On Being A Cadet

The status of a cadet was a strange one, unless you looked very

closely at his uniform and noticed the absence of a gun holster and handcuff

pouch, you probably thought you were looking at a full fledged policeman.

Although he might have been as young as eighteen he had most of the

responsibilities of the older official constables. He couldn’t make arrests for

minor offences but for the more serious indictable offences he, like anyone

else, could make a “Citizen’s Arrest”.

The uniform the cadet wore, in anticipation of his progression to full

police constable, had all the compartments for the weapons of the trade; the

pants had a long rear pocket for a nightstick and the winter Pea jacket had a

leather holster in the right pocket. Although it was strictly ‘verboten’ the

temptations to fill these cavities with weapons of our own was great,

particularly if we were working the night shift in dangerous parts of the city

An older cop gave me a spare nightstick and I still have the 22-caliber

pistol I discreetly carried. I never had to use it but it was a real source of

comfort in tricky situations.

Shortly after attending Police College for the cadet course I was sent

to the traffic division for motorcycle training. It was wonderful experience

just like summer camp. A group of about twelve of us spent a couple of

weeks weaving Harley Davidson’s, BMW’s, Matchlesses and Indians

through pylons on the Exhibition parking lot and going for long rides along

the Lakeshore and through the streets of the west end of the city.

It was late fall and I remember the joy I felt as I sent my sidecar

careening through the piles of dead leaves that were accumulating at the

sides of the roads, sending them flying into the air and onto the windscreens

of the bikes behind me.

It was all new to me and the experience was the closest I have ever

come to the thrill I feel when galloping a horse.

Before we finished our training the weather turned really cold and we

were ordered into winter uniforms, which consisted of heavy twill breeches

over long wool underwear with the leather boots and leggings we normally

wore covered with tall-insulated galoshes; on top we wore our winter issue

box neck tunic over the heaviest flannel shirt we could find. We covered all

of this with a knee length black leather coat with a thick sheepskin lining. A

long thick scarf and a white helmet with cold weather flaps completed the

ensemble. It practically doubled my weight and I thought I might need a

derrick to get me on to my bike.
My infatuation with the motorcycle was short lived. By the time I returned to 
my station in Don Mills winter had set in with a vengeance and the streets 
were snow covered and icy. I thought that the motorcycles would be put 
away for the winter but instead they were all fitted with sidecars and it was 
business as usual.

I found out just how impractical this was when I went out on my first patrol. 
Approaching a corner with a red light I casually applied the brakes, in the way 
I had been instructed, and found myself sliding out of control all the way 
through the intersection with cars skidding to a halt to avoid hitting me, the 
drivers honking their horns and shouting very disrespectful things at me.

After that experience I realized that there was a knack to riding motorcycles 
in the winter. Firstly you had to plan ahead: if you wanted to stop at any 
particular spot you had to start applying the brakes gradually about one 
city block in advance. It was touch and go making a turn-- the bike didn’t 
necessarily go in the direction you turned the handlebars. It was often 
necessary to simply go where you were taken and, if anybody was watching, 
act as if you intended to be there, not that convincing when you 
ended up in a snow bank.

Only the Police Department would be allowed to operate a vehicle as

dangerous as the bike was in winter. I was told that it was a matter of

economy but that was nonsense because as it turned out a Harley Davidson

with sidecar would consume more gas than a typical scout car in the same

period of time. Anyway I grew to hate the damned things and could hardly

wait until I would be done with them.

My reprieve was slow coming and I spent all of the winter and part of

the spring riding the monsters and performing the duties typically assigned

to cadets: looking after school crossings, doing house checks for people

away on vacation and being a general dog’s body for the rest of the division.

It was for the most part very boring and I found myself inventing ways to

amuse myself.

During our training, we had learned how to cause the sidecar wheel to

lift off the ground and remain suspended in the air. I became very proficient

at this trick and became obsessed with seeing how long I could go before I

was compelled to let it drop back down onto to the pavement. Sometimes I

would travel in this manner very long periods of time, often madly careening

through complete subdivisions with my scarf flying behind me and my

sidecar suspended at a forty five degree angle, its wheel spinning in the

breeze. I can’t imagine what people in the area thought was going on. I

guess I didn’t care.

One day when I was doing one of my routine house checks, I noticed

some footprints in the fresh snow leading to the rear of one of the fancy

homes on the Bridle Path. I followed them until they ended in a packed

down area opposite an open basement window. I was just about to go

forward to have a look in when a pillowcase came flying out of the opening.

As it landed on the ground several pieces of silverware spilled out and into

the snow. The first case was followed by a second and then the arms and

upper torso of a very large man began to emerge.

He was still struggling to drag himself through the small opening

when I moved over and positioned myself directly in front and above him.

He saw my boots and then slowly looked up at me. “Shit,” he said with a

defeated look on his face. I thought I better restrain him before he got up so I

knelt on his back while he obligingly surrendered his wrists They were so

thick I had trouble getting my cuffs on them and when I grabbed his arms to

help him to his feet my hands were having trouble spanning his biceps.

I pushed him in front of me until we got to my motorcycle and had

him kneel down facing away from me while I called for a scout car to come

and get him. I tried several times to reach the dispatcher but the radio had

decided, as it frequently did in those days, not to work. There were no

telephones readily available so I decide to break the rules and take him to the

station in my sidecar. It wasn’t easy cramming his bulk into that tiny capsule

but for some reason he remained cooperative and I got him in and secure.

He rode quietly on the way to the lockup with his head held down in

shame and turned away from me.

I needed the help of two other officers to pry him out of the sidecar

and get him into the interrogation room and into the hands of an

investigating detective. I was going to leave and have my lunch but the

detective said he wanted me to stay while he talked to the prisoner.

It was really hot and stuffy in the little room so I decided to make

myself more comfortable. The prisoner, really looking at me for the first

time, watched astonished as I peeled layer after layer of heavy clothing off,

eventually revealing my true size and stature. He just sat shaking his head

for a while and then turned to the detective and said, “ I can’t believe 
I let that scrawny little prick bring me in here.”