Fortin had worked hard but for some reason – and he made it clear that he didn’t need to have one – a Drill Sergeant disliked Fortin. One morning, the sergeant had found fault with the way Fortin had attended to a particular task: the way Fortin had turned his head and directed his gaze while marching was unacceptable. The Drill Sergeant ordered the entire troop to halt, get on the floor and do one hundred push-ups.

“This is Fortin’s fault!” The Sergeant yelled to the troop, his voice booming like artillery in the hall as everyone grunted through the punishment. Then the commander stopped at Fortin’s position and all Fortin saw was his polished boots as he shouted down at him switching from English to French and back: “You will never survive the program, Fortin! You will never make it, Fortin!” Throughout it all Fortin continued with his perfect push-ups listening to his troop-mates’ labored breathing, battling against the derision of his commanding officer who had continued: “You will fail Fortin because in your weakened gut and in your frightened heart you know, you absolutely know that you do not have what it takes to be a member of the glorious RCMP!”

Fortin continued pumping with all he had up and down up and down.

After Fortin and his troop-mates had completed one hundred push-ups they stood at attention breathing hard. The Drill Sergeant then drew his nose to within a fraction of Fortin’s and barked. “Do you agree with my assessment, Fortin, that you will never become a member of my beloved RCMP?”

“No sir!”

The Drill Sergeant looked hard into Fortin’s eyes.

“Then you prove me wrong, Fortin!”

More weeks passed, with more activities, tasks, and tests including the Stress Course of Fire. It involved crisis scenarios of armed criminals attacking while sirens wailed, radios bleated and emergency lights flashed creating chaos at every turn requiring split-second life-and-death decisions.

Fortin and his troop-mates succeeded.

Then twenty-six weeks of training came to an end with the last inspections and evaluations.

Fortin had passed.

He was a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

He remembered how his father and mother had tears in their eyes the day his graduating troop marched by them on graduation day at the academy. Like his troop-mates, Fortin wore the ceremonial red serge tunic, riding breeches, and the iconic Stetson.

“You look so handsome, Will,” his mother’s eyes glistened.

His father, being a serving member of the Sûreté du Québec, was wearing his dress uniform, too, and had been allowed to present him with his RCMP badge during the ceremony.

“I’m so proud of you,” his dad beamed. “This is a great day, son, such a great day.”

It was one of the best days of Fortin’s life.

-Chapter 4-

As he drove further into the night Fortin remembered his first posting.