My first three weeks as a police cadet were spent for the most part, not wiping out crime as I had expected, but cleaning out police cars washing them and gassing them up. I swabbed out the drunk tank each morning and generally ran errands for the real policemen. Although my new tailor-made uniform had arrived and I was wearing it to and from work each day, mostly it hung in my locker while I sported a pair of blue coveralls more suited to my assignments. Finally I received orders to report to the Police College and I looked forward to the end of my drudgery and to some leisure time in the classroom.
In those days Metropolitan Toronto had its own training centre in a converted two story elementary school located in Willowdale, in the north end of the city. The schoolyard had been paved to use as a parade ground. I hadn’t thought much about drilling and marching. I knew that there was probably going to be a certain amount of it but after all, this was not the army only the police force. My marching skills were sadly lacking. In the 1960’s all high schools still had mandatory cadet
programs. The only exemptions were for band members. I had quickly signed up to play the trumpet and had spent my time sitting in the shade playing Colonel Bogie while my classmates, sweating in their woollen uniforms, marched up and down the schoolyard. I wondered if I might do the same now. We all gathered in a large classroom that first morning and were told by a clean-cut young policeman to have a seat anywhere.
“Ah, this the life,” I thought as I settled myself down in a seat at the back of the room and busied myself opening my notebook and selecting pens and pencils. I had just removed my tie and was leaning back in my chair when the room reverberated with a throaty bellow, “Attention!” The word seemed to hang in the air. When I looked up, a tall, straight, stern looking policeman in an impeccable uniform was shouting at us. He was about fifty and his presence oozed authority. We all jumped to our feet and gave our individual interpretations of what “Attention” should look like. Addressing us as stupid bastards, he described the proper way to stand to attention. Then he introduced himself as Sergeant Saul and informed us that he was to be our Drill Instructor and general disciplinarian. He went on further to say that he had observed us arriving that morning and without a doubt we were the sorriest bunch of dirty buggers he had ever laid eyes on.
“All that is going to change”, he shouted. “Now get your lazy asses down to that parade ground!” And so the marching began, day after day of “By the left, quick march, I said LEFT, you stupid bastards”, or, “Into line, left turn. Does that look like a line, you nitwits?”
After what felt like an eternity of abuse all but one class seemed to be getting the hang of it. Poor Cadet Eagan was still stumbling, turning the wrong way and constantly trying to get back in step. No amount of swearing or cajoling from Sergeant made his performance improve. Eagan was a big healthy farm boy from northern Ontario. A t first glance, he looked like perfect policeman material, but there was definitely something missing in the brains’ department. As some of the less sensitive cadets put it, “He was a few bricks shy of a load, you know. A few pickles short of a jar.” We knew it was all over for Eagan one morning at inspection . He had forgotten his memo book and Sergeant Saul was busy ‘cutting him a new arse hole’, as he liked to put it. When he finished his tirade, he lowered his voice and, almost pleadingly, said. “Listen, Eagan, if you’re going to make it, you really have to pull up your socks.” To our amazement, Eagan actually bent down and pulled up his socks! The next day he was transferred to the city’s Parking Meter Control Unit. I would often see him in later years. He seemed very happy sporting his brown uniform and tooling around on his Pie Wagon, as the three-wheeled motorcycles were called.
The marching and drilling wasn’t easy for me but my real problem was passing muster when Sergeant Saul did his inspections each morning. Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to please him. I spent hours every night working on my kit, ironing, polishing and brushing. Still, he would always find something wrong and bring it to my attention in his not so subtle manner. If he found a single hair on my blue serge uniform he would exclaim for all to hear, “Did you have much trouble getting the dog off your uniform this morning, Leeson?” If my tie was not hanging perfectly perpendicular, he would straighten it, saying, “Mummy dressed us a little funny this morning, didn’t she?” If he couldn’t find anything else to complain about, he would say, “Get a haircut!” which I frequently did but it never seemed to be enough. I was starting to look like Yul Bryner. The night before our final day on the cadet course, I made up my mind that my turnout was going to be impeccable. I vowed that I would be the cleanest, shiniest son of a bitch on that parade ground. I pulled out all the stops. I spent hours using cotton swabs dipped in ice water, putting a high shine on my boots and Sam Browne belt. My uniform was cleaned and pressed to perfection. There wasn’t a crease, smudge or hair to be found anywhere. I also vacuumed my car seats so that my uniform wouldn’t pick up any debris as I drove to the college in the morning. I went to bed with what hair I had left perfectly coifed and held in place by a nylon stocking. I was ready. There was nothing, nothing that Saul would be able to find fault with.
I stayed up working so late that night that I overslept slightly but if I knew that if I hurried, I would still be in good time for the inspection parade. I dressed carefully, avoiding contact with anything that might tarnish my perfect appearance. I skipped breakfast. I didn’t want to sit too long anyway. It might spoil the crease in my pants.
I was cautiously making my way to my car when I heard a terrible scream. It sounded almost like a human baby in extreme pain. I made my way to the opposite side of the car and there on the ground was a stray cat with a half-eaten baby rabbit in his mouth. The cat dropped the little creature and disappeared into the tall grass. The tiny rabbit lay whimpering , unable to move. He was so badly mangled that I knew he was beyond help. The only humane thing to do was to put him out of his misery as soon as possible. Gritting my teeth and wincing, I stepped forward and brought my heavy boot down as hard as could on the poor bunny’s head. Death was instantaneous and its suffering was over. With a heavy heart but comforted by the notion that I had done the right thing, I jumped into my car and headed for the Police College. By the time I arrived, the rest of the cadets had already begun to assemble on the parade ground. I hurried over and joined them. We formed up in three lines of open order and stood rigidly at attention as Sergeant Saul quick marched over to us with his swagger stick tucked under his arm.
He proceeded to weave his way up and down the ranks making rude comments to certain of my classmates. I held my breath as he made his way along the front of the row I was standing in. He paused for a moment in front of me and, looking me over carefully, gave me a reluctant nod of approval. I was feeling pretty smug and self-satisfied as he swung around to inspect our backs. All my hard work had paid off. I was already beginning to work on my acceptance speech for the best turned out cadet when I heard the rhythmic click of the Sergeant’s heel clips stop directly behind me. He was gasping and seemed short of breath but finally blurted out, “What the hell is that?” He prodded me in the ass with his swagger stick and I looked over my shoulder and down to the back of my trouser leg. There, looking directly at Sergeant Saul was a tiny eyeball suspended on a long trailing ribbon of red tissue.
