If ever there was a demoralizing experience for an employee of the Fish and Game Department, it was receiving those damned annual evaluation reports.
Our immediate supervisors filled out those reports to rate us on our overall job performance. They were intended to show the front office whether the employee was performing his duties to the level of perfection that a supervisor expected.
In other words, it was a judgment call by the boss, intended to either boost the morale of the employee by blowing a little smoke his way, or point out areas of concern where the employee needed to improve. Usually the evaluations did very little to improve relations.
Granted, none of us enjoys being criticized for doing our jobs in a manner most of us consider to be superb. However, there were times when a report showed we obviously had a few faults.
One of my biggest issues involved the care of my department-issued equipment, which I admit was not top-notch by any means. For example, I completely understood the extremely poor evaluation I received one year from a supervisor regarding my care of the boat stored behind the warden’s camp in Burnham.
I was busy working day and night trying to capture every poacher in my district and completely forgot about the boat in my backyard, with its drain plug securely in place. The fall rains collected inside the fourteen-foot craft, filling it up to the seats with water that had no means of draining out.
When cold weather arrived, the water turned into a fourteen-foot block of solid ice. It wasn’t until the boss showed up at the camp later that fall that he noticed my frozen bathtub. Needless to say, I wouldn’t dare put into print the conversation he and I shared that day.
There were times, however, when I felt the boss was being a bit too picky. In those instances I found myself arguing the point, usually to no avail.
Once again the evaluation season arrived and Sergeant Bill Allen and I had our usual demoralizing confrontation. This one, however, was worse than any of the others I had experienced.
We met on Main Street in Brooks where, in his cruiser, I received the dreaded report card and reviewed it step by step. I was bluntly told that I was slack in my knowledge of what was going on in my district, along with a few other matters, even though I had worked a tremendous amount of hours with a schedule that most people would have considered intolerable.
I asked how he possibly could have come to such a conclusion.
“Well, for one thing, John, you don’t check your bear-tagging stations as frequently as you should,” he said—rather imperiously, I thought.
Immediately, I felt my blood pressure rising. I blurted out, “For cripe’s sake, Bill, I’ve only had one bear tagged within my district in the past six years. Good Lord, if an agent had tagged one, he’d be so damned excited about it, I’d get a quick call from him.”
Bear in my district were about as rare as canaries at the North Pole. But once again the boss made it clear he thought I should be stopping by the tagging stations, regardless.
There was going to be no compromise or persuasion that night. The tone was set, and it went downhill fast from there.
The next area we covered concerned my inability to get along with fellow officers and other agencies. I was completely baffled by this, seeing as I had recently been recognized as an honorary trooper by the Maine State Police for my efforts in working with them.
I reminded Bill how some members of my department had chastised me for spending what they considered was far too much time with the police.
“Yeah, but, John, you seem to spend most of your time in your own district, and not enough time working with other wardens,” he went on.
Tempers were getting a little heated. It finally came to a head when I sarcastically accused him of having someone else make out the report. By then I’d pushed poor Bill over the edge. The next thing I knew, he was ripping the evaluation to shreds in a rage. Paper flew everywhere. I subtly reminded him it was against the law to litter, which didn’t help my cause in the least.
We parted company that evening with our tires screeching, heading in opposite directions, madder than two men at war against each other.
Still, I realized that some of what the boss had mentioned were issues I needed to work on. It all boiled down to a difference in personalities and, like so many times before, this too would pass. Our personal friendship was too valuable for it to do otherwise.
Warden John Ford and Sergeant Bill Allen found these illegal deer hanging from a tree in South China.
The next time we met it was as cordial, friendly, and professional as before. We found ourselves chuckling about the uselessness of these damned efficiency reports as we continued doing our jobs.
Later that fall, Lieutenant John Marsh unexpectedly joined me for a night of working hunters in my district. We were getting ready to head to a remote field in Burnham, hoping to apprehend a violator or two, when I received a radio call from Bill, requesting I start heading his way toward Monroe. He was out by himself and it appeared there was some night-hunting going on around him. Bill had no clue the lieutenant was with me. The lieutenant grabbed the radio and demanded that Bill meet him at a popular truck stop in Hampden, quite some distance away, as soon as possible.
I said, “What the hell are you doing, John?” He had a devilish smirk on his face. I realized he was playing yet another one of his practical jokes.
“I want to piss him off,” he snickered.
Bill called me again, with disgust in his voice. “Did you hear that radio traffic?” he sputtered. “I’ll wait until you get here so I can show you where to park. I think you’re going to have some business. Just as soon as I can get away from the goddamned lieutenant, I’ll come back.”
John smiled, recognizing that part of his game plan had already been accomplished. He jumped into the backseat of my cruiser, instructing me to act as though I was alone.
We met up with Bill a short distance from where he’d been parked. “Follow me,” he said. “I’ll show you where to go. I have to meet with that gawd-damned lieutenant to see what the hell he wants.” He wasn’t pleased.
I didn’t dare let on that the “gawd-damned lieutenant” was crouched on the floorboards of my cruiser, listening to Bill spout off. How could I?
I headed down the narrow dirt road, going fast, following closely behind Bill. I purposely hit every bump I could, even recklessly swaying the car back and forth, listening to the lieutenant grunting and groaning as his head kept sliding into the side of the car.
“Where in hell are you headed?” he grumbled.
Soon I was parked in the spot where Bill had been. He sped off, headed for his meeting in Hampden, some fifteen miles away.
After a period of time had passed, I inquired, “How far are you going to let him get?”
“Oh, hell, he’s got a ways to go.” John snickered.
Finally, John radioed Bill to disregard. Without a doubt, I knew Bill would be fit to be tied.
“Convince him to get into your car when he gets back here,” John said, smiling. “And don’t let him know I’m here.”
I was beginning to enjoy this myself, as I knew Bill was a jumper. The next few minutes could be quite interesting.
Eventually Bill returned. I asked him to join me in my cruiser and he did, launching into a verbal tirade, the likes of which I never expected.
“That gawd-damned, fat son of a #$@%*&! He could #$@%*& a dream!” he screamed.
I sank down in the seat, wondering what would transpire next.
John slowly rose up off the floor of my cruiser, quite proud of his accomplishments.
Immediately I ducked, as Bill’s fists and arms began flying wildly all around the front of the cruiser. I was afraid he was going to break my windshield; flailing away, he looked like a heron trying to fly in a hurricane. He was trying to speak, but was so startled he couldn’t.
Once he realized it was the lieutenant in the cruiser with us, he looked over at me in disgust, as if I’d initiated the entire prank. “You think your last efficiency was bad—you just wait until next year, you #$@%*&!”
“Hey, Bill, if you think mine’s going to be bad, just what the hell do you think yours is going to be?” I chuckled. After all, the lieutenant was his supervisor and would be writing his evaluation. After that blast of profanities directed at his boss, I didn’t think my evaluation would be the one to pay the price.