A Policeman's Plight

By James Waight

A compilation of true events experienced during my twenty-five years with the Metropolitan Police Force in London, England. These stories give an insight into the past day-to-day workings of the Police Force: from my personal involvement in the protection of the public and the dedication to serve my chosen profession. These stories are diverse, ranging from thought-provoking, sad, and at times humorous, about murder, burglars, Special Constables and much more. My stories will give you a glimpse into the past, of how we did things then.

Also included are a few stories from my Canadian Military Service.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499075854

James Waight

James Waight was born on May 12, 1932, Tolworth, Surrey, England. He is the third and youngest son of Arthur Frederick Waight and Ellen Jane Waight. He was educated at Salesian College, Oxford, during World War II. He then married Francesca in 1952. They are blessed with four children. He chose farming as a career in England, then moved to Canada and enlisted in the Canadian Army Provost Corps. He returned to England and joined the Metropolitan Police Force, where he served twenty-five years and was awarded the medal for long service and good conduct.

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A Friend in Need

You may wonder why I take the time and trouble to write these little stories, as we have all seen and experienced similar incidents of disappointment, frustration, violence, comic relief, and changes in our own career while serving the public. Really, I don’t know the answer for sure. Having been retired for some time and thinking back to various people, places, and incidents that can bring back pleasing or angry memories, even sometimes I wonder what happened to ‘what’s his name.’ Here is a little story with a different theme.

When stationed at Balham, South London, England, I was very fortunate in passing the Sergeants’ Promotion Examination as a competitor with three years’ service. This was achieved under the guidance of two very experienced Police Sergeants, PS Joe Bush and PS Greg Gordon (by the way, these are not their real names). PS Bush was a real practical copper, who was also very knowledgeable and had done it all, whereas PS Gordon was more of a bookman (General Orders). He could quote chapter and verse. So here I have two mentors who were opposite but complemented each other. I was very fortunate to have these two colleagues to help me through the learning process to become a good Sergeant. I am very grateful for their help and tuition plus the work that they gave me during those two years. On promotion, one was always posted to another Division.

After about two years, I received word that PS Gordon was involved in a fight with a prisoner and had received a blow to the head with an iron bar. He was very ill and was soon sent to a hospice in London. It transpired that the blow had damaged most of the motoring nerves in the brain. This caused havoc to his coordination and control of his limbs as well as his speech. It was very difficult and frustrating for him to communicate. I visited him at least once a week. He indicated that he wanted to know everything that was happening in the Force and how some of his friends were getting on. We used to talk, though I did most of the talking, and it became exhausting for both of us.

One day, I managed to acquire the loan of our Police Recruiting film and showed it to all the inmates of the hospice. Afterwards, I answered general questions about the Force. I was in full uniform. Greg was sitting in the front row, with tears rolling down his cheeks. He was so proud and pleased that I had taken the time and trouble to talk to his friends and the hospice staff.

Unfortunately, the Force did not look after him very well in the hospice, not as well as I think they should have done. They hardly ever came to visit him after he was taken in. It was very difficult to take him out in the car and very dangerous should he have a relapse. Over the years, other visits diminished and eventually stopped. His family visits were few and far between; later, I was his only visitor.

On one of my visits, Greg indicated to me that he wished me to make out his will. This was made not as a question but a demand to someone that he could trust. Over the next few months, we discussed exactly how he wanted his estate divided up. He was emphatic that his wife should only receive the Police Widow’s Benefit. His complete estate was to be divided equally between his two children. I suggested that we consult a lawyer to make out the will, but he wanted me to do it for him. He wanted me to be the only one that knew the content of his will. An executer was my next problem, which in itself is a long story. I typed out his will to the best of my ability, that is, after reading numerous leaflets, reading a book, and speaking to a lawyer friend. We must have changed the wording a dozen times before he was satisfied. By now he was unable to speak and was constantly frustrated at not being able to express himself at all. He communicated to me in grunts. Now came the problem of his signature, as he could not hold a pen. In the end, I found a large fat ballpoint pen that he could hold in his fist. He practiced making his mark on pieces of paper. He practiced for about a month, with very little progress. It was heartbreaking, but he was determined to do it all by himself.

Meanwhile, I told his nurse, Joan, in confidence, as to what we were attempting to achieve, and I asked her if she would be his signature witness. She agreed. Then came the day of the ‘signature.’ Joan and I watched Greg as he made the supreme effort to draw his cross. Quickly, we both witnessed his cross on the will. I took the will to the office the next day and typed the date, time, and place of the making of the will, making sure that I used the same typewriter.

Now who was going to have possession of the will was the next question. Joan and I agreed that it would be kept sealed in the hospice safe and only opened in the event of his death. I made photographic copies of the will for us as witnesses.

About two months after this, Greg passed away. It was very sad to watch an old colleague and friend revert from a productive human being to a vegetable.

Sometime after the funeral, I was contacted to attend a lawyer’s office to make an affidavit to the effect that both Nurse Joan and I were present when Greg made his mark with his own hand and of his own free will, that is, without any physical assistance from either witness. Also that Greg had issued the instructions contained in the will.

It was a very sad ending to a life that was much too short, too painful, too lonely, and too unhappy!

An Introduction to the Metropolitan Police in 1981

Prior to 1981, things were very different from what they are today. Attitudes as well as police procedures have changed dramatically, mainly for the better. Police were generally held in high esteem by law-abiding citizens. This was the result of many years of faithful and dedicated service to the public.

When one considers, the Metropolitan Police was formed in London, England, in 1829, as a result of lawlessness in the streets and on the River Thames at London Docks. Over a long period of time, the Force gained a worldwide reputation for efficiency and fair play. People felt safe in their homes and on the streets. They treated the police with deserved respect. However, there were certain factions that constantly came in conflict with the police. One of these factions was certain coloured persons who did not respect the rights and privileges of others. Brixton was a melting pot of these persons, together with the law-abiding coloured and white residents. Before we get into the problems of Brixton, we will look at the structure, procedure, and methods of policing that had been established over 150 years.

The Metropolitan Police area of London is approximately hundred square miles with a population of about 10,000,000. During business hours, this would exceed 12,000,000. However, in one square mile stands the city of London that employed its own Police Force. The Metropolitan Police consisted of about twenty-seven thousand officers supported by approximately twenty-five thousand civilians. The River Thames divides London in about half by flowing west to east. The Metropolitan Police District is split into four Policing Areas named 1, 2, 3, 4. These areas were subdivided into Divisions and designated a letter of the alphabet.

Brixton was the headquarters of ‘L’ Division with a Commander in charge. Every H.Q. of a Division was designated with a letter ‘D’; hence Brixton was known as ‘L.D.’ The Commander was aided by two Divisional Superintendents: one for Uniform and the other for C.I.D. As well as being H.Q. for the Division, it was also a Subdivision for local policing purposes with a Chief Superintendent in charge. All Divisions were divided into Subdivisions and then into police stations, all with the famous blue light outside.

Now we come to the actual policing of Brixton. A Superintendent was the Chief Superintendent’s Deputy, who was assigned three Chief Inspectors: one in charge of the C.I.D., another in charge of Administration, and the other responsible for Uniform Operations. They all had twenty-four-hour responsibility but normally worked from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.

Birth of a Baby

This is most likely a reflection of similar incidents that many police officers can recall. It is not unique it happens nearly every day, but this is the first and last time for me.

As a very new Probationer Constable in London, England, I was walking the Beat about two miles from the Station, while on Early Turn, that is from 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. We only had a few blue Police Boxes in the area for communication with the Station.

Things were a bit quiet with heavy traffic on this spring day, the flowers were beginning to open, and the air was alive with gas fumes and coal smoke. The sun was attempting to break through the pollution. A couple of years later, the pollution was so bad that we were all issued with, and required to wear, face masks to filter out the polluted air.

However, it was about 8:00 a.m., and I was walking down a main street where the houses were terraced and built in about 1890. They were large and had four stories with no front garden and very little back garden. All the houses in the street were made of brick, with a fireplace in every room, like all the other houses built at this time in London. There were only windows at the front and back of the houses. Consequently, the rooms and staircases were dark and mostly unlit. One could still see the old gas pipes that were used for lighting that was before electricity was available and affordable.

There I was, minding my own business, thinking that it would not be long before I returned to the Station for breakfast. All of a sudden, a middle-aged woman came running down from the steps of one of the houses and grabbed me. At the same time, she said, ‘Thank God I found you!’ I had never seen the woman before in my life, I swear. She started to pull me up the steps of this house.

‘Wait a second, Lady. What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘It’s coming! It’s coming!’ she panted.

‘What’s coming?’

‘The baby. You will know what to do!’

I broke free from her grasp and followed her up the stairs. Inwardly, I was saying, ‘We didn’t cover this in the First Aid lessons. What do I know about delivering babies? Nothing!’ I knew where they came from, but that was all. I followed this woman up to the fourth floor and into a bedroom, which was in urgent need of decoration. I looked around and saw another three women standing around a brass double bed, looking at a poor lady on the bed who had just been through labour. What a mess! Obviously, nobody knew what to do, including me. I was thinking, A policeman always knows what to do, when all around people are losing their heads.

I would have liked to put him in her arms, but I was concerned about stretching the cord. The mother was in a bad state of exhaustion and had not spoken a word since I arrived. ‘OK, dear, you have a lovely little boy, and he seems to be healthy.’ But she was past caring at this stage. The boy’s eyes were open, and there was spasmodic movement but no breathing. What should I do?

‘Come on, Jim, you have seen lots of doctors in the movies pick a baby up by the legs and smack their bottom, causing them to cry and start breathing. Come on, you can do the same,’ I heard a voice inside me saying. But how much umbilical cord can you pull? Where, when, and how do you cut the cord? Should you make one or two knots? If only the First Aid Instructor had told us just the very basics of childbirth. Now was the time to make a decision: Cut the cord or slap the baby? Come to think of it, in the movies, I have not seen the umbilical cord. It was always held by the feet and slapped. A couple of women returned to view the progress. They were no help at all. So I said, ‘See if the midwife has arrived.’ I laid the baby on its side and slapped it on the back. Nothing happened, no movement, nothing, no crying. Slap again, this time a little harder. ‘Come on, baby, breathe!’ I cried out. Another harder slap landed on his back. This time, his little body jerked, his eyes opened wide, and he started to cry. This is the moment I shall remember the rest of my life. The baby came alive, cried, and moved all the parts of his little body. Unfortunately, his mother had passed out and did not see this magical moment.

The hot water and towels came in very handy in cleaning up the baby and his mother. I used the clean sheet to cover the mother and child, still reluctant to pull or cut the cord. I thought that cutting the cord could really wait until the midwife arrived and took over. Again, reassuring the patient was foremost in my mind. ‘You have a fine-looking baby, and you are very lucky.’

The midwife arrived. She was a real battle-axe, much worse than my Sergeant Major in the army. She barked at me, ‘You can get out of here!’ I felt quite deflated as I expected at least a ‘Well done.’ I washed myself and collected my helmet and tunic. Out on the street, it was great to breathe fresh (so-called) air. As I walked along the street, pedestrians gave me a funny look and appeared to make a point of walking around me. It was then that I realized that my trousers were covered in blood plus other stains, and I smelt to high heaven. No wonder they avoided me.

Eventually, I arrived at the Station, not feeling at all like eating breakfast. The Station Officer threw me out of the Station, with a few choice words, and I landed in the Station Yard for my sins. I asked if I could go home and change my uniform. This was denied. So I remained in the yard until