The Mounties & Me. Pt.2.
A bit of a stretch!
As clinics go, the RCMP clinic did have a flavor of its own. While coughs and colds occurred just as frequently as they did in the general population, there were some unique aspects of practice in these clinics. One of the commonest encounters in those days went something like this:
“Could you take a look at my arm, sir?” The recruit had sprung to attention by my desk.
“What happened to your arm?”
“Chomped by a horse, doctor, sir,”
And sure enough, the poor recruit’s arm would reflect the imprint of the equine set of teeth as a series of little bruises.
“Have you had your rabies shot?”
“Yessir.”
“Had your tetanus shot?” I would ask.
“Yes sir.” Was the usual response.
“Well, no sign of any infection here. Nothing to worry about. Just rest for day and return to your usual duties tomorrow.”
“Thank you sir,” came the grateful reply of the young recruit happy about the prospect of having a whole day of rest.
When the clinic was over Mike, in a conversational tone, would clue me in as to how I stacked up against Dr. Montpellier.
“They really like you Sir. When they come in with that sort chomp injury to see Dr. Montpellier, he usually says, ‘get out of here and get back to work and stop wasting my time.’ A lot of them know that, so they don’t even come in until the day you’re here”
There were some unique aspects to the cross-section of patients who presented at our clinic. In addition to reflecting the spectrum of illness that occurs in this youthful patient population we saw a cross-section of injuries that reflected the vigorous and demanding training of the day. Sometimes overenthusiastic gym, karate, judo and other instructors resulted in injuries to the candidates; however few were as violent as many of those that occur under the aegis of the National Hockey League.
The duties of the post medical officer extended to interviewing and examining prospective candidates. Many of the young men frankly admitted that their greatest ambition was to become an officer in the Royal Canadian mounted police. In those days, the majority of Canadians were proud to have a police force of international stature, incorruptible as we believed then, and famous for always “getting their man”. Small wonder then that many a fine young Canadian aspired to a career in the force. By the time I was working at the Post the requirement was that applicants must be at least 5’8” tall. Prior to that there had been a requirement of being 5 foot 10. I don’t know if there is a new height requirement or even the elimination of any height requirement although I find it hard to imagine a fifty-eight inch officer. In any event, there were a number of candidates who were just under the five foot eight limit who desperately wanted to enlist. John Campbell was one such potential recruit. In those days it was possible to apply for admission to the force up to three times. John had already applied twice and was turned down because he measured 5 foot 7 ¾”. Each time we had measured him he assured us that he was 5 foot eight and had always measured that in the past. Anxious to help him to get in both Mike and I measured him independently. We both got the same results, 5 foot 7 3/4 inches.
“What are you going to do if you don’t get in, John?” I asked him.
“I don’t know doc. All I ever wanted to be since I was a little kid was an RCMP officer.” When he said this his eyes teared up.
Mike took over. “Listen John, I might just be able to help you. Now I can’t promise anything but over the years I’ve had a couple of other applicants of your height and managed to get them into the force by giving them some advice. That is what I want you to do. We’ll plan your next examination in a couple of weeks and you know that that’s your last chance. It will be a third application. The night before you come in, I want to spend about half an hour hanging out of the doorjamb and we hope that that’s going to stretch you out for long enough to measure that other quarter inch. Make sure to get up early the next morning and before going out hang out of the doorjamb for another half hour or so. That should allow the discs between the vertebra to expand and although it doesn’t take them long to compress again we might just get you measured before that happens. In fact before I measure you I’ll let you hang out of the door here for ten minutes or so and we’ll measure you right away..”
When he came in for his last try, Mike spirited him away, presumably to hang out of one of the doors for a while. I had just finished seeing my second or third patient when Mike came in and announced triumphantly, “I just measured him - 5’8” exactly, Doc!”
“Good Mike, but I think I better see for myself.” After all, it was my signature that was going on the bottom of the application form, and Mike with all due respects was really was really to help this guy and could possibly have exaggerated just a trifle.
“Okay John, get over here I’ll measure you.”
“But doc, Mike just measured me, he said I’m five eight, you heard him.”
“Yes, but I have to measure you myself, come over here.”
John apprehensively edged over to the scales beside my desk. “Step up onto the scales.”
John reluctantly stepped onto the scales while I slid the bar for measuring height. It read exactly 5’8”. John stood there speechless for a moment before he gasped, “Oh thank God. I spent most of the night hanging out of the doorjamb hoping to stretch myself out to five foot eight and I prayed a lot as well. I guess it worked.”
The whole scene sticks in my mind to this day as one of the happiest events I have witnessed.
Day after day sick parade consisted of injuries; many of them related to the equestrian training that all the recruits went through in those days. “Chomped by a horse” was a common complaint. It meant a horses bite. Often just a bruise in the skin sometimes a good deal more. “Kicked by a horse” and “fell off a horse” were all too common. Every now and then an outbreak of influenza or some other infectious disease resulted in a sick parade of 20, 30, 40, or on one occasion 60 feverish young recruits. Sometimes missing the maternal care and the support of a sympathetic family they were used to was the real reason that brought them in.. Mike was a strict disciplinarian and the militaristic aspects of the RCMP in those days suited him well. He closed the door of the clinic at 9 a.m. sharp and woe betides the poor recruit who showed up at 0905.
“You’re too late, come back tomorrow, and make sure you’re in time.” His bark was much worse than his bite and if they were ill he’d let that man in with a cautionary, “you’d better be sick and not just wasting the doctor’s time.”
One morning a young recruit turned up a cold and sore throat and looking a good deal more apprehensive than his physical symptoms would have warranted.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
Mike chipped in before the poor recruit could speak. “He tried to get in here yesterday to see Dr. LeBlanc. He was a little bit late so he came charging down the road like a maniac. The road was just a bit icy and he slipped right outside the clinic. In his effort to save himself he reached out and grabbed the nearest thing to hand. Unfortunately that happened to be the side mirror of Dr. LeBlanc’s new Porsche which was parked right outside the clinic, where he wasn’t supposed to be at all. Anyway, as you can see he’s a pretty hefty young man and I’d be damned if that mirror wasn’t torn off the side of the darn car. He walked into the clinic with the mirror in his hand. I wish you were here Doc to see the look on the Doc’s face. It was priceless, Doc. I really had a tough time trying not to laugh as Doc LeBlanc sat there with his mouth dropped wide open, his cigarette holder with a lighted cigarette in it falling onto the desk rolling onto the floor. While he was speechless I managed to put out the cigarette and return his cigarette holder to him. When he eventually recovered the ability to speak he laid into that poor recruit for about five minutes, and told him that he was going to have to pay for the new mirror and repair job. There weren’t too many foreign cars around in those days, so it would probably have taken a year’s wages to fix the damage. Of course I knew that Dr. Leblanc would never do that and that his bark was much worse than his bite, but the poor recruit didn’t and was in tears. I had to talk to him later for quite a while to settle him down. So that’s why you’re seeing him today.”
The picture of Dr. LeBlanc walking out of the clinic with the mirror of his Porsche in his hand after tearing the strip off the poor recruit assured that I treated him as gently as possible.
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