No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP by Ian Parsons Page B
Authors: Ian Parsons
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As I neared my first intersection, I realized it was time to apply the brakes. Sadly, I had not been briefed as to the importance of removing spurs while on motorcycle patrol. Spurs are very useful to guide a horse; however, they tend to get caught on a motorcycle, which is precisely what occurred next. I tried to put my foot out to balance the bike as it came to a halt, but my spur had become entangled and refused to release my balancing foot. Suddenly I was lying on the road under 1,500 pounds of iron that was patiently thumping away at an idle.
I was very disappointed at the lack of assistance from the public. I lay on my side in my scarlet tunic under the ticking Harley, as passing motorists honked. It seemed to take an eternity to work my way loose from this iron beast, though it was probably just seconds. I managed to return the Harley to its upright position and pushed the motorcycle back to the detachment. Meanwhile, several young women drove by, waving and giggling. When I finally got the bike back into the garage, the corporal was there to greet me. Once again I found myself in fatigues, washing police cars and doing general chores around the detachment. It took some time to work myself back into uniform. When I did, the corporal thought it appropriate that I spend much of my shift on foot patrol, meeting the trains and greeting older ladies as they disembarked. A couple of them asked if there were any local RCMP members who were truly mounted. One of them seemed offended by my rather curt response.
----
One sunny summer day as the afternoon waned, the day shift migrated to Corporal Warren’s quarters, situated behind the office. Two members were present along with the corporal, his wife and a local civilian. Corporal Warren was well into his cups and had donned a custom-made, western gun holster containing his .45 calibre revolver adorned with pearl handles. Without notice, Warren drew the revolver, spun the cylinder, snapped it back in place, and aimed the weapon at the civilian, pulling the trigger. One of the more quick-thinking members lunged, seized the gun and disappeared into the kitchen. While there, he checked the revolver, which contained a live round. It was only by sheer luck that a civilian wasn’t murdered that day. The corporal had evidently got it in his mind that the guest had designs on his wife, and the horrifying incident may have been Warren’s drunken way of warning the man off.
As was almost always the case, the incident was buried. Feeling jaded by the questionable manner in which this situation was handled, I returned to my home detachment in Willmore. Soon I learned that matters had gone from bad to worse in Mountain View. Corporal Warren’s behaviour had deteriorated, causing one of the members to register a complaint. It was the beginning of the end for the detachment commander. He was relieved of his command and eventually retired, medals intact but reputation in tatters.
My second temporary posting was during the winter of 1963, when I worked at the Mofort detachment. There, I was saddened to witness the mistreatment of local First Nations people and how it was even sanctioned by statute. On occasion I observed Corporal Brothers, the Mofort detachment commander, travelling to a local Cree reserve and randomly pulling into a residence. He would enter the home, without a warrant and sometimes forcibly. If open liquor was found, it would be seized and the occupants charged and often arrested. The Indian Act, an antiquated federal statute, prohibited liquor in dwelling houses on a reserve.
As shocking as this scenario was, it happened routinely all over Canada on First Nations reserves until the discriminatory sections of the act were repealed in the 1970s. Frequently children witnessed their parents being arrested and taken away. Because the dependants could not be left alone, they too would be taken into custody by social agencies. Entire families were traumatized by
As I neared my first intersection, I realized it was time to apply the brakes. Sadly, I had not been briefed as to the importance of removing spurs while on motorcycle patrol. Spurs are very useful to guide a horse; however, they tend to get caught on a motorcycle, which is precisely what occurred next. I tried to put my foot out to balance the bike as it came to a halt, but my spur had become entangled and refused to release my balancing foot. Suddenly I was lying on the road under 1,500 pounds of iron that was patiently thumping away at an idle.
I was very disappointed at the lack of assistance from the public. I lay on my side in my scarlet tunic under the ticking Harley, as passing motorists honked. It seemed to take an eternity to work my way loose from this iron beast, though it was probably just seconds. I managed to return the Harley to its upright position and pushed the motorcycle back to the detachment. Meanwhile, several young women drove by, waving and giggling. When I finally got the bike back into the garage, the corporal was there to greet me. Once again I found myself in fatigues, washing police cars and doing general chores around the detachment. It took some time to work myself back into uniform. When I did, the corporal thought it appropriate that I spend much of my shift on foot patrol, meeting the trains and greeting older ladies as they disembarked. A couple of them asked if there were any local RCMP members who were truly mounted. One of them seemed offended by my rather curt response.
----
One sunny summer day as the afternoon waned, the day shift migrated to Corporal Warren’s quarters, situated behind the office. Two members were present along with the corporal, his wife and a local civilian. Corporal Warren was well into his cups and had donned a custom-made, western gun holster containing his .45 calibre revolver adorned with pearl handles. Without notice, Warren drew the revolver, spun the cylinder, snapped it back in place, and aimed the weapon at the civilian, pulling the trigger. One of the more quick-thinking members lunged, seized the gun and disappeared into the kitchen. While there, he checked the revolver, which contained a live round. It was only by sheer luck that a civilian wasn’t murdered that day. The corporal had evidently got it in his mind that the guest had designs on his wife, and the horrifying incident may have been Warren’s drunken way of warning the man off.
As was almost always the case, the incident was buried. Feeling jaded by the questionable manner in which this situation was handled, I returned to my home detachment in Willmore. Soon I learned that matters had gone from bad to worse in Mountain View. Corporal Warren’s behaviour had deteriorated, causing one of the members to register a complaint. It was the beginning of the end for the detachment commander. He was relieved of his command and eventually retired, medals intact but reputation in tatters.
My second temporary posting was during the winter of 1963, when I worked at the Mofort detachment. There, I was saddened to witness the mistreatment of local First Nations people and how it was even sanctioned by statute. On occasion I observed Corporal Brothers, the Mofort detachment commander, travelling to a local Cree reserve and randomly pulling into a residence. He would enter the home, without a warrant and sometimes forcibly. If open liquor was found, it would be seized and the occupants charged and often arrested. The Indian Act, an antiquated federal statute, prohibited liquor in dwelling houses on a reserve.
As shocking as this scenario was, it happened routinely all over Canada on First Nations reserves until the discriminatory sections of the act were repealed in the 1970s. Frequently children witnessed their parents being arrested and taken away. Because the dependants could not be left alone, they too would be taken into custody by social agencies. Entire families were traumatized by
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