place and secured it with another bungee cord, I suggested that Pierre might wish to lock it for safety reasons. In response, Pierre gave me “la look” which, over the next few years, I became very accustomed to.
As I was about to walk away from the passenger side, Pierre cynically inquired if we would need to obtain assistance from someone walking by to help with my door? Proudly, I exclaimed this would not be necessary as the driver’s side door worked perfectly fine, although I confessed, as it screeched open, it did, on occasion, need a drop or two of WD-40.
Starting the engine, which purred like an old lawnmower, I looked over at Pierre. “Incroyable!” was all he said. In response, we simultaneously cracked up laughing. As such, we were off to Regina.
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DEPOT – WE HAVE ARRIVED!
Much to Pierre’s and my astonishment, the old van survived the journey to Regina. We arrived in the late afternoon, a day earlier than required, and spent an anxious night in a small motel room on the outskirts of the city. The following morning, to my surprise, and for the first time since leaving Montreal, Pierre was first up and eager to get going.
After a quick breakfast we meandered our way through Regina, eventually turning up at the gates to Depot. Driving around the jam-packed parking lot, my search for somewhere to park was rewarded when I observed a very convenient and spacious parking spot, into which I immediately stationed my chariot. Pierre, now well in tune with the operation of the passenger door, cautiously exited the vehicle.
Outside, as we both checked our appearance, we couldn’t help but notice that passing recruits were giving us, but more so the van, the once over. Pierre and I were so excited at having made it to Depot, the home and training center of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, that we became oblivious to the numerous stares.
As directed by the staffing Corporal back in Montreal, we sought and received directions to the Admin building, where we were to immediately report and announce our arrival.
Inside the reception area, as Pierre and I were introducing ourselves to the on-duty Corporal, we heard thunderous boot steps approaching from down the hallway. The Corporal, who was in the midst of giving me directions to our barracks, suddenly paused and stared over my shoulder. I turned and observed a sinewy, impeccably uniformed man, sporting three chevrons on his right arm and a riding crop flicking in his left hand.
“Who’s the funny little man who owns the heap of white shit that is clogging the Commanding Officer’s parking spot?”
Immediately I realized why the stall I parked in had been so readily convenient, and it now dawned on me as to why everyone had been staring at us. Hesitantly I began to raise my hand. Pierre, confused and not understanding my dire situation, asked in French, “What’s happening?”
Turning my back to the red-faced Sergeant, I started to explain the situation to Pierre when all of a sudden I could feel breathing over my right shoulder. I turned about only to find myself in an awkward position, somewhat similar to the beginning of a slow dance with a new sweetheart.
Whispering, the Sergeant elaborated that over the next six months, to my detriment, our paths would definitely be crossing, as he was the man in charge of my training. He then asked me for my full Christian name. A small crowd of uniformed members had begun to assemble in anticipation of the dressing down I was about to receive. In a thundering voice he proclaimed, “Charles Noel Bertrand and the Commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have something in common.”
I straightened; somewhat proud of the fact I was being placed in the same company as that of the big boss. With a slight smirk, the Sergeant announced, “Yes, you both have something in common. You, Charles Noel Bertrand, and the Commissioner have gone as far as you are ever going to get in this outfit.”
With gales of laughter, except from a confused Pierre, who only understood that I was in trouble, the Sergeant ordered in a few choice words that I, Charles Noel Bertrand, get my ass and the poor excuse of a van into gear before it got towed to the firing range for shotgun practice.
This initial introduction was the beginning of the RCMP’s efforts to attempt to mould this round peg into their regimented square hole.
****
MY MUSICAL CAREER IN THE RCMP
One of the training tasks at Depot that recruits were compelled to take part in was the working of evening and midnight shifts. The concept was to teach us to become accustomed to working these various shifts, which most of us would perform once we began policing in the real world. These duties, on a whole, were very monotonous and incredibly boring. Sitting at a desk by the main entrance to barracks, checking individuals in and out of the building, was but one example of these mind-numbing exercises.
In the first week of training I befriended Rob, a fellow troop mate. Over the coming months we would become inseparable. It turned out Rob was a fairly accomplished trumpet player. He soon discovered that by joining the musical marching band you were exempt from working night shifts.
Not being one to shy away from attempting new endeavours, and particularly not interested in working those deplorable hours, I decided, with Rob’s encouragement, that I, too, would undertake to join the band. I was concerned about the audition phase, as I was not very musically inclined. In my youth I had taken a stab at playing, albeit painfully, the guitar, drums, saxophone and flute. However, having no sense of rhythm, beat or ear for music, all these attempts were futile. Furthermore, they were excruciating to anyone who had to listen.
To my surprise, Rob informed me that there were no auditions. You simply showed up with your instrument at the required time and marched with the band onto the parade square. He added that there were plenty of trumpet players and that I might get away fumbling along with them. I decided to give it a shot, and on the following Saturday, Rob and I visited a pawnshop in Regina where I purchased a glistening, second-hand trumpet.
With my new (old) trumpet, Rob and I ventured out into the middle of a secluded wheat field so I could attempt to blow a note or two. It soon became apparent that playing a trumpet was no easy task. Eventually I was able to execute some sort of noise, but achieving distinctive note status was impossible. Keeling over with laughter, we both agreed that it was best I just pretend to play.
The following Monday at 12:50 in the afternoon I showed up with trumpet in hand to join the band. The Band Major, who was a senior recruit, took my name and graciously welcomed me on board. I lined up in the middle of the brass section beside Rob. Within minutes, the Sergeant-Major shouted out, “Get on parade!” Leading all the troops in training, we marched onto the parade square.
It was a beautiful day in July and the square was surrounded by hundreds of tourists from around the world who had come all the way to Regina specifically to visit and observe the training of the RCMP.
On signal from the Band Major, all trumpeters raised their instruments to their mouths. I shadowed their movements. Although definitely not the philharmonic, I soon recognized a tune I was familiar with.
With my mouthpiece but a whisker away from my lips, I tooted noises from my throat and moved my fingers disjointedly. No one around me seemed to care, so I proceeded to pretend to play, synchronizing my movements with the other trumpeters.
At the completion of the parade, the Band Major commented, “We weren’t that bad today,” and thanked all the newcomers for joining up. Whew! I got away with that one, and figured what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
My engagement continued without a hitch until Thursday of the following week when the Band Major and a number of other members, including three trumpeters, announced they would be leaving as they were graduating the following day. Realism quickly set in. Unless there was a major influx of new band members overnight, particularly in the trumpet section, Rob and I would be the only ones playing the brass. No, let me correct that. Rob would be the only one tooting his horn.
At the designated time on Friday, seven of us, along with a new cymbal player – now we had two – formed ranks to prepare for the daily parade. A senior recruit, who definitely had a burr up his ass, anointed himself as the band leader. Summoned by the Sergeant-Major, our pitiful entourage stumbled onto the parade square which was packed with tourists and family members eager to see the graduating Mounties in full regalia.
Leading the troops, with musical airs of disjointed harmony, the band feebly played on. One could see out of the corner of the eye, some spectators stifling their laughter. Abruptly, the Sergeant-Major, the man in charge of the entire parade, bellowed across the parade square, “Halt!”
With the parade and crowd now hushed, the Sergeant-Major, rigidly postured, and the heels of his spit-shined high browns reverberating off the concrete parade grounds, strutted to the front of our meagre and pathetic cluster.
Coming to attention, he painfully eyed each and every one of us. With a lion’s roar, he ordered the band to cease playing forthwith and each of us to report immediately after the parade for an impromptu audition. Spontaneously, the audience erupted into gales of laughter. It was then that I realized my short-lived, non-trumpet playing career in this outfit would soon be terminated.
Needless to say, I totally blew the audition. That evening I strolled back to my quarters somewhat deflated. As a result of my little venture conning my way onto the marching band, I received a stern tongue-lashing from the Sergeant-Major, and was ordered confined to barracks and garbage detail for three weeks. In addition, I spent a futile hour honing my polishing skills with a toothbrush on an already immaculate garbage can. The notion of having to work those dreadful nightshifts was quickly sinking in.
Disheartened, I entered the building that housed the dormitories. As I passed the cluttered message board, my eyes zeroed in a bulletin: “Wanted – Choir Singers”. Hallelujah! My spirits began to lift with the realization that my musical career in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police might not yet be over. I would simply pursue a different genre.
Days later I was bee-bopping along with the choir. The corporal in charge, noting I could not hold a tune, seemed to be more interested in having bodies than singers. He said my saving grace was that I had heart and soul. Since there were no solos (and I did sing so low), and had mastered the art of lip synching, I was able to remain with the choir until the end of training.
The choir was a great gig. We went on all sorts of outings to seniors’ centers and hospitals, and even had occasion to sing O Canada for one of the Saskatchewan Roughrider football games. Since the game was broadcast across Canada, I guess one could say my musical career with the Mounties went national, but more importantly, because of my choir participation, I skirted the tedious night shifts.
****
IT’S ALL RIGHT – WE’RE MOUNTIES!
During the fifth month of recruit training in Regina, each member of our troop was interviewed in regard to our career aspirations and, more specifically, was asked where we would prefer to be transferred to in Canada.
In 1974, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Staffing Branch allocated members to become either federal or contract police officers. Federal policing, which included the enforcement of customs and excise, drug trafficking, organized crime, immigration and national security, to name but a few, encompassed all of Canada, with the majority of officers based out of Ontario and Quebec.
On the other hand, contract policing was a negotiated service. With the exception of Ontario, Quebec, parts of Newfoundland and some major municipalities, the Mounties in contract jurisdictions enforced the Criminal Code, provincial and territorial statutes and municipal bylaws throughout Canada.
Adamant that I did not wish to do any federal enforcement, I emphasized during my personal interview that I would be satisfied to be transferred to any location in Canada except for Ontario, Quebec or the Lower Mainland of British Columbia. I left the interview quite content, knowing I had made my wishes very clear. Two weeks later as I read our troop postings, my optimism turned to dismay as I dejectedly learned that I had been transferred to Embassy Patrol, A Division, Ottawa, Ontario.
I immediately requested and was granted a follow-up interview with Staffing, only to learn, as most members soon come to realize, that this was a futile exercise in frustration. As initially decreed, my transfer stood and I was Ottawa bound.
If there was a positive to the transfer, it was that my best friend Pierre, along with eight other troop mates, had also been bestowed with this lacklustre career opportunity. The dismay over my transfer proceedings was soon overshadowed by preparations for our upcoming graduation ceremony and the goal that we had all been striving for – being presented with an inscribed, personalized badge of the renowned Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
As Pierre and I had both been transferred to Ottawa, our game plan was to make the return trip in the “Columbo Mobile”, as affectionately labelled by my fellow troop mates. A week prior to our graduation, and in preparation for the trip, I brought the old gray van in for a well-deserved tune-up and purchased a cheap set of winter re-tread tires. After consultation with a number of individuals, Pierre and I decided to make the journey east through the United States, thereby avoiding the prairies, but more so, the monotonous drive along Lake Superior.
When I went to pick up the van, the mechanic advised me that he had done the best he could to get the motor purring but, as for the decrepit heating system, it was a lost cause.
Not to be thwarted by traveling through the northern states in the middle of winter with no heating system, I opted to go to Regina’s one and only outfitters shop. There I purchased a novel-looking catalytic heater, along with a few tins of Coleman fuel, hoping this would solve the vehicle’s heating dilemma.
When I returned to barracks, Pierre began to question the feasibility of our making this lengthy road trip in January. His rationale was based on the fact that we had barely made it to Regina in July when road conditions were excellent and the average temperature was 80 degrees Fahrenheit, I assured Pierre that I had the situation covered and that the van was in the best condition it had been in for years. When I guaranteed that he would be warm and toasty all the way to Ottawa, Pierre’s facial expression portrayed a sense of skepticism.
Our illustrious graduation was a day of strutting like peacocks before family and friends. We demonstrated a number of skills that we had honed over the past six months, from the basic art of karate to saving a life in the pool, to leading the noon-time parade in full regalia of spit-shined high browns and, of course, the famous red serge. The eventful day was culminated by the pomp and pageantry of an ornate celebratory dinner, followed by a grand regimental ball.
The following day, on January 7, 1975, the newly appointed constables of Troop 11 began their disbursement to their new postings. In some cases, the goodbyes were teary-eyed, as close friendships that had developed over the past six months would now be separated by the vast expanse of Canada. The reality that our paths may never cross again set in.
Upon departing barracks, Pierre and I stepped into the frigid Regina air. We walked briskly to our vehicle, which for the sake of nostalgia, and unknown to Pierre, I had once again parked in the Commanding Officer’s private stall. In an exasperated tone, Pierre growled, “Mon Dieu, Chuck. We’d better get the hell out of here before we get confined to barracks … again!”
Falling into routine, I opened the limp passenger door for Pierre. Once he was seated, I jimmied the door into place and secured it with the well-used bungee cords I had purchased for our inaugural journey to Regina six months earlier.
Within minutes we were venturing south out of Regina, bound for the State of North Dakota. With the prairie winds howling and snow fanning across the highway, we both acknowledged that, despite wearing our RCMP-issued winter boots, our feet were beginning to freeze. There is no doubt that the puffs of snow and cold air billowing through the van’s rusty floorboards contributed to our discomfort.
Pierre grumbled, “You promised me that I would be warm and toasty.”
With confidence I directed Pierre to our salvation. Unknown to him, hidden under an old jacket and nestled between our two seats, was my pride and joy.
The catalytic heater was very distinctive looking. It had a base reservoir in which the fuel was stored. Uniquely positioned on top of the tank were two identical dome-shaped spheres. This configuration gave the appearance of well-endowed breasts. Uncovering my treasure, Pierre roared with laughter and uttered a few scandalous metaphors.
I proudly explained to Pierre that this was my solution to our heating problem. All he had to do was nudge the heater out of its resting spot and turn it over to allow the fuel to seep into the meshing. Still in awe, Pierre began to do as I had instructed. It was at this time that I observed the lights of an oncoming vehicle approaching from approximately one mile ahead.
With the heater in his hands, I now told Pierre to turn it over in order that the fuel could seep into the meshing. Once this was done Pierre placed the heater back between our seats. Mesmerized, we both observed that two fifty-cent piece size wet spots had formed in the center of the breasts, I mean hooters, no … heaters. The oncoming vehicle was now a couple of hundred yards away.