True and Fascinating Canadian History
Vet of the Month: September 2012
Reg.#15067, Sergeant Major B. M. H. 'Harry' Armstrong
RCMP Vets. Ottawa, ON
A police officer would not rely solely on a birthmark to establish a person's identity. Birthmarks have limitations unlike a fingerprint match. Two or more people, even living in different parts of the world, could have been born with a birthmark that bears some resemblance in shape, size or body space to the birthmark of another.
Nor does a tattoo necessarily distinguish one person from another -- recall that after WWII the tattoo 'I Love Mom' blazed red, white and blue on the forearm of every sailor in the northern hemisphere. And this consideration might also be possible -- both a birthmark and a tattoo could be altered.
But one's memories are personal. Intimate. Engrained. Memories are most sure and certain when these recollectionsare of a special person. Over time, memories of that person remain fresh and clear -- impressions deeply etched in one's mind lasting a lifetime mostly unchanged. Unique memories of someone such as an Instructor in Regina while onewas undergoing Basic Recruit Training at 'Depot'. In my mind, memories of this particular Instructor began on our Grad Day and will only hesitantly fade to black on my Grave Day.
This is a short story of a Sergeant at 'Depot' whom I have not forgotten. I was a member of 'G' Troop and he, Sergeant 'Harry' Armstrong was our Riding (Equitation) Instructor. Down through the past fifty years, I can clearly recall his professional skills with horses. He was an excellent rider. A critical observer, as well as the horse, would take note of his 'soft hands' -- meaning a delicate touch of the reins, bridle and the bit.
He was at ease in the Stables. He was firm with every horse but never cruel. He was demanding of every recruit but never crude. He was an unusual man considering his environment, the Stables; a place where mountain servings of manure were mashed with early morning manners of men; hangovers, vomit and spittle. Here, as well, went high driving energy, shouting, yelling and swearing. Yet, he did not portray all Stables affairs. He remained apart from all these things which men often do. At no time did he exhibit any ill mannered or disgusting traits.
This Sergeant was unusual for better reasons; he was tall and had a slight frame. He wore leather skin and he had legs. Legs more like stilts upon which the Divine had inserted a man's butt which had been designed for riding a horse.
One could not overlook this Riding Instructor. I first met this Memorable Vet in the Stables at 'Depot' inAugust 1964. He had been designated the Riding Instructor for 'G' Troop 1964/65. He made an indelible impression on me. He carried a Riding Crop, it looked more like a whip -- a long, six foot leather snake which his underarm clutched. In the Stables, he was the Senior Anchor aside from the Riding Master.
His demeanour was calm but I recall his alertness. His eyes darted up and down the stalls. A horse might break free and harm itself in runaway mode. 'In the Stables' he shouted, 'it's only the horses we care or worry about'! He continued to howl, 'Recruits are free, the horse comes first'! 'Horses are precious'! 'Recruits are replaceable'! 'The horses will be fed and watered first'!
And I recall his pole-like legs. His legs hadn't listened to the word stop! I recall the ease by which he could mount his saddle. His legs were elastic-like and as long and thin as tension wires which span over Stanley Park's Lion Gate Bridge. I recall how distinguishable he was in the saddle. He rode his horse comfortably as though he was a passenger in an Audi. As I watched, it seemed like his horse had six legs -- four of its own for mobility and two spares. The Sergeant's legs hugged the horse's belly like a cub wraps her arms around its mother's neck.
I noticed he had a big heart for horses. He was legs and heart. The Stables could potentially have been a birthplace for bullies. But not him, or the other Rough Riders either in fact. One day, I watched as he and Corporal Evans nursed (Paula) a horse which had been shot accidently in its shoulder during an exercise. He applied First Aid bandages to Paula's shoulder as carefully and diligently as a child playing nurse with a doll.
On my first visit to the Stables, a huge set of commercial scales had been set in the aisle. It was our Sergeant's duty to weigh each of us. Then he matched each recruit to a suitably sized horse. I knew he would notice that my weight was equivalent (at that time) of a sofa pillow -- 'Honey's your horse Healy'! It turned out that 'Honey' looked like a pony and perhaps just slightly taller than a Greyhound pup. I am sure the Sergeant knew that 'Honey' was also smooth to ride -- meaning easy and well cushioned on the butt. Every horse was as black as Zorro's cape but the Sergeant possessed the amazing ability to identify one horse from every other -- to me, all 112 horses were essentially identical.
Our Riding instructions began almost immediately upon arrival at 'Depot'. Long fall afternoons in 1964 were spent riding endlessly around in circles under the sun. Week after week after week. He watched from his high saddle perch -- assessing who can ride and who likely will fall off. Our Troop was not convinced when he shouted that the bump and grind up and down in the saddle would eventually 'develop our seat'. It was a joke, we thought, parted by him on our collective, painful, red raw seats.
In those days, the Stables consumed every day. Time passed quickly. Fall was followed by a freezing, snowy winter. Eventually, our Sergeant permitted us to use the stirrups. Months later, we were allowed to wear our spurs. 'It was my job', he shouted, 'to instruct you sufficiently well enough to distinguish the front of a horse from the rear'. He was not spiteful towards recruits. On not one single occasion did I hear him use foul language. He didn't play favourites -- nor did he take time to play.
Pass Out Grad arrived in May 1965. Our Troop had worked hard for him. He had been tough but fair. He hadn't shown a mean spirit towards the horses or us. Pass Out was an opportunity to show him all the ridingskills which we had been taught. But looking back, our Graduation Ride turned into a Disaster Ride. Our Troop could have forecast the havoc which took place. Our Troop wanted a precise performance but instead we witnessed a rebellion of high octane rider less horses which flung themselves up into the upper levels of air in the Riding School like huge fire crackers rocketed and well fuelled.
Our Instructor and our Troop were dressed in ceremonial Red Serge. Senior Officers, guests, parents and friends were assembled to watch. At the exact moment that our Instructor shouted 'Mount!' -- disaster in all its forms reigned in the Riding School. It was a moment struck definitively by high kicking hooves, snorts and rider less horses wearing empty stirrups and saddles. The Riding School turned into a horse gone berserk school. Our Instructor was overheard to say, that at that moment, Saskatchewan experienced, once again, yet another Rebellion.
Thirty horses absolutely out of control. I was very fortunate, but many in my Troop wore next to nothing under them. These cold, moody Monday morning horses, I am sure, had been half born, raised, stalled, fed and imported from hell. From my saddle, I looked into Honey's eyes. She held steady. She pushed her chest out but she remained as calm as a statue marking a vet's grave. She winked and returned a partial grin. Honey was a gift and I appreciated that the Sergeant had given me a year's worth of treasure.
All the while, Sergeant Armstrong sat calmly. I recall thinking that behind his dark hair, little, weenie wheels were turning in his mind. 'Perhaps', he thought, 'this Troop was too confident'? Truthfully, maybe our Troop had not adequately considered the morning's chilly effect on these high spirited steeds. Perhaps we had not considered many of the potential risks which arise when one is around steamy horses. Our mess, I think, began in a way which we could have forecasted. Linda (a horse) was known to rebel skyward if her butt was even slightly grazed by the touch of a leg or a spur passing over it. Into the Riding School clouds annexed to heaven went Linda's rump while at the same time inciting the remainder of our horses to riot against recruits.
After a time, calm returned. I remember that our Troop had stalled itself. After all, our performance had not yet got underway. Finally, my Troop successfully mounted their horses. The Ride began. However, another unexpected outburst of fire crackers took wind at my Troop's Ride midway point. Once again, our Sergeant roared his command. 'C a n t e r'!
Why can my Troop and I not erase these inerasable episodes? Canter had not left the Sergeant's jaw when our horses propelled themselves skyward. Again. I guessed it was the horses way of adjusting to their uncertainty. This is what happened. At times, when the Sergeant was not watching, one Troop mate had the habit of leaning against the inside walls of the Riding School as the Troop and horses rode around in circles. Rubbing the walls with his shoulder became a ruse -- can I get away with it again? Will the Sergeant spot me? On horseback, the wall-trick was a dangerous one to play.
On this unforgettable micro moment, my Troop mate leaned into nothing -- he had forgotten about the corner where a horse cannot go. There was no wood! There was no wall! Just air. He came alive and yelped, his horse bucked and a whole new wave of chaos erupted. Our horses were half stride into the canter. All of a sudden, one single Ride consisting of one single file instantly choreographed into many, many unconnected single files and many, many different combinations of numbers.
I imagined our guests trying to count all the horses. An impossible math quest. In contrast to a single trail of 30 riders, little herds of two and three horses formed. It was frightfully embarrassing! Each of us asked ourselves: 'To which Ride do I now belong?' 'And which horse should I follow and follow where?' Alldebatable questions, I thought, but not relevant in the mind of an equestrian facing an emergency in the Riding School on Grad Day. I wondered if my Regina guests who had adopted me months earlier, Dr. and Mrs Clarence Chouinard, MD were actually watching or if they were preoccupied and chatting with other guests?
Eventually all thirty horses were caught. We were fortunate that no horses had escaped into Regina. Our butts were fitted back into the saddles. After an hour, the whole 'thing' was over. Our Sergeant rode 'Wolf' out of the Riding School alone. We had sunk him in his saddle. He was, well...momentarily, I was lost for words. The Sergeant was, perhaps here I can substitute the word, let's say, he was 'upset'. On that day, after our Ride, I can't recall any applause? It was a blunt lesson to learn. One cannot repair a malfunctioned Ride when it's in motion. Musical or otherwise.
After leaving Regina in 1965, my career and the Sergeant's career continued. I was transferred to 'E' Div.(British Columbia). He toured the world with the Musical Ride and in 1989 he was promoted. My former Riding Instructor was Reg.# 15067, Staff Sergeant Major B. M. Harold 'Harry' Armstrong. In my estimation, he was as rare a man as a cavity in a horse's tooth.
Years later, we met again in Ottawa. The first time was an unexpected moment or two at the Airport. We were each glad to see one another. I recalled our Graduation Ride in 1965. He let on he remembered. 'Terrible, the worst', he said and looked straight at me! Sergeant Armstrong loved horses and he loved to talk about them. He remembered Paula, Wasp, Warren, Linda, Honey, Imp, Rogue, Nero and what seemed like a hundred other horses. I listened as he pulled out a peculiar trait of each one of them. He had aged and his knees were very sore. He was in pain. He required a cane. I felt sadness. Years and years had passed by since 1964. I was filled with memories of him.
My friend, Sergeant Armstrong and I met again in Ottawa during the Royal Visit of Prince Edward. By that time, I had been promoted to Inspector. I repeated 'Sir' to him after every sentence because I couldn't call him by his first name. Actually, I could have said 'Harry' but my tongue couldn't. In my heart, there remained too wide a distance of respect for him. We agreed that we had enjoyed long, extraordinary and memorable careers in the Force.
Staff Sergeant Armstrong had met the Royal Family on several occasions. He was reintroduced to The Queen each time she toured Ottawa. He had been on the Musical Ride for several tours and he was among the few members of the Force to attend the Queen's Coronation in 1952/53. He had presented the RCMP horse Centennial to the Queen in 1973. On this evening, he was very proud to be introduced to Prince Edward. One 'Prince' of a man met another.
Since I was young boy, I have been with many people when they passed away. Upon meeting S/S/M Armstrong in 1964, I never dreamt that I would be close by when he too passed away. I knew that he had fallen sick in 2011. Vets had said that he had been hospitalized. I had to see him one more time and I would.
I didn't know his family, but instinct told me that S/S/M Armstrong's daughters loved their Dad and they would not allow him to die in the hospital alone. I was right. I waited until midnight one night then I drove to the hospital. His daughters expressed their generosity. They didn't have to guess the reason for my visit. They read my eyes. I approached his bed. I knew it would be our last time together.
He was awake but very, very sleepy. His daughter had lit a small, soft lamp. I held his hands and paused for two or three minutes. He was very restful. I thought of him, God and horses. I told him about the kindness he extended over the years to me, and the high esteem our Troop held of him. He could hear me. I whispered good-bye. Then I left. I had never listened to such quietness on a hospital floor. I imagined that the Riding School at 'Depot' in Regina was quiet too.
His daughters were with their Dad, S/S/M Armstrong when he passed away soon afterwards.
Times don't fade. Friends do.
Read: The Spirit. An article on Harry Armstrong. Vet Dan Carroll, Historian. p. 10. Fall. 2011. Vol. 169. No. 3.
Reporting from the Fort,
J. J. Healy
September 23, 2012
