Written by Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko, Manchester NH Police

I was close to the end of what had turned out to be a long midnight shift during one night early in my career when I got a call for a domestic dispute. “Verbal only at this time”the dispatcher advised me. I looked at my watch and it was just after 6:30 in the morning. “Great” I thought. I had plans with my family after work that morning and the prospect of making an arrest this late in my shift would ruin those plans. 

I had planned to take my kids out somewhere special that day since it was my last night on before my two days off, but now I thought those plans were in jeopardy. My kids would probably be up shortly and eagerly looking forward the outing we had planned once I got home. As a result, I wasn’t thrilled at getting this call so close to the end of my shift. Normally, making an arrest this close to going off duty didn’t bother me. Hell, most weekdays I had court anyway after I got off duty and my kids would be at school long before I got home. So I had to kill time and stay up for court anyway. But I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case that morning. 

Officer Dave Connare was also assigned to the call as my back up. I got to know Dave because we came on the job together and attended the Police Academy at the same time. We had a similar sense of humor, and more than once, during the police academy, whenever something stupid or hilarious was going on, if we looked at each other neither one of us could keep from bursting out in laughter. That got us in trouble a few times at the academy. In any case, I enjoyed working with Dave and especially his sense of humor. 

Earlier that night, we had gone to a neighbor complaint together in one of those brownstone apartment buildings around the 1400 block of Elm St. When we arrived, what we found were two neighbors, in the laundry room around 1AM, arguing about something. The problem was, both parties were immigrants. One was, I believe Korean, the other Greek, and although they were screaming at each other, neither of them could understand what the other was yelling about. What made it worse was neither of them could speak or understand English, so neither Dave or I could understand either of them. The situation was complicated even more, if that was even possible, by the caller, who apparently DID speak English, but declined to identify her or himself when they called. Meanwhile, these two apparently had some type of a beef going on, but what had caused it was anyone’s guess. 

Dave and I just stood there as the two of them screamed and wildly gesticulated at each other in different languages, neither of them knowing what the other was saying. Each of them took turns facing us and then yelling at us, becoming more and more frustrated presumably trying to  explain whatever the problem was. Then, after throwing up their hands in exasperation they turned back to each other and continued to argue. 

We certainly had no idea what the problem was. We tried to communicate with them both verbally and also by using hand gestures which we foolishly thought were universal and could be understood by anyone no matter where they came from or what language they spoke. We were wrong, and probably looked ridiculous ourselves. We might as well have been trying to communicate with two individuals that were both deaf and blind, or should I say Hearing and visually impaired. But they most definitely were not mute. That was for sure! We rather quickly discovered that these efforts were futile.

At one point, Dave looked at me from across the room and as this ridiculous exhibition played out we locked eyes. This turned out to be a bad thing. After looking at each other momentarily, I saw a smirk start to form on Dave’s face and that was it. Both of us lost it and we broke out laughing. I couldn’t help myself. This was a serious loss of composure, because this dispute could have been over something quite serious and required police intervention of some kind. This loss of composure, or what I came to call Police Poise after lifting the phrase from cop turned author Joseph Wambaugh, was something that should never occur. Not in front of the public, anyway. The last thing I wanted was for these two people to think that we were laughing at them. After exercising a degree of self control, we finally regained our composure but it wasn’t easy. 

By the end of the 1990’s, AT&T established a 24-hour, national language line which we could access for situations like this and by using and handing a telephone back and forth, a qualified interpreter could help us navigate our way through these types of problems. In as much as Manchester had a very diverse population, this resource proved to be invaluable in the years that followed. However, no such service existed at that point during our career. 

After spending an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what was happening, we eventually got everyone separated and back to their apartments, which is where we left them. We returned to our cruisers where I disingenuously cleared the call as having been “Solved At Scene”. Whatever it was, thankfully we never heard from that bunch for the rest of the night. I only hoped and prayed that there wasn’t a murder victim or some person in need of medical care somewhere in the building which caused the dispute between the two as we left the address. I didn’t see Dave again for the rest of the night until we both got the domestic dispute call later that morning. 

When I arrived at the domestic dispute call, Dave pulled up behind me. We never pulled up in our marked cars directly in front of an address we were sent to. We always parked a few doors away from the address or maybe around the corner for several reasons, one of them being we didn’t want to be ambushed as we exited our cars or we walked up to the front door. 

Beyond that obvious concern, it also gave us a chance to stop momentarily before we approached the location and listen and look to see if we could get a hint at of what we may be headed into. Manchester Police Officer Ralph Miller was ambushed and murdered while responding to a loud party call several years earlier as he approached the address where the party was occurring. Miller didn’t do anything wrong, and his death may have been unavoidable once his assailant made the decision to kill him, but Miller’s line of duty murder was an event that all Manchester cops knew about and learned from. 

Dave and I both got out of our cruisers and paused a moment in order to see if we could hear anything from the sidewalk. Sure enough, we heard a man and woman yelling at each other from inside. “At least these two speak English” I dryly commented to Dave, remembering the earlier call we’d been at. Dave only responded with a half hearted chuckle. I don’t think anyone who worked midnights ever found themselves in a very humorous mood by the time the sun was coming up. 

We knocked on the door, each of us standing on one side of the door or the other, another tactic we followed religiously. We never stood directly in front of a door while working. Just a few years earlier, Boston Police Officer Sherman Griffiths was shot and killed through a door when he was attempting to enter an apartment to serve a search warrant. Too many cops had lost their lives doing so throughout the country, so that was another painful lesson that law enforcement had learned. 

After a few minutes, the male half of the dispute came to the door. When he did, he made a show of inviting us into his apartment by bowing to us in an exaggerated fashion, magnanimously gesturing with his right arm indicating that we should come right in. At first I thought he was being a wise guy, but that really wasn’t the case.

As I entered the apartment, I tried to re-focus my bloodshot, midnight shift eyes, devoid of sleep, while struggling to adjust to the dimly lit, cigarette smoke filled apartment. That isn’t easy after coming in from the bright early morning sunlight. What I found in front of me may have been one of the most ridiculous scenes I’d come across yet during my then young police career.

Standing in front of me I observed a white male. But it was his attire that first caught my attention. The guy was wearing open toed sandals, inside of which he had calf length black dress socks. The bathrobe he was wearing hung down just covering his bare knees. The guy may have been naked under the bathrobe, but I decided not to look any closer to confirm or deny that fact. He had a big, thick dark bushy mustache that overlapped and had grown over the sides and the bottom of his upper lip. “This guy must have a hell of a time sipping soup or drinking milk through that thing” I thought to myself as I observed the thickly overgrown cookie duster under his nose. 

Added to that, he was wearing a thick pair of black framed glasses and to top off his fashion statement, he had a lit cigarette dangling out of one side of his mouth which bounced up and down as he immediately started to babble about something in an agitated state. His volume steadily increased as though by doing so he thought I could figure out what the hell he was jabbering about. The man’s overall appearance, to me, seemed both clownish and farcical. 

As absurd as this looked, what really caught my attention was what was perched seemingly comfortably upon the guy’s right shoulder. As I tried to size this guy up, I immediately found myself involved in a creepy staring contest with a large, multicolored bird that sat leisurely sizing me up from head to toe! It was a parrot, or some kind of a Macaw. As I cautiously entered the apartment, the guy, started pacing back and forth while trying to telling us his story of woe. 

His wife was on the other side of the kitchen. Dave unobtrusively maneuvered his way over towards her so he could get between her and the silverware drawer. The last place we wanted to end up in during a thunderous and emotional domestic dispute was in the kitchen, any kitchen, where most people keep their cutlery. We didn’t need one or the other party grabbing a steak knife or meat clever and lunging at each other with it during a moment of passion or anger. For that matter, we didn’t want either party to attack us! And by the way, edged weapons and the damage they could do scared the hell out of me!

There were plenty of times during theses types of calls when I’d seen a steak knife, box cutter, or for that matter a butcher or simple butter knife left out on a table or cabinet within reach of any of us. When I saw something like that, I tried to grab it without making a big deal. While I continued to talk or listen to whomever, I’d stick it into my Sam Browne duty belt for safekeeping until it was time to leave. 

Dave tried to speak with the wife while I tried to chat with the gentleman while his feathered friend looked on with interest. As far as the woman went, I initially didn’t deal with her. We normally would try to separate the parties involved, into different rooms if possible, and each of us would get each participant’s side of the story and then we’d compare notes together and try to decide on the most prudent course of action to take. Actions could range from a brief marriage or relationship counseling session, a lecture on the law or, if evidence of a crime became apparent, an arrest, followed by additional gathering of evidence. 

My initial observation of the woman, who we determined early on was the guy’s wife, was unremarkable. She wore some type of a nightgown, hair in curlers and was pretty upset herself. Naturally, she was also puffing on a cigarette. Beyond that nothing about her caught my attention, so I let Dave deal with her while I kept my attention on the guy while his colorful chum sat on his shoulder.  

While I talked with the guy, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the bird. I guess I couldn’t figure out which one of the two presented the biggest threat to me. The guy paced back and forth, bird on his shoulder, shutting up just long enough to take a long drag on his cigarette then placing it back in his mouth while continuing on with his story without missing a beat. 

His wife was “crazy” he assured me over and over again. He told me he had enough of her and couldn’t and wouldn’t spend another minute in the same room with her. He told me that she had just been released from the crazy house and that I needed to take her back to the asylum where she belonged. As I tried to calmly explain to the gentleman that was unlikely to happen, his feathered companion never took its eyes off me. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the thing was trying to intimidate me. Every once in a while it would spread its wings and flap them menacingly, as if trying to convey a message, all the while maintaining eye contact with me. I feared at one point that it might actually attack me! I wasn’t sure if it was legal to possess such a biped within the city of Manchester, but I certainly wasn’t about to go down that road at that hour of the morning. 

I tried to get a word in edgewise here or there, but it wasn’t easy. Whatever happened before we arrived, this guy was so wound up that I half expected him to start speaking in tongues. I was able to get the guy to tell me that his wife hadn’t assaulted or threatened him in any way, but she seemed just as crazy. In fact, the bird was the only calm resident in the apartment, but I couldn’t tell what it was thinking.  

Meanwhile, Dave was unsuccessful in trying to guide or steer the wife into another room so we could separate the two and get them to talk to us without arguing with each other. The end result was that this whole thing played out in a  cramped kitchen, sink overloaded with dirty dishes and an overflowing garbage bag sitting in one corner.  The four of us, excuse me, the five us, were clustered in the same cluttered space. 

As Dave tried to calm and question the wife in vain, she joined into the loud squabble which now included the two of them, screaming and yelling. Each accused the other of being “nuts” and “crazy”. Each tried to explain to us that the other had been in and out of mental institutions for years. Of that, I had no doubt. They continuously demanded that the other “get out!”. They wanted a divorce, they couldn’t stand the other and that went on as though Dave and I weren’t present. When Dave moved in front of her to block her she would just bend over, trying to reach around Dave and flinging her arms around Dave’s torso making gestures at her husband while she continued to yell. My ears were beginning to hurt. “I’m glad I don’t live next to them” I thought to myself at one point as the argument got even more heated and louder. 

However, the real trouble started when Dave looked over at me and shot me one of his comical, quizzical”What the F___” looks. Seeing the look on Dave’s face, glancing back at the bird then back at Dave, once again, I found myself struggling to keep from breaking out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I almost lost what little composure I worked so hard to hang onto since I first laid eyes on the giant bird and its talking, mustached companion. The last thing I wanted to do was breakout laughing in front of this couple while they argued with each other, especially at that moment!

I don’t know how we did it, but we eventually were somehow able to get both parties to shut up for a minute so we could talk to them. Dave and I talked to them while they were together. We explained the facts of life to both of them. No, I patiently explained, we are not taking either one of them back to the Nervous Hospital, which apparently, was what they really wanted. 

In fact, we explained that we would not remove one or the other from the apartment. They both lived there, and both had a right to be there. I suggested they go and sleep in separate rooms for the rest of the morning. That was a No-Go. I inquired about friends or relatives in the area and suggested maybe one of them might want to leave the house and go somewhere and come back when tempers died down. Both refused to leave their own apartment for the other. I suggested they call their counselor or their social worker, later in the morning. I also offered to give either one of them a ride to wherever if they wanted to leave for a while. None of those suggestions appealed to either one. However, at least we got them to calm down a bit and they stopped screaming at each other and us. Beyond that, we were getting nowhere. 

I started to try to figure out how we could gracefully extract ourselves from this situation. Apparently there were no crimes or threats made by either party, so thankfully for me, an arrest was not an option. I had to consider what could possibly happen between the two after we left. Would the wife be safe? Would the dispute continue and turn physical? I figured the bird could take care of himself, but I wasn’t so sure about either of its roommates. 

We continued to try mediate the argument, but no matter what we suggested neither party would budge an inch. I finally came to the conclusion that the object of the exercise, seeing that they were calmed a bit, now became keeping then from killing or otherwise harming each other after we left. Or at least I thought, somewhat cynically I admit, until the day shift came on duty and we left the building for home.  

We talked and talked. As the time approached 730 AM, in the back of my mind I was aware that there were at least two day shift guys, waiting impatiently for us to bring in our cruisers. They weren’t impatient because they were in a hurry to go to work. They were impatient because they wanted, they needed to get a cup of coffee before they got their first call of the day. Soon, the day shift commander would be looking for us and wondering why we were still screwing around. 

When we both felt somewhat comfortable enough to leave the couple alone together, we left. We warned them of arrest if either put their hands or threatened the other and also gave them a stern warning about disturbing the neighbors while they screamed at each other. 

Two things I remembered about that call was how ridiculous that guy looked walking around with the bird on his shoulder and the intense manner with which the bird studied me during my time in that apartment. It was as though the ridiculous bird thought that I was the oddity present in the apartment. 

Thankfully, we made our escape. I got home in time to spend the day as planned with my family. As I sit here and write, I recall the murder of Weymouth, Massachusetts Police Officer Michael Chesna, who, in 2018 was shot, execution style by a thug who he had been chasing on foot during his last call at the end of his midnight shift. It turned out to be his last call ever. Sadly, his family waited at home for his return to go on an outing together. I tried to picture my wife and three young kids finding themselves in the same situation. It’s still hard to comprehend. 

Officer Chesna never did make it home that morning. Sadly, I attended his funeral and obsessed long and hard about how he was lying dead in the street while his wife and children were up, packed and ready to go. The vermin that killed Chesna also shot and killed an innocent woman that was standing in her own doorway. Thinking long and hard about it now, I do realize that, beyond inconvenience, I had no valid reason to complain about being late on that or any other morning so long ago.  

When I returned to work after my days off, I was relieved to find out that apparently, neither of the two hurt each other after we left. What ever happened after that? Who knew? I never had contact with them again. However, I did experience a bit of remorse for leaving the big colorful bird behind in that apartment with that couple. After thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that the bird could probably take care of itself just fine.

By Detective (retired) Martin Swirko, Manchester NH Police Department

There was a time when the Manchester Police Department policed the Manchester Airport. That was back before Manchester Airport was officially renamed the Manchester Boston Regional Airport. It wasn’t as nice and as modern as it is today, but it was at times a pleasant  alternative to flying to certain destinations rather than flying out of Logan Airport in Boston. 

In January of 1991, I achieved a life long goal when I was sworn in at the Manchester NH PD. Manchester was never my first choice, far from it. Nevertheless, when I was offered a job at MPD after going through the testing and selection process, I accepted it. Time would tell that my decision to join MPD turned out to be a wise and fortuitous one. So it was that in 1991, after completing two police academies, I began my career as a patrol officer in Manchester.

That summer, I was pleasantly surprised just how busy and dangerous it was policing  Manchester. Although I still itched to be a cop in Boston, the fact that MPD was so busy, coupled with the fact that I ended up in the emergency room almost a dozen times during my first twelve or fourteen months on the job helped me put my desire to work as a cop in Massachusetts where I grew up on a back burner. 

Needless to say, things were looking really good for me and the MPD during that first, hot summer of 1991. However, that started to change as my first year on the job came to an end. I don’t know why, but my assignments in patrol, over the next few years became kind of tedious. While other cops I got on the job with were getting regular assignments in the busiest cars within the inner city on a regular basis, I started finding myself getting some of the more mundane patrol assignments that the PD had. Don’t misunderstand, those assignments were no less vital than working a busy route car, but they weren’t for me. I used to get really irritated when I’d come in for what I thought was going to be a busy shift on the street only to find that I would be answering 9-1-1 calls that night or shuffling papers at the front counter while I listened to the radio crackle and heard cops doing “real” police work on the street. 

One of my least favorite assignments that I started getting that first year was being assigned to Manchester Airport. As the next couple of years went by, I was assigned to the airport more and more often. I reached the point when I started getting assigned to the airport full time, four months at a time (patrol shifts were then and still are changed every four months and cops can bid on their shifts based on seniority) and I found myself working full time at the Manchester Airport both days and nights. I hated it. After all I’d gone though to get a job as a cop, all those years, here I was stuck at Manchester Airport sitting on my ass and not doing anything meaningful. I was not happy. I came to the conclusion that I must have pissed some boss off at some point, but for the life of me I couldn’t imagine who, how or why. 

Back in the 1990’s there was normally only one cop assigned to the Airport during any shift. Usually you didn’t see another cop unless your supervisor came out to check on you and spent a bit of time walking around with you as you did your rounds. Now I have to explain a few things about being assigned to that airport that made the assignment particularly disagreeable to me. 

First of all, we had a few old timers that just loved to be assigned to the airport. One of those cops was known to many of the airline employees as “Officer Muffin” because whenever he came on duty, the first thing he did was take his blueberry muffin, place it in the toaster oven which was located in the janitorial office and heat it up for breakfast. During that time it was kind of an unwritten rule that Officer “Muffin” (who was a good guy, but at the end of his career) not be bothered until had had his muffin and coffee. We had another old timer who was assigned to the airport full time who had a pilots license so he loved working the airport. He just loved hanging around the airport, Stead Aviation and those who worked there. For him, this was his dream job. That was all fine and good for those guys but it wasn’t for me. 

Then there was the story of a young cop (single) who talked an attractive female flight attendant into giving him a “Tour” of an empty, parked airliner. Or maybe it was the other way around. In any case, while they were busy on their “Tour” up inside the airliner, someone on the ground, assuming the airliner was empty, moved the stairway or jetway away from the airliner effectively trapping both him and flight attendant on the jet. Eventually, after a period of time, the two were able to exit the jet. The cop was a bit embarrassed, and it was with a heavy sigh of relief that he was able to escape the jet without getting a call or being summoned by anyone to perform any kind of police duties. The fact was that other than answering a parking complaint it was unlikely that he wold have been called anywhere else for any other reason while assigned to the Airport. 

The reason I know this story is true is because I knew the cop involved and he told me the story. But like so many other oddities, the story of this cop becoming trapped inside the airliner on duty with a flight attendant was just the kind of thing that becomes legendary within any police department, and sure enough this story became part of MPD lore throughout the years. Sure enough, as time went on, I would find myself involved in an incident and that story has been told and retold from cop to cop for many years. Mine wasn’t quite so glamorous as being trapped alone with a great looking flight attendant, but it did get more than a few chuckles whenever told, but it also brought down the wrath of both the Manchester Airport Authority and for a brief period the bosses at the MPD. 

Manchester-Boston Regional Airport today is a clean, modern facility, much bigger than it was back when I got stuck there and it is a pleasure to fly into and out of. It is policed by the Londonderry NH Police Airport Unit (since the passenger terminal itself was located in the town of Londonderry) assisted by civilian security personnel, and these days it probably wouldn’t be the worst assignment to get and work there regularly. But not so much back then.

Once I made peace (kinda) with getting stuck at the Airport, I decided I’d try to make the best of it. There were and still are a few unique oddities about the Manchester Airport. First of all, the airport itself is owned and run by the Manchester Airport Authority, and as such belongs to the city of Manchester. The problem is and always was that part of airport sits within the city of Manchester, and therefore Hillsborough County, and the other half sits within the town of Londonderry, which is in Rockingham County. If one has any idea of the jurisdictional issues that this causes, you’d begin to see how complicated simple things can become. 

In order to deal with those issues, a somewhat cumbersome arrangement had been made so that the Manchester Police had jurisdiction throughout the airport, both the Londonderry portion as well as Manchester. Manchester PD would be the primary agency to respond to any incidents, routine or major and we had a captain who was responsible for the policing of the airport. That captain, thankfully for the cops that worked the airport, didn’t work at the airport, he worked at HQ. Despite this set up, sometimes there was jurisdictional confusion. 

Settling into my new assignment reluctantly, I read and absorbed every rule and regulation that I was expected to deal with and enforce during my time at the airport. That included the Airport Rules, Regulations and its SOP. It also included MPDs SOPs regarding the airport and the FAA Federal rules and regulations. Needless to say, that was a lot of material that I needed to soak up, but I did my best. I should also add that I never received any type of training at all for this assignment, I was just dumped there one night, so it shouldn’t be surprising that I made an occasional mistake while assigned there. 

One day shift I was called over to the US Air Service Counter and told that a passenger who was in a hurry and a bit irritated that he had to go through the screening process had made a sarcastic comment about carrying a bomb with him. The airline station manager requested that I go onto the plane and remove the passenger. I radioed in to the station what I had and what I was about to do. They sent a patrol sergeant out to the airport. I did as requested, and escorted the passenger back into the terminal. I questioned the passenger about the bomb comment and he admitted to making it and told me it was just a joke. In the meantime, the airline banned him from flying with US Air, and because of this he never did make it to Florida that day to join other family members for a vacation. I ran the passenger for warrants, he had no record, so I cut him loose and wrote a detailed police report. All this was done with the approval and oversight of the sergeant who was now on the scene. End of story, so I thought at the time. 

That day was the last day for that airline station manager in Manchester. The next day he started at a new assignment at Logan Airport in Boston. But he didn’t leave without trying to screw me. It turned out that his final act as station manager in Manchester was to file complaint against me with the PD. The station manager said I was derelict of duty, didn’t know what I was doing, failed to enforce federal law and a few other things I can’t remember. 

The next day I was called into the captain’s office and read the riot act. More than that, he told me that the department had opened and internal investigation on me and that I was in a lot of trouble. He also gave me a good ass chewing for good measure, then sent me back to the airport. Shit, I thought. I’m fairly new on the job and I’m already on my way out and I didn’t even know what I had done wrong! Furthermore, even though I had joined the union, as a probationary patrolman the union, as a matter of policy, refused to represent me during the internal. To make a long story short, the station manager’s major complaint was that I hadn’t arrested the passenger that made the joke about having a bomb. What did I know? He didn’t commit a violation of any New Hampshire law that I could determine, and since it wasn’t a criminal threat, I didn’t know of any circumstance where I could have arrested that guy. I pulled the guy off the flight, served him notice that he was not allowed to fly or come on to US Air property in the future and completed a detailed report. I believe the thing that saved me at MPD was that a sergeant was present and approved of the action I took. I believe he even suggested to handle it that way. I was told later that I should have arrested him, but no one was able to point out any law or statute that covered that incident. 

Bottom line was, I now knew how difficult policing the airport could become, and I went back to review and learn every law, local, state and federal that applied to airports. And I vowed never to find myself in a similar situation again. I also learned another harsh lesson, and that was, no matter how friendly all the airline employees could be, I could never trust them fully. Any one of them would be happy to bury a knife in my back if given the opportunity. 

One day the airport director sent for me, and he took me to the areas around the terminal where the various airline employees were parking their cars illegally. He pointed out that these employees were parking in a posted no parking area regularly and he wanted me to tag each vehicle. I refused to, telling him since they’ve been parking there all along, I would first go to each airline and tell them that effective the next day, I would be tagging any car that was parked those spots. Needless to say, they weren’t happy. I apologized but I laid down the law.

The airport director was livid that I wouldn’t tag those cars on the spot, but I held my ground. Needless to say he made another complaint against me. My next shift I returned and the same cars were parked in the same spaces. I tagged each one of them. The airline employees, as a group, refused to talk to me after that unless it was business related. Oh, well, screw them all, I thought. I was nice enough to give them a warning which they declined to heed. Meantime I was called in for another inquisition. Surprisingly, the PD backed me up saying as a police officer I had the discretion to issue the tickets or not to issue them. But the fun continued. 

One afternoon, I was sent to the UPS facility located on Airport property in which a worker had been struck and run over by a forklift. I responded to it like I would to any motor vehicle crash involving injury. Once I got to the scene I watched, with both wonder and amusement as the following entities rolled up to the scene, lights and sirens wailing. They included Manchester Fire, Manchester EMS, Londonderry Police, Londonderry Fire, Derry (NH) Fire, East Derry EMS, Airport Crash-Fire Rescue (both engines and ambulance) and for good measure, the Hillsborough NH Sheriff’s Department. So, as I was taking all this in, a sergeant from Londonderry PD walks up to me and in sort of a confrontational way tells me “Hey! You know this accident is ours, right?” No “HI, how are ya?” No civil greeting one cop would expect from another, just a forceful declaration that the Londonderry Police Department  demands to take this accident. Now the last thing I wanted to do was do this accident and report so it certainly didn’t hurt my feelings any. I said “Sure Sergeant. Absolutely! If you guys want to take it, it’s all yours!” I then watched as that sergeant grabbed another forlorn Londonderry patrolman and ordered him to take the accident. The Londonderry guy shot me a look that was half helpless and half angry. I can only figure he thought his own sergeant just screwed him by sticking him with this accident. I giggled to myself and went back to my cruiser and got the hell out.

So, my days and nights at the airport droned on and I did the best I could to amuse myself and make time pass. I had my own cruiser there. I had to carry two radios on me at all times, one for the PD the other for the airport authority. I could talk to the FAA and the tower on the second radio. I was incessantly tortured on the airport authority radio as the second in command at the Airport drove around and constantly demanded I respond to wherever and write parking tickets whenever he saw someone parked illegally. Because I was tagging so many airline employees for illegally parking their cars, they really started to hate me. I mean, it really created problems for me with the airlines. 

I was regularly being called into the captain’s office to answer complaints made about me by both airline employees and patrons who were angry I tagged their cars. Meanwhile, the airport director complained I wasn’t writing enough parking tickets. I felt like a ping pong ball getting whacked back and forth as each complaint went on my monthly evaluation. One night a sergeant approached me and told me the Mayor was getting complaints from the public and he wanted us to write less parking tickets to keep the airport ” customer friendly”. “Which is it?” I respectfully asked. Who did I work for?-I didn’t get an answer. 

Soon I started to get tired of everyone. The patrons who thought that the parking rules were for everyone but them, the airport director and assistant director, both of whom went out of their way to make me miserable while thinking I worked and took orders from them. The airline employees who came to despise me for enforcing both local and federal laws, especially parking regulations. In fact, the only people I got along with were the people who screened luggage at the gates. This was pre TSA, but I found that many of the travelers didn’t like having to go though the screening process, which was much simpler than today, so my presence at the gates was always appreciated. 

During that time period, one of the things that Manchester Airport always was proud of, and something they always bragged about was that they were the Airport that never closed. Winter storms, in particular, no matter how bad the blizzard was, Manchester kept their runways cleared and never, ever closed. That was actually kind of a disingenuous claim on their part because whenever a particularly bad storm hit the Northeast, every major airport around normally closed and had long delays, so it really didn’t matter if Manchester was open because everywhere from Chicago to NYC to Boston was closed, so no one was flying in or out of Manchester in any case. But, they did stay open. Until one day shift after I came on duty.

Daily I reported for duty, went through the motions as the clock slowly clicked away, hoping that maybe I could snag an overtime shift on the street that night, lest my street skills start to deteriorate.

One day a taxi driver approached me and pointed out an apparently abandoned suitcase he’d seen sitting on the pavement outside the terminal entrance. I thanked him and stood for a minute and sized up the situation. I know what I did next was not the smartest thing I did during my police career, but I really didn’t think that this piece of baggage was actually a bomb or a threat to anyone’s safety. I just figured some unfortunate traveler set it down and left it behind. Of course, this was well before 9/11, so terrorism in this country wasn’t as big a threat as it has been since. At least we didn’t think so, especially in Manchester, NH. I picked the bag up, and carried it inside to one of the screening points and had the bag go through the X-Ray machine. That’s when the real trouble began. 

I looked at the X-Ray and there was one prominent feature that jumped out at me. It was some kind of a stick-like device with a wire wrapped around it. This certainly caught my attention. I asked the person doing the scan if he would call this item suspicious. Now you have to remember this was before the advent of TSA and the screeners worked for a private security company hired to man the passenger gate and screen luggage. The screener refused to commit himself. I asked him several times, I wanted him to confirm or at least validate my feeling there we now had a problem that I needed to take action on. He refused to do so, telling me he was not going to offer an opinion. I sarcastically thought that if the thing blew up while we were standing there, he might have wished he had offered an opinion. I finally asked him whether or not, if I wasn’t present, and he ran this suitcase through the X-ray machine and saw what we were looking at during that moment, would he deem the suitcase suspicious and would he conduct further screening? It was like pulling teeth, but eventually he reluctantly told me “probably”. So, it was not only my opinion, and at the time that was important to me.  

So, having read all the airport and FAA regulations, I knew what I had to do, and much to the chagrin of the airport authorities I swung into action. The first action I took was to contact the tower and immediately close the airport to both incoming and departing flights. I also notified the airport crash-fire department. That really caught the director’s attention. He already hated me enough before I shattered his record for never closing. As far as he was concerned, this was the last straw. 

The next thing I did, and I kid you not, I followed the FAA procedures and carried the suspicious item (and potential bomb) out to the middle of a runway and placed it there after getting everyone and everything off the runways and tarmacs. Sounds foolish now, that was the standard procedure back then. 

As I gingerly placed the bag on the pavement I slowly backed away from it trying my best not to trigger the explosive device that may be wired inside. After cordoning off the area, I contacted MPD by phone (i knew enough not to make any radio transmissions that could detonate the device. I was taught that much during my training) and informed them what I had going on. The shift commander grabbed the phone and told me not to do anything until he sent a sergeant out to take charge. 

Too late I somberly but somewhat gleefully informed the captain. I got the bag isolated and airport shut down tight as a drum. All this while the airport director and his assistant were screaming at me in the background demanding to know where I thought I got the authority to do what I did. As any good cop, I was able to quote him the FAA regulation I was following along with his own airport SOP for such an incident. He was beside himself, and apparently not al all concerned about the safety of his employees or travelers. All he cared about was that his reputation, commercials and advertisements proclaiming that Manchester Airport never closed were now worthless.

The sergeant arrived, and he was none too pleased that I had taken this action on my own. Most bosses at MPD at the time never wanted us to act on our own, especially if that action could turn into something controversial. After all, I’m a lowly patrolman and a fairly new one at that. 

However after pouring over the relevant regulations and SOPs, he called the shift commander and told him that I had actually taken the correct actions once I determined, with good reason, that the bag was indeed suspicious. The shift commander was appeased for the moment and told the sergeant to carry on. So, the next thing he did, since we did not have a bomb disposal unit in Manchester, was to call the New Hampshire State Police so they could activate and send their bomb unit to Manchester.

While waiting for SP to arrived, I was called to the terminal entrance to speak with a woman. The woman told me she had left her bag at the terminal and she came back to see if perhaps someone had found it. I did not yet tell her that someone had indeed found it, but got a description of the bag and because it matched, I took her to a building and handed to a pair of binoculars and asked her if she could identify the bag laying on the runway all by itself.  

YES, she exclaimed, with a combination of relief and curiosity. What was her bag doing out there? She didn’t leave it there, she left it at the terminal. I ignored her questions for the time being and asked her if she could remember what was in the bag or if anyone had given it to her to carry etc. etc. Somewhat annoyed, she ticked off a list of items she thought she may have packed, and when she was done she added, as an afterthought, “Oh Yeah. I also packed my curling iron in that bag. I need that and I certainly hope you haven’t lost it…” 

Well as you can imagine, after a safe and complete inspection of the contents of the bag by the experts summoned to the airport, it was determined that the suspiciously wired device that I had seen in the X-Ray was in fact her curling iron with the cord and plug wrapped around it. Who knew? Certainly not me. But, the incident did add a little excitement to the day and my shift mercifully came to and end. She got her curling Iron back and I never did pick up an overtime shift that night. But, that wasn’t the end of that incident. 

The next day, I was called into the office of the MPD captain who acted as the liaison between the Manchester Airport and MPD. He went up one side of me and down the other. He told me that the airport director had made a formal complaint against me and the actions I had taken without any proper guidance. He further told me that I didn’t have the authority to shut down the airport. He told me I should have done nothing until I notified both the airport director and MPD. He also said a full blown internal investigation would be conducted and opined that this was the last stunt I would ever pull and I might be done. Apparently I had aircraft circling the airport, unable to land all afternoon and flights and airspace backed up between Chicago, New York, Boston and Montreal. I hoped he meant I was done at the airport but I had the bad feeling he meant my new police career, was done. I hadn’t been around too long, but I now found myself being the subject of another internal investigation, one of the biggest fears any policeman has. 

I tried to defend my actions, and respectfully explained the regulations I had followed and why I did what I did, when I and why I took each step. The captain wasn’t impressed. He sent me away telling me I had done it now. I was felling low, but at the same time believed I had done what I was supposed to have done. 

Sometime later, maybe a week our more, I was called back into the captain’s office. Have a seat, Marty, the captain pleasantly greeted me for once. He went on to tell me that the internal investigation was now complete. He stated the investigation showed that I followed all guidance and SOPs in effect, and that I had taken the appropriate actions therefore the complaint was closed as unfounded. Next time call a supervisor first. “Really? I should wait for a supervisor to show up and hope the bomb doesn’t go off in the meantime?’ I thought wise to keep that thought to myself. So, now this complaint was now added to my personnel file for doing nothing more that my job. 

In fact as time went on I  found that the first thing many patrons did after arriving at the airport or picking up patrons, after trying to talk me out of or intimidate me into taking back the parking tickets I wrote was to go to MPD and file a formal complaint. The conversation that followed usually went as follows:

Complainant: The officer was rude and unprofessional. Q: Well, did he use profanity? Answer-Well no, not really, Q-Did he raise his voice or threaten you in any way? A- No, not really. Q-So what did Officer Swirko do that was unprofessional? A-I just didn’t like his attitude. But the real reason that those people were complaining was because I wouldn’t take the ticket back, therefore I had a poor attitude. I could arrest someone, write them a $72.00 ticket for speeding with no reaction, but nothing set off otherwise law abiding citizens and tax-payers more than a $10 dollar parking ticket. They considered it a gross abuse of authority and their constitutional rights as American citizens. Result in every case-Unfounded! But you can believe each complaint went into my personnel file and monthly evaluation regardless whether they were unfounded or not. Here I had a year and a half on the job and at first glance at my file one would think I had an incredible discipline problem. 

Getting back to closing the airport, the captain did tell me, off the record, that I probably used poor judgment by picking up the bag and having it X-Ray’d. I knew he was correct but at the time, I wanted to determine if the bag was a genuine threat or not before I took drastic action.  Besides, can you imagine the airport’s outrage if I had shut the place down, without taking the X-Ray?  

In any case, I was cleared of all charges and vindicated once again. You’da thought that captain, the airport staff etc. would know what their own SOPs were for that type of incident. But it took an investigation to figure that out. Several weeks later, that same captain called me in. Suddenly I was doing a good job (the airport director didn’t think so) so he was planning on sending me to the FAA School out in Oklahoma City with a few other guys and then I’d be assigned permanently to Manchester Airport. He said this like it was a good thing! No, No, I begged. Not that. I finally told him that if I got assigned there permanently I’d resign and get my old job back. And I meant it. Fortunately, I never did get assigned there permanently, but for the next couple of years I worked there off and on, more than I would have liked to. It was only when the airport director had enough of me (I just started to ignore him and had a few public scenes with him and one day I threatened to lock him up for disorderly conduct) he told MPD he didn’t ever want to see my shadow again. Thankfully, I was banned from airport duty. Eventually, the Rockingham County Sheriff’s department took over policing the airport and I never had to go back there to work again. 

One last thing. That airport director, who I came to despise due to the way he treated me, eventually left Manchester and became the director of a major airport in a major city in the Northeast. Imagine my delight when I read a short time later that he had not only been fired from that job, the city police had to respond and forcibly remove him form his office and airport property. I only wished I had the chance to do that! Since then I’ve come to believe what goes around comes around. And my closure of that airport became part of department lore. The story was told many times along with tons of laughter. “Remember the time Swirko closed the airport and all the trouble he caused…?”

(After all, I was OFD…)

By Detective (Retired) Marty Swirko, Manchester, NH Police Department

I had made it through my freshman year at Northeastern University in Boston, but just barely. My lifestyle had started to take a toll on my studies. It wasn’t because I was partying or having fun. It was just the opposite. I got to the point where I was becaming very resentful of the students that I had gotten to know that had their way paid, living on campus, having a good time and not really putting a lot of emphasis into their studies. Was I envious? Absolutely! But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, but I was never a kid that quit when things got tough, so the decision to leave wasn’t easy for me. 

I was carrying a full academic load, I believe it was either 4 or 5 classes per semester, and I was working two separate part time jobs as well. At one point during my second semester I became homeless again, and this time it appeared as though I was truly out on the street. I had parted ways with most of my high school friends so “couch surfing”or in some cases car surfing for days at a time at their homes was no longer an option. To add to all these problems was the fact that I had to commute to and from school and to my jobs by subway, adding hours onto my days that were already full. 

Anyone who has read some of my earlier stories knows that one of my jobs was with the Grocery / Dairy chain in the Northeast and Florida called Cumberland Farms. They would also know during that year in college I was robbed at gunpoint twice, and in both incidents hostages were taken and to this day I feel fortunate that we all survived those incidents. 

My second job, which the university obtained for me as part of their co-op work study program was as a security guard with the former Burns International Security Corporation. That job had me doing overnight shifts each Friday and Saturday at a women’s residence in Boston. My plan was to study during those shifts, but like many things the job didn’t turn out that way. When I wasn’t making rounds I had trouble staying awake at my post in the lobby. Saturday mornings I got off, took the subway to Cumberland’s in Quincy Point and open that store  for the day. 

Sunday mornings I’d get off duty once again, take the subway home, sleep until two and work at the store from three until 9 PM when I closed it. Then it was back to Northeastern first thing Monday mornings. In addition to supporting myself, there was tuition and related expenses which is why I had to keep the two jobs. 

I also went out for both Cross Country and Winter Track, which was the main reason I chose Northeastern University over my other opportunities. However, the coach had very little sympathy for the fact that I had to work and couldn’t devote enough time to practice every day, so ending what had started as a promising collegiate career as a runner was the first casualty of my post high school plan. By the spring of that year I knew something had to give, and eventually I decided it was going to be college.

I decided not to go back to school the following September. It wasn’t really a hard decision to make. I still owed Northeastern money (as it turned out, I wasn’t able to pay them off completely for a few years after I got married) and my academic achievements, although satisfactory, weren’t outstanding. So, I was done with college and at the time I figured if I ever got myself stable, I could always go back. As an aside, I will mention here that during my time at Northeastern I took mandatory courses in both Economics and Political Science, and surprisingly I found both interesting and I’ve always had an interest in both subjects during my entire adult life. Also, the credits I did earn I was able to apply to my promotional packets during my time in the Army, so my single year in college wasn’t a complete waste. 

During that timeframe I met a guy working at Cumberland Farms that I would go on to become a life long friend with, and we were close for many, many years, until his untimely death a few years ago. Patrick Houston and I finally got an apartment together in West Quincy (Massachusetts) And so began one of the strangest and life defining years I may have experienced during my entire lifetime. That year took many strange twists and turns. I was 19 years old when that year began, and I found myself trying to scratch out an existence and figure it all out. Looking back on that year, it seems as though I was at rock bottom in life, then somehow I soared to new heights and the beginning of what became the life I enjoy today just 18 months later!

Pat and I got an apartment, and because I was going to work full time, I needed a car to commute and I was eventually able to accomplish that. I asked my supervisor at Cumberland Farms if I could go to work full time. He thought I was a good part time employee, dependable, hardworking and honest so I had no problem there. I’d been with the company for about a year so he brought me on for the summer as a Vacation Manager and committed to me that if I worked out he would recommend I become a regular full time manager somewhere. That was fine with me. I had my next plan.

My first assignment was to run a store in suburban Rockland Massachusetts while it’s manager took his vacation. It was a beautiful store, friendly people, modern, clean, actually air conditioned and running it was pretty easy. This store was not like the older stores located in crime ridden neighborhoods within and around the city of Boston. Already a veteran of two armed robberies, if all my assignments were like this I thought, I’d have it made. But it wasn’t to be. 

One nice thing that happened during my time in Rockland was that I met a woman named Diane who was also a Cumberland Farms store manager in a nearby town. She was a few years older then me, pretty, and she walked in wearing jeans and a halter top. I found I liked her and liked being around her. One afternoon she stopped in the Rockland store on her way home from her store, struck up a conversation with me, hung around and finally when I was relieved she offered to give me a ride to the bank with my daily deposit. I said sure, why not? 

I climbed into her red Mustang convertible, top down, and headed to the bank. After making the deposit, she then informed me that she was kidnapping me and I was stuck with her for the night! I was still pretty shy around women, but I knew a good thing when I saw it so we hung out together for the rest of the evening. We hit it off immediately, and we dated for a bit. She was fun loving and for some reason she liked me. We had a good time. One day I told her that I really liked her a lot, and her response to me was “Marty, I like you. I like you a lot. I love hanging out with you and you’re a lot of fun. But I have no interest in becoming involved in a serious relationship. And that was the end of that. She left me shaking my head, but we remained friends especially since we worked for the same company. I know she left Massachusetts shortly after that and I never had any contact with or heard anything of her since. They say things happen for a reason, and in this case, especially when I look back on it today, I came to believe it. Later that summer I met a woman I fell in love with whom I would marry and am still married! 

I think my time running the Rockland store was a test, and when I was done I was sent to store number 3418 (I don’t know why I remember all these store numbers but I do) which was located on Hyde Park Ave in Roslindale, which is a neighborhood in the southwestern part of Boston. The previous manager had been fired and I was made the temporary manager there and asked to clean it up and get it running good again. Another test. I was fine with that and did my best. All the inner city stores at the time were open from 9AM and closed at 7 PM, and this store was no exception. The crime rates in these areas at that time were so high that we had to lock up the store, steel grates and all and get out of Dodge before it got dark. Apparently, I did a decent job because my supervisor used to bring supervisors in from other areas to see my store and brag to them about the job I did. He also took credit for finding me. The truth was I loved running that store and I really bought into working for Cumberland Farms during that time. 

I was lent out to different supervisors and sent to stores that needed to be cleaned up, and to hire and train employees at those locations. It was a lot of responsibility for a 19 year old, at least I thought it was. As time went on, I was sent to the Cumberland Farms Corporate Manager Training School, and after completing it, I was assigned as a real, full time manager, commission and all. The only problem was that I didn’t stay in Roslindale. They moved me down the street to a tiny, filthy, low volume store, located on the same street, Hyde Park Ave, but in Hyde Park. 

Store number 3398 was on the corner of Hyde Park Ave and Arlington Street. It had been run for many years by an old timer, but he was very unorganized and had lost his edge. They moved him out to another assignment and decided I would be the one to clean up and get this store back up and running to company standards. Old Joe Driscoll was a character. He’d been around for a long time. He had been shot three times during armed robberies, and led the district in armed robberies which was saying a lot! One time, a local kid came in and tried to stick Joe up with a shot gun. Joe recognized the kid, despite the mask he was wearing, then dumped his trash can over the kids head and chased him out the door telling him not to come back! I asked Joe about that incident and he just told me he knew who the kid was, so he just chased him out. He said the kid was harmless! 

I was disappointed about losing the Roslindale store, and even more disappointed with this dump, especially after having worked at such a nice store in Rockland during the summer. But, I sucked it up and did my best. In fact, I had done so well that after a few months they decided to move me back to 3418 in Roslindale, and I was ecstatic about that!

My “managerial” career took a strange twist. We had stores all around Boston that were very difficult to run. Dishonest and lazy employees, high crime rates, shoplifting, burglaries and armed robberies were common. So, throughout my time running the Roslindale store, I would be sent for a week or two at a time to a problem store, hire a staff, clean it up and getting it running well again. Managers that were willing to work in my store, often would refuse to work in these stores that were in pretty bad neighborhoods throughout Boston. I came to embrace this role and became to be known as the district store fixer. The bosses would send a temporary manager to my store, I’d go to the problem store, get it up and running and still get the sales commission for 3418 that was increasing steadily. 

Things were getting crazy in Boston. Forced bussing started that year, our store on Blue Hill Ave near Morton Street was firebombed one night while it was closed and burned to the ground. We lost another store to a fire on River St. in Hyde Park, a store manger in the other Roslindale store on Washington St and Archdale Rd. was shot and killed during a hold up. If that wasn’t enough a customer had been shot and killed in one of our stores on Bussey St. in Dedham.

There was another store in particular (one of many) that was an on-going headache for the company, and it was store number 3374, which was located in Codman Sq. in the Dorchester section of the city. Most managers refused to work there, and the few that did either quit after a week or two, or, if they stayed on for any period of time they would eventually get caught stealing. So, I was asked regularly to go down there and “clean it up”. So I did.

3374 was located in an all black neighborhood. Like all the Boston stores it was open only 9AM-7PM, which was a good thing.  It was small, newer than my stores either in Hyde Park or Roslindale but cramped for space and although newer, appeared tired and worn out. It did have an incredibly high sales volume. It was located in a small strip mall on Washington Street across from Robert Hall’s Clothing Store and the next unit contained Lawson’s Barber Shop. The proprietors and customers were all black, and after they got to know me we all got along well enough. In fact, every time I came back to clean up the store, the owner and barbers would greet me and welcome me back to the neighborhood. We often talked about the problems we had in common operating in that location and as a result became pretty friendly.

The first day I arrived and opened the store I realized that with the exception of a few employees from near by Dorchester District Court during court hours, I would not see a white customer from open to close. It was an adjustment for me, but I had no problem with it. The other stores I had worked at were located in low income and often mixed neighborhoods, but here in addition to the operational problems I was faced with, I had to get used to the idea that I was the only white guy around.  I immediately saw how challenging this would all be. All day, I had to chase the local kids around the store as they attempted to steal from it, and I figured they were testing me. The customers were, at first, mostly unfriendly, not really rude but cold and clearly not welcoming.

That first day, as I locked up the store and headed out, I got stoned by a bunch of black kids who were on the roof of the store waiting for me. They threw rocks at me and my car, calling me honky and white MF and telling me not to come back. Where they got the rocks from I don’t know, but they had quite a supply of them on the roof which they generously showered me with. I got out of there fast! I now understood two things: One, I knew why no one would work there, and Two, if I was going to hire a manager and part time employees, they had better be Black. At least that was the conclusion I came to. The kids who stoned me were about 12 or 13 years old at the most. They were mostly the same kids that busted my balls all day.

As unhappy as I was, I went back the next day and the day after that, and each day became a challenge in itself to get through. I guess I was too hard headed to be intimidated. As time went on, and after me chasing those kids around and threatening to kick their asses, they started to behave themselves and once they realized I was staying, they’d eventually come and go without giving me a hard time. I also had to get the various vendors in line as they were used to having their way with whomever happened to be running the store up to that point. 

The regular black customers become a bit more friendly and accepting, and it didn’t hurt when I started stocking various items that black customers preferred that we didn’t usually carry in white neighborhoods. Customers would ask for something, and when I got it, it really helped. I remember that grooming and hair products that were marketed specifically for Black people along with certain foods and snacks were some of the things I was able to stock that previous managers did not, and the chain never carried in their stores located in white neighborhoods. I got a little help from the barbers next store, introducing me to their customers and so forth. 

As far as the kids went, they eventually became less hostile and often stopped by multiple times a day just to hang and chat. Things started to calm down but it was still a tough place to run and I wanted to get back to my own store, the sooner the better. I did several stints at that store throughout the next year, so I was never a stranger when I did return and the locals would often ask me where I’d been, sometimes with a twinkle in their eyes.

One Saturday morning I opened the store, and by this time things were running smoother and I was looking forward to my next day off. Around 10 AM a black guy I had never seen before came in and asked me for a pack of Kools (cigarettes). Kools were the highest selling brand in that particular store, and I turned, got his pack from the cigarette rack that was behind me. When I turned to hand them over I was facing the business end of a .38 Caliber revolver. Here we go again, I silently thought. I’m not sure how many times I’d been robbed before that day, there were the two times in Quincy, for sure. 

Much to my surprise, the robber was very calm and collected. He told me everything would be OK as long as I did what he told me to do. He told me he wanted all the money in the cash register and in the safe. I emptied the register and put the money in a paper bag as he directed. At that exact moment the group of kids that threw rocks at me on my first day and I became friendly with burst through the door. They looked at the scene that was unfolding and one of the kids ran out the door screaming to announce “THE DUDE IS RIPPING OFF THE MAN! THE DUDE IS RIPPING OFF THE MAN!’ More kids then flocked to the store. And as I opened the safe and emptied the TOP compartment only, the kids all lined up and started giving high fives to the gunman who, with one hand kept his gun pointed at me, and returning the high fives with his other. 

After the celebratory greetings slowed down and petered out the gunman calmly told me to walk to the back room, not turn around and count to ten before I came out. 

I started to walk as he directed when suddenly one of the 12 years old burst out with this beauty “Make sure you get he money from the bottom of the safe! Thats where they keep it!” The gunman then yelled at me, no longer calm “FREEZE MOTHERFUCKER!” I froze, put my hands up, cringed and waited for the bullet which was surely coming to my back. I truly believed for that moment I was a dead man. The gunman paused for what seemed like an eternity, then exclaimed “FUCK IT” and ran out of the store. I was spent. My hands started to shake and I was some kind of pissed at those kids. They took off and I called the police. Eventually two Boston cops showed up. They sauntered in and gave me the impression I had intruded on their coffee break and passively listened to my tale. 

After What I had dealt with previously, in Quincy with the Quincy cops, as well as Boston cops at other stores, I was a bit taken back by their attitude and behavior. Clearly they had no interest in what had just happened to me, took my information and the only words of consolation they had for me was to chastise me for working there and inferring that I brought this upon myself. “What did you expect, working here” they asked me. They took my information and left. That was the only thing I ever heard about that robbery. To be fair, I figure those cops were probably burned out working in a tough neighborhood, but still their attitude and lack of empathy for what I’d just been through irritated me. I always remembered it later, during the 28 years I spent as a cop.  

I went back to work there that day and a few more times after that. When I saw the kids later I was kind of pissed at them and told them they could have got me killed. That didn’t seem to bother them, but they did ask me what I expected them to do? And anyway, It wasn’t my money. Talk about a blasé attitude. 

Well, I continued to work for Cumberland Farms but eventually left them due to a pay dispute. But it wasn’t before I was robbed several more times and got into confrontations with various characters that, when I think about it today, I feel both lucky to have survived each of those robberies. At the same time I shake my head about some of the crazy confrontations and things I did to keep those stores running and protecting them. I would never say I was fearless back then, but I was certainly more than happy to take on and challenge all the local thugs in those neighborhoods.

I was never a tough guy by any measure, but after all, I was OFD (Originally From Dorchester) and spent my teen years in Quincy Point. Maybe, for those reasons and a few more, it was just in my DNA… 

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

Manchester, New Hampshire Police Dept.

I certainly don’t have to tell anyone that’s spent anytime on the job that the job itself is full of both hight points and low points during your career. Looking back, I’d venture to guess that, depending on a cop’s assignments during his or her career, the lows probably outnumber the highs. At least that’s how I feel when I look back and take stock on my own 28 year career. 

Don’t get me wrong, I do look back at my career very fondly, and I’d certainly do it all over again if I was transported back in time and got the chance to repeat my decision. I don’t think I’d do that job today, but that another discussion for another time. 

As my career progressed, I came to a few conclusions about police work, generally speaking. As far as working in Uniform Patrol on the street I found that I spent much of my time being a street historian (if I can borrow that term from one of my former partners) writing police reports that ranged from people shoveling snow into their neighbors back yard, local disputes all the way up to homicides and everything you could imagine in between. You get to see and report on incidents that are monotonous, repetitive ho-hum events, then suddenly, and often without warning you find yourself in a ghastly harrowing situation. Many of the reports I had been required to write didn’t even involve criminal acts. Spending my career in Manchester NH, being as busy as it was, afforded me the opportunity to make multiple arrests during any given shift. Despite this, over the years, like all Manchester cops, I made many meaningful arrests while working in patrol.

However, as time went on, I came to the conclusion that as far as really doing meaningful police work, that is, being able to really help a member of the public in a significant way, well, I was lucky if I got the opportunity do something I felt was consequential happened only once in a while. Furthermore, I came to the conclusion that a significant percentage of what we did on a daily basis amounted to pure bullshit. I guess we can argue what that percentage was. Naturally, being visible out in the community had a value. And we tried our best to keep the local criminal population from killing each other, as well as robbing, stealing from or assaulting innocent persons and taxpayers as well. I felt early on that I was acting more like a circus lion tamer on the street keeping the animals at bay than a peace keeper. Now I know that sounds very cynical, and maybe it is to a point, but it’s how I began to feel after a few years on the job. That was especially true as I spent so much of both my work days and days off in the courts, often leaving court shaking my head.  

I don’t think there was ever a cop who did the job for any period of time that didn’t, at least at some point, question the value of what he or she did day in and day out. Despite this, I don’t think there is a cop, boss or citizen out there who knew me that can claim I ever developed a bad attitude on the job. At times, It was hard to keep from becoming hardened to the things I saw on a regular basis, but I always had and still do possess the attitude that no matter how I felt personally, I would never, ever tarnish the badge I wore or profession I still loved and respected. I always tried my best to appear approachable and professional to the citizens I had sworn to protect.

Getting back to the highs and lows, I am reminded of a day early in my career that serves as a perfect example as to how things can go on any given day on this job. 

One Saturday Day shift, I was assigned to a walking route which at that time was called Route 9. For anyone who is familiar with Manchester, Route 9 back then ran roughly form Bridge St to Hanover St, and Beech St to probably Lincoln St. Central High School was located approximately in the center of the route, but that’s not why the route existed. Route 9 was never listed in our two-volume SOP for MPD. Rather, it was created, informally, to offset the spread of drugs, prostitution and other accompanying street crimes as the drug problem started to spread outward from what was then called the Center City or the “Zone”. 

Specifically, in the early 90s the drug trade and active drug houses started to pop up around the intersection of Lowell and Maple Streets and the immediate area. After the five biggest banks in New Hampshire collapsed, there were many, many tenements that had been repossessed by those banks, become abandoned, and suddenly no one owned them anymore. Those building were becoming “Shooting Galleries” and places where vagrants moved into. Plumbing and anything of value had been stripped from them, and addicts went to “use” and prostitutes sometimes turned their tricks inside of them. Since there was no plumbing in these places, the occupants urinated and defecated on the floors, left rotting food around and occasionally died in them. For all these reasons, what was called Route 9 during that time was created to try to combat these issues whenever there was an extra body on any given shift. 

That morning, after Roll Call, I gathered my equipment, including the bank bag I was issued that I was able to carry all my paperwork and slid nicely into my back uniform pants pocket. In it I carried Field Cards, a book of parking tickets, several motor vehicle summonses and anything else I might need while I was on my own roaming my beat.

The weather was pleasant, warm enough so that I could wear short sleeves without a jacket. Saturday mornings were usually quiet. I always liked that on Saturday and especially Sunday mornings everyone was either hung over, in jail or in the hospital from the night before. This Saturday was no different as I had my cup of coffee at the local Cumberland Farms on the way to my assignment. I strolled through the neighborhood, spinning my nightstick (PR-24 that certain LAPD Officers made famous with Rodney King) short handle in my hand, trying to imitate old time cops walking the beat I saw when I was a kid in Dorchester. I meandered about, sometimes keeping time by striking a stone wall or fence with my baton, listening to the radio while hoping that maybe there would be a call nearby that would give me something to do. Needless to say, except for perhaps writing a parking ticket or two, and stopping to chat for a few minutes with whomever, my morning passed serenely. 

Around noon time I stopped into a local pizza place, just to show my face, and I found there was birthday party going with a bunch of kids and some adults. I’m guessing the kids and the birthday boy were probably around 7 or 8 years old. Immediately. I was surrounded and serenaded with the cry I heard from kids regularly while patrolling the alleys and streets of the inner city-“Hey Cop- Have any Stickers?” It was more of a defiant demand than a question.  Well, I did carry a supply of MPD police stickers in that bank bag, so I gave them out to all the kids. Suffice it to say, the kids, most of them were delighted. So were some of the parents, some of the others, not so much.  

Back then, we had kind of a weird relationship with the kids who lived in poor and high crime neighborhoods. We had Officer Friendly assigned to the various elementary schools throughout Manchester, but for some kids it was a hard sell when Officer Friendly reached out and tried to convince the kids that the police were their friend when the night before Dad beat up Mom, Mom called the police, police showed up, Dad fought with the police, Dad got the worst of it and after a violent fight with several cops got dragged away in handcuffs, not to be seen for several days. For many inner city kids that was a reality that happened all too often. I’ve responded to calls where I found young kids hiding under the bed or in a closet, not because they were afraid of whatever brought the police to their house to begin with, but they were hiding from the police because thy were afraid of the police! I never got used to that dynamic, but I did come to accept it as reality.

On this Saturday afternoon, after dispersing my supply of stickers, joking and playing around with the kids they all seemed to warm up to me. That was nice. Eventually I managed to break the ice with the parents as well, chatted and joked with them about whatever, and I was invited to join them for lunch, have a cold drink and share in a piece of cake. I took a small piece of cake as the parents insisted, and when I left a short time later, everyone thanked me and shook my hand. I walked down Maple St. feeling pretty good about myself and truth was, I enjoyed being a part of the kid’s party. It was a beautiful day, and I was in a good mood. It wasn’t to last. 

Another cop was assigned to the Route Car which included Route 9 that day, good guy who eventually left MPD and went on to a career with the New Hampshire State Police. I got along good with John B or Jonny B as I called him, and he stopped to ask if I needed anything, or just wanted to sit for a few minutes. I just stood outside his cruiser leaning on the door and we talked a bit about whatever. After a few minutes John got a call for a stabbing or possibly an attempted suicide on the 1st Floor of a large apartment / tenement building on the corner of Amherst and Maple St. We were a couple of blocks away, and we were told that both EMS and the Fire Department were en-route. Back in the Police Academy, when we were learning First Responder medical skills, the police instructors would talk about the ABCs of first aid, and often joked that the ABCs of First Aid stood for Ambulance Before Cruiser. And in Manchester during my career that was usually true. With the various fire houses located throughout the city, by the time we got to a medical call, the paramedics and firefighters were usually there first. Benefit of working in a city, I guess. Besides, if someone was near death and they had to depend on me to save their life, they were in a bad way, or so I always thought. 

It didn’t work out like that on this day. John took the call and also informed dispatch that he was taking Route 9 (me) with him. For that reason, a back up officer wasn’t assigned to the call. John hit the blue lights and siren and away we went. John slowly picked his way up the wrong direction of a narrow one way-side street while the siren wailed. As we did this, we saw an ambulance, also with lights and siren going in the opposite, incorrect direction. John slowed and let the ambulance fly by us. I don’t know if the ambulance crew wondered where we were headed, but the ambulance was headed away from the house! I’d been around long enough to know that was a bad omen. And it turned out to be just that. 

We pulled up, and sure enough we were the only responders there. No ambulance, no fire department and no other cops. On top of that we were greeted with one of the most bizarre scenes I’d ever come across, at least up to that point in my young career. The front porch, and the street in front of the house had all kinds of silverware strewn about. Knives, forks, spoons, can openers you name it. They were all over the place! But we didn’t have time to try to figure out what was happening.

As soon as we got out of the cruiser, a hysterical woman screaming at the top of her lungs ran towards us. She was covered with blood, so much so that I first thought she was the victim. As she lunged at me, arms wide open, I deftly side stepped her and she grabbed on to John. I looked briefly at John and saw that he and his uniform were now covered with blood. We tried to make sense of her delirious ravings, and what I was able to figure out was that her husband was inside the apartment and was stabbed and needed help. I asked the woman what her husband’s name was, I think it may of been Bill, but I don’t remember. I told John to call for back up and ask for a Code 7, which closed that radio channel to all traffic and communication except for the units at this call, which at that time was just John and I.

I drew my pistol because I really didn’t know what was going on, and cautiously headed inside. There was no time to wait for back up. I did know someone was hurt badly, but beyond that, who knew? I entered the dark hallway leaving the bright sunshine outside. John was outside behind me trying to free himself from the unhinged woman who was completely out of control. What I saw once my eyes adjusted to the darkend shadows resembled a bad horror movie. There seemed to be blood spattered and spread everywhere, on the wall, and the floor. I also saw a bloody steak or kitchen knife or two on the floor. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared. He was more like an apparition, covered from head to toe with blood, and his appearance only added to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie vibe. I pointed my pistol at him, and ordered him to show me his hands. I still didn’t know who or what I was dealing with. He sort of complied, but not really. He just stood and stared at me. Seeing that he didn’t appear to be armed I lowered my pistol and asked him several times who stabbed him. I asked him his name, and I repeated more than once “Who did this to you? Who stabbed you? Is he still inside?” 

The guy just looked at me with a queer and unsettling expression on his face. He never did respond to my queries then suddenly flashed me one of the strangest grins I had ever seen, blood encrusted teeth and all. He then turned and stumbled back into the apartment. I holstered my pistol (looking back on it, as I write, that may have not been the smartest thing to do at the time) and followed him inside. I followed him through the apartment, trying to talk to him as I did. I believe he was actually trying to flee out the back door. He made it to the kitchen then collapsed on the floor right at the rear door which was now stuck in the open position.

I rolled him onto his back and looked at him and knew right off he was dead. I’d seen enough recently deceased people by then to recognized lifeless eyes that are left behind after both the last breath and soul leave the body. As real as some movies try to get, they can never really create or mimic actual appearance of those eyes in a lifeless person. Suddenly, I realized that John was standing behind me. Also, we were surrounded with several members of the decedent’s family as well as neighbors who had gathered to see the spectacle that was unfolding. I noted then that the newly deceased also had a couple of stab wounds to his throat and neck, and in addition to that, his throat was cut, almost completely from side to side. 

As I said, I knew he was dead. There was no need for me to look for a pulse. I also had no intention of handling this guy any more than need be as he was covered with blood, if I could help it. But, his family was there and they were begging, pleading, demanding that I do something. I knew any attempt on my part to revive this poor guy would be futile. Another concern I had was contracting AIDs from all the blood and other body fluids (remember this was the early 90s when AIDs was still a death sentence and cops always worried about this possibility) however I couldn’t just kneel there and do nothing.  For the families sake, and maybe my own, I had to appear to try to do something. I always remembered that from my days at the police academy. Let the family see you trying to help. I silently cursed EMS and the Fire Department for still not having arrived, and I went to work. 

“John” I said in the most authoritative, loud and measured voice that I could muster, “go…out…to…the…cruiser…and…get…the…first…aid…kit!”, placing emphasis on each word as I said them. I looked down at the victim who was wearing what appeared to be a white T-shirt that was now soaked red with blood. As I looked at the several crescent and oval shaped stab marks on his chest (yup, just like all the photos of various stab wounds I had been shown at the police academy and all that I’d seen since) I immediately thought his chest looked like red whiffle ball, the kind we played with when we are younger. The oval holes through the shirt and into his chest actually reminded me of that! I certainly didn’t share that thought with anyone at the time. My plan was to put pressure bandages on the wounds once John arrived with the first aid kit, although the spurting and streams of blood coming from the various wounds had already stopped. 

I asked a guy standing next to me who he was. The guy answered he was Bill’s brother. “Good” I said. “You can help”. I had him get a pair of scissors, that were miraculously still in the kitchen. We cut the Tee Shirt off and I examined the multiple knife wounds in his chest. Like I said, he was no longer bleeding, but I figured the civilians and family members didn’t know that. By that time, John had returned with the First Aid kit John helped me while I applied  several bandages, covering the many wounds and placing direct pressure on each. The brother helped me since there were more wounds than I had hands. Thankfully, the Firefighters and Paramedics finally swarmed into the apartment. I don’t know where they’d been, but I was relieved as hell that they had arrived. I backed away as they took over. I didn’t say anything to them, keeping my non-scientific but utterly reliable determination that our victim was DOA to myself. 

Meanwhile, the Firefighters and paramedics went to work. They immediately started breathing for him by inserting an airway, placing a mask and oxygen ball over his face and manually squeezing the ball in a regular, timed cadence to get air into his lungs. Another bad sign I thought to myself. Up until that point, I had never gone to a scene or medical call where once the FD started that rescue breathing, that person would survive. Meanwhile, the poor wife, brother and other family members and neighbors were all very upset at the scene that was playing out in front of them. The victim showed no signs of regaining consciousness or even breathing on his own. Once he was “stabilized” by the Paramedics, he was taken out to the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Now I was pretty sure the victim had died in my presence, but I hadn’t got the official word on that, so I continued on as thought he was still alive. As the firefighters wheeled the victim past me, one of them looked at me rather severely and shook his head just a bit subtly letting me know there was probably no hope. Despite that, they all continued to try to provide life saving treatment. Now it was time to conduct my on scene investigation. We had to calm everyone, interview each person and protect what may have been a crime scene. No easy task that day. 

Normally, at a scene like this detectives would have arrived to review the scene and decide whether or not they should take over the investigation, just in case a serious crime had occurred. We only get one shot at a crime scene, and once you make the decision to release it, that shot is gone forever.  For some reason that I don’t recall, that did not happen on this afternoon. I don’t know whether that was due to being shorthanded on that afternoon or if those detectives on duty were involved in other stuff. But a Patrol Supervisor eventually arrived to oversee what was happening. The occupants were removed form the immediate area and a crime scene was taped off. I, along with John and a few other officers that came to the scene learned the following information from various family members and friends: 

The victim had gone to the local mental health center the previous day to try to get help because he was feeling suicidal. At some point that was confirmed. After an out-patient evaluation, the people at the health center deemed his suicidal threats to be not genuine, then sent him home with a recommendation that he seek help from a local counselor or therapist. That was pretty common during my police career. The victim, after returning home however, still talked about killing himself, so the next day, meaning that Saturday morning, his wife brother and other relatives came over to try to talk him into going to the emergency room to seek help. They took his threats seriously, and were none too happy that he had not been given the help they thought he should have received. At some point, during this family “intervention’ the victim grabbed a knife out of the silverware drawer in the kitchen, announced his intention to kill himself then started to plunge the knife into his chest repeatedly.  His brother and family members jumped on him and wrestled the knife away from him. Unfortunately, the victim seemed pretty intent on completing the job on himself right there in front of everyone.

After getting the knife away from the victim, the victim got a second knife, continued to poke holes in himself. The wrestling match continued and after a third time someone got smart and pulled the entire silverware drawer out of the cabinet and flung it and it’s entire contents out the front door onto the street. This explained the silverware we first saw when we arrived all over the ground. 

During the struggle that continued, as the wife and brother tried to disarm him, that also explained the fact they, especially the wife were seemingly covered with blood. We were pretty much able to determine all the blood we saw came form the victim during his various suicide attempts. No one else was injured or bleeding. Each time the victim got his hands on another knife he would continue to thrust it into his own chest, and at one point, apparently not satisfied with the damage he was doing to himself, started stabbing himself in the throat and at one point he sliced his own throat horizontally, causing a wide gaping wound on his throat. Needless to say, these injuries caused a massive amount of bleeding and loss of blood until he finally collapsed to the floor in front of me. To this day, I still figure he was dead by the time he hit the floor. 

At one point, I was called on the radio and instructed to talk to a detective on a different channel. The detective asked for a quick briefing on the incident, and basically, I told him that based on my interview, I believed the victim had committed suicide and there had been no crime. The detective who was kind of incredulous at my explanation got a little sarcastic with me, and said something to the effect of “So your trying to tell me this guy stabbed himself in his chest a dozen times, and slit his own throat and he did it to himself?” Oh great I thought, now I got these guys are busting my balls over the air. 

I responded in the affirmative and his response to that was “yeah. Sure. Ok.” Their response were just dripping with sarcasm. The sergeant at the scene was a bit more circumspect. In the end, I believe a team of detectives did respond and took over. Later I learned that the victim was dead on arrival (DOA) at the hospital. None of the efforts we made helped. I also learned that all of the self inflicted woulds were superficial, with the exception of when he cut his throat, that knife slash severed his jugular and that sealed his fate. Eventually, the medical examiner ruled the case a suicide and I felt somewhat vindicated that the conclusion I had come to was confirmed. Nevertheless, I was amazed at what this guy had done to himself, all in front of those who were closest to him. 

Eventually, thankfully, I cleared the scene, got a ride back to the station where I began to write the initial police report and complete the mountain of paperwork that came along with it. I didn’t complete my reports for the day until well after my shift ended, but, even going overtime, my day wasn’t yet done. 

You see, I had previously picked up and extra detail, overtime for a show that evening. Like it or not, I was committed to pulling the shift. The artist appearing in Manchester that night was the comedian then known as Gallagher. If any of you remember Gallagher, his act usually included a bit about different words and meanings in the English language, followed by a finale which consisted of slamming various fruits and vegetables on stage with a sledge hammer he called the Sledge OMatic. The people in the front rows wore rain gear and were provided with plastic and other coverings to shelter themselves from the deluge of fruit and vegetables that would pelt them from the stage.

I’d seen Gallagher and his act on TV several times. In fact he was one of my wife’s favorite comedians, and because of that I caught his show whenever he was on TV, watching with my wife. Aside of that, I always kelp a clean uniform in my locker for just such days, and after I finished my reports it was almost time to report for my Job at the show. I didn’t have time for a shower or dinner (not that I had much of an appetite anyway) but I did scrub my hands, arms and face thoroughly as I could, and then rushed over to the Center of NH where the show was held. 

The audience was very well behaved and I had no problems that night. I stood a distance away from the sledge hammer part of the show, and in between walking around and stopping to watch, for the most part I enjoyed the show and the assignment. I even laughed a few times. It turned out to be a good way to wind down form the earlier part of the day.

After the show, I got to meet Gallagher and chat with him for a few minutes. He was very pleasant, thanked me for working the show and told me he appreciated all that we (Cops) do on a daily basis. I told him he was my wife’s favorite and joked that because of that, it meant that I watched him regularly with my wife. Basically, I said that because my wife was a big Gallagher fan, that pretty much made me a Gallagher fan. He was gracious chuckled, and he gave me a Gallagher tee-shirt which he autographed personally for my wife. After that, I left and headed home. It was probably sometime between 10 and 11 PM at this point. It had been a long hard day that started at 6AM when I got up for work that morning. My wife was very happy that I got her the autographed shirt. As for me, I was pretty exhausted ,both mentally and physically. To add to that, I had to be up a 6 the next morning for day shift again. 

Before I hit the sack for some badly needed rack time, I took off all my gear and stripped down and took a shower. After the hot water started hitting my head and face, I just stood there for a bit and let it wash all over me. While I stood there enjoying the cleansing, I thought about the remarkable day I just had. It started at roll call, from there to a children’s birthday party with smiles, presents and games. Almost directly from that party I found myself in one of the bloodiest, chaotic situations that I’d experienced up until that point in my short career. I hoped I had done everything right. Especially for the family. 

As I thought about it, I knew that there was nothing I could have done to save that man’s life or even extend it for a few seconds. I had already accepted that conclusion and I was ok with it. The scene itself, I never forgot. Finally, I contemplated on my meeting Gallagher and the show which had put a well needed smile on my face. And to boot, I was paid OT to work the show!

I thought about what an amazing day it had been. I’d experienced or observed most every human emotion there was that day. I leaned forward and as the shower continued to rain down upon me, I could see and feel it wash all the sweat, grime, dirt and blood (both real and imagined) off of me and watched transfixed as it all swirled around and oozed down the drain. Watching the water disappear made me finally start to feel somewhat cleansed and even a bit respectable. It felt good, really good. That serine feeling soon dissipated as I dried myself off and literally fall into my bed. Tomorrow would be another day. 

By Marty Swirko

I have previously posted a story about this incident on this site a while back, but more recently I was thinking about my 13 year career in the convenience store industry which dated back to the spring of 1973. That year I first got hired as a part time relief manager at the Cumberland Farms store which back then was located in Quincy point, Massachusetts. By 1991, with a few breaks in between to sell soda, drive a taxi in Boston and go to Basic Training and Infantry School after I joined the US Army Reserve. I had worked my way up to Director of Security of a now defunct chain of Grocery stores known as Christy’s Markets. At the time, Christy’s had 150 store in four states. In 1991, I left that job to become a cop.

Recently, I was thinking back on those days, and I decoded I might write and post a few more stories about my time at Cumberland’s and even one two about my time at Christy’s. For some reason, I re-read this story, which I had posted on this site some time ago, and I decided to clean it up a bit, re-write it and post it again.

Previously I have written and posted two stories on this site of the first two armed robberies that I had become victim to at Cumberland’s, and for those of you who haven’t read them, I’ll tell you here that in both those cases, I was robbed by the same guy, and in both cases customers who were unfortunate enough to be in the store when those stick-ups occurred, they were taken hostage (two children in the first robbery and a 16 year old young lady during the second) at gunpoint while I complied with the robbers demands. As far as I know, no one was ever identified or charged for those robberies. So, what follows below is one of my older stories, cleaned up and re-posted for anyone who is interested, or anyone who may not have seen this original story back since I posted it. At some point, I’ll add some more accounts of my exploits while working in the local convenience stores to my tales about police work and my time in the military. Here it is…

As some of you who know me may know, I worked for a chain of convenience / dairy stores called Cumberland Farms for three years after I got out of high school. That would have been from 1973-1976. Cumberland’s, which still exists today up here in the Northeast had something like 1800 stores in New England / NY / NJ area and more in Florida at the time. Cumberland Farms itself, has a rather interesting history, but that was all before the company who currently owns the chain ran the chain.

I worked mostly in their older inner city Boston stores during my three years with them, occasionally working at saner and newer stores just outside of Boston. Sometime in 1974, I became the manager of store 3418, one of their stores located in the Roslindale neighborhood of Boston. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, a bit poor and definitely blue collar / working class area on the Southwest part of the city. The store was older, therefore had problems associated with its age and set up, but I think I enjoyed this store and that neighborhood more than any other I had worked at. And I worked at a lot of them. 

One problem I had to confront was that the convenience stores in the area, which became known as local Stop and Robs, were getting held up all the time, and my store was no exception. There were several other Cumberlands in the nearby area, as well as competitors such as White Hen Pantry and Li’L Peach stores. We were all regularly being clobbered with armed robberies. It was so bad that the manager of a nearby Cumberland Farms, also in Roslindale was shot and killed during a hold up on Christmas Eve Day, and I believe it was that same year. Also during that time period a customer in the Cumberland Farms in the nearby town of Dedham was shot dead during a hold up. He unknowingly walked into the store during a hold up with the intention to buy some model glue to use with his son on a model at home. Apparently the Dad surprised the robber when he walked in and the robber turned and shot the poor guy dead. Wrong place at the wrong time. As for me, by the time I was working in Roslindale, I was unfortunate veteran (or maybe survivor is a better word) of a few armed robberies by that time, including the two in Quincy Point. 

The Boston Police Department was under a lot of pressure to take action to curb these robberies. They came up with a plan. The old Tactical Patrol Force (TPF) was a special city-wide unit within the BPD. As their name infers, they were the department’s ass-kickers (at least in my opinion) and sent in to tackle problems and stop the bleeding (figuratively and literally) in high crime neighborhoods as well as the never ending civil unrest in the area due to things like the Vietnam War, riots following the murder of Martin Luther King and in the 70s forced bussing. Not long after this event, however, they were disbanded due their involvement in the raid of a certain bar in South Boston.

The TPF’s plan to combat the rash of stick ups that were occurring regularly and all over Roslindale and Hyde Park at the time was an alarm system. They selected convenience and Mom and Pop type stores in a fairly close, geographical area that had been targets of robberies. They placed the alarms in the stores at no charge, with the consent of the owners. I happily agreed to co-operate and I had permission from Cumberland Farms. The alarm had a clip which was placed into the $20.00 bill slot in the cash register, and a single dollar bill was placed into it. We would then place a $20.00 bill on top of it, hiding the clip from view. Once the hold up man ordered the clerk to give him the money, the clerk would empty each slot in the tray and when he pulled the bill out of the clip, the two metal clamps would make contact, which then sent a silent hold up alarm.

The alarm was transmitted out of the store electronically through a flat antenna, which was inconspicuously placed near the register on the wall. It was unremarkable and unnoticeable to even the most experienced stick up man. No buttons to press or step on. When the robber ordered you to give him the twenties, once you complied it set off the silent alarm. Remember, this was back in 1974, and police did things differently that we did during my time later as a cop.

What was unique about this alarm was that was tied into a mobile alarm console which was placed in the back seat of an unmarked TPF cruiser.  That cruiser was assigned to patrol the immediate area and respond directly to alarms when the received them. The alarm didn’t go to an alarm company, or to a police district. It went directly to well armed plainclothes officers that were usually nearby. And, we found out rather quickly, the alarms worked. So, in addition to the alarm in the unmarked cruiser, the cars themselves became virtual war wagons, with well armed policemen to confront and deal with these stick up artists on the scene, who were almost always armed and often violent. 

My store, on the corner of Hyde Park Ave and Mt. Hope St. was only open from 9AM-7PM. It was usually advisable to close up and get “out of Dodge” before dark in some of those Boston neighborhoods. My store also was getting stuck up regularly despite closing at 7PM, and was also getting robbed during the day as well as just prior to closing. I was personally present and held up four times in less than a year at that store. In addition to armed robberies, the store was regularly burglarized overnight despite the fact that we had iron gates in front of the windows and doors. The burglars would just bypass those entry points and enter through the roof and ceiling, causing significant damage well beyond the value of anything stolen by the perpetrators.  

After the alarm system was installed, and after all the employees were trained and familiarized with the BPD system, the robberies continued. During the first few robberies that occurred at my store, the alarm was activated successfully, but I found myself breathlessly waiting for the police to arrive only to have the robber make his getaway minutes before the first police unit made it to the scene. Sometimes alarms came in when the TPF car was just too far away. I had more than one conversation the frustrated plain clothes TPF cops who happened to be at the other end of their patrol area when my alarms came in. 

One night I was held up by a guy with a 45, and he introduced himself to me by announcing “Motherfucker, tonight you’re gonna to die. But first, put all the money into a bag”. I complied, and obviously the robber fled without killing me. (Whew, that was close I thought, as I wiped the sweat from my forehead) That .45 looked huge as I stared down the barrel that was pointed at my face from around six inches away. I had activated the alarm, but the robber made his getaway before the TPF guys arrived. They were pissed and I didn’t blame them. They told me that not five minute before they got my alarm that had slowly driven past my store, then decided to head down Hyde Park Ave towards Cleary Sq, and they were just too far away when the got the alarm. Geographically, Roslindale and Hyde Park were pretty large, so it wasn’t surprising that car may have been too far away when an alarm came in. 

Of course, in addition to responding themselves, they would radio in the alarm and  presumably other cars within the District (my store was located in the old BPD District 5 in Cleary Sq. at the time), but for whatever reason, for those alarms the TPF guys usually arrived first, but after the suspect made their getaway. 

However, as time went on, there were a few robberies at my store when the police they got alarms while they were nearby and they started to make a few on scene apprehensions. During the times I was robbed there, on two of those occasions the police made arrests on the spot. Those are all separate stories in themselves that I may still write about. But getting to my friend…

I grew up with a kid from my neighborhood named Mark. We were very close friends and when we were in 10th grade, he and his family moved to a quiet town south of Boston. However, we stayed good friends and he worked a full time job just north of Boston. I don’t remember which of us came up with this bright idea first, but, I had a need to hire a couple of part time people, including one I could trust to work a few evenings a week, as well as working on weekends. He would run the store, usually in my absence and often close and lock up. I got the brilliant idea that Mark might want a part time job. My store was sorta / kinda located between his job and his home, and anyway, driving from his job to his house during rush hour everyday was not fun, so the nights he worked at my store, he only had to drive half the distance, close the store at 7PM, and when he was done and rush hour was over, and he drove the rest of the way to his home without much traffic. What a match I thought! A dependable friend I could trust, and I could do something good for him with the job. A classic win-win situation, if there ever was one. As it turned out, maybe not so much for my childhood friend. 

Anyway, Mark agrees to go to work for me. He worked a few weeks, maybe even a month or two, I don’t remember how long. It was working out well, for me anyway, while it lasted.  

When Mark came to work for me I trained him and we already had the TPF alarm in place, and the possibility of becoming an armed robbery victim never really bothered Mark too much. That stuff always happens to other people, right? Looking back, I realize I should have told him it was likely that he would get robbed at the store, especially working nights in that neighborhood. I never lied to him, and I told him about some of my own exploits. Anyway, the possibility didn’t seem to bother him. 

Well, one evening, Mark was working, and sure enough some guy comes in, points a pistol in Mark’s face and tells him to give him the money. All the money. Mark complied and also gave him the $20.00 bill, which tripped the silent alarm. The guy took the money, and was gone in a matter of seconds. Typical convenience store robbery, if there is one. In and out, in seconds, unlike my first two robberies that had occurred in Quincy Point. That normally would have been the end of it, but not this night. 

Unknown to both the unfortunate robber and Mark, the TPF cruiser happened to be about a block away from the store, actually on Mt. Hope St. when they got the alarm. The robber fled the store, and turned left and then left again onto Mt. Hope Street. Mt. Hope Street was a narrow one way, going towards American Legion Highway and away from the store.The cops, I assume, decided it was easier to get out on foot and run so they jumped out of their car on foot, ran up Mt. Hope St. towards the store. The cops and the bad guy ran into each other close to the corner, outside the store and a pretty hefty shoot-out (according to Mark and the cops) occurred. Blam, Blam, Bang, Bang! Shotguns and pistols were unloaded. They were within feet of each other. Despite the proximity of the participants, surprisingly no one was hit! 

Meanwhile, Mark is inside the store while all this shooting is going on outside the door. Bullets flying and pinging around, around, cops and robber yelling, screaming, cursing, all while Mark dove face down onto the floor making himself as small as he possibly could. I’m not sure, but I think while Mark was ducking he was doing a bit of cussing himself, and he might have been cursing me as well.  

Suddenly, the shooting ended. Almost as quick as it started it was over. Final score, no hits, no casualties, one suspect under arrest who was pretty shaken up and amazed he was still alive. Too good for him, I thought. I got to talk to those cops a few times not long after, so between what they told me and what I learned from Mark, I feel I have a pretty accurate story about what happened that night. 

The arrest and experimental program was widely publicized in the days that followed. Later that week, the Mayor of Boston Kevin White and the then Police Commissioner Robert di Grazia held a press conference in my store and I met and chatted with both of them.  The Boston TV stations were all present, and I was interviewed along with the Mayor and Police Commissioner. I think the cops who made the arrest were also there. The interviews was on all the Boston stations that night. The only one not there was my friend, Mark. 

As far as Mark goes, considering the circumstances, he took it all in good stride and good humor, although you can be sure he wasn’t laughing at the time it happened. He told me the story that night, as he did several times to the police and company officials. But, in the end, Mark turned over the store keys to me and told me thanks for the job, but, no thanks. He valued his life a lot more that the $2.25 an hour or whatever it was in 1974 that we were paying  him. As he handed the store keys to me I saw that he had a strange smirk on his face. I imagine he was thinking, or maybe he even said it- “Some friend you turned out to be! Please don’t do me any more favors.” He left the store, but I stayed and I was in for many more adventures until I left Cumberland Farms for good in 1976.  

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

Manchester, NH Police Department

It’s been a while since I’ve written and posted anything here, but I do have a few alibis. My main one is that I recently had surgery and its difficult to sit at a desk with a bent knee and type. Also, I’ve been working on a larger writing project seemingly for ever, and because I knew I might not be writing for a while after he surgery, I spent the couple of months before my surgery exclusively working on the larger project. In the meantime, I’ve come up with s few ideas to write some additional short stories about, so I figured I take some time now while those ideas are fresh in my mind. And, starting with the next paragraph and where it leads me just shows how my mind works.

We used to have a really nice kitty roaming our neighborhood, and she’s probably been around for at least ten years now. She belonged to a nearby neighbor, and it was an outside cat, and like I say, it was really friendly. Each day she would visit each house, hang out for a bit with whomever she came across and then went about making her regular rounds. Apparently she liked the attention she received at each stop, so she made herself available for us to stop and pet her or whatever. She even tried to get into my house a few times, but I wasn’t really sure how the resident cats would react, so, we never let her in. 

During the warm weather I would often sit out on my back deck and read the paper and she’d come up and sit at my feet and stay there until I paid some attention to her, and after I did she’d move on to the next house. Sometimes she’d jump up into my lap which was OK with me and keep me company for a while. When I was working, often I’d go out to my car and I’d find her sitting on the hood apparently waiting for me to come out. In any case, this kitty was pretty popular in the neighborhood and just became part of it. 

Recently my wife was outside when she saw this poor kitty get mauled by two dogs. What happened was that a woman we had never seen before was walking two large dogs that appeared to be Alaskan Huskies or some similar breed and although on leashes, they were able to pull away from the woman and severely attack the cat. The woman had a hard time controlling the two dogs, and although no one did anything wrong, the kitty was severely injured and had to be put down. I was a bit sad about that, especially since I really liked the cat. It was a nasty and most violent end for a gentle animal. All this got me to thinking about different animal laws in my community and how I dealt with that stuff when I was working as a cop. 

In Manchester, we have city ordinances regarding dogs that regulated dog ownership. Those ordinances included that any dog, when in public had to be kept on a leash, that anyone walking a dog in a public place had to carry something with them so that they could pick up any material in case the dog defecated, and maybe most importantly, in my opinion, the dog must be licensed by the city. What makes that requirement important is that in order to obtain a license for a dog, you must prove to the city that the dog sees a vet and that it had been vaccinated against rabies. 

Over my police career, especially when I worked in patrol, I came to learn that there are many, many irresponsible dog owners around. These folks obtain a dog wherever or however they can but then they don’t take care of them. Sometimes, when they decide to adopt or otherwise obtain a dog, they didn’t realize what a responsibility it was when they first got the idea. Then, they either find they don’t have to money to care for the dog appropriately, or, they just get tired of dog ownership. Whatever the reason I found that many dog owners don’t comply with the local laws, don’t feed or house them appropriately, and often let them get loose and run around the neighborhood they live often and cause havoc. After a while, I came to develop a certain distain for this type of dog owner, and as I eased myself into what was then my new police career, I found myself taking Dog at Large calls and Dog Bite calls more seriously. 

The Manchester Police Department employed two Animal Control Officers (ACOs) during my time there. Although those officers weren’t fully sworn police officers, they did wear a uniform, which was different than our patrol officers, drive police department vans and were armed with pistols. Their responsibility included enforcing all city ordinances regarding animals, responding to various animal calls, such a as bats flying around inside of someone’s home (pretty common) dogs at large or really any animal from a bear to a snake being found within the city limits.It was always good for us as patrol cops because as long as there was an ACO available, who were really the experts in these things, and also had the proper equipment with them to deal with animals, we would not have to respond and deal with those kinds of calls. Unfortunately, those two ACOs didn’t provide 24 hour coverage, so, when they were not available, patrol officers responded to those calls and had to deal with them. 

In New Hampshire there was, and still is, a law that requires doctors and hospitals to report any person they treated for a dog bite to the local police department, and that department was supposed to follow up on and investigate the circumstances of the dog bite. During my police career, I have seen some nasty, terrible injuries inflicted by dogs upon on people, and whenever I saw a child, or any person, but especially a child injured by a dog I alway felt really bad about it. As a result, whenever a person showed up at one of the hospital’s emergency rooms who had been attacked and injured by a dog, the police were called and an officer was sent to take a police report from the victim. Once a report was taken, normally it would be forwarded to an ACO and that ACO would do the follow up investigation and take whatever enforcement action he or she felt prudent. 

The only problem with his system was that when a person is bit by a dog, the doctor needs to know if that dog had been properly vaccinated against rabies. The only way to find that out was to contact the owner and get a record of the dog’s inoculations and /or determine if it was licensed. Without that knowledge, the victim of the dog bite would have to begin the long, and I am told, painful process of injections to treat rabies as a precaution. I hated to see someone have to go through that just because we didn’t know if the dog had been vaccinated or not. Furthermore, I started to believe, from an enforcement point of view, that there should be legal consequences for dog owners who did not follow the law and take care of their animals in a responsible manner.

Eventually as I settled into the role as a patrolman and learned what I should and shouldn’t spend my valuable time on (when I retired from the MPD we handled an average of over 120,000 calls for service each year, so time management was key) I decided that when I took a dog bite report, if the radio it wasn’t too busy, and the dog owner (if I knew who it was) wasn’t too far off from my assigned route or sector, I’d complete the follow up myself, rather than to just do the report and have it forwarded to an ACO to act on a few days down the road. The reason for this was so I could try to determine right away whether the victim needed to start rabies treatments or not. If the dog was properly licensed, then I could pass that on to both the doctor and patient. If that saved the already traumatized victim the pain and aggravation of needless rabies injections, or, if it helped determine the victim needed the injections I thought the extra effort was worth it my time.

The bosses were usually pretty good about it, and as long as there weren’t too many calls stacked in my sector or it wasn’t a crazy busy shift, they let me stay off the air long enough to do my follow ups as needed.

After a while, I discovered that often times the victim was attacked while minding his or her own business, either by walking down the street or quite often even in their own yards by a dog who got free from their owner allowed to run “at large”. So, as I started to follow up on these incidents I found more and more that these incidents were caused by owners not controlling their dogs, and I often found that they owners could not prove that the dog was properly licensed, and unable to show if the dog had been inoculated against rabies. As a result of this, I started to take these situations more and more seriously, and I regularly started summonsing these owners to court charging them with Dog at Large and Keeping an Unlicensed Dog violations. Both were punishable with only a fine, but I reasoned that a personal appearance before a judge might motivate that owner to properly care for their pet and prevent needless injuries which were often serious. So, whenever thought it was appropriate, I liberally handed out these summonses and had no problem doing so. At one point, I had a supervisor tell me that I probably issued more Dog at Large and Unlicensed Dog summonses than anyone in the department with the exception of the ACOs. 

A-lot of the cops teased me about writing so many unlicensed dog tickets and on a busy department like MPD, some cops thought it was too trivial to spend their time on. But, I took their ribbing in a cheerful manner (Cops aren’t happy unless they are busting other cop’s balls) and I continued to enforce the city’s dog laws because I thought i was important, especially to the quality of life within all the neighborhoods in the city. I made sure I always had an ample supply of summonses with me, and in later years when I worked as a detective, I always took summonses and parking tickets out with me in case I needed them. 

After completing my follow up, sometimes issuing summonses, I’d report the results to the victim and doctor, who were usually still in the emergency room, write my report and submit it. The ACOs didn’t mind that I did these follow ups since each one I completed was one less case for them. Not to mention, my supervisor was usually happy to see the activity on my daily reports as well. But I also started using the city dog laws as a different tool. 

In the early 90’s we started to have unprecedented gang and drug problems in certain sections of the city. In fact, we started losing one inner city neighborhood after another to the street sales of Crack-Cocaine, and that brought with it the usual problems that go along with these “victimless” (some say) drug sales. These included prostitution, thefts, robberies and other violent crimes that infested these neighborhoods. And of course there was also the accompanying gang as different gangs jockeyed for specific street corners to sell either Crack or Gank (phony crack, usually sheetrock or ivory soap cut up and packaged to appear as though it was crack) depending on who the customer was.   

Not having grown up in this area, I was regularly told by those who had that these problems were unheard of in the 60s, 70s and 80s. These inner city neighborhoods which were once great, blue collar urban communities to grow up in were deteriorating faster than we could respond. Sadly, times they do change. Crack-cocaine had hit the “set” and that contributed to the new gang problem we started to see in Manchester. Or maybe it was the opposite, Either way, we started to see a turf war develop over open air drug markets around Lake and Spruce Streets, between Union and Beech Streets, and it spread from there. By the mid 90’s, we were also losing various older neighborhoods on the West Side as well. Prostitutes roamed the areas from sundown to sunrise, along with the inevitable accompanying crime and at one point there were several shootings and a couple of murders that occurred over turf. Those of us working in patrol regularly came in contact with groups of people, usually young, hanging out and selling crack. This was compounded by the fact that people were coming into the city from all around NH to purchase drugs and prostitutes and naturally, this “demand” made the problem worse. 

One day, I was guarding prisoners in the “cage” at the old district court and I struck up a conversation with a guy from Florida who had been pinched slinging crack. I asked him what the hell he was doing in Manchester. He told me that in Florida, when the cops grabbed him, they not only took his crack but they robbed him as well. He said at least in Manchester the cops didn’t beat him or steal his money and drugs. So, he came up here to sling crack because the Manchester cops were honest? I wasn’t so sure his compliments towards cops in this city was such a good thing and I certainly hoped that he was full of shit about the cops in Florida. But the conversation that day, at least for me, put another spin on the increasing drug problems we were having in this city. 

Another problem we were having was with some of our bosses. Whenever we went out onto our walking routes on the midnight shift (and often in cruisers) we were constantly discouraged by some from making drug arrests. I was personally told, several times those early years, both in Roll Call and individually, that we should leave the drug arrests to the Drug Unit, that’s what they were there for, and our job was to shake door knobs all night and find open doors and business burglaries. It seemed to me that certain people in city government didn’t want to publicly admit we had a drug problem, never mind a growing gang problem.  

We had gangs coming nightly in taxis to Manchester from places like Lawrence, Massachusetts to sell crack because crack was going for $20 a quarter gram, commonly referred to as a “quarter” on the street, in Manchester while the going rate on the street in Lawrence was only $10 for that same quarter gram. You don’t have to be a Harvard Business School graduate to figure out which market was more lucrative. To add insult to injury, we soon learned that because NH had a reputation for sentencing street level drug dealers to lengthy prison sentences (yes, I miss the old days in some ways) something that apparently wasn’t happening in Massachusetts, the gangs in Lawrence (and I’m sure other cities in the Merrimack Valley) were sending juveniles to Manchester nightly in taxis to their corners to sell, and after the night was over, the juveniles would taxi back down to wherever they came from. The reason this was done, was because the dealers in Massachusetts knew that when we arrested a juvenile for possession of sales, normally a felony for adults, they would be held over night, go to juvenile curt the next morning and be released to go home. And, even if those juvenile offenders did come back from out of state to appear in subsequent court proceedings (there was no legal incentive for them to do so) they would be put on juvenile probation at most and escape any meaningful consequences. 

So, in addition to everything else, we in patrol tried to break up and move these groups along the best we could, but in the “Live Free or Die” state, that wasn’t easy. As a result, many of us   harassed these gangs to make life here in Manchester as miserable as possible, as much as the law allowed, and often that wasn’t much. 

One thing I soon noticed about these gangs was they often had dogs, often pit-bulls wearing big studded collars with them, for whatever reason. I figured that may have thought the dogs would make them look tough, or look intimidating, or maybe they even brought them for protection. So, whenever I saw this, I did something I knew I could do lawfully. I could stop and inquire if the dog was properly licensed. Rarely did the dog have a license visible on its collar, and I don’t know where these jerks got their dogs, but when I asked if their dog was licensed they always said they were, but conveniently, they could never provide proof. So, out would come the pen and summonses, and after completing wanted checks and field cards on each member present, and I’d give the person with the dog a summons and a “must appear” invitation to Manchester District Court for keeping an unlicensed dog. This often highly pissed off the gang member / street drug dealer, but often times it was the most I could do to them at the time and they couldn’t say or do shit about it. The summons may not have been a big deal, and I would far rather have caught them in possession or in a hand to hand (sale) but if they ignored the summons, the court would eventually issue Bench Warrants for Failure to Appear, and then maybe the next cop who stopped and questioned them would find the warrant and lock that person up. So, I made sure when I went out every shift I had a good supply of what we called White Summonses with me. I started giving them out like I later gave candy to kids in Iraq. 

It wasn’t a big deal, but eventually I stopped seeing the dogs, and sometimes when they saw me, (the thugs, not the dogs) they moved. You had to take the little victories as they came. It may not have made a big difference in the war on drugs, but I thought anything I could to make life harder for these hoodlums who were contaminating the quality of life for those that lived in those neighborhoods was worthwhile. So, in the end, I handed out lots and lots of Dog at Large and Unlicensed Dog summonses during my career in Patrol, and regardless of some of the teasing I got from both the bad guys and the cops I worked with, including all the Barney Fife wisecracks (Oh Oh, look out! Here comes Barney Fife!) in the end, I just didn’t give a damn. I looked at it as just another tool in my “tool box” the taxpayers paid me to utilize in the battle to keep the street safe. Also, it didn’t hurt that each time I issued one, it really pissed off the gang banger I gave it to. Too many times that was the best I could do. But, there always was tomorrow…

 

My discussion of Audie Murphy’s Famous Book

First Sergeant (Retired) Martin Swirko, United States Army

The battalion commander and executive officer visit the front lines. They want to see with their own eyes what is holding up our advance. They would like to peek into the quarry itself. Excellent and courageous leaders, they pick only four men to escort them up the treacherous hillside… Picking up several hand grenades and a carbine, I trail the patrol up the hill. As I prepare to round a huge boulder, two enemy grenades explode. A machine gun ripples. Silence returns. My scalp tingles as the hair starts rising. That machine gun is only a few yards away. 

I pause, pull the pin from the grenade, and peer around the rock. The Germans have not been overly clever with their ambush. Instead of picking off the officers first, they threw the grenades at the four men, and machine gunning one of them as he writhed upon the ground. 

That was their mistake. Before the gunner could swing his weapon, the officers had tumbled into a shallow hole, where they now lie pinned. The krauts, evidently not considering a rear guard, have become downright careless with their concealment as they attempt to slaughter the officers. 

Grasping the carbine in my left hand and a grenade in my right, I step suddenly from behind the rock. The Germans spot me instantly. The gunner spins the tip of his weapon towards me. But the barrel catches in a limb, and the burst whizzes to my right.

I lob the grenade and grab the carbine trigger with one movement. Before the grenade has time to burst, two krauts fall with carbine slugs in their bellies. I quickly lob two more grenades into the position. Four of the eight Germans are killed; three are out of action by wounds.

The eighth man, a squat, fat man, tries to escape. He dashes down the hill with a waddling gait, like a duck being chased by an ax-man. I line my sights upon his helmet, but hesitate in pulling the trigger. How can one shoot such a ridiculous figure. It is like killing a clown. 

But the clown has a gun and is, therefore, dangerous. I squeeze the trigger. The helmet jumps. The man falls as if struck in the head with a club.

I snap the safety lock on my carbine and turn to the battalion commander. He is as cool as an October morning…We pick up our wounded and start down the hill. A single feeling possesses me. It is one of complete and utter weariness.- Excerpt from the book TO HELL AND BACK

The above excerpt from To Hell and Back is just a small example of Audie Murphy’s unique (in my opinion) style he used in this book to recall and write about his experiences during World War Two. In it he documents what he and his buddies experience fighting their way across Sicily, Italy, Southern France and into Germany. 

I read this book several years ago, and when I finally finished it, I put it away and shook my head. It wasn’t a fun book to read, and I thought there was something unusual and out of the ordinary about the way Murphy choose to tell this story. Having been an admirer of Murphy myself and his heroics since my childhood, I knew a lot about him and his travails. But, I found at the time when I had finished his book, it left me less than satisfied. The feeling was something that I couldn’t really describe, it was just there.

Fast forward to about a month ago after I had finished a couple of books I had been reading. One night before bedtime, I found myself in my office at home looking through the collection of books I had previously read but decided to keep, for whatever reason. My eyes settled on To Hell and Back. What the heck, I thought to myself as I removed the book from the spot it had occupied for several years. Let me give it another chance. So, I cracked the book open and began to reread it with an open mind. 

As I followed Murphy and his platoon from his earliest days in combat, I was introduced to his closest buddies. These were soldiers he had lived with, got to know, and they took care of each other. They came to trust each other with their lives despite the fact that when they weren’t under fire they often bickered amongst themselves, sometimes joking and other times insulting each other on a regular basis. Often times they got on each others nerves. Nevertheless, each would lay their own lives on the line for the other. They became familiar with each other intimately and became brothers in a way that only the who shared combat together could. 

As I followed Murphy along in his perverse journey (If ground combat isn’t perverse, I don’t know what is) I was introduced to soldiers and buddies like Beltsky, Snuffy Jones, Brandon, Kerrigan, Novak (the Pole) Johnson, Swope, Horse Face and others. This is a tough, hardened group of men that found themselves together in a lethal environment. Murphy gives no indication how long he has been with this crew because when we enter into his world within the first two pages of the book, a soldier named Griffin was joking around and imitating Rochester, the butler from the Jack Benny show.  A minute later and artillery round hits nearby and Griffin is dead. Murphy lets us know, through the conversation that follows between the surviving members that Griffin was married and had two kids. The soldiers get up, make a few hard bitten, cynical comments to each other, gather themselves up, and moved out. Beltsky lectures the troops about how easy it is to get killed out there (It’s not as if these troops don’t already know that) and inside of the first two pages we have been introduced the Griffin, learn one or two things about him and we never hear of him again. 

And that is how it is as their war goes on. Soldiers, green replacements mostly, come and go. Murphy introduces them to us the way the replacements were introduced to the older, more experienced men. That is, barely, if at all. These soldiers, the young men who have a few weeks of combat under their belt have come to realize that their only way home was to follow orders, fight and kill the enemy, lest they be killed themselves. They have no rotation dates to look forward to the way we did in Iraq. 

When it comes to survival, these men initially strike me as machines who give their enemy no quarter, and expect none be given in return. But as you get to know them somewhat (if they stay alive long enough so that anyone can get to know them) you realize that they really aren’t machines, they are made of flesh and blood, human beings ripped away from all and everything they knew and loved. They quickly become blooded and hardened by their experiences in combat. Hitler got it so wrong when he decided that the privileged, spoiled American youth was incapable of standing up to what he thought was his superior Aryan race of soldiers when he decided to take on the United States Army. Those GIs that survived long enough developed a cold blooded, matter of fact attitude when confronted by the enemy. Like Audie Murphy, most of his comrades are young men who have grown old and bitter long before their time. 

Murphy tells his story, really Their story as much as his, in two ways. First, by relating the conversations they have among and between themselves. Their arguments, both good natured and serious, and in this way you get to know those that come and go. Or maybe not.  Secondly, he describes the deadly combat that they are all involved in. Throughout the book he moves back and forth between the two effortlessly, without any rhyme or reason. As I read the book the second time, it finally occurred to me what is was that made the book unique. Again, this is only my opinion and perception, but is how I came to regard the book.  

Murphy describes the actions he is involved in from a cold, matter of fact point of view almost without emotion. Murphy might as well have been an observer who happened to be present, but not a participant. He sounds more like Jack Webb portraying Sergeant Friday in the old TV show Dragnet (Just the facts please).as he escorts us through his world of carnage, dark humor and the desperate desire to survive another day. And as he does so, his descriptions of these events would have the reader, if he or she didn’t know any better, think that what Murphy was experiencing was just another day at the office. The sad part is that, maybe for him, each event was just another day. But the reader knows better than that. And maybe that’s what Murphy counted on. Or, maybe after experiencing all that he did, this cold, indifferent approach to telling his story wasn’t selected by him at all. Perhaps, I think as I sit here and type, it’s just possible that this method of communication is the only way he knew tell his story, just because of how horrible his experiences were. I think it is possible that Murphy was so traumatized by his experiences (who wouldn’t be) that this was the only way he could communicate his experiences.. 

The reason I started my piece about this book with the excerpt I selected was because I thought it was typical and an excellent example of his writing style in this book. In it Murphy describes  the incident, seemingly like just another day, and he might as well have been chronicling his decision to remodel his kitchen and how he did it. He lets readers know what happened when he decided to take on that job, filing us in on what tools he used, how he used them, and the results of each and the overall outcome, and he does so without any self praise. He certainly didn’t let on that he had any passion for the event (which was bad news for the clownish enemy soldier he describes) nor do I think he used any melodramatic language to keep the reader hooked. Anyone who reads this book is either interested in Murphy’s day to day existence, possibly from an historical perspective or they aren’t interested at all. Other than Murphy’s closing statements, there certainly isn’t any moral to the story, nor any suspense beyond who loves and who dies. 

And yet, in the end, I have to ask, what the reason was that he took the time to write down and share his experiences with us all who read his book? In the paragraph that I shared above, he described the death of several American soldiers, eight Germans soldiers (all eight were killed by Murphy) and the cold calculated decision to kill a terrified, fleeing enemy soldier. Murphy made that decision only after feeling just a tiny, momentary bit of compassion for the retreating soldier. Then in a millisecond he gunned the clownish looking soldier using cold, hard logic to justify his action. To me, his initial hesitation to dispatch that escaping soldier does show that he hadn’t lost all his compassion, at least not up until that time. However, I found it telling that at the end of the paragraph I shared here Murphy describes how he felt after the incident as complete exhaustion, but certainly does not mention whether or not he had any remorse about killing any of those eight men. Maybe that feeling of remorse is a luxury that the combat soldier cannot allow himself.

Murphy doesn’t seem to dwell very long on how close he himself came to death, nor does he seem to bother to mention that fact that he saved his battalion commander and executive officer’s lives, as well as the wounded American soldiers. It’s as though nothing really special happened that day, and this is the method Murphy uses pen his story. 

Murphy, the most decorated American soldier during WWII, and arguably one of the most decorated soldiers in US history, fails to mention the fact that he receives any awards during his extraordinary saga, much less the Medal of Honor. Furthermore, as for the various citations to his awards that I have read over the years, Murphy certainly downplays his accomplishments in both the book and the movie that followed. No, the book was as cold and matter of fact as a algebraic equation or scientific description of what he experienced and survived. 

The day by day, hour by hour conversations between the squad and platoon members which make up a large part of the book are told, I came to realize, in vernacular of the time, that is, probably the way and manner that regular folks talked and used various expressions back in 1944. It was, I am guessing, how people and soldiers talked to each other then and certainly not exactly the same language that we soldiers used with each other in 2006 or even today. For example, when Kerrigan tells Horse Face “you horse’s patoot, pass over my dough” todays equivalent might be “You asshole, fork over my money!” Once you realize that, you can also recognize the historical accuracy of the book, a moment in time, while at the same time you are able to translate, in your mind, what each solder said to each other into todays language. When you do that, you can both enjoy and appreciate the egging on and kibitzing these guys are going back and forth with. One message does come through, despite Murphy not saying it outright, pains in the ass or not, Murphy loves them all. 

As Murphy’s story continues, officers and leaders come and go, most killed or seriously wounded, but the focus remains on the soldiers to Murphy’s left and his right at any given time in the book. One minute a soldier is sitting and talking, the next minute he is dead, sometimes literally blown into pieces, while the soldier sitting next or laying next to him escapes without a scratch. As a combat veteran myself, I know that we can drive ourselves crazy if we think too much about ‘Why him and not me? Why am I still here?’ I can’t help wondering what those soldiers, the ones who survived, experienced after they retuned home. 

Murphy’s story goes on, as he and his soldiers slog their way across a miserable landscape, fighting not only the enemy but the terrain and weather which are almost as deadly as the enemy. Both torment the solder almost as much as the enemy, as only an infantryman can be tortured.

One by one, many of the “old men”  the veterans, die off. Some die instantly, others taking time for the life to bleed out of them. Some, the luckier ones, suffer wounds that remove them from combat, maybe even send them home. Some of those wounds included the loss of limbs and other life changing injuries. But sadly, many of Murphy’s friends die. One minute they are there, the next, gone forever. This book is certainly not a “Feel Good” story. Anyone feeling like reading that type of story can take a pass on this book. other than Murphy’s survival, there are no happy endings.

Murphy of course continues to survive, and as he does he introduces us to a never ending stream of soldiers who come to his platoon. Sometimes he talks a little about them and some of them survive long enough that we get to know a little about them. Some of the old timers who last well into the book, the ones you do get to know, end up dead. As a reader, I imagine that I felt just a bit of what Murphy must have felt as his closest friends disappear from the battlefield. While that goes on, we meet new guys like Steiner, Thompson, Jackoby, Owl, Barker, Paderwitz and a host of other young men. They come and go, to and from the platoon as it fights its way across Europe. Some you get to know a bit, others not. 

As the replacements come and go, the more experienced men do their best to mentor them. The old timers themselves initially keep their distance from the replacements. They’ve all lost too many friends already and try not to get too close to anyone. In their minds, they think by becoming more aloof, the pain of losing those newer men won’t be as devastating. However, to their credit, once the newcomers are involved in combat and overcome their fears, do their job, once or twice, the old timers consider them combat veterans like themselves, and consciously or not, they ultimately accept them into their brotherhood. 

As far as Murphy’s transition goes, he is regularly promoted and eventually earns a commission and becomes an officer and platoon leader. As he rises in the ranks as a NCO and then an Officer, while mentoring and encouraging his troops as best as he can, he also, out of necessity, makes cold, hard, on the spot decisions about his men. Many of these decisions can and often do take on the importance of life and death. His reasoning seems simple and to the point “we have a job and you’re (we) we are going to do it. Failure is not an option”. 

Having been a combat veteran who saw more than enough butchery myself, the amount of carnage and loss of life that Murphy describes in his dispassionate style is both staggering and astonishing. I think that most of us know that Audie Murphy survived the war and became a well known actor and played himself in the movie named after his book. Whatever good things happened to Murphy during the remainder of his life, the cost he paid for it was enormous. I can say with certainty, that Murphy, both in his book and in the movie severely understated his accomplishments as a soldier during that war. He truly spent time in hell. Sadly, it wasn’t without consequences.Despite this, Murphy ended his book, or tried to end it on an uplifting note. 

In the end, after thinking about his book, I come to the conclusion that he wrote the book not about himself, but about those brave and sometimes flawed soldiers he had worked with and wanted to make sure none of us forget the sacrifices made by those men for our country. I don’t think he wanted to talk about himself, but the only way he could get his message across was to tell their stories as seen through his eyes. He couldn’t have done it any other way. In his own way he is able to condemn the concept of war by starkly describing combat for the soldier on the ground without lecturing or moralizing. His crisp, gloomy and somber narrative should be all anyone needs to experience to come to the conclusion that war truly is hell on earth, and Audie Murphy truly went to Hell and Back.    

First Sergeant Orville Wilson

This week I learned that a great man had passed and left us. Most people will never have heard of him. However, I’m sure that those who had the fortune of crossing paths with him will never forget him. I am speaking of Orville Wilson, Retried First Sergeant of the US Army. 

In 1981, I completed basic training and Infantry School during a brutally hot and miserable summer. When I returned home, I reported to my first unit, the Mighty Mighty Company A, Third Battalion, 18th Infantry Regiment, 187th Infantry Brigade (Separate). Alpha Company was located in Roslindale, which is a working class neighborhood located within the city of Boston.  

SFC Wilson, at the time, was the acting First Sergeant of Alpha. We affectionately called him Willie, but always when he wasn’t nearby, and never to his face. Wilson was my first and only First Sergeant during the 5+ years I had the privilege of serving in Alpha Company. Under his mentorship and that of my older and more senior NCOs, I rose in rank from E-1 (PV1) to E-6 (Staff Sergeant and Acting Platoon Sergeant) in just 5 years. This was no small accomplishment. After a rather short period of time, Wilson was promoted to the rank of First Sergeant, and he was no longer acting First Sergeant, but he sewed on the chevrons and he became the Top Soldier in Alpha.

The troops that served with 1SG Wilson feared him, and at the same time we all loved and and perhaps more importantly, respected Willie. Believe me I don’t use those terms lightly. He forged a unit, a line company, an infantry outfit that, like all infantry outfits, lived and operated in and under the most miserable, trying conditions military service offered. Because of those hardships, we thought we were better than anyone else in uniform. Cocky? Oh hell yeah! You better believe it. 

The Commissioned Officers in Alpha came and went, some were good, others less than proficient. Each put in their required time to advance their careers then moved on. The one constant, the one person who set the unwaiverable, non-negotiable standards of behavior and performance from his company, the one person who insisted that those standards be followed, and make no mistake, Company A was Top Wilson’s company, during all my time there was First Sergeant Wilson. 

A-3-18 INF had the best Esprit de Corps of any unit I served with during my 31 year military career, and I served with some good ones. This was no small feat because during that time of much lingering racial strife in Boston after the forced busing of the mid 70s, Wilson took a company of Reservists, mostly inner city kids and men and molded them into an incredible family. 

Company A (my best guess) consisted of about 50% Black soldiers and leaders, 40% white, and the remainder consisting of Puerto Ricans other Latinos, Asians, you name it. I even had a Russian kid in my platoon. White soldiers from South Boston and Black soldiers from Roxbury and Mattapan, all who grew up on the mean streets and projects around the city, who if they ran into each other on the streets as civilians might try to kill each other. But Willie and his troops were all Army Green, Infantry Blue, brothers who would defend one another physically and otherwise at the drop of a dime or insult. We truly were a brotherhood and genuinely cared for each other as those who constantly shared hardships tend to do. 

The Drill Sergeants at Ft. Benning (in my company they were a a mix of mostly Black Drills, a few Whites, Latino and Caribbean Islanders, some Vietnam Vets) taught us early on that above all, there was only one color that mattered. That color wasn’t skin color. It was Army Green, and any soldier was to be judged only by their performance, being part of a team and the rank on their collar, but never their skin color, ethnicity, or where they came from. That environment may have been the only truly post-racial period I experienced and lived through during my life. After a week or two at Ft. Benning, I can truly say that I never looked at, saw or cared about the color of the skin of the man on either side of me. 

1SG Wilson continued to forge that environment in the small part of the world he controlled, and he didn’t do it by preaching to us about equality. He did consistently told us stories of the unjust treatment he’d seen and anytime a soldier was not treated correctly for whatever reason, not to preach to us, but to educate us as how we were to act as our leadership roles grew. We, as our responsibilities increased were the ones that would be on the lookout for and charged with eliminating unfairness in all aspects of life. He did this by example. He did it with his brand of discipline (one of the roles of the Army First Sergeant is to be that Unit’s disciplinarian), what he said to us, how he held us to the highest standard and by sitting with us man to man whenever he could and taking to us about not only the Army, but about life in general. We would have followed him anywhere. We were always thrilled whenever Top Wilson would plop himself down onto the ground or into one of the Fox holes we were digging and spent some time with us. He was never above grabbing a shovel or broom and pitching in whenever he had a minute. 

On the other hand, when we were wrong, he had no problem giving it to us, either as a group or individually. And when he gave it to us, he held nothing back. It was often harsh, to the point and laced with obscenities. He gave us feedback in a way that we all could understand. The Army may have considered his language inappropriate or unprofessional, but there were no woman in infantry companies in those days, and Top knew how to get through to a bunch of hard headed city kids who thought we were the shit. 

Those five+ years that I served with and under Wilson’s tutelage, I watched him, I took in every leadership decision, tried to dissect each so I understood his reasoning, and I made him my role model. Actually I CHOSE to make him my role model, the person and leader I aspired to be as my own career progressed. I took his lessons with me, applied them throughout my career, and again emulated him as I led and trained leaders, during both “peacetime” (we’ve had little of that over the years) and during wartime and in combat. 

The apex of my career came, after I returned from Iraq when was when I finally attained the rank of First Sergeant, and during that time I did my best to emulate First Sergeant Wilson, and hopefully inspired a few of my NCOs to carry on his tradition.

Don’t misunderstand me. I never tried to be Top Wilson. It wasn’t like when I tried to copy Carl Yastrzemski whenever I swung a baseball bat when I was a kid. No, Top Wilson and I were different persons. Aside of the fact that to this day, I don’t consider myself worthy enough to carry his ruck and I never did. I knew that Top and I came from different places with different experiences, but the United States Army was the entity which leveled us all, taking us to the same plane in life regardless of our differences and our backgrounds. I took the many, many positive attributes that Top Wilson had, and blended them in along with my own personal leadership style that would fit in with my personality. 

As tough as Willie was, and he was tough, more importantly he loved his soldiers and cared for them and their families. Much of what he did for his soldiers he did out of uniform and quietly behind the scenes. We all loved him then, and our respect hasn’t waned over the years. 

Now, I’d like to share some of my experiences and lessons that we all learned from Top Wilson during those years. I’ll apologize ahead of time form any language that may offend anyone who takes the time out to read this, but I can only honor Willie by sharing some of those verbatim gems of wisdom he would often lay upon us. 

Wilson would not tolerate too much familiarity between his NCOs (Sergeants) and their men. Being a reserve unit, several members knew each other outside the Army, and in uniform, they sometimes referred to each other by their first names etc. This went right up Top Wilson’s ass. I stood in several formations when Willie would tell us in his high pitched voice (When Willie got pissed his voice would rise, the angrier he got, the more the pitch of his voice rose so we all knew when we were in deep trouble) that “every NCO here has a first name. And that first name is Sergeant. I better not ever again hear any Hi Tom or Hi Dick…”

What did I take from that? When I finally sewed on my own Sergeants Chevrons, I never allowed a lower enlisted soldier to call me Sarge. With the exception of my squad members, and later platoon members, the ones that had won my respect, I was Sergeant to everyone else, including the Officers I worked for. Whenever a soldier I didn’t know would refer to me as Sarge, I would correct him by telling him that ‘a Sarge was a fish that swam around and ate algae. I’m not a fish and I sure don’t eat shit!’ Point made. Willie made us take pride in the fact that we were Non Commissioned Officers, even though we were reserve soldiers. 

During home station drills, which didn’t occur very often because we spent most our time in the field, Top Wilson would scrutinize our appearance, and anyone he deemed in need of a hair cut was thrown out of the building and ordered not to come back until they saw a barber. For that, the offending soldier would be docked a half days pay and given a U or UNSAT for performance that day.  I’m not sure if we could get away with that today in the Guard or the Reserve, but back then Top Wilson’s word was law. 

During A Class A uniform inspection in ranks, the Commander at the time stepped in front of Top Wilson to inspect him before moving to the rest of the company. What the Commander didn’t realize at the time, was that Top Wilson had inspected him, and after doing so brought the inspection to a stop by announcing to the Commander in his high pitched tone: “You ain’t gonna inspect me Sir, until you get your shit right, and I’m here to tell you your shit ain’t right” He then quietly advised the Commander to go back to his office and correct his uniform before he continued the inspection. Top Wilson always told us that we had no business making any type of correction to any soldier unless we were right ourselves, and as leaders we’d better be right. If you’re not sure, keep your mouth shut until you looked up the correct answer. That advice served me well throughout the rest of my career. 

One year the entire battalion marched in the Columbus Day parade in Revere Massachusetts. We marched in green fatigues, steel pots with our weapons. We were a big hit. No dress uniforms for us. As we unloaded from the trucks that delivered us to the staging area Top Wilson got us into formation, and delivered a few of his off colored remarks. The one that stands out to me this day was this warning-

“And when you are marching I don’t want to hear any cadence about We are P—y eating Alpha or Motherfuckin Alpha out there” (which actually was a common marching cadence) We all laughed, but all the marching cadences that day were clean. Top Wilson never had to threaten us. All he had to do was lay down the law and we fell into step. 

One winter day we were at Ft. Devens. The training schedule had us eating breakfast at our Battalion Mess hall early in the morning, before we went out to the field to train for a few days. When we got there, it was still dark out, we lined up outside, and were told there was a change, and breakfast would be sent to us later after we went out to field. 

Well First Sergeant Wilson was having none it. They say the First Sergeants job was beans and bullets, that is making sure the troops get fed and they get their other needs seen to in the field. 

Wilson told us to stand fast and stormed into the mess hall, his long legs taking three steps at a time. Wilson had a rather loud discussion with the Dining Facility Manager. While this “discussion” was going on, certain people were coming and going from the mess hall, and each time the door open all we could hear was Wilson ripping someone’s ass, telling them that he has a signed training schedule signed by the Battalion Commander and only the battalion commander had the authority to change it. Then the door would close and it would be quiet until the next person walked in. The mess hall people weren’t buying it, and finally, Top Wilson stepped outside and ordered all the NCOs into the mess hall. When we were there, he announced that we were taking over the mess hall and feeding our company. 

The officers, NCOs and cooks stood slack jawed while we took out places on the line and at other spots and lined up troops and fed them. We spooned out their food, poured their coffee and handed out cartons of milk. No one dared to challenge us or Wilson. We got the job done. Quick and with no fuss.

Later, I was by the Company C.P. (Command Post) in ass deep snow when the Battalion Commander showed up. He jumped out of the jeep and I figured that was trouble for us and Wilson, but I overheard the conversation. The Commander told Top that the next time he had any trouble with the mess section to tell him. Top’s response? 

“I’m not going to have anymore trouble with those motherfuckers, Sir. I know you signed that training schedule and I sure as hell know that no one but you can change it. I know what the m’fuckn regulations are and they don’t but they’d  better learn and start following them from now on. Don’t worry about a thing Sir!” The Battalion Commander walked away, and I’m not sure Wilson had put his fears to rest or not. One thing for sure, if you challenged Top Wilson about anything, you’d better know the appropriate regulations because Wilson surely did.

One year we were at Ft Drum, NY (when it was Camp Drum) and for some reason I was doubling as Top’s driver, which was bad news for me. While the rest of the company was grabbing their couple of hours sleep, Top was running around post taking care of business all night, and I was with him. 

When the company came in from the field one night one of our entire squads was arrested by the MPs at the EM (Enlisted Men’s Club, Do you old-timers remember those?) Club for fighting with some other unit, and then the MPs. After he got that squad sprung from the MPs he gave them quite the ass chewing. After he put them to bed for the night he told me off to the side that in reality, he was proud that the entire squad got arrested together and it demonstrated outstanding Esprit de Corps for the unit. But he never told them that. He let them believe he was mad at them. 

That year, he went on to tell me, as he roused me from my limited sleep several times, the MPs told him they were arresting other troops from other companies and they could never find their leaders so they asked Willie if he would get these soldiers and take them back to their units or they’d have to be locked up all night. Willie agreed, and we made many trips to the MP station late at night to pick up several troops who we didn’t know and return them to their units.

One winter, during a miserable winter AT (Annual Training) we were at Camp Edwards I found myself with Top one day. I was driving him around in a Jeep and he instructed me to take him to Brigade Headquarters. 

We were filthy, tired, most of us were sick. We’d been in the snow, freezing rain and cold in the field without a shower for almost two weeks. Several soldiers and key leaders had come down with immersion foot and were either hospitalized or back in the rear “with the gear’. In fact, we had so many cold casualties, I found myself as the squad leader of my squad. Normally, an E-6 of Staff Sergeant would serve as a Squad Leader, but our ranks had been thinned out and I found myself as an E-4 squad leader. 

So neither of us were in any mood for niceties when we arrived at Brigade HQ. The poor E-4 on duty inside the entrance stopped us and respectfully told us we were not allowed entry looking like we looked. No doubt we looked wretched, but the sight of all the personnel running around inside of the HQ, each nice and clean, fatigues nicely pressed, boots with a brush shine, dry and warm kinda irritated me, to say the least. But, I kept my mouth shut. Fuck all these motherfuckers I thought to myself. 

Which was more than I could say about Top Wilson. Top started in on the poor E4 who was only doing her job, and then stormed past and behind her, as though she didn’t exist. 

He then started grabbing random soldiers and lined them up against the wall all the time making a big show of it. Those soldiers were looking at their NCOs and Officers, looking for either guidance or help, but the more Top went on, the more others in the HQ either averted their eyes to the spectacle unfolding or just plain walked away. You see, by that time, First Sergeant Wilson had a certain reputation within the Brigade, and it was widely known you never screwed with him.

Top Wilson lined up all the soldiers he grabbed up and selected, then counted them off. There were like nine of them or so, and he loudly announced to everyone inside-

“You see this? It takes nine of these Mother F——s to support every one of my infantrymen in the field. So don’t give me any shit about we can’t come in here looking like this!” He then went about his business while others stood by and digested what had just happened. Nobody said a word to us, including the officers present. Thing is, Willie always included a lesson whenever he stood up. 

When I went back to the company later and told the story of how the First Sergeant stood up for us and infantrymen everywhere to the REMFs (a not complimentary term Infantrymen used to describe everyone else in the Army with the exception of Medics which literally meant Rear Area Mother F——s.) his legend and endearment to all of us only grew. 

The Company was training at Ft. Devens one day and Top was due to re-enlist. He had some type of feud going on with the Company Commander during that time so he decided that he did not want that officer to administer the oath of re-enlistment to him. 

“But Top?” The Officer protested…”Who else are you going to get to swear you in?” Wilson replied in an even, unemotional way by saying-“Army regulations state that I can be sworn in by the officer of my choice, and Sir, that ain’t you.” Which was followed by a sharp salute from Wilson and a near perfect parade field about face as he left the Officer standing wondering what had just happened. “What balls” I thought at the time. But Top Wilson wasn’t finished, 

The next officer who wandered into this scene happened to be a stranger. It was an unsuspecting Lieutenant, wearing a Green Beret form the 10th Group which was stationed at Devens at the time. Top walked up to him, stopped, saluted (the two had never seen each other before) and said “Excuse me Sir, would you be willing to administer the oath of enlistment to me and swear me in?” The Lieutenant appeared surprised but quickly recovered and replied by telling Wilson “It would be an honor, First Sergeant!” and Top Wilson was then re-enlisted in the United States Army for another hitch.

Then there were always then annual Family Days at the Company. During December Drill periods, we usually never went to then field that month. Instead we trained at the center on Saturday, then on Sunday we would always report in our Dress Greens for first formation, than after a pretty thorough inspection, we started to prepare for the noon Holiday meal which our families had been invited to attend with us. Usually, one of the NCOs or Platoon Leaders would play Santa, and we all bought small gifts for the children that would attend, and Santa would arrive before the meal and distribute the gifts and some candy, while the younger kids got onto his lap and told him what their Christmas wishes were.

Now I want to take a minute to say that we at Company A were very fortunate to have a cook by the name of Sergeant Hines attached to us. Whenever the Battalion was in the field, he went back to HQ company and worked in Battalion Mess. But when we drilled separately, he was our assigned cook and prepared our meals for us. 

Now Sergeant Hines was a professional chef. At the time, his civilian job was at the restaurant located in the Sheraton Boston hotel. Hines would always purchase food and ingredients on his own dime, and take the bland meals cooked inside the drill hall and turn them into something nice. They say an Army runs on its stomach, and we surely all loved and appreciated Sergeant Hines. We never referred to him as a “Spoon” which was the derogatory name we applied to most other all mess hall cooks. Sergeant Hines was one of us, even though he wasn’t a grunt. 

We went on to set the Drill Hall up, we put up some festive decorations and we took various weapons and equipment out to display which we could show off to our families and the kids when they arrived. Normally that all went off without a hitch, and when the meal was done, the enlisted men were allowed to leave with their families, but Top made the NCOs stay back and clean so that the troops could leave early. It was just one of the prices we paid for being NCOs in Top’s world. 

So, one morning formation, as we got ready for that years Family Day, after the Company Commander turned the formation over to Top, Wilson decided to give us some advice, and do it in his own plain talk fashion that we came to love and fear at the same time. 

Top told us of a recent Family Day, and one of the wive’s arrived a bit early, so one of the NCOs, not her husband, escorted her inside, offered her coffee or tea then sat with her for a few minutes. The wife started discussing how hard it was being married to a Reservist, and that with all those weekend drills, at least two weekends a month, it makes things tough on the family. Well, instead of just keeping quiet, the NCO blurted out the fact that they only drilled once weekend a month, which was true back then. 

Needless to say, this created quite a row when the wife later confronted her husband over the two drills a month he’d been going away for. The dispute got loud and out of control and resulted in the police responding followed by a nasty divorce. 

The moral of the story? Top Wilson then told us to be friendly, courteous towards the wives and family members, say yes Ma’/am and no Ma’am, but other than that offer no opinions and “Keep your Fuckin mouths shut!” His advice was heeded.

Back in the 80s, we had to personally appear before promotion boards, and anytime any us went to a board, we had to meet at the Reserve Center first at which time Top performed a thorough inspection of us in our dress greens. He then gave us advice on how to act at the board, tested us with some basic questions and tried to calm our nerves. At the time, there was a regulation that if a black soldier was appearing at a promotion board, at least one member of the board had to be a black soldier. Top Wilson, being Black (possibly the only Black First Sergeant in the Brigade) sat on promotion boards all the time throughout the Brigade, and as such, he was able to give sound advice to soldiers prior to appearing. Wilson said he had no patience or regard for other First Sergeants and leaders who allow their soldiers to show up for boards unprepared and fail. He blamed them, not the soldiers. Company A soldiers almost always got their promotions when the time came. Again, credit to that goes as much to Willie as it did us. He forced us to prepare.

I think the pinnacle for Company A, at least during the time I was there occurred the last AT I attended with them. It was at Ft. Drum (a miserable place to pull duty back then, even in the summer) and most of our officers and key leaders were away at various service schools. So, we went to AT with only two officers, our Commander and our Executive officer, and the rest of us were bumped up on our responsibilities. I found myself as a Platoon Leader, normally an Officer’s job, answering directly to the Company commander. I found out that month what the “loneliness of command” felt like, as all my squad leaders turned against me every time I brought back instructions form the C.O. 

In any case, Willie wasn’t there with us, and our other Platoon Leaders and Platoon Sergeants were away at school, so we all had to step up our game. We went through all our training, with the usual lack of sleep and existing in the field, taking with us only what we could carry on our backs. We were evaluated as we conducted our assigned collective combat tasks by teams from both the 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) the 76th Division (Training). At the end of that grueling training period, Company A was named as the outstanding company in the entire Brigade. The moral of the story? We performed and executed at a high level, even without our key leaders present. I attribute that to the fantastic leadership and atmosphere that existed in the company and the leadership, training and excellence demanded by our Officers and NCOs. They motivated us to want to be the best. Willie played no small role in forging that mindset. In fact, I credit the Commander at the time for letting Top Wilson do his job and run the company on the day to day basis, which allowed the officers to do their jobs.

Top, whenever possible, loved to get down on the ground with his troops and just hang out with them, letting them know he was one of then and he cared about them. Of course, having been a First Sergeant myself, I know how difficult it was during the duty day to take time to do that. You spend all day checking the boxes, and there are many of them, and running around putting out all the fires that you never started, and never would have started if only your advice had been heeded when it was given. But we alway knew that nothing bad would ever happen to us when Top Wilson was around. 

During one AT, the Battalion Commander came to the company CP and ordered Willie to lay down, take his boots off and go to sleep after he discovered Top hadn’t slept for a few days.  

One winter we were training at Ft. Devens. We were assigned to one of those old WWII Barracks that most people have seen photos of, the temporary buildings that were in used for more than 50 years at so many bases. It became apparent that we only had enough bunks for about 2/3rd of the Company. Right away, Top held a formation outside and announced that bunks would be assigned starting with the lower ranking soldiers on up. At that point, Top called the roll call in inverse rank, beginning with the E-1s, and started assigning the soldiers to individual bunks. By the time we got to the E-6s in the company, there were no more bunks. So, the rest of us, put our bedrolls on the floor wherever there was room. That included Top Wilson. It was a lesson to us all, that we took care of our soldiers first, whether it was bunks, chow, uniforms whatever. And, he led that way by making an example himself, at the same time not trying to make a show of it. That was the price of leadership, as taught to us by First Sergeant Wilson.

One time, when I was a young Squad Leader, I received a newly assigned soldier to my squad. He had just left the Army, and he had been a Ranger, assigned to one of the Ranger Battalions which had just made the jump, under fire, into Granada. Well, this soldier was an E-4, and had earned his Combat Infantry Badge during the ground combat he participated in on Grenada. 

He told us about his experiences, and we were all pretty much enamored with him. We had a couple of old-timers who had earned their CIBs in Vietnam, but to get a combat veteran who wore the CIB from a recent conflict, well that was amazing and we all looked up to him. 

One time we were in the field, and we had a break to eat lunch. At some point during the day, I had lost me meal (MRE) and as the squad sat to eat, I put out security and then went off by myself to rest a bit. A short time later, this Ranger E-4 showed up, and asked my why I wasn’t eating. I mentioned that I lost me MRE earlier during one of the raids we had practiced, and told him no big deal. 

At that point this soldier took out half of his MRE and offered into me. It touched me, but what really moved me was what he said after I refused to take food from him. He told me that since he arrived at Alpha Company, he watched me, he watched me take care of my soldiers and take care of him, and now, Goddamnit, he was going to take care of me for once and told me to eat. I was stunned that this previous active duty combat veteran complimented me in such a way, he genuinely thought I was a worthy NCO. What a high compliment to be paid by such a soldier. I think my soldiers noticed. I didn’t have to tell them I looked out for them, I didn’t have to baby them, they knew instinctively that I always had their best interest at heart, no matter how tough I could be on them. All of this was Willie’s doing. 

It was not always fun and games during my time at Alpha Company.  During my time there, we had two soldiers commit suicide. The two incidents were a few years apart, and they certainly were not related. Both of them hit us hard, as you might imagine. The first to kill himself was a young Corporal I’ve always remembered fondly. The story was he killed himself over break up with his girlfriend. He had a wake in Cambridge, and Top ordered us all to show up (if we weren’t working our civilian jobs) in full dress uniform, and we did. I know it meant a lot to the grieving family. 

A few years later, our Full Time / Active Duty Sergeant, an E-7, suddenly killed himself. This Sergeant was also highly respected and ran the company during the week when the rest go us were working our civilian jobs. 

Nobody knew why that Sergeant killed himself, not even his wife. It came clearly out of the blue and was completely unexpected. We were all at his wake, and Top was talking to the widow, and the widow told Top that the sergeant, who was to be buried in his uniform, was without his Cover, or his hat. She said she felt bad about it, but she couldn’t find his Service Cap, the one we called the Bus Driver’s hat. 

Well, Willie disappeared for quite a while, and suddenly, before the evening was over, an Army Green Service Cap magically appeared on the coffin. It turns out, Top Wilson drove home, which was about 30 or 40 minutes away, got his own cap, returned and quietly placed it on the coffin. The widow was so touched. We all just nodded our heads up and down, saying that was just the type of thing Willie would do. 

Of course Willie often gave us hard lessons on life whenever he felt we needed one. One time, a bunch of us were in our Dress Greens and that Saturday night we went to Kenmore Square and had a good time. My brother, myself, Porteneur, Ranger Pomer and a few others had a fun night. We weren’t feeling as good when we reported to duty the next morning without sleep. 

During formation, Top ordered us to shave (we hadn’t shaved that morning for obvious reasons) and we each went to the latrine where we found a dull, rusty, discarded razor in the trash. We passed it around and did the best we could shaving with a bar of soap. When we showed up for the next training event, each of us was bleeding from several cuts all around our faces, and numerous pieces of toilet paper stuck to our faced trying to stop the bleeding. 

The rest of the company erupted in uncontrollable laughter when we made our appearance into the classroom. Willie looked us over and said maybe we’ll remember to shave next time before we step into his formation. I do think I may have just detected just a twinkle in his eye as he said it. 

As I said, we were up pretty much all night, but at one point we, meaning I, lost one of my soldiers. He didn’t show up for formation the next morning, and Top knew we were all out together the night before. He called me into his office and told me I’D BETTER FIND THIS SOLDIER, OR ELSE! 

Eventually, I learned that the soldier, suddenly had enough and decided to drive home, but he never told anyone. He was there one minute and gone the next. We just carried on with our merriment figuring well, he’s a big boy, he’ll be alright. But, he wasn’t. He got onto the highway, and after bit he figured he was too drunk to drive and pulled over around the Blue Hills area. There, he passed out in the car and work up late morning, very sick and he headed home. 

All is well that ends well, so I thought when I reported that I found that soldier and he was fine. I even chuckled about it. Top Wilson didn’t agree. He went on the chew me out, telling me I was not good enough be wearing sergeants chevrons. He went up one side of me and down the other, telling me I lost one of my men, and worse left him behind. He went on to list the unpleasant things that could have happened. That soldier could have been dead somewhere. he could have been in an accident, he could have killed someone, he could have been arrested. Up to that point in my career, I can honestly I never thought about things those terms. Sure, we took care of our troops in the field, but I suddenly realized that wasn’t enough. It was an enormous lesson I learned, but that kind of stinging rebuke from Willie really hurt. I was afraid I lost his confidence.   

At the end of that long duty day, after the troops had been dismissed, I checked into the orderly room and the crusty old Sergeant who was on duty looked at us and exclaimed “Well, well. it looks like the joy boys are ready to go home” He then threw us out. Sadly, a few months later, that NCO had killed himself. 

By the time 1986 arrived, I had a decision to make. Should I re-enlist or get out. My six year obligation was soon coming to an end. I decided that it was time for a change, so I looked around for another unit before I re-enlisted for another six. But other things started happening at Alpha Company. 

Meanwhile, I found that I was eligible to attend drill sergeant school as an E-6, and become a drill sergeant, so I transferred to the 76th Division in Providence. As much as I loved Alpha Company and hated to leave it, I decided it was time.  

I knew Top Wilson was leaving, and I had no real desire to hang around after he left. The Battalion Sergeant Major had had enough of Willie, as did several other officers throughout the Brigade. The Sergeant Major started preaching that it wasn’t good for any soldier to “homestead’, that is to spend too many years at any assignment. Three years or four at the most, then move on. Of course, that new philosophy, suddenly embraced by the Sergeant Major seemed only to apply to Top Wilson. It was time for Top to move on and find a new home, and it wasn’t going to be in the Brigade. Top found a home at a USAR School as an instructor but to do so he had to revert to the rank of Master Sergeant and give up the diamond that was in the center of his Sergeant Chevrons. Ironically, both of our final drills with Alpha Company were on the same weekend. 

We went to the field that Friday night, which was normal, after first formation. Willie approached me before formation and said he wanted to spend his last drill there with the troops and do whatever they were doing. He asked me if I’d be acting 1SG for the drill. I was honored. I said of course. He handed me the training schedule, and said “Take Charge Top” and I did. Willie then fell in at the end of one of the squads for the duration and I spent a couple of sleepless days and nights trying to fill his shoes. It wasn’t easy, but fortunately I had a lot of training and experience from my time there. That Sunday afternoon I sadly bid farewell to Alpha Company for the last time and left them in my rearview mirror. I re-enlisted in my new unit and in March of 1987 I joined class 88-1 of the 76 Division Drill Sergeant School / Leadership Academy, where I met a whole new crop of outstanding leaders and soldiers. 

The Army finally made good on it threats and deactivated the 187th Infantry Brigade in the early 90’s, along with Alpha Company and all the other units that once comprised it. Alpha Company, a unit that had earned over two dozen battle streamers during its lifetime no longer exists. It’s battle history includes fighting at Kasserine Pass, Sicily, Omaha Beach, Normandy, Aachen and the Battle of the Bulge  But it’s spirit is still strong and I recently attended a reunion of the old A-3-18th and met with many off those I left behind in 1986.

Of course, Willie was much, much more of a soldier, leader and man than anything I can write here. First Sergeant Wilson was also a family man, and I’d had the fortune of meeting his wife and children. In 2011, I retired, as a First Sergeant, transferring into the Inactive Ready Reserve, effectively ending my military career of 31 years. Although I made the E-9 promotion list, and had been board selected for Command Sergeant Major, I recognized my window was closing. I didn’t want to go, but I knew it was time. 

There, in the IRR I waited until the Army officially retired me when I turned 60. My last unit had a little get together for my family and I to mark this event, and I reached out to Top Wilson, who had long ago retired, and wouldn’t you know, he graced our presence at that little get together. It was so good to see him and we regaled our families and the other soldiers with many of the same stories I told here. Willie, sat, smiled, a bit embarrassed and tolerated it all with good humor. Sadly, Wille never did make E-9 or Command Sergeant Major. The selection for CSM can be political, and Willie burned all his bridges when he was the First Sergeant at Alpha Company. He retired, I believe, as a Master Sergeant, still a great accomplishment. It was the Army’s loss that he was never selected to serve as a Command Sergeant Major, who serve as the Army’s chief advisors on enlisted issues at various higher command levels. I can only hope Top left us knowing how much he meant to us all.

Fittingly, First Sergeant Wilson will be laid to rest at a Veteran’s cemetery on November 10th, in Georgia, on the same day our country commemorates Veteran’s Day this year. Nothing could be more appropriate. 

Rest Easy, First Sergeant. Those that we trained and mentored and their troops that rose in the ranks will take it from here. I have no doubt that your spirit, example and leadership which has been passed down by all of the Alpha Company crew is still alive and well. To me, Orville Wilson will always be the ultimate professional soldier. To me, you will always be First Sergeant Wilson.

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

Manchester NH Police Department

There is, currently, a Veteran’s Administration Hospital in Manchester, NH. Although it’s a fairly large facility, it is not a full service hospital. This makes New Hampshire, the only state in the country that does not have a full service VA hospital. But, putting that issue aside for this conversation, I will say that when I was on the job here in Manchester, that VA medical center was a full service hospital, and that included a 24 hour, around the clock emergency room. That meant, among other things, as with other hospitals, we were regularly called to the VA for problems, especially in the emergency room. 

Now the VA Hospital system has it’s own police force, which is federal, but despite that, we (Manchester Police) were regularly called to the VA in Manchester for any number of reasons, but most calls back then were to the Emergency Room there for disorderly or assaultive patients. Sometimes the VA Police would find a patient in possession of unlawful drugs, and they’d call us to take custody of the drugs and charge that person accordingly. 

One night I was working a 330-1200 AM evening shift and I was sent up to the VA Emergency Room for a disorderly subject. I was in a one man car, so a back up officer was sent, but he wasn’t too close by. Therefore, when I got to the ER, I got there quite a few minutes before my back up arrived. 

I arrived, letting dispatch (and my back up) know I was on the scene. Now, I found over the years that some of the most dangerous places in the community were the Emergency Rooms of the three hospitals in our city. Add to that, the other hospitals in Manchester serviced all of the surrounding communities, so our problems not only came from city residents, but they were often caused by patients who, for whatever reason were brought to the Manchester hospitals from the surrounding towns by either ambulance or police, and then left there. 

Drunks, combative or otherwise, people having mental health issues, drug seekers, for any number of reasons were brought to the Manchester hospitals by out of town cops or their Fire Departments because those communities didn’t have hospitals. Once admitted to the ER, the out of town cops usually left their problems in the care of those ERs and therefore, many of those patients then became our problems, if and when they started to act up. That was true for the VA as well, because that hospital serves veterans from even a larger surrounding area, from Massachusetts to Vermont and everywhere in between. So it goes without saying that we spent a-lot of time responding to the ERs in our city and we fought with combatant patients on a regular basis. 

At the Va, I was regularly confronted with particularly surly Veterans that were at their wits end, unhappy with what the VA would do for them, or more often what they wouldn’t do. When they didn’t get what they felt they needed for what they believed was entitled to them, or what they earned having served in the military, they often became loud, boisterous and sadly, confrontational and violent. Many of these veterans were struggling with severe mental health challenges, or they were homeless, often both. To add to problems, the medical / military world hadn’t discovered the effects of Traumatic Brain Injuries at that time, and treatment for PTSD was in the early stages, especially for Veterans. The last thing I ever wanted to do was arrest any Veteran whom I had contact with, especially the ones that were struggling with these issues. Unfortunately, often I had to do just that. 

On that night, “upon arrival” (as I usually started my police reports) I found the patient in question sitting in a wheel chair inside the vestibule to the entrance to the emergency room. There were nurses present, and the guy in the wheel chair was cursing up a storm loudly telling the staff what he thought of them and the VA in general. The language he was using was pretty bad, and his behavior, was clearly disrupting the normal operation of the ER. His behavior that night, especially in the hospital was one of the reasons why the Disorderly Conduct statute had been written and was on the books. He was clearly, by definition, causing a breach of the peace. 

The medical staff briefed me. They told me that this patient showed up often, demanded services that they could not provide or they felt he didn’t need. His visits always ended with his refusing to leave, loud shouting matches, threats and ultimately the police forcing him to leave the property, one way or another. 

At that point, all the staff walked away and left me with their unhappy client. Although he was seated in the wheel chair, I learned from the staff that the patient (who was already well on his way to the MPD lock up for the night) at times was able to stand behind the wheel chair and push it, using it as a walker and other times he used his legs to move himself around in the chair. In other words, although he had mobility problems, he wasn’t confined to a wheel chair 24 / 7, as I was about to find out. 

I started to try to calm the guy, introducing myself to him, asking for his first name, all the stuff you try to do to get someone a bit calmed down and establish a rapport of sorts so he could be reasoned with. Once I got him to talk with me, I would then see if I could help him with whatever his problem was at that moment. In this case, that didn’t work. He wasn’t having any of it. The little I did get out of him, was that the VA won’t help him, and he wasn’t leaving until they did. After a short time, I realized there’d be no reasoning with this guy tonight. I spoke further with the doctor on duty. The doctor said he had been seen, medically cleared, discharged and they wanted him removed from their property. Pretty common problem, really. 

I went back to the guy tried again to get him a bit calmer, but there was no reasoning with him. I calmly but respectfully explained to him that the staff ordered him off the property and he had to leave. He said he wasn’t going anywhere. I told him that if he didn’t leave, I was going to have to arrest him, and I certainly didn’t want do that. But I told him in no uncertain terms, if he behavior didn’t cease he was getting locked up. After a few minutes, I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with him. So, at that point, I made the my first mistake of the night. 

I reached down as I talked and tried to grab onto the arm rest of the wheel chair and at least steer him outside into the parking lot do as not to keep disturbing the staff and patents. At that point, as I bent down, the guy struck me in my face by punching full force me with his right hand. It was quite a round house and it caught me completely off guard. I stumbled backwards, backpedaling, trying my best not to fall on my ass. I definitely saw stars, and I felt fortunate that he didn’t knock me out. 

As I fought for my balance and to stay on my feet, (I was like a drunken sot) I felt and saw blood spurting from my mouth, onto my arms and hands, down my chest and onto the floor. I think for the moment I was truly in shock. I never saw that coming. 

As my vision stated to clear, the guy was still in his wheel chair but he took a boxing position turning his chair towards me ready to throw another punch if I came within range. It was apparent he was willing and ready to hurt me any way he could. He was certainly indicating he was not done and not going without a fight. Well, at that point, I lunged at him and tried to grab a wrist to place a handcuff on, but I found that was a lot harder than you would think. All I accomplished was that chair fell over onto it’s side and all three of us (Him, Me and the chair) ended up in pile on the floor. “F—-this” I thought. Now the real fight was on!  

I tried to roll him over and found myself on top of him. He was doing a pretty good job of defending himself, and I started to throw a few jabs at him while at the same time trying to fend off his blows. My pokes at him with my weak-side or left hand were having absolutely no effect on him. I had a pair of handcuffs in my right hand, which left me only one hand to both defend myself from his blows, and at the same time try to restrain him. Wheelchair or not, I was going to have to overpower him by force in order to arrest him. I remember that he was strong as hell. I can only imagine what a sight it must have been with me and the fighting wheelchair guy going at it with the wheel chair tipped over on it’s side. To make matters worse, no one was there when I got punched, but now several persons came to watch me roll around the floor with this quasi disabled, soon to be my prisoner, individual. 

It was at that time my back up arrived. I don’t know what had taken him so long, nor do I know why I never saw a VA cop (I silently cursed them as well) that evening, but my back up took one look at what was going on, apparently was mortified at what he saw and yelled “Marty! What are you doing?” At which time he grabbed me from behind and forcibly pulled me off of the person I was trying to arrest.

When I turned to ask him WTF he was doing, he must have seen my bloody face for the first time. He appeared to be even more shocked and cried out “Marty, what the hell happened?” I was in no mood for explanations and I was pissed that he pulled me away from the guy. I tried to say ”what does it look like?” but I can only imagine the sound that came out of my split, bleeding and swelling mouth was something that must have sounded like the incoherent noises that Ralphy’s father used to make when he strung several curses together in the movie The Christmas Story! I always remember Ralph’s father screaming out something that sounded like “nuttafinger” (accent on the last syllable) in a high pitched voice when his lamp fell apart. I imagine my answer to my back up that night sounded similar to that. I turned back to my suspect who was trying to scamper away, half crawling and half dragging himself along the floor. He reminded me of a chimpanzee using his arms to scamper across the floor of some jungle fleeing a predator.  

“HELL NO!” I thought. “You’re not going anywhere” as I pulled loose from my backup and flung myself back onto this fellow’s legs who suddenly NOW decided he wanted to leave. Sadly for him, that train had long left the station.  

At some point during this struggle, I was able to pull out my OC spray and I sprayed the guy. It had no effect on him, which is not unusual, but it burned the hell out of my eyes, lungs and open cuts. However, it had plenty of effect on some near-by VA employees as they rushed past the three of us. They fled into the night all the while coughing, choking yelling and cursing.  

Even with another cop to help, the struggle continued and at one point the cop I was with also sprayed him. Eventually, after what seemed to be an unending battle, we got the suspect subdued, handcuffed and I called for the wagon.

I was a mess, we all were, but from what I could tell I was the only one of the three of us that got hurt. I was out of breath, and my eyes and lungs were burning from the OC spray, and like the employees who fled, the other cop and I were both coughing and choking. While all this was going on, I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed, or to laugh, or what. The time for keeping or trying to retain my “Police Composure” was long past. I was hurting in several different ways, and the fact that a guy in a wheelchair had almost gotten the best of me didn’t help me feel any better. 

Thankfully, the wagon showed up pretty quickly, and I turned the guy over to them. He started to fight and resist the wagon guys, even though he was in handcuffs. The wagon guys had to push and drag the guy, but I could see he could still walk somewhat on his own. Apparently, when he was done with me, I was in worse shape than he was! 

My prisoner was then loaded into the back of the wagon, as was the department SOP, they had to sit him on the bench and secure him with a seatbelt (always a dicey task with a combative prisoner) for the ride to the station. At that point, the fun started again. Not that it ever stopped, mind you. As I stood and tried to get my composure, as well as catch my breath, I heard a whole lot of yelling and banging coming from within the wagon. I could actually see the box part of the wagon swaying back and forth like it was being blown around in a wind storm! Another fight was on. Later, I learned that the guy was fighting, and kicking the cops the whole time and they sprayed him with OC, which would have been a third time OC was deployed on him. Every cop that uses OC spray has to complete a Use of Force report outlining the situation and reasons justifying it’s use. Not only that, but the cop that sprayed someone during an arrest, had to then decontaminate him before they could be booked. The paperwork, the bane of the street cop, was sure starting to pile up on this one!  

After a few minutes of this, one of the wagon guys comes out of the back of the wagon, huffing and puffing, swearing. He slammed the rear doors to the wagon closed, and I pointed out to him that the nearby wheel chair belonged to the prisoner. Much to my amazement, the wagon cop walked over, picked up the wheel chair with two hands. grasping it by each handle and after spinning around a couple of times with the chair like a discus thrower at a track meet, finally released it and the chair went flying into the nearby trees and bushes. I thought then that if my high school track coach (Yes Mr. Hall, I’m talking about you!) had seen this performance, he would have tried to recruit that cop onto his team! At that point I didn’t give a damn about the guy I arrested, the wheelchair or anything else other than my mouth. 

One or two kind nurses took pity on me they tried to clean me up. Others raised an eyebrow or two after seeing two cops rolling around the ground with what they thought was a wheelchair confined veteran. It was then that I discovered  whenever I opened or closed my mouth my jaw was actually clicking! I thought I was heading for stitches and had broken my jaw! I had seen people with fractured jaws, and how broken jaws were treated, and the possibility of having my jaws wired closed and sipping Hi C and tomato soup through a straw for the next several months wasn’t very appealing. 

Soon wagon departed with my prisoner (they were clearly annoyed that I arrested this guy and now they have to deal with him) but I had to stay around for a few minutes to get info from any witnesses as well as the person who called the police, and the reasons why. Because I was still at the VA, I found out later that the wagon guys had tried to book him in my absence, but he fought the entire time. Before I could get back to the station, and then to the hospital, the shift commander called me in. I cleared the hospital and the radio then answered with the following message dreaded message “See the OIC!” I knew that was trouble. The OIC never called you in to say hello. When I arrived, the captain was apparently not very impressed with my injuries. I mean, I expected at least a little sympathy. Not likely. 

The interrogation started without any preliminaries. “WHY DID YOU BRING THIS ASSHOLE IN? WHAT’S HE CHARGED WITH? HE’S ACTING LIKE AN ASSHOLE. I WANT YOU TO WRITE A SUMMONS FOR WHATEVER YOU CHARGED HIM WITH AND I WANT HIM OUT OF HERE! NOW!

Imagine, I thought, a prisoner thrown out of jail by being assaultive and acting like a shit bag. That was a new one on me. I was angry but I kept my cool and tried to explain, respectfully, what had happened and why I arrested him and the guy wouldn’t go anywhere, not to mention he assaulted me. The Captain didn’t seem to care. All he cared about was getting rid of this jerk. At one point the captain declared that the guy is a mental case and needed a hospital, not our cell block. My mouth and jaw ached as I started to loose my patience with my the Shift Commander. 

I pointed out that he was already ready at a hospital and they threw him out! As I got angrier I asked him why the hell did he think I was up there (at the VA) in the first place? I didn’t go up there on my own. I didn’t snatch the guy off the street. I reminded him that the VA called the police and requested our presence. I was sent up there on a call. The Captain was nonplussed, and continued to chew me out. He ordered me to write a summons. I had charged the guy with criminal trespass, resisting arrest, assault on a police officer, and disorderly conduct. Normally, at least back then, one would have to post bail to get released from jail. Not this guy. All the captain cared about was he wanted this guy out, and he was pissed at me for bringing him in, in the first place. He didn’t want any liability or problems. As my police career went on, I came to believe that many of the higher ranking administrators and senior ranking officers had been away from working the street for such a long time they forget what it’s like, and the decisions you have to make. Many (not all) lose appreciation for what goes on out on the street as their careers progress. 

At the end of my ass chewing, the Captain asked me what I did with the wheelchair. What did I do with the wheelchair? Now I knew damned well what had happened to the wheelchair. I thought a moment. I really didn’t want to say that officer so and so threw it into the woods. On the other hand, I certainly wasn’t going to lie to my boss. Not for that officer or for any other cop. I simply told the captain that if I were him, I’d ask the Wagon guys. He growled something at me as he threw me out of his office. I went over to start writing my summons. 

A few minutes later I heard dispatch calling in the wagon, telling them to see the OIC (Officer in Charge, or Shift commander) I shook my head sadly, with a little empathy for the wagon cops, I figured they were in for an ass chewing or more. I left my summons with the booking officer and headed to the hospital to get checked out. I went to the ER at Catholic Medical Center that night I had to go  through all the red tape when a cop gets hurt on the job. That would include questions like “What could you have done to avoid this injury?” or “ What could you have done to de-escalate the situation?” I suppose I could have stopped at Dunkins on the way to the call for a donut and hope that the problem had been solved before I arrived, but the bosses really didn’t care for my sarcasm. Nevertheless, I was still pretty angry at that point, but all I did was get on the air and tell Dispatch I was going to the ER to get checked out. A sergeant did show up to check on me (Yay!) but there was a ton of paperwork that needed to get filled out. Plus my normal police report and the use of force report still had to be competed. Turned out I needed neither stitches nor was my jaw broken. But I looked a mess! Lips swollen like balloons, blood all over my dark uniform and white T-Shirt, and my jaw ached and it clacked whenever I tried to speak. I think my wife was pretty surprised at my appearance when I showed up at home that morning. For my part, I was afraid that everyone who saw me ( cops, civilians and family) would assume I got my ass kicked at work. 

Later I found out that when the wagon guys tried to get the guy out of the wagon, he continued to kick and resist, and they sprayed him again in the process, so there were other charges on this guy as well. That would be the fourth time he got sprayed with OC that night. Eventually, after they did whatever they did with him at the station, the put him in his wheelchair, served him my summons (after the OIC sent the wagon back to get the wheel chair telling them they’d better find it and not bother to come back without it) opened the sally port and half wheeled and half shoved the guy out onto Manchester St. They said few not very nice good byes which included telling him to go F himself. He was last seen wheeling himself down the middle of Manchester Street into the darkness to who knows where. I never went to court on him. I figured his lawyer must have pled the case to something insignificant and I never heard of him or about him again. It was probably better that I never had to testify in open court about being beaten up by a guy in a wheelchair and all that followed. 

As for me, all I managed to accomplish was that I pissed off just about everyone I had contact with that night. The cop who backed me up, the staff at the VA hospital, the wagon guys, the inside guys at the station, and not to mention the Captain. What the hell? All I did was my job. And, I got rid of the guy for the VA which was what they called for in the first place. In the end all I got out of it was a shitload of crap, maybe a sick day to nurse my wounds (after all who wants a cop to show up at their house who looks like he got the crap kicked out of him by the last person he dealt with) and a trip to a different emergency room. I didn’t even get the court time…