My friend had served in the military and described an experience involving government forms. The regional office where he worked had been required to submit a detailed record (monthly, as I recall), a task that was fairly time-consuming. When he was later transferred to the head office in Ottawa, he decided to track down these forms and find out the purpose they served. That led him, after some searching, to an administrative officer who received these forms – and then filed them. As far as could be determined, no one ever looked at the forms. Upon returning to the regional office, my friend announced (without any authorization whatsoever) that they would no longer be submitting these forms. Guess what? Nothing happened. There was no response from Ottawa. Apparently no one missed the forms or questioned their disappearance.
Sixty Years of Immediate Relief
That prompted me to recall two examples that I used to share with my students in my courses on government. The first involved the Halifax Relief Commission, which caught my attention when it was terminated in 1976. Since it had been created in 1917 to provide immediate relief after the munitions explosion in the Halifax Harbour during WWI, this seemed a dissolution long overdue. In fairness, the Commission’s mandate was at some point changed to that of a pension board and it still had 65 disabled dependents when it was wound up and its responsibilities were – quite sensibly and more efficiently – transferred to the Canadian Pension Commission.
Horsing Around in Britain
There are, however, no extenuating circumstances to explain the second example – courtesy of the British Government. In the mid-1950s (as I recall) a major study of the British military came upon the fact that two soldiers were assigned to patrol each day in front of a prominent bank building in downtown London. A curious researcher decided to dig into the reason for this assignment. It turned out that two soldiers had been sent to that location to hold the horse of the Duke of Wellington when he dismounted to enter the then military headquarters during the war with Napoleon. For a century and a half, soldiers continued to maintain that vigil – with decreasing prospects of any appearance by the Duke or his horse.
Lest we presume that bureaucratic adventures are confined to the federal level, let me share two other examples from my experience.
Answer This, If You Can
When I worked for the Ministry of Municipal Affairs in the 1960s, the Ontario Government had launched two major initiatives that are central to this story. The first, in 1966, was entitled Design for Development and it introduced a program of regional economic development. In late 1968, the government announced a program of regional government – and some clever person decided that this new program would be called Design for Development – Phase Two (in an effort to present these two regionally-based initiatives as being part of a coordinated approach). They were not, in fact, coordinated and this was evident to the then head of the Regional Government Branch in the Department of Municipal Affairs. He wrote a very detailed memo to the head of the Regional Development Branch (then in the Department of Economics and Development) raising various difficult questions about the two initiatives and how they were (or should be) interrelated. Within a day or so, there was an internal reorganization and the head of the Regional Government Branch found himself head of the Regional Development Branch – just in time to receive his very challenging memo.
Since You Asked, Here is My Answer
My final, and favourite, example comes from the municipal level. At one time, when municipalities were more directly involved in the administration of social assistance (then known as welfare payments), local councillors took an inordinate and inappropriate interest in the applicants for such payments. It was not unusual to have them spend considerable time at a council meeting tracing the family tree of a welfare applicant and discussing whether or not this was a deserving person.
Based on when I first heard this story, it would have taken place back in the 1950s, in a small (at the time) city in Ontario. The Clerk of the day had reminded council that welfare files were supposed to be confidential and that applications were judged on whether or not they conformed to provincial conditions. Council, in a particularly officious mood, directed their stubborn staff member to write (in his capacity as Clerk) to himself (in his capacity as Secretary of the Welfare Board) and to demand the release of certain confidential files. The Clerk did as instructed and then wrote back to himself, refusing permission. He then tabled his reply with council!
In case anyone is wondering, the Clerk did not suffer any serious consequences as a result of this wonderful act of rebellion and over his long and distinguished career he was also Deputy Minister of Municipal Affairs and a prominent academic and author as well. And no – this person was neither Michael Fenn nor Richard Tindal!