Constable for Life: Chronicles of a Canadian Mountie

By Chuck Bertrand

This book is a compilation of the unique adventures of Constable Chuck Bertrand's career in and around the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

This collection of short stories presents the reader with a refreshing view of policing. Entwined with the many humorous tales are some that tell of the darker realities of life.

The Constable for Life anecdotes relate how a common sense, well-rounded individual attempts to police in the square mould of the RCMP.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chuck Bertrand
• Release date: Feb 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987680815

Chuck Bertrand

Throughout Chuck's 28-year career with the Mounties, his forte was working with youth. For his work in this field he received many accolades, including the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Commissioner's Award in 2001 and Queen Elizabeth 11 Golden Jubilee Medal in 2002.

Book preview

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