During a recent visit to Manitoba, we found ourselves driving down Winnipeg’s Portage Avenue, in the area, of St. James. Adjacent to the avenue, the fuselage of a t-33 jet trainer rests on a concrete pedestal, simulating a plane in flight. As we passed the bird I chuckled away, and   “she who must be obeyed”, said, “what are you chortling about now.”  My answer was rather lengthy but if you bear with me, depending on your sense of humour, it might invoke a chuckle from you, as well.

It was early may of 1958, Dell Hanson, cam Munroe and I, as RCMP constables stationed at diverse detachments throughout Brandon Sub/Division, received transfers notifications. We were to report for duty at Riding Mountain National Park. The park is located about sixty miles north of Brandon and was and still is a beautiful, pleasant, crime free, enclave with a clear lake as its focal point.  This transfer was the equivalent of winning a three-month paid vacation, and particularly puzzling to us. Summer was the period when detachments invariably found themselves short of manpower. Single members were not allowed to take holidays. Experienced police officers, and I guess we fell somewhat into that category were much in demand. 

In late may, we were summoned to the office of the subdivision officer commanding. This too was unusual. In short order he addressed the three of us and began by saying, “I realize that my judgement may have come into question from a number of quarters by sending ‘you’ three to Wasagaming for the summer”. “Don’t prove those quarters correct”.. He went on to say that he wanted us to have an enjoyable summer, and he wanted the visitors and residents of the park to enjoy themselves as well.

You see we had over time, I believe, developed reputations, for doing a relatively decent job, with a flexible approach to police work in general and provincial statutes in particular. Obviously, he wanted us then to continue in that vein..

 Great!

We made no arrests or confiscations, during our memorable summer. No need to. Our time was filled with socializing, and making friends for the Force. Clearly, we were in a public relations mode..

 Did I mention that there were, invariably, and probably continue to be, each summer, a disproportionate number of very interesting  young ladies, either holidaying or residing at the park itself. 

 I‘ve digressed haven’t i? 

Getting back then to the pedestaled T-33. We did have one incident, which caused a bit of concern. It occurred very early on a beautiful, clear, sunny July morning, while the good vacationers and permanent residence of Wasagaming, (the name applying to the park’s town site) rested after a full evening of  libation and, entertaining.. A lone silver T-33 jet tore in across the lake at a very low level then rose over Wasagaming and roaring skyward, scaring the pyjamas off its somnolent citizens.  Now the residents of Wasagaming were not amused. Amongst the residents were numerous very influential people. Shortly thereafter a decree came down and a policy initiated to the effect that should this type of incident be repeated, we were to immediately phone a specific number at Winnipeg’s RCAF Stephenson field, and so advise.  The offending aircraft would then be locked on radar and identified when it landed at Portage La Prairie. 

By way of explanation Portage was and is to-day a training school for Canada’s fighter pilots.  I knew that “snoopy” had committed a serious and dangerous breach of Canada’s Aeronautics Act, but as an old pilot I must confess that my empathy lay with this bandit. 

About three weeks after the incident, again early on another beautiful Sunday morning, would you believe, two T-33s again roared in across the lake and over the town site, shaking and awakening its sleeping residents.

Cam made the perfunctory call and we discussed the probable difficulty, which the bandits might now expect for their flagrant violation of the flight rules. As I said before, my empathy lay with these spirited rogues.

 While we debated the issue the phone rang and Del took the call. After a, “what happened”,   and “you’ve got to be kidding” our little story came to its denouement.

The caller, a farmer whose land lay just to the east of the park, informed us that “a couple of them silver birds cracked up and came down in my fields. The lads, fly ‘em,’ he said, ‘had all bailed out and come down on my farm to, shook up a bit, but o.k.”. 

Shortly thereafter, the folks at Stephenson field called to inform us that the planes were now absent from their radar screens. I believe they were hoping for a less dramatic explanation than the one that followed.  When the reason for their absence was outlined, the hapless airman making the call, who was understandably shaken by this turn of events, then uttered an,  “oh my God”.

And there you have it. The only consequential incident of our long ago summer holiday at Riding Mountain National Park.

 Over the years and over a few pops in various legion halls we have shared this little vignette with our fellow ne’er- do-wells, and with the guests, at numerous dinner parties. Each of us has resurrected this incident and probably embellished it a bit on those occasions, depending on the quality of the wine or quantity of beer consumed.  Invariably it’s earned a chuckle or two.

The greatest part of this story being was that the only bruises sustained by our four intrepid airmen, were to their egos. Thank you lads for providing a spectacular and memorable punctuation point, to a wonderful and most unforgettable summer. 

And that’s the way we were in the long ago

Jack Fera

Man & superman

Subsequent to my retirement from the Force,  I was privileged to serve for a number of years as an investigator with Ombudsman Ontario. The team that I was initially assigned to was Corrections, and in that capacity I traveled to most of the institutions throughout Northern Ontario. I had occasion at one point, to telephone the North Bay Jail and spoke with, then acting deputy superintendent Natalie Bogel. We began our conversation in this manner.

Jack Fera calling, "I’m looking for a phone booth".  Ms. Bogel burst in laughter.  "Will I never live that one down "?, she said.  

Let me shed some light on this unusual opening. Perhaps a year or so before making that call, I had been visiting a number of institutions in  northern Ontario and when driving from one community to the next, I would be comfortably attired, wearing a sweater over my shirt.. When I arrived in the vicinity of a given facility I would remove my sweater, and then put on my tie and jacket before presenting myself. 

While going through this sartorial metamorphosis in North Bay, I noticed a young woman approaching me. With a delightful laugh she said, "hey fella, what you need is a telephone booth."  

Nice shot!

Having completed my quick change act I entered the administration office of the North Bay Jail, which is, a house adjacent to the facility itself. I met with superintendent Angus Bentley and we discussed the issue at hand, relating to classification. The superintendent suggested that he call in his classification officer so that she might expand on this particular topic.  He phoned the officer, who was located in the main facility, indicating that a representative of the Ombudsman's office from Toronto was visiting and requested she join us.

When the classification officer came through the door her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. On how few occasions in our lives do we experience those moments when our comments or our actions mesh to strike the perfect cord. This then was one of those. 

I stood, extended my hand to a speechless Natalie Bogel, the young woman whom i had encountered on the street, and said, "hello there, nice to meet you, Clark Kent here.

And that's the way we were:.    

        Jack Fera

Frank "Lefty" Rosenthal
Lived to be 79 despite mob ties 



Frank "Lefty" Rosenthal's 1981 Cadillac is shown after it exploded Oct. 4, 1982, in a parking lot on East Sahara Avenue. 
Review-Journal file photo 

The Vignette begins,

The passing of Frank Rosenthal probably evoked little concern or recognition from the majority of our vets.   In fact unless one was immersed in the nuances of organized crime the name would probably mean zip.  But please, let me explain.  
 
Rosenthal during the fifties, sixties and into the seventies is alleged to have been the “man” in terms of the operation of some of the more infamous gambling casinos in Las Vegas. Those casinos were ostensibly controlled by la Cosa Nostra. In the movie, Casino, the character that Robert De Niro portrays is allegedly based on Rosenthal’s life and times in Vegas.  In one of the scenes de Niro is depicted entering his Cadillac, which is then blown up. This incident was taken directly from an actual event in Rosenthal’s life.
 

Interesting you say, but what’s this got to do with us, living as we do a couple of thousand kms and light years away from the Vegas strip. Well, in fact, there is a connection between Rosenthal, Toronto, Las Vegas, and la Cosa  Nostra. But let me digress for a moment.
 
I would like to take some of our readers back to another time and place. It was not uncommon, years ago, of a Friday afternoon, to see any number of you rogues lunching with a “pop” in one hand, and a hot steak sandwich in the other, at the Monarch Tavern, on Clinton Street.
 
Who amongst us doesn’t recall Peter Pesche the inimitable, bartender, comedian, and impresario with his array of props, entertaining the Friday afternoon crowd. Many of you watched the 1972 hockey series from reserved seats in the Monarch, subsequent to the place having been bombed.
 
But, getting back to Rosenthal - again in the movie casino you may recall that the story on which the picture hung was related to Rosenthal skimming millions of dollars from the gambling operations. Most of this money was then delivered, time and again, by “one “very trusted mafia courier to the dons of the various organized crime families throughout America.
 
 The details of those cash distributions were documented through FBI wiretaps but unfortunately a two-year investigation went for naught when the wiretap evidence was thrown out on a technicality. In an incredible coincidence, I enjoyed a fascinating conversation relative to "Joe" and the investigation herein, with an assistant director of the FBI, who as a much younger special agent, served in Vegas and worked the case. Would you believe this, that conversation took place over a beer at the monarch house. This is a story in itself.    
 
O.k. you say, interesting but what’s it got to do with Clinton street, San Francesco’s hot steak sandwiches. You see there was an office directly across from the monarch, in the building, which now houses Bittondo’s Pizzeria. The Italian labour movement out of Rome ran this office, to assist Italian workers in Canada.
 
 The courier, that very highly trusted Sicilian, whom I’ll call “Joe’, and whose job it was to move the cash from Vegas and deliver it to the family heads throughout the U.S., worked out of that office for a period of time. Joe, like you, periodically ate his sandwich in the monarch, washed down with a beer or a brio, and if memory serves me right his preference was hot veal. Whatever happened to Joe, how he got to Toronto in the first place, and why he functioned out of the Instituto Nationalle Confederazione Di Assistance across from the monarch we’ll keep for another day.
 
 Cheers, and as Pete Spencer would say have a happy day.!

Jack Fera

-30- 
 

Subject: Philip AGEE

Webmaster's note from the New York Times of January 10, 2008

Philip Agee, the former Central Intelligence Agency officer who turned against the agency and spent years exposing undercover American spies overseas, died Monday in Havana. He was 72.

Fred Watkins/”Good Morning America”

Philip Agee on ABC in 1987.

The cause was peritonitis, said Louis Wolf, a friend.

Mr. Agee, whose disillusionment with his work at the agency led him to embrace leftist views, had spent nearly four decades as an avowed enemy of American foreign policy and particularly of the covert intelligence work that supported it. Deprived of his American passport and expelled from several countries at the request of the United States, he had lived for the most part in Germany and Cuba, where he operated a travel Web site, cubalinda.com.

-------------------------------------------------------

Philip AGEE's passing as reported in Pillar Talk Spring 08 edition   brought back a flood of memories. 1975 found myself and my two   cohorts holding down the S. & I. post in that far off enclave of   Windsor Ontario, and the Philip AGEES  of the world were of little   consequence to us or so we thought.  In early spring of ‘75 I was   summoned to Emerald City on the Rideau by one of the senior Wizards   for a conference of sorts.  I was to learn all about Mr. AGEE and his CIA Diary. 
 Our American Cousins had obtained a galley of the book before its   publication and they had ostensibly approached AGEE, in England, with   a request that he delete certain passages or references, which could   ostensibly identify a number of, their assets. Apparently AGEE had   refused and as a result the Agency was scrambling to ameliorate or   save before exposure, as many of the people involved as possible. So   it was that our merry little band in the far off reaches became   involved in the care and feeding of one of those assets. 
 Immediately subsequent to publication of  " Inside the Company" we   obtained a copy.  You will appreciate that it was not sold in Canada   or the USA. Needless to say we read and re-read the book line by   line.  It's alleged in the Pillar Talk article that some 250 Agency   Officers and assets were outed by Agee in his epistle.  Interesting figure. 
 In examining the Diary particularly in terms of assets, which Agee is   alleged, to have identified, coupled with our later observation of   the man, we were left wondering. 
 Let me explain.
 To begin with many of the names which were surfaced in the Diary as   CIA officers had long been identified previously by, the East German   STASI, and outlined in the (Red Book). Some of you old European hands   might recall this work. I first heard of this publication while   working in Berlin (1968) and had a diplomatic friend obtain a copy   for me in East Germany.  The book documented in minute detail the   backgrounds of numerous CIA officers working under either military or diplomatic cover.
 My point being that any number of the people identified in the Diary   had long before been identified by STASI.
 
 Ironically, as time rolled on, AGEE periodically visited our little   enclave on the Detroit River and we were given an opportunity to   observe him in action. Interestingly enough, notwithstanding his   accolade as the CIA's primary defector, at that point in time, no   coverage of the subject was requested. Not stated, but in fact, it   appeared as though coverage of Agee was discouraged. Of course that   only piqued the curiosity of our merry little band. Coverage ensued.
 AGEE was very circumspect and followed Standard Operational Procedure.
 Booking his room, waiting until the Hotel clerks changed, returned to   the booking desk and obtained the key to another room on another   floor, always facing the river. He drank very little and resorted to   pay phones when making telephone calls. Interestingly enough, we had   our contacts both in Detroit FBI and USINS check their computers.   AGEES' name was absent from both of those databases. 
 Going back to the AGEE outline in "Pillar Talk" Oleg KALUGIN former   head of the KGB's Operational Directorate  reported that our subject   had approached and been rejected by the KGB station Mexico City. The   Station Chief had concluded that Agee was a CIA disinformation plant   and rejected him as an asset.  Is it conceivable that Mexico Station   Chief was correct in his initial assessment?  Of course this is all   academic, now that Agee is dead, and the KGB has morphed into a   somewhat benign Russian security organization, but it gives "us" old   and somewhat   demented former intelligence types something to chew on over a cold   pop or two at the Legion.
 Is it conceivable that Agee, rather than being a traitor, may have   been the consummate sleeper? No doubt some of our readers will   suggest that the writer has obviously lost it. Ha! As I said this is   merely an interesting academic discussion and a review of what we now   know about the individual. On the negative side of the position, was   the Diary merely a desultory diatribe that brought the Agency into   disrepute, and if so, would placing an agent permanently into the   eastern camp be worth the negative publicity?
 One has to take into consideration the temper of the time. Look at the book in light of the major protagonists. Were any real secrets  given away, I don't think so, but it made for an interesting read.  Let’s face it the Secret World was/is a fairly complex environment.   Eric AMBLER in his definitive analysis of U.S. Intelligence ‘The light of Day" coined a provocative phrase. He said, "I think that if I were asked to single out one specific group of men, one category as being the most suspicious, unbelieving, unreasonable, petty, inhuman, sadistic, double crossing set of bastards in any language, I would say without any hesitation, ‘the people who run counterespionage departments.' Agreed!
 Was it conceivable that a low level operative like Agee would have access to the identities of hundreds of assets and operational activities, as suggested?  Would any intelligence service worth its  salt be that unprofessional?  Finally it is suggested that two assets  in Poland were executed because of information supplied by Agee.  This may be true but I have a problem with it. In 1987 I worked in Cologne  Germany with the Polish Desk of the  Bundesamt fur Verfassungsschutz.  We engaged in many long discussions relative to defectors, (read Gunter GUILLAUME as well as the former head of the BfV itself). Agee  was touched on but as I recall, nothing was surfaced regarding the  execution of western assets in Poland. Strange in light of the MI6 and CIA allegation.
 Enough yet, as I said it's academic at this stage of the game but it  makes for an interesting discussion.

Jack Fera

A DEFINING MOMENT:
 
On learning of the untimely passing in Ottawa of S/Sgt. Jack SCHRAM, an outstanding individual and an exceptional Peace Officer, I was moved to write this short piece as a belated eulogy. Jack and I landed in Brandon detachment about the same time, some 50 odd years ago, where we became working partners and close friends.  He was subsequently transferred to Ottawa in 1957and our paths didn't cross again until some years later. On that occasion we carried on into the early hours of the morning, reliving those exuberant days when we were young Turks, totally confident, and quite naive. For the first time we discussed our mutual involvement in an incident which had affected each of us, to an extent, greater then we had ever cared to admit. In the scheme of things the incident itself was merely a minor blip on the policing scene. We knew however, that it had taken on a much larger dimension for us as individuals. It was in fact a Defining Moment", not only in our careers as Peace Officers, but in the way we subsequently viewed life in general. In terms of Police work this incident crystallized the fragility of life itself and the magnitude of the responsibility we had taken on. 
 
By way of explanation let me quickly describe the incident of which I speak. An unknown male subject had robbed a business establishment in Portage la Prairie Manitoba,  He then drove west on the Trans Canada Highway towards Brandon. Csts. Bob ALLEN and Ron DOW had set up a roadblock just east of Brandon. The suspect vehicle arrived at the road block. When ALLEN approached the driver he was met with a fusillade of gunfire from within the car. Bob's PEA Jacket was shredded and a bullet struck his right hand. Both members returned fire.
 
Jack SCHRAM and I arrived along with S/Sgt. Bill Frazer and a City Police Officer on the scene at this point. ALLEN was sent off to the hospital while Jack and I made our way to the rear of the suspect's vehicle where we were met by Ron DOW. Ron an unflappable, low-keyed individual, who, in a relatively short career, had earned two commendations for bravery, recommended the following approach. He would hit the door handle on the passenger’s side of the vehicle in an attempt to open it, and then roll away towards the front of the car. If the door opened, Jack and I would immediately attempt to subdue the suspect or if fired upon, reciprocate.
 
Ron followed through with the approach outlined, the door opened, and the roof light of the vehicle came on. Before us, lying on his back, with a weapon resting on his chest was a young man no older then ourselves. His eyes were open and he appeared to be staring at us. In retrospect, I believe that he had already passed. This then was the "Defining Moment" to which I alluded. A subsequent autopsy confirmed that the individual had shot himself. His weapon, Bob Allen's Pea Jacket, and the bullet removed during the autopsy eventually became an exhibit in Regina’s Depot Museum. 
 
Referring specifically to the Police Universe, there comes a time in each Officer's service when the "Defining Moment" surfaces. It may be the death of a child, the loss of a comrade, perhaps a horrific traffic accident, or the futile effort to save a life. Suffice to say, it comes or came to all of us, at some point in our careers, often sooner than later. The upshot of it being that we can never look at ourselves and the world around us in quite the same way.
 
Many years after this incident I was struggling towards a degree, when our psychology professor left us with an unusual assignment.. The assignment was to draft a short paragraph or poem, specifically relating to some event in our lives which became then a demarcation line from which we would have looked forward and backwards.  The event had long since been decided for me, drafting the poem was somewhat more difficult, particularly when recalling the people involved.
 
In sum I would like to dedicate that poem to three outstanding members of the Force, who, for a lifetime, served without fear or favour, Jack SCHRAM, Bob ALLEN and Ron DOW. They have all left us now. 
 
It was an honour to have been in their company. 
 
Reflections
 
He was a kid of twenty odd,
Thin brown hair, piercing brown eyes,
Never accused of being handsome,
Robbed a bar,
Scared, desperate,
Haunted by memories of the "Pen,"
Those grey stone walls were so familiar to him.
Shot a cop!
 
Cold, so cold you can hear the fence posts crack,
Breath hanging on the still night air,
The pistol's steel burning one's bare hand.
Cold, so damn cold,
Shaking from frost, or fear,
The acrid smell of cordite biting the nostrils,
Orange red glows lighting up the night,
Like Roman candles on the First,
Spitting death instead of rainbows.
 
Young men playing at a game,
Like some excerpt from a half-forgotten matinee,
Only then there was no clotting blood,
No voiding of the body,
No eyes framing a question
As they peered into eternity,
No sweet poignant odour of death
No white breath,
Forming a shroud in the cold night air. 
 

Jack Fera

-30-

 How many time have we congregated over a coffee or a few pops at the Legion and told and retold those funny, sometimes poignant little stories which become then the unwritten history of the RCMP Security Service or the CSIS. Enough Yet! Let me begin this exercise by sharing with you a rather simple little tale from my Knapsack, that you may find interesting.

This concept was embodied in a paper drafted by Professor Stanley MILGAM while at Harvard University back in 1967. In short the concept outlined by MILGRAM being,  everyone is linked by just six social contacts. Over time this theory has been given much play in movies, in T.V. productions, and in various publications. What follows is an interesting example, in a small way, of that premise.

In June of 1967 the RCMP, in its wisdom, transferred me to Cologne Germany on

Visa Control duties. You may recall that BONN was the capital of the West German Republic at that time. Canada Day celebrations were held, fittingly enough, at the beautiful American Club, situated on the banks of the Rhine in Bad Godesburg a suburb of Bonn. Being low man on the totem pole I was drafted into attending this function and did so reluctantly. As it turned out, few members of the various Consular/Embassy establishments in BONN had chosen to make an appearance, so my duties were not arduous.

As I sipped Champagne and checked my watch contemplating an early escape, a group of three well-dressed individuals arrived on the scene. The middle personage of this triumvirate a heavy-set pleasant looking gentleman was obviously the principal character in the group. I realized that I had seen him in a previous life but the name or place didn’t register. As they approached the bar, which I was holding up, I used my full command of the German language, which consisted of “Entschuldigen sie bitte, Ich kann nicht sprechen Deutsch.”  Forgive me but I don’t speak German.  Number one said “ no problem in that both he and his associates speak passable English.” The big guy had obviously been briefed before his arrival in that he was aware of the fact that the Toronto Maple Leafs had won the Stanley Cup. I was impressed.

As we chatted away I tried to remember who the man was, and then it dawned on me. In my mind’s eye I recalled seeing him, standing next to John KENNEDY on a balcony in Berlin, when the President made his famous/infamous speech in German, “Heute Ich bein ein Berliner. (To-day I am a Berliner). At that point I blurted out you’re the mayor of Berlin. The Foreign Minister and future Chancellor of West Germany, Herr Willy BRANDT, laughed, and said, “that was my last job but now they have given me a new one.” I apologized for my obvious shortcoming but he took it in stride. In retrospect I believe he found the momentary anonymity somewhat refreshing. In due course one of his minions took down my name and my role at the Consulate. We shook hands all around. The Party left. Life’s embarrassing moments. Even now I cringe a little when I think about it.

 About nine months later Alex MORRISON, the Canadian Immigration Attaché, an exceptional individual and a real Gentleman, called me to his office. We discussed a case relating to a young naval officer serving under a Military dictatorship, who had defected and was seeking asylum in Canada. Alex went on to say that the German Foreign Minister Willy BRANDT had become involved in the issue and during their Morrison/Brandt discussion BRANDT had surfaced my name. I outlined the circumstances of my having met Herr BRANDT and the extent of my BOO BOO. We both had a laugh and it was agreed that I would shortly conduct the Security Interview of the individual. On the day in question Herr Brandt’s executive assistant accompanied the young man to our Consulate. Introductions all around, polite conversations, no problems, end of story. WELL NOT QUITE.   

The recent passing of Marcus WOLF, (November 07) for a number of our readers, might evoke the comment “who the hell was he”. WOLF was for three decades head of the German Foreign Intelligence apparatus within STASI, the East German Ministry of State Security. The Cold War novelist John le Carre undoubtedly modeled his Soviet Spy Master KARLA after WOLF, although he has repeatedly denied this. (Ironically enough John le Carre nee; CORNWALL, worked for a spell in BONN and some of the old guard remembered his short and unspectacular career at that location.). Read a Small Town in Germany.  WOLF was successful in placing a number of sleeper agents at the very highest level within West Germany’s Government, Industry, and the Security Services.

One of those agents Gunter GUILLAUME became the senior executive assistant to Willy BRANDT. It was the unmasking of GUILLAUME, which led to the resignation of BRANDT as the Chancellor of Germany, and the eventual loss of support for the German Social Democratic Party.

Interesting you say but how does this relate to Six Degrees of Separation? Who do you think accompanied the Young Naval Officer to our Consulate for his interview?

WE LIVED IN INTERESTING TIMES 

Jack Fera 

-30-

“LEGGE’nds” of the Force

In tribute to Wally Legge Toronto Life Member who believes humour in our life experiences makes our meetings!

A friend of mine, Reg. #21346, retired S/Sgt. Larry Boan, retired in Osoyoos, BC was originally from Rouleau, Saskatchewan.  His family included several brothers and sisters lived on their farm some 30 km south of Regina.

Larry joined the Force in the late ‘50’s and during his Equitation training at Depot, one day he was given a very different kind of order. The Riding Master told him to ‘break’ a Re-Mount, which had been giving some trouble to the cadets. 

For those of you who never were required to do ‘pitch-fork’ duty – a re-mount meant an unbroken and some-times a difficult-to-control mount.

As Larry was a farm lad he was very comfortable with horses and the order: “Boan, take that @#&!! animal’ and ride him until he was broken and only then return to stables!” – was not a major hardship!

Larry mounted up and took off from Depot and just road south.  Right across #1 Trans Canada Highway, down the concession roads and into the farmyard of the Boan Family homestead in Rouleau! About 30 km!

Mrs. Boan, peering out her kitchen window saw her son approaching and immediately presumed he’d gone AWOL. Larry dismounted and assured her he was just up for some home cookin’!

He returned later that afternoon with a somewhat humbled (and mightily tired) horse.

For those of you who have never been to Rouleau, Saskatchewan, tune in comedy channel and look for re-runs of ‘Corner Gas’ filmed in ‘Dog River’ –aka Larry’s old home town.  This was the most-successful Canadian comedy show ever!

Phil Grossmith was a regular visitor to the Boan homestead and Mrs. Boan’s fine cooking.

Phil Grossmith

-30-

The way we were

One of the unheralded benefits which we, as members of The Force received, but rarely acknowledged, was the unique opportunity presented us, to meet and interact with such a diverse cross section of humanity.  Pundits and paupers, priests and parishioners, knights of the road and ladies of the night, royalty and rogues; in sum, a broad expanse of the human condition. Each of us has, I know, a hundred stories from those encounters. Here is one that you might find interesting.

Europe in the early spring of 1970 was pleasantly warm and relatively dry. People were still talking about Neil Armstrong’s, walk on the moon the previous July. Ron Spearns and I were holding down the visa control office at the Canadian consulate in Stuttgart and enjoying ourselves immensely. We were fortunate in having to assist us, from time to time, a German/American woman who spoke fluently four languages, and had a unique grasp of eastern European culture.  It was our habit, to take coffee with this accomplished lady on those occasions when she graced our little bureau.

 I would like to share with you a serendipitous conversation, which I had with her, on one of those visits.

 Let me begin by describing an incident involving “Bridgette” which tends to explain the forceful nature of this woman. 

Bridgette and a close friend, each married American soldiers who were serving in the European contingent of NATO. In due course both couples moved to the U.S.,  Bridgette to Oklahoma, and her friend to Massachusetts. Eventually Bridgette’s husband, who remained in the military was transferred to south east Asia. She remained in their home adjacent to his primary army post.

Of a Friday evening, Bridgette having spent the day working in her garden took a late supper, then decided to enjoy a warm bath before retiring. In the midst of her ablutions she heard glass breaking in the kitchen area. She quickly arose from her bath, ran through the bedroom and found an intruder, his face covered with a stocking mask, attempting to enter through the fractured patio door.

 I neglected to say that ms “b”, when racing through the bedroom grabbed her revolver from the bureau (an integral part of any American woman’s wardrobe, no doubt).

She ordered the perp out, emphasizing that call with the barrel of her pistol. The culprit seeing this attractive woman, still dripping, from her bath, assumed that she could not, or would not, use the weapon.

Wrong assumption! She shot him once, driving him back against the broken patio door, then fired again for insurance. He stumbled out into the night while she attempted to call the police. Her phone was dead. He had severed the telephone line. Not to be left wanting Bridgette threw on a robe, popped into her loafers, grabbed a flashlight, and went after the intruder. She located him staggering down the street. While following, at a discrete distance, Bridgette, came upon a parked car occupied by two males. Approaching, she quickly outlined the details of this intrusion. The occupants, FBI agents, immediately called in other agents who were conducting surveillance in the surrounding area and arrested the perpetrator.  

The intruder was a civilian clerk working on the adjacent military reservation. He had access to the posts personnel files and used the information therein to identify women living off base whose husbands were serving abroad. He had initiated a number of attacks in the area utilizing the information so gleaned. This then was the reason for the FBI’s presence. I should mention that Bridgette a very modest woman, didn’t provide me with the details of this incident, her husband did.

 I utilize this little story, in a rather convoluted fashion to emphasize Bridgette’s strength. As well, there is an irony to this tale, which will emerge shortly. Bear with me.

I had gone to a movie on an American military base near our home the evening before Bridgette and I had coffee together. The movie was entitled “ The Boston Strangler”. Featuring Toni Curtis portraying the American serial killer Albert De Silvo. Some of you who have reached the biblical three score & ten may recall that de Silvo had raped and murdered 13 women in the Boston area in the early 1960’s.

 As I went through a litany of those murders with Bridgette she wore a rather bemused smile. I must confess that I was somewhat taken back by her demeanor. We were not talking snow white and the seven dwarfs here.

By the time I had finished my movie monologue, Bridgette broke into a broad grin. At this point, I must confess, I was totally gob smacked.

After a pregnant pause, she said; “would you like to meet the wife,” and in my confused state, I said “whose wife.” Her reply, “Albert’s wife, you see we take coffee together generally twice a month in this same coffee shop. We have been close friend since childhood.”

 “ I was the maid of honour at Albert di Silvo’s wedding.” 

 -30-

Fifty years have now passed since I arrived in the small prairie community of Russell Manitoba. Life was wonderfully simple. At the time, television was non existent, roads were unpaved and the winter weather conditions tended to create a feeling of isolation, of oneness, if you will, in the community. This isolation, which in retrospect was more of the mind then reality, created a social environment conducive to the organization of fowl suppers, Saturday night dances, and invariably the game of  CURLING. 

My tenure in Russell was prompted by my employment. I was a rookie RCMP constable. In those days our clothing issue as it was referred to, contained, or included numerous suits of exceptionally good quality long woolen underwear. Since I did not normally wear this type of apparel the stuff piled up and crowded out the limited bureau space available in our barracks. 

One evening while Cam Munroe my co-worker, and I, were having supper at the home of friends, this surplus underwear issue  became part of the dinner conversation. The lady of the house, an avid curler immediately provided a solution to our dilemma. She and her team mates, who were invariably chilled during their games, would in future, keep warm by donning my surplus "Longjohns" .  Shortly thereafter our hostess and her curling partners were each provided with a pair of the "Unmentionables" . All that is, except one.

For some reason, now obscured by time, Olga Des Champs the final member of the curling quorum, and the wife of my close friend Darcy, had not received her 100%, regulation issue pure woolen, RCMP Unmentionables. As time went on, Olga,  would hurl pointed barbs at me for my neglect. Finally on a given afternoon I decided that if I were to ever grace the Des CHAMPS household again, the apparel in question had to be delivered.

I arrived on Olga's doorstep just as the pastor was about to make his annual visit. We exchanged greeting before he wrapped gently on the door. The good man, with myself in tow, entered the house in response to, "it's open". Poor Olga stared at us in wide eyed shock, contemplated I'm sure, a family tragedy or crisis.She obviously had not been apprised of the Minister's intention to call upon her. 

 The moment and the circumstances were too opportunistic to let slip away. I tossed the underwear, which had been folded unobtrusively in my hand at the poor woman. It settled across her shoulders unmistakably revealing the nature of the garment. "Olga", I said, "you left these in the barracks". 

Beating a hasty retreat, I reached my car door  before doubling over in convulsions of laughter. The Minister, I learned much later,  delicately, but firmly, outlined, the weaknesses of the flesh and the rewards of virtue. Needless to say, it was some time before I would again, with any assuring of safety, visit the Des Champs home.

Jack Fera

For a number of years, subsequent to retiring from the Force, I was privileged to work for the Ombudsman Ontario as an investigator. By way of explanation the Office of the  Ombudsman reports to the Ontario legislature and as such is charged  with investigating complaints emanating from the citizenry of the province concerning the administration of Ministries, Crown Corporation, Boards and Agencies. One of the Ministries assigned to our team was that of the Solicitor General and Correctional Services. Any inmate of a Provincial Correctional facility who felt that he/she had been treated unfairly by the staff of the facility or, feared for their safety had the right to contact the Ombudsman's office. If the complaint was not frivolous in nature it would be examined and that examination would generally begin with a private interview with the inmate and a discussion of the issue.

During one such interview at Toronto's infamous Don Jail, a rather notorious client taking umbrage with the tone of our discussion decided to express his displeasure with a left hook to the jaw (my jaw unfortunately). I don't remember hitting the floor but the inmate taking advantage of my somewhat somnolent state apparently reinforced his displeasure with a couple of shots to the head (my head). A rather large Correctional Officer was able to dissuade my client from continuing on this unproductive course. A house physician was on the scene in minutes, an ambulance summonsed, and before someone could say, "how many fingers do you see? I was off to the emergency centre of  Saint Michaels hospital. 

In the ambulance a young concerned paramedic took the patients' blood pressure, pulse, and a short history of the events surrounding his injuries. The medic dutifully logged the information and continued to observe the patient for further signs of deterioration. As the ambulance bounced along the patient broke into a fit of laughter. The young man took up his clipboard and began to write furiously. No doubt the entry reflected his observations (e.g.),  time 11:21 hrs., patient suffering from severe trauma to the head exhibited unexplained euphoria. 

What the paramedic couldn't envision, but what the patient saw in his minds' eye, was the figure of a delightful, white-bearded, gnome-like, little Scotsman. The old gent with a mischievous twinkle in his eye was saying: " Just a reminder lad, just a wee bit of a reminder" .

May I take the reader back some fifty odd years to a simpler, gentler, more understanding period. The place, Russell Manitoba, a charming prairie community, situated near the Saskatchewan border some sixty off miles north the the Trans-Canada  highway. A legion of young RCMP Constables, had/have, over time, been accepted into the bosom of this community, to be molded by its' ambiance, its' magic, and most importantly by its'  people, into the unique body which we affectionately referred to as the Force. It is a minor incident in this molding process that I would like to share with you. 

One of Russell's citizenry in the context of that time was a little Scotsman, a delightful character who had served in the British Army during the FIRST world was. Scotty, as he was affectionately called, had not only fought as a soldier, but in the squared ring, as a lightweight. It was alleged that he had continued fighting as a "ham & egger" subsequent to the war in an effort to support his family. As he aged, the blows absorbed in his earlier life took their toll, and so it was that greeting Scotty might evoke a,  "Hew aar yea lad", or conversely, a Go t'ell, or worse, depending on the old gentleman's mood. Scotty and the young Mounty played a continuing game when they encountered each other. Both would drop into the fighter's stance and Scotty would fire off a salvo of left jabs, usually ending with a right cross. The blows would be fended off by the member who was decidedly confident in his power to do so. Scotty would shake his head in disgust at his inability to breach the young man's defense, break into a grin, and the contest would be over for the day.

In that era, on a Saturday night, particularly if one were walking the town beat, uniform dress invariable consisted of breaches, boots and spurs. I mention this only because it is peripheral to the story. On such a Saturday night it was that our little vignette unfolds. The Constable in completing his rounds stepped into the Central Hotel near the 11:00 o'clock closing hour. He then passed into the lobby of this venerable old establishbment and there, on a bench whose height precluded the little man's feet from touching the floor, wearing his favorite salt and pepper hat., sat Scotty.On spotting his nemesis the old man hopped  from his perch and fell into the fighter's crouch. The young Mountie immediately assumed a defensive stance. 

The old pugilist fired off two left jabs, then dropped his arms and broke into a grin. The Constable assuming the encounter was over, abandoned his defense. Scotty's arms dropped almost to the floor, his knees bent, his jaw tightened, and too late I saw the right fist rocketing up at me. In fact that was the last thing I saw for some time. Scotty's right uppercut drove the Constable against the lobby's wall. The rowels of his spurs dug into the old linoleum floor slowing the young man's descent. From the bruising evident the following day, it was apparent that the old fighter had followed up with a number of shots to the body before his protagonist hit the floor.  

Some indeterminate time later as a number of townsfolk, lifted  a very chastened and wiser young man to his wobbly feet, he glanced over and there sitting on his perch was the white bearded, gnome  like little Scotsman, grinning from ear to ear.

JUST A WEE BIT OF REMINDER LAD, JUST  A REMINDER 

Jack Fera

Phil Grossmith

The way we were

The RCMP of fifty odd years ago was an unbelievably rigid, autocratic, and authoritarian organization. Permission to marry, for example, would only be granted by the commissioner, after a number of specific criteria had been met. Those criteria included at least five years of exemplary service, 500 dollars, no debts, and a clear background check of the prospective spouse and family. To marry without permission you may recall, meant immediate dismissal from the force.

 A week before their scheduled wedding Cst. John Bullen a WWII and “D” Division veteran, had not received the coveted permission from Ottawa. The hall had been rented, the church reserved, the license obtained, the invitations sent, in short, desperation had set in. 

John, a direct kind of guy, did the unthinkable; he sent a telegram outlining his problem directly to the commissioner. Some of you may remember what a telegram looked like. It was a yellow thing with capital letters. John’s action was unheard of within the force, and no doubt caused a good deal of concern to the praetorian guard surrounding the chief. Unauthorized communication directly with the commissioner, by a member, was an offence under the RCMP Act.

 I suspect that a meeting of senior management was convened to discuss this unique turn of events, and somewhere in the ethos, rationality prevailed. Permission to marry was granted. However, for this flagrant violation of the rules John was to be charged in orderly room, upon his return to duty.

Those readers, who have been there, will no doubt recall the drill; Red serge, armed escort, no spurs or Stetson (connotation of a state of disgrace), accused at attention, escort at ease. (how would i know this, ha!)

 Subsequent to the reading of the charge John was berated by the adjudicating officer for his unprecedented, dastardly breach of conduct.

 “Constable Bullen,” said he, in summation, “you have incurred the wrath of the Commissioner. Do you have anything to say in defense, of your irrational action before I pass judgment”?

 John, it’s alleged, with a whimsical grin, replied; “well sir the way I saw it, was this, Commissioners come and go, but you sure don’t find a good woman every day.”