True and Fascinating Canadian History
Mistakes Which I Made
Along Life's Highway
by J. J. Healy
The Commissioner's Office.
A few, only a very few, select, distinguished members of the Force have successfully cantered from cadet to Commissioner. Each of them served during battles of one kind or another. Few sat at ease. Each Commissioner, I believe, did the best he or she could possibly do considering the roars and adversity -- the temperature and turmoils of their times.
I met Commissioner Busson in 1974 as a recruit in my class at 'Depot'. I had the memorable opportunity to serve under one-third of all RCMP Commissioners: McClellan, Lindsay, Higgitt, Nadon, Simmonds, Inkster, Murray and Zaccardelli. All Commissioners have shared one common purpose -- to do the best they could. My respect and congratulations go to all of them.
The Commissioner's chair, I believe, is set in no comfort zone.
It was early summer 1964 in Canada. The Beatles had recently been a hit on America's Ed Sullivan Show. Viet Nam had begun in 1959 and was about to explode in Washington, DC with violent anti-war protests. Canada too was at war -- a war against hair -- male, shaggy hair like Greek boys once wore but now hair gave all parents severe headaches. In 1964, the RCMP was considered a small, youthful, national police force with 6,400 regular members including 180 Officers.
One Officer was the Commissioner -- G. B. McClellan.
Reg.#11757 / O.314, George B. McClellan had been appointed as the thirteenth Commissioner of the Force only one year earlier. He had joined the Force in 1932 and he received his Commission in 1939 or at about seven years service! Unquestionably, he experienced an unparalled career -- receiving promotions faster than Tatum played Flight of the Bumblebee on a reconditioned Steinway off Broadway.
After his appointment to Commissioner, McClellan's strategy was to strengthen ties within the international police community. He was reputed to analyze problems in a thoughtful, effective yet forceful manner. Meanwhile, he might not have realized that he had become an inspiration to young men in high school who had their sight on a successful career in the RCMP much like his.
I was a high school graduate in June, 1964. It was during the McClellan era that I applied to join the Force. After being sworn in at Fredericton, New Brunswick and in spite of only having ridden a horse on one occasion, I was terrifically enthused about the prospect of undergoing training at 'Depot' and serving a 'magic McClellian minded' career in the Force. My parents and teachers hoped so too!
I boarded the train in Fredericton and arrived in Regina, Saskatchewan three or four days later. While undergoing basic training, my Troop and I were told by History of the Force Instructor Sergeant Tom Foster that '...every member of 'G' Troop had the potential to someday become a Commissioner'. This was the pronouncement that I had waited to hear, although I noticed that Sgt. Foster didn't look straight at me when he spoke. 'Perhaps', I thought, 'he'll get around to it later?'
As Sgt. Foster spoke, a light was switched on in my brain. I took a determined stance to work meticulously in the stables and on the Parade Square so that I would emulate Commissoner McClellan's work habits and his rapid rise to the Commissioner's Office. In the first week of training, I had already been unanimously chosen as the Right Marker of 'G' Troop. Was this 'bump' an early prophetic signal of more success waiting in the wings?
Other vets will recall that during training days we all felt that the future of the Force, the security of law and order in Canada and the protection of our country’s citizens rested on our shoulders. What responsibility! But we all felt confident in our ability to rise to expectations and surmount all challenges. One such challenge was the future prospect of promotion or – more hopefully – promotions. I think that we were all told that if we worked hard enough and remained true enough that all of us had the innate capability of becoming Commissioner. How our chests swelled! How our heads were held higher! Yes, indeed….in the midst of every troop was the future Commissioner! Sergeant Foster said so.
I have now been retired a little over 10 years and I have had a chance to look back over my 36 year career. I have such wonderful memories. I chuckle now at some of them and, at the moment, I am thinking of my youthful enthusiasm and abundant optimism about my role in the Force and the career that I imagined.
Well, I am now going to impart to those young enough to have such aspirations some words of caution. I am going to share a few stories about how not to become the Commissioner. I am going to call my series of stories, “Pitfalls of Promotions in Policing”. We are all faced with unpredictable situations and I think about some of the conundrums that I faced.
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CONUNDRUM #1:
The first ridiculous situation that I found myself in happened in the stables at 'Depot' in December 1964. So, even back in training days, I was off to a rough start. On this particular frigidly cold morning, Riding Instructor Sergeant Harry Armstrong yelled at G-Troop ‘64, 'Who can drive that tractor?' Gary Bischoff (off a Saskatchewan farm) responded in the affirmative. Then Sgt. Armstrong eyeballed me and directed me to hop along and join Bischoff. Our task was to dispose of the night’s accumulation of manure. We were instructed to take the fragrant load to the ‘back 40’ and dump it. Easy enough, I thought.
After opening the stable doors in the rear of the building, Bischoff drove the tractor into the early morning darkness. I stood on the trailer holding on. The winter morning was cold and absolutly dark. There was not a light to be seen between Regina and Moose Jaw. Within moments, we could not see a thing ahead of us. You can predict what happened; we lost the track, veered off course and soon became stuck in the snow. The weight of the manure combined with my additional weight in the trailer forced the tractor to halt and sink into the snow. I blamed Bischoff.
The trailer was so heavy with manure that we could not unlatch it, otherwise the two of us could have unhitched the trailer and tried to manoeuvre the tractor. Time was passing and our stomachs were grumbling. We realized that breakfast hour would soon be over and our delay was putting us in danger of missing it. We had not eaten in over 12 hours and we were famished. We did not want to give up our meal in order to save s...
Let me remind you that our problem was compounded by the fact that there were no lights and we could not see; we essentially were working in conditions of blindness…no stars, no moon provided relief. It was so black, Bischoff and I could not see each other, let alone the path we were to follow. So, we made what seemed to be a completely reasonable decision; we shoved the manure off the trailer right there and plopped it down atop the white, white snow. Once the trailer was empty of its nasty load, we were able to dislodge the tractor.
Much to our surprise, we returned to the stables in record time. Our time savings was not so much a result of driving quickly as of not having to cover any distance. On our journey out, we drove very slowly because of the weight and our orientation was impaired because of the darkness, but on the return trip we realized that we had only travelled a few hundred feet.
We drove the tractor back inside the stables and parked it…along with the trailer. We then hustled our bums over to breakfast and dug into the much desired victuals. After breakfast we changed into boots and breeches and made it to the 8:00 a.m. Parade. It was at that particular moment that screeches and yells could be heard coming from a distance…from the direction of the stables.
It was hard to distinguish words amidst all the cussing, but quite clearly ‘Bischoff’ and ‘Healy’ were repeatedly shouted in a very disparaging way. Soon enough, our eyes sighted the source of the frustration and consternation as one very angry Sgt. Armstrong made his way towards us. He nabbed us both by the back of the neck. I cannot mention here the anatomical references used to describe us, but I can say that these words motivated us to run quickly back to the stables.
By now the sun was coming up, but whether it came up from the East, West or South we did not notice as our attention was grabbed by the smelly heap of poo that was only – sadly - a few yards from the stables. We had not travelled as far afield as we had thought…and indeed not to the ‘back 40’ as instructed. Clearly, Sgt. Armstrong was going to hold us accountable and we were not yet free of horse do-do on this given day.
So, Bischoff got back on the tractor and I got back in the trailer and Sgt. Armstrong handed us two sturdy shovels. We had to return to the scene and shovel the mess back into the trailer, transport it further afield and shovel the load off again. By the end of it, we both felt like s...
This task took a good part of the morning and caused us to miss law class. Our instructor, Cpl. White, was highly displeased and, the tale of our misadventures had a rippling effect with all the other Instructors throughout the day. Everyone had a good laugh at our expense and if ever there was a day to have remained in bed with whatever excuse allowed it to happen, this was the day.
Thirty-two members in the Troop. Thirty-two aspiring Commissioners. If there was a race among us, two just fell behind ... way behind.
The next episode was another set - back and it happened shortly afterwards. It involved my encounter with Cpl. John Fream in
Driver Training.
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CONUNDRUM #2:
I was born and brought up in Milltown, a small community in southwestern New Brunswick. Milltown sits on the American border -- a solid five iron over the St. Croix River to Calais, Maine. As a boy and native Milltowner, I thought our town was quite sophisticated, afterall it had its own post office, a malt shop and a drugstore.
Yet, Milltown was so small that it did not require or employ a police officer. If a lawman was required, one of the volunteer firemen slipped a badge on his jacket and stood at the door of our high school on sock hop Friday nights. He was a powerful crime deterrent because he knew all our parents. Beer among the boys at a dance in the late 1950's and early 1960's was not in vogue.
Living in Milltown did have advantages for teenagers. Dads took advantage of the absence of law enforcement to teach their sons how to drive the car at an unusually young age. Milltown was surrounded by hundreds of isolated roads which provided privacy and space for driving lessons.
On Sunday afternoon, after studies were finished, my Dad gladly encouraged me to 'hop in' and to go outside town for 'more studies'. By fourteen years of age I was skilled enough to drive Milltown's main street and to take my parents to church. I was proud to be a Milltowner.
I was also proud to receive my driver's licence on my sixteenth birthday. At test time, there were no glitches as the RCMP constable asked me to drive him around the block and park our Nash in front of the Detachment. As the examining constable handed me the valuable driver's licence, he remarked to my Dad, 'Mr. Healy,...your son shows remarkable and mature driving habits for someone his age'. The two shared a laugh...ya, as if the constable didn't know.
In August 1964 I was off to Regina, SK. At 'Depot', my Troopmates and I underwent Driver Training -- sessions were either blocked for the entire morning or full afternoon. This time period allowed each of the three recruits in the police car to share equal time behind the wheel.
My Driver Training Instructor was Reg.#17863, Corporal John Herbert Fream. Corporal Fream tried to look serious, but his smile easily shone through. He seemed happy in the Force and he was at ease as an Instructor. I had never met Corporal Fream until he introduced himself at 'Depot'. The possibility that he knew me never crossed my mind. He used his secret knowledge of my background to his advantage especially while I was in the driver's seat. Then, he made every attempt to confuse, confound or muddle my concentration.
Recruits at 'Depot' came in two varieties. The first group were a minority; they arrived from large cities; Vancouver, Edmonton and Toronto with lots of experience and no signs of nervousness. The second batch were the majority; from small Canadian towns such as Milltown and Dog River, purely inexperienced. There was no doubt that I fell into the later group -- timid and confused and not to sure about the busy Regina road systems. And so it was that Corporal Fream assessed my poor driving skills quite quickly -- I lacked mileage experience and I had no idea about city driving styles. Sure, as a teenager, I had seen drivers in New York but I had not driven in New York. I was simply not up to scratch, as compared to the skills of the 'city boys'.
Some recruits experienced bad times with their Driving Instructor, but I have to admit that Corporal Fream was patient and fair. In the police car, it was very easy to be embarrased in front of one's peers, yet Cpl. Fream made light of most mistakes and allowed us to retry and retry the driving skill which he had demonstrated earlier in the day. He did his best to make us acceptable drivers.
As the months passed at 'Depot', our Troop had become accustomed to the uniqueness and style of driving an RCMP cruiser. The added responsibility of safeguarding government property (the police car) was also impressed on us. Another responsibility was the care of prisoners who had been taken into custody. At times, it seemed as though there was too much for the average brain to remember.
I was under the impression that Corporal Fream seemed pleased with my progress in driving class. Surely, I thought, he must have noticed some improvement from day one. Afterall, he had not assigned extra penalities to me such as washing police cars and he had not thrown his clipboard in the direction of my head. I was able to escape the kinds of punishments which had been meeted out to many others in the Troop.
But, I should not have felt so smug. One day, I experienced an incident with Corporal Fream which plays out in my mind after all these years. The incident was not only embarassing, but I could have caused a very serious accident. And if I had been the cause of a major accident, perhaps causing death or injuries, surely my hopes to become a Commissioner would have been dashed forever. There is no doubt that an accident with Corporal Fream would have erased my name off the Commissioner's list.
One day, it was my turn to drive. I was in the driver's seat and Corporal Fream was seated next to me and seemingly in a good mood. We were having a polite conversation. As we approached a major intersection, Corporal Fream said 'Healy, turn west at the light!' I was struck with a panic which is indescribable. I am convinced that no one had ever felt panic as I did that afternoon. I had no idea which direction was west or if there was a west. I perspired for the next fifty yards. The seconds ticked. I forgot everything in my total life.
My life was staked on my next decision. I thought Corporal Fream will not notice anything if I make the correct choice. But, I didn't make the right choice. Immediately Corporal Fream hollered at the top of lungs. 'Healy, you will never make it through 'Depot' training!' And, 'Healy, quit now while you are ahead!' And, 'Healy, get back to New Brunswick where you belong!' And 'Healy, you might have killed all of us! I'm too young to die because of you!'
I can well understand the reasons for breaking Corporal Fream's tranquility as I had not only turned in the wrong direction, but I was also driving down Victoria Ave on the wrong side of the boulevard. I was actually saved by an experienced taxi driver who saw the police car heading in his direction! I was lucky on one count, I wasn't driving too fast and I was able to stop the police car before I had gone too far down Victoria Ave. I was the topic of conversation for the next week or so in Driver Training class.
As time passed, the authorities did not ask me to quit. But, I took the driving incident very seriously and probably worried about it more than I should have. I reflected alot on how close I had come to having a serious accident, or at least that was Corporal Fream's opinion. On the one hand, I could have prevented the whole mess if I had given more thought to the importance of geography. On the other hand, I was really surprised by the exaggerated manners and mouthings of Corporal Fream at the time of the incident. He really had stepped outside himself in a way that I had never seen before. Oh, well, I thought, both of us had a bad day. Forget it. Afterwards, Corporal Fream went back to his old charm and the incident whereby I had nearly killed him was not spoken of again.
Well, it was not spoken about for some months. But, surprisingly the topic of my near accident did arise on my Graduation Day. It was customary for the Troop's Instructors to appear at the Graduation Reception of coffee, tea and sandwiches. Sure enough, Corporal Fream arrived and he walked directly towards me. We shook hands as he expressed his congratulations to his three students -- the ones who had been in his police car for the ten month training period of Driver Training.
Looking directly at me, Corporal Fream began. 'Well, Healy,' he said, 'You're still with us, I see.' 'Yes,' I replied. 'Corporal, I had no intentions of quitting.' And he then surprised me by saying, 'Good, when I next see your Dad, I'll be able to give him a good report'. He punctuated his comment with a wink and a wide, his familiar smile. I later learned that Corporal Fream had been the Traffic Supervisor in the Maritimes and had developed a friendship with my father during his days in 'J' Div.
It seems that Corporal Fream and my father had found their friendship this way. Corporal Fream representated the RCMP as the southern New Brunswick Traffic Supervisor. Heavier than normal traffic could be expected by the RCMP on NB highways especially over long weekends. Likely more traffic accidents would occur. Corporal Fream looked for ways to alert drivers that additional RCMP would be on patrol and to call for drivers to drive with care. In those days, my father hosted a morning talk show on WQDY -- the Calais Radio Station which served northern Maine and southern NB. Prior to each long weekend, Corporal Fream drove to St. Stephen, then over to Calais, Maine and appeared as a guest speaker on Dad's show. Corporal Fream was then able to appeal to the radio audience for 'Happy Motoring!'.
My life at 'Depot' and Driver Training classes would have been alot less stressful if I had only known Corporal Fream's little secret about me while I was a recruit in 'Depot'! I cannot forget that Corporal Fream pulled one over on me!
I never saw Corporal Fream again after our farewell at 'Depot' in 1965. But over the years, I have thought back to him and I considered him an 'ole friend. I think he was respectful to all recruits. After his tour at 'Depot as an Instructor, Corporal Fream received his Commission to Inspector. O.838, Inspector John Herbert Fream was transferred as Officer In Charge of the Police Service Dog Section in Innisfail, AB. One of his main jobs would have been to supervise the training of the K-9 Units.
Inspector Fream retired from the Force in 1988. He died on November 13, 1996. He was 63 years of age. I wish I had met him one more time just to share a laugh -- to recall my near accident with him in the car and especially recall his words afterwards which unquestionably made me think my career had come to an end!'
'Good Bye, Inspector John Fream.' You were a memorable Instuctor.
A few short days after graduating from 'Depot' I arrived at Burnaby Det. For certain reasons, which I am about to reveal, my police tour at Burnaby Detachment cannot be forgotten.
