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…

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko Manchester, NH PD

A recent discussion that I had on a FaceBook group chat got me thinking about the issue of off duty arrests and reminded me about several events that I had become involved with over the years when I was off duty.

The topic of getting involved with off duty incidents when you make the decision to identify yourself as a police officer and then use your police authority when you are not on duty was never a simple decision to make for many reasons. The more obvious rationale for this include the fact that you are usually in civilian clothes, people may not recognize you to be a cop even if you identify yourself as one, and you have no back up and may be unarmed. 

When I was still working, the police department I worked for had a written policy about using your police powers when you are off duty. Basically, they discouraged it. The stated policy as I recall it said that unless the incident you get involved with was serious, we should not get involved and gave some options available to us if we happen to see a minor crime or incident occur while we are not on duty. During my time as a union rep, I saw more than a few cops I worked with who, for whatever reason, got involved with an off duty arrest or confrontation, and the department went after them and tried to discipline them for their trouble. I called bullshit on that and the official discouragement by the PD to prevent cops from acting appropriately off duty when the need arose. Beyond that, there are reasons why police officers powers of arrest are not limited to the time they are officially on duty. Those reasons include personal safety of the officer, that officer’s family, as well as overall public safety. I lost track of the number of times I’ve been threatened by the people I’ve arrested, the number of threats made against my family. I also know that my both I and my family have been stalked and placed under the surveillance by members of a drug distribution organization and who knows how many times that has happened throughout my career that I don’t know about.

As time went on during my career, I made the decision to start carrying my weapon off duty more and more often. One reason that did that involved an off duty Manchester detective who, on his way home from the day shift, stopped at the Cumberland Farms on Webster St. and found himself interrupting a robbery. I also decided that after seeing the guy on the Long Island Railroad walking up and down the train car shooting innocent people, stopping to reload while passengers and their loves ones cowered and quivered waiting for their turn to be executed. When I was with my family in places like Boston or New York, on the subway, wherever, I was not going to allow myself or me family to be slaughtered like sheep if I could help it.

One problem was, as cool as it may sound to some people to be able to carry a gun whenever you want, it was often uncomfortable and not always practical to do so. That was especially true in the hot weather when you may not be wearing a jacket or long pants. I remember going to a Mets game at the old Shea Stadium in Queens, and when I approached the entrance before I was searched I found a cop, identified myself and told him I was an out of town cop and carrying my pistol. I was kind of taken aback when the cop asked me with a straight face why I felt the need to be carrying at all. I asked him if he carried a gun off duty, he told me he always did so I just responded by saying “well, there you go.” He didn’t say anything else and just let me go in with my pistol, which of course was concealed. 

I found NYPD cops in particular to be very friendly when it came to out of town cops being armed when visiting their city off duty. One time I was in Battery Park with my then 14 year old daughter, along with a friend and his 14 year old son. I wanted to go up to the Bronx Zoo and asked a cop if it was safe to take the subway with the kids up to the Bronx. He asked me if I was carrying (a pistol). I told him I was, and he told me then it was safe. He did caution me to get out of the Bronx before dark. 

I was also involved in an arrest in Cleveland, Ohio. I was at a bar where I had to intercede and assist a Cleveland cop trying to quell a fight and was trying to make an arrest. I ended up taking his combative prisoner out of the building and holding her down on the street while the officer called for help and my brother helped him hold off the crown that surrounded him. More arrests were made. The first cop to show up was a sergeant, and as he saw me wrestling with the combative prisoner, he asked me who I was. I told him I was an off duty cop and his officer was inside and needed help. Finally, when the dust settled and I put my prisoner in the back of a cruiser, my brother and I identified ourselves as Manchester NH Police Officers. They were pretty surprised and told us they figured we were cops from one of the surrounding districts or towns. I offered to do paperwork for them for these arrests, but they declined my kind offer telling me I had done more than enough and they were thankful for our help.  

As far as Manchester PD goes, the only restriction placed upon us about carrying a gun off duty was that we had to carry a gun that we had qualified with on their range. Fair enough, I always thought. However there were many off duty incidents and arrests that I was involved with over the years at times when I wasn’t carrying a gun, or handcuffs or even a radio to call for help with.     

As time went on, I learned to stay away from certain places in Manchester when I was off duty because I just didn’t want to get involved. Also, I didn’t want to take the chance of getting injured nor did I look forward to the possible inquisition that I may be subjected to by the PD.  Two of those places included the old Wal-Mart and the Market Basket on Elm St. here in town. It was bad enough that I was regularly responding to the Wal-Mart when on duty collecting video and other evidence of credit card and check fraud, robberies and so forth. Going into that store, which was kind of dingy and dirty, I never knew what I was going to see. 

One day, I was walking down the aisle  behind two guys who were having a discussion about committing a theft or thefts. One was trying to talk the other into stealing a few things that they could either sell right away or return for cash at the customer service counter. The other guy was trying to talk him out of it because he was on parole and he didn’t want get pinched and end up back in prison. I followed along and listened while looking at my watch, and I was happy when the guy on parole talked his buddy out of grabbing anything that day. Between that, domestic disputes and hit and run accidents in the parking lot, I decided to stay out of that Wal-Mart and frequent the one the next town over in Bedford. The Bedford Wal-Mart was bigger, cleaner, and besides, the customers were better looking. But, even there one day, an on duty Bedford cop came across a domestic dispute in the parking lot and when he approached the couple, the male drew down on the cop and the cop ended up shooting the male subject dead. So you never know. 

As far as the Market Basket went, I was responding to that store almost daily at one point with lights and sirens to assist the store detectives who were getting assaulted regularly while trying to apprehend the heroin addicts who were stealing steaks and baby formula. Many of the suspects detained there, after fighting with the store personnel admitted to me when I questioned them that they were HIV positive or had HEP C. If that shit wasn’t bad enough, I went in there a few times off duty and one guy tried to fight me in the men’s room for no reason that I could discern, and someone stole my brother in law’s cane off his shopping cart when he turned away to grab something off the shelf. So, I placed the Market Basket in Manchester on my stay away off duty list along with many of the bars and restaurants in the city.  

There was a time when Stop and Shop had two stores in Manchester, and one of them was on Lincoln St. That store was having multiple strong arm robberies occur weekly. Most times, when their store detectives tried to apprehend a shoplifter, it turned into an assault escalating a misdemeanor shoplifting pinch into a felony level strong arm or forcible robbery. The store found themselves hiring police details to keep the peace. It was the only Stop and Shop in New Hampshire that had to hire police details most afternoons and evening. I also stayed away from that supermarket when I wasn’t working, even though it was across the street from the then new police headquarters.  

One day, I was working night shift in Detectives, and I decided to stop into my credit union on my way to work. I was in civilian clothes, and after parking I then headed to the front door. As you approach the door, there are two handicapped parking spots on either side of the entrance. As I walked towards the door, I saw a car pull into one of the HC spots. After you’ve been on the job for a while, you notice everything going on around you, quite often subconsciously, on duty or not. In this case, I saw the car was driven by a woman and a man got out of the passenger seat and headed into the credit union in front of me. I saw that the car did not have either a HC plate of HC placard. I let it slide. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in an off duty incident over a parking violation. It just wasn’t worth it.  

As we entered the bank, a middle aged woman told the guy, who appeared to be in his twenties, politely but sternly that he should not be parking in a HC spot. The guy looked at the woman and told her to go fuck herself. That was too much for me. I then tinned the guy (showed him my tin or badge, identifying myself as a police officer) and asked him to step outside with me. I decided I didn’t want to confront or chew him out in front of everyone in the bank. The guy came outside with me, and I told him to get back into the car and move it out of the spot. At that point the woman in the car, who was the guy’s girlfriend, started in on me. 

She started yelling and giving me crap about how they were only there for a minute and he was going to run in and run out quickly and they would have already been done and gone if I hadn’t  started harassing him etc. etc. They guy, who was pretty loud mouthed and brave to the other woman, was quiet around me and tried to persuade his girlfriend to just drive away. But she was having none of it, and kept at me. I was actually starting to feel bad fo the guy who started this all based on his girlfriend’s behavior. Finally, I had enough. I then told them “now you can’t leave” and ordered them to stay put. I walked over to my car and grabbed the police radio I had in my gym bag. I called in, and asked dispatch if they could send a nearby unit that was free with a book of parking tickets. About five minutes later, who pulls up but the Chief of Detectives in an unmarked cruiser.

I was a bit embarrassed that the Chief responded for something so minor. I apologized to him, but he just waved me off saying it was no trouble and handed me a book of parking tickets. I explained the situation to him, a little timidly, but he told me to hell with them and that he’d hang around while I wrote a $240 ticket out. 

Now I always considered myself a reasonable cop, and I was always judicious before I’d hang a $240 ticket on anyone, especially a working person. Often times when I caught someone committing a minor violation or some other bad behavior, I’d make them stop, and after a verbal warning send them on their way. That wasn’t happening this day. I gave the woman the ticket. She was still pissed at me. I didn’t care. The guy wasn’t happy because the car was registered to him. “Oh well” I said. “Get in the car and go. Now.”  I then threatened to arrest the female for disorderly conduct if she didn’t leave immediately. She finally got the message (I think) and left. 

Now I was late for work. Fortunately, the Chief commanded the division I worked in and he just chuckled and told me not to worry about it. Later that night I got myself a ticket book and placed it into the glove compartment of my personal car. Just in case…

Another memorable off duty confrontation happened one quiet Sunday night some time later. I was driving and my wife was with me and we found ourselves downtown. I decided to pull into the BP station located at Bridge and Chestnut Streets. While I was pumping gas, this guy worked his way over from across the street towards me. I kept an eye on him while at the same time I tried to ignore him hoping he would just continue on his way and leave me alone. No such luck. The guy started to give me this long sob story about his living in Rhode Island, and his car ran out of gas and he asked me for $20 for so he could get home. This was a common ploy, and these cretans had come along way from asking me for a quarter for a cup of coffee. No, this guy wanted a double sawbuck. I saw that he did not have a gas can with him, and asked him where his car was. He said it was some distance away and kept pushing me for the 20 bucks. I told the guy to take a hike. He kept at me, and finally I told him to fuck off. He got really surly and finally walked away from me. 

However, during this time another guy pulled up at the gas pumps across from me, and when the driver of that car got out to pump gas, this guy went right over to him and started. He tried to convince him to give him money, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Unlike me, this poor guy tried to ignore him which only emboldened the pan handler. I could sense the citizen was feeling intimidated while the vagrant kept pressing him. Finally I thought to myself, “Here we go. I’m going to have to get involved in this”. Reluctantly, I walked over to the guy, pulled out my badge and identified myself as a police officer. I then told him to screw, and I wasn’t going to tell him again. The guy stood there, and I immediately knew he was sizing me up. I could feel his eyes bore into me as he “Eye Fucked” me, then looked me over from top to bottom. I knew instinctively he was trying to decide whether to continue to challenge me, take off or attack me. I stood there and finally walked towards him. After what seemed an eternity, he decided to walk away and keep his mouth shut. I went back to my car. My wife was sitting in the front seat of our car and had been watching the whole episode unfold. 

The citizen who had been accosted then came over to me to thank me. He said he felt intimidated by this guy and was afraid the guy was going to rob him. “Thank you so much, Officer” he said. I went on to tell him it was not a problem andI sympathized with him and said it was getting harder and harder go downtown without being accosted by these jerks. They walk a very fine line where they act in a threatening manner, but don’t actually come out and openly threaten the people they beg from, but they do intimidate them. As time went on, the courts in this state ruled that begging for money, unless they utter a clear threat that violated the Criminal Threatening law, or use force, is not a crime. In fact, it is protected speech under the First Amendment. 

I walked back to my car. I had been ready for a physical confrontation, but as I told me wife, I had no handcuffs, no radio and no way to subdue this guy and hold him if I had tried to arrest him or if he assaulted me. The next day, I put a pair of handcuffs into the glove compartment of my car next to my book of parking tickets and never went anywhere without them. And oh yeah, I also stuck my pistol in an off duty holster and stuffed into in my waist band more and more often when I was off duty.

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

Manchester, NH Police Department

I always considered a DWI arrest a good arrest. In Manchester, you didn’t have to look too hard to make DWIs. Often they found you. And most of the drunk driving arrests I made were not of ladies who had a couple of glasses of wine at lunch or a guy who stopped for a couple of beers on his way home from hanging dry wall or working construction all day. Not to preach, but the fact is that many of the drunk drivers I encountered were falling highly intoxicated, and barely able to function or form a coherent sentence. Many of those had already lost their licenses after DWI arrests but they just kept driving after they drank. Many were alcoholics, which meant they drank every day, and most likely drove when they did drink. These drivers were truly a danger to themselves and the community. I rarely had to look too hard for them or lay in wait outside of a bar, like I’ve seen cops do in some places. Drunk drivers often  attracted my attention by how they were driving. I also knew that getting arrested for DWI was no little thing, especially when that person was an otherwise law abiding citizen. 

When you consider a DWI First Offense conviction, the monetary penalties added up to be significant and other impacts socially, as well as professionally on day to day life for that operator were significant. So I always made sure I had solid probable cause which I could articulate before I arrested and subjected someone to for drunk driving. That sounds elementary and straightforward on the face of it, but I was very careful before I made that charge. 

There were many times when I knew a driver I had stopped was under the influence, but because I couldn’t clearly articulate how I knew this, that I opted not to arrest that person. In those cases I instead made some other arraignment for getting that driver off the road and ensured he or she did not get out and drive later that night. There were times when a driver I believed to be drunk passed two of three roadside sobriety tests and I made to make the decision not arrest. Still, in those cases I always made sure that driver never drove away from the scene.

After my last story about losing a DWI case in court, someone gave me the idea to write about the other DWI arrest I made that went nowhere. As I thought about it, I recalled an additional case where the driver was not convicted. So, I’ll write about these cases two here.

One case was, I thought at the time, pretty simple. In that case, I was working midnights in Patrol and I was sitting in the parking lot of the old Richdale Grocery Store at the corner of Bridge and Chestnut Streets just off of downtown. It was probably about 1 AM, and I was watching traffic as well as the late night shit show that often occurred in that neighborhood as the local bars started to empty out and added to the normal assortment of debauchery and unsavory characters that were out and about wandering that neighborhood.  I was assigned to a busy car, so I was just “showing the flag” so to speak and waiting on the next call. 

As I sat there, I heard this distant, metallic, grinding noise, that kind of sounded to me like a tank or some kind of armored military vehicle closing in on me. The clatter was faint at first, but as it got closer to me, the grinding noise got louder and louder as whatever was causing it got closer. Finally, after I short time I saw what was making the noise. Imagine my surprise when I saw a car, driving westerly on Bridge St. cross in front of me with sparks and flames coming from where it’s two right side tires should have been. The car kept going, past me, through the intersection, across Elm St and onto the bridge. I figured the car to be going at close to 25-30 MPH. The noise was almost deafening as it passed me without slowing. 

Naturally, I pulled out behind it, hit my blue lights and was able to stop it on the west side of the bridge. When I approached the driver, I found it to be a very intoxicated young woman who was pretty irate and immediately became argumentative. She lectured me in no uncertain terms that I had better things to do than bother people driving home when there are so many real criminals out there running the streets unhindered by the police who are hanging out at Dunkin Donuts when not harassing innocent people.  Furthermore, she went on to enlighten me, she lived just on the other side of the bridge and insisted that I allow her to continue since she was so close to home. 

I walked around the car and a quick examination of the two right wheels confirmed there was no sign of rubber or any tires on either of the rims. Since my initial observations and exchange with the driver led me to believe she was very intoxicated, I made a guess that she had probably drove over a curb or some other barrier at a high enough speed that she blew out both tires. I further deduced that in her haste to leave the scene she continued to drive until there was no sign of either tire that must have been on each rim at some point. Of course, this was simply conjecture on my part, and the driver wasn’t very cooperative or responsive to my questions. Actually, she was pretty nonchalant about driving on her rims, as though it was an everyday thing. I believe she eventually told me she must have run over a curb, and anyway  she declared “what’s the difference” In any case, she asserted that there was no law against driving without tires. Besides, she only had two beers earlier. I did not concur with her analysis of the situation she was in and told her so.   

After a contentious on scene investigation I formed the opinion that she was in fact under the influence and I placed her under arrest. I don’t recall if she blew on the intoxylizer or not, but she was in my opinion “really shitfaced’. The car had left a long trail of ruts and scuffs on the asphalt street, too long to photograph the length of without a drone to fly over. I towed and photographed the car, some of the marks, and completed my on-scene investigation. 

Several months later, we went to trial. I was pretty confident on this one. I won’t bore anyone with details of the trial itself. I’ll just tell you that the judge in this case found the driver not guilty. He reasoned that I did not have probable or reasonable cause to stop her. He said she violated no traffic or criminal law by driving on a public way on rims, despite leaving fiery, smoky grooves gouged within the roadway of a city street (my description, not his). We argued that I had an obligation to stop and check on her condition, the reasonable conclusion after watching her drive by that she’d been involved in an accident of some kind. Furthermore, please correct me if I am wrong, but I was and still am pretty sure that in the state of New Hampshire (or any other state) a car would not pass inspection without tires on it, making it unfit and therefore illegal to drive on a public way. Furthermore, I’m pretty confident that if I drove a car on the Everett Turnpike, I-93 or for that matter the Massachusetts Turnpike I would get stopped by the State Police of either state and no where else would that stop be declared unlawful. But the judge would have none of it. He ruled the stop unconstitutional, therefore any evidence of drunk driving I obtained after I detained her illegally (his description) could not be used at trial against her.  A resounding “Not Guilty” was the ruling from the bench. The judge and the defendant both had had a good days for themselves.  For me, that particular court appearance was a miserable start to my day. To say I was slack jawed as I listened to the judge’s reasoning and decision at the time would be an understatement. That my friends, is a true story! 

The next account I offer for your consideration involves a two car collision I was sent to late one afternoon. My memory of this case is as follows: 

A man was driving southerly on Union St, minding his own business, following the roadway when a woman who was driving her car easterly on Merrimack St. blew the stop sign on Merrimack St. striking or T-Boning the driver’s car on Union St. by plowing into the right side of that car, finally coming to a stop. Upon arriving at the scene, the first thing I did was make the scene safe, then checked on the drivers. I requested another unit to direct traffic at this busy intersection. I learned the driver of the car that apparently ran the stop sign had a broken thigh bone, a visible compound fracture which had broken the skin. I then called for an ambulance and after telling the other driver to wait for me, I stayed with that driver until the fire department and ambulance arrived. As far as I could determine, the other driver who was hit was not injured.  

Due to the fact that this injury is considered serious bodily injury under NH law, I requested a traffic unit respond to take the crash. The traffic division declined to take the call since although serious, the injury was most likely not life threatening so I got the news I owned it. 

I surveyed the scene, and one thing that stood out to me was there were no visible tire marks or skid marks visible from the car that ran the stop sign. I did however observe scuff marks and yaw marks form the tires of the car that was struck. This indicated to me that it was probable that the injured driver who ran the stop sign never hit the brakes and her car was only stopped after it collided with the other car, and the speed and force of the collision pushed the other car sideways to it’s left while it’s wheels were still spinning forward simultaneously. Additionally, to me, the fact that the driver that had the broken thigh bone as a result of the collision, indicated that the collision must have happened while she was driving at a considerable speed. 

Well, I did my job, took my measurements and my photographs and made my notes for the diagram of the collision that I’d have to make later. The driver with the broken leg was transported to the hospital for treatment, and I continued with my investigation. When all was said and done, I came to the obvious conclusion that the driver with the broken leg was at fault, and due to the fact that there was serious bodily injury (her) and a likely high amount of property damage I later cited her for failing to yield at a stop sign. I’m sure she didn’t stop or slow for the stop sign, but I had no witnesses to prove that, so I cited her for failing to yield, accident resulting. 

Meanwhile, I had a had a discussion with the driver of the other car that was struck. I noted a slight odor of alcohol on his breath, and during my questioning he had told me he had been working construction all day, and when he was done, he had a couple of beers at the site with some co-workers before he left. On the floor of his car in front of the passenger seat, I located several empty beers cans and inside a six-pack type of cooler a couple of more unopened beer cans. I also thought his speech was a bit thick-tongued, so based on this information, I thought it prudent to perform a roadside sobriety test, especially since there was personal injury in this case. I determined that he passed one sobriety test, but despite the fact that he wasn’t “falling down drunk” I graded the other two as failures and ultimately arrested him for DWI. “It sucks to be him” I thought as I handcuffed him and called for the wagon. After the scene was cleared, I went back to the station to process my prisoner.

In New Hampshire, a DWI arrest becomes a felony if there is bodily injury involved, as there was in this case. Also, at the time, the PER SE level of blood alcohol content to prove drunk driving was .10%. Not much later, that standard was reduced to .08%, like it is now in most of the country.

The driver signed off on his implied consent rights, and told me he did not believe he was intoxicated, so he agreed to give a breath sample. I called in an INTOX operator (I was never one and never had the desire to become one) and my suspect blew, and the result was .10. He was obviously very disappointed, but that wasn’t the end of it.

In the State of New Hampshire, an arresting officer has the right to obtain either a urine, blood or breath sample if he arrests someone for DWI. Normally, for many reasons, we stick with breath sample. But, it’s our choice. On top that the intoxylizer we used at the time (It was NOT the earlier breathalyzer which is known to be inferior and less accurate that the INTOX machine), for evidentiary purposes had a .01 tolerance. That meant that with the .10 % breath sample, the court could assume the defendant really had either a .09, which would probably result in a dismissal, or up to a .11, resulting in conviction. Naturally any court would err on the .09 to protect the defendant. So that left me one choice. I now had to take him to the hospital for a blood draw. According to NH law at the time, he had no right to refuse, and in any case he was agreeable. He was going to co-operate and do anything and all to prove he wasn’t legally drunk. I certainly had no problem with that regardless of the outcome. 

We got to the ER at Catholic Medical Center, and I set up for the blood draw. The hospital had my prisoner sign several release documents agreeing to the blood draw. While waiting, I sat with him and we just chatted for a while. I learned he was originally from Boston and had recently driven a taxi in Cambridge Mass. until he got construction he was working earlier in the day. Naturally, having driven a taxi for several years myself in Boston, we spent some time talking about our experiences doing so. The suspect was under arrest, and I had read him his rights earlier, and I was not going to solicit any more incriminating statements from him while he was handcuffed to a chair despite the fact he had initially waived his rights. Still though the guy seemed like a decent guy to me, he had worked all day and he was minding his own business following the roadway after having a few beers when out of nowhere he gets slammed by this other woman who ran the stop sign. When the blood draw was complete, I was given two tubes of blood for evidence (one for me and one for him to use and have analyzed and I was told that the initial result from their lab showed a .11 BAC (Blood Alcohol Content).

So that was that. Back to MPD where I finally started on a mountain of paperwork, putting my case together. I charged the suspect with Felony DWI, and once he bailed out I escorted from the cell bock to the lobby. I shook his hand, and I wished him well, and I meant it. With the exception of the probable cause hearing a few weeks later, that was the last time I saw that defendant. 

At that time, in Hillsborough County NH, it took about a year for a typical felony charge to work it’s way thought the system to resolution, even longer if the case went to trial. So, life went on and I didn’t think too much about the case after that night. I thought it was a solid DWI arrest. 

Several months later I ended up being called into the County Attorney’s Office (In NH the District Attorney is referred to as the County Attorney, and the ADAs are called Assistant County Attorneys) I went over and met with the ADA that was prosecuting this case. The ADA went on to tell me that the State has decided to drop / dismiss the case. I was puzzled to say the least, but before I could inquire or argue about it, he told me that there was no problem with the case or how I handled it. He went on to say that since I cited and believed and would testify to the fact that I believed the driver who hit the defendant blew a stop sign and therefore caused the accident, the defendant would not be charged even thought there was evidence of drunk driving on his part. The prosecutor went on to say that because there was no “causation” on the part of the defendant it was unlikely he’d be indicted by a grand jury. He said that in order to charge a drunk driver with a felony, in this case serious bodily injury, one of the elements present would have to be “causation”. 

Now this was really surprising to me. I think I had about five or six years of patrol experience in a pretty busy city under my belt by this time. I’d made many DWI arrests as you can probably imagine, and I had never, ever heard of this legal principle before that conversation. During the time I made that arrest, no supervisor or boss ever questioned my felony charge. Nor was it questioned when the judge in District Court found probable cause on the case at the PC hearing and he sent the case to Superior Court as a felony.

I asked if he would consider prosecuting the case as a misdemeanor as an option, just charging him the straight DWI, not the felony for the bodily injury, and he told me that was always a possibility, but he believed that if the defendant opted for a jury trial, it was possible, even likely that a jury wold feel sympathetic towards the defendant because there was no “causation”. He was just driving along after a long day of work minding his own business when this maniac hit him and destroyed his car. As I thought about it, I knew the ADA was probably correct.

Now, we arrest drunk drivers on a regular basis, and often they are not involved in an accident, so certainly there is never an issue of causation in those cases, or so I reasoned.  

I did debate a bit, saying that maybe the fact that the defendant was legally drunk would have caused the defendant to be just a bit slow on his reactions, and how do we know if he hadn’t consumed those beers he might have been able to avoid the accident altogether. The ADA told me I may have been correct, we don’t know that, and in any case, we certainly could never prove that. He closed by telling me they would not pursue a DWI case when an accident occurred if there was no evidence of causation on the part of the driver charged with DWI. So, eventually I accepted his arguments at face value and went back to work. In the end, I guess it worked out for the guy I arrested, and I felt no animosity towards him for getting off.  

I spent half of my police career working as a detective, and I’ve been retired for 4 1/2 years now, so I really don’t know how case law in this state for DWI cases have evolved, therefore I don’t know if that dismissal would fly today in court. 

I guess there really aren’t any lessons in these stories, they are just stories that are true and demonstrate how difficult it can be to navigate the Byzantine labyrinth which we refer to as the Criminal Justice System. 

Well…maybe there is one lesson. That would be, be careful and think really hard before you get behind the wheel of your car after having a few drinks. You could be driving ok and minding your own business and get creamed by some maniac or a drunk driver who just doesn’t care. You might find yourself at the side of the road performing field sobriety tests. Be smart and safe out there!     

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

Manchester NH Police Department

I never thought that being a good cop required a high degree of formal education beyond high school and certainly not a college degree. Looking back at my career, I came to the conclusion that the most important characteristics needed were common sense and experience. Both cannot be overstated. Much of what you learn about police work and the law in general comes with experience, which equates directly to time on the job. Naturally, as you go through your career you are constantly going to school to learn updated technical skills and current court decisions regarding things like search and seizure, the use of force, ever-changing duties and standards of care and conduct. You must how to apply those updates to what you do on the street daily. It goes without saying that integrity is paramount, and we could certainly delve into other attributes that are necessary for any cop to succeed and have a meaningful police career.  

However, no matter how much education and training you may have, there are just somethings you learn by trial and error, and you hope that at the end of each shift, you can look yourself in the mirror and know that whatever decisions you made during that shift, you did so in good faith, and that you made what you believed at the time was the correct decision. And when we make these decisions, often without a lot of time or information available at the time, we do not only look at legal aspects, but also have to insure your decision was ethically and morally correct.

Stated another way, you not only have to learn the law, but you must also develop the ability to apply the law in each an every situation in the way it was intended by the legislature. And I can assure you that there are times when a law may be applied to a specific situation, but when that law was applied, it was not what the legislative intent or spirit of the law intended. But mistakes in judgement are unavoidable, and when you consider the number of decisions that a patrol officer makes during his or her eight hour shift, these mistakes are inevitable. At times, the best we can hope for is that any mistake we made didn’t cause any unintended problems or consequences for those who were affected by the mistake, whether a victim, perpetrator or bystander. Finally, once you are aware of a mistake you must learn from that mistake and never repeat it. So, my story today is about mistakes I made during an arrest early in my career. As you continue to read, please understand that the mistakes made in this case were honest mistakes and in no way intended to take a short cut or otherwise circumvent any law or constitutional protection just to make a case against the suspect we ultimately arrested. 

I had probably been on the job for about two years or so (in my world  a cop isn’t considered a veteran policeman until he or she has at least 5 years on) so however salty I may have felt at the time, I still had a lot to learn. 

On this particular day I was working in Patrol on a route that was just north of downtown Manchester, NH. I was working 330 PM-Midnight, and I found it to be a typically busy weekday afternoon after I got out of roll call and called into service. 

I hadn’t been out very long when I overheard a BOLO (Be On The Lookout) for a particular car that had been involved in a hit and run collision on the Amoskeag Traffic Rotary which was on the west side of the city. Someone at the scene had obtained an accurate plate number (highly unusual) and description of the suspect vehicle which had fled the scene a short time earlier. The address and name of the registered owner was also broadcast along with where the damage to the hit and run vehicle would most likely be. Well, the address where both suspect and car lived was on my route.  

The address was, I believe, on  Pearl St, only a few blocks east off of Elm St. For anyone who doesn’t knows the area, those streets are separated by back alleys that run in between and in rear of the houses on adjacent streets. Often, and it was in this case, there were older garages in the alleys that belong to the houses nearby and residents could park their cars in these garages rather than on the city streets in front of their buildings. So, I headed for that address in the hope I could intercept the driver and car if it had headed home from the crash site after it fled. 

When I arrived, I cruised the neighborhood looking for the suspect car. No luck, initially. As I cruised the alley behind the house that the car was registered to, I saw a row of attached garages directly across the rear alley where the suspect lived. I got out on foot, and I found most of the garage doors had windows in them which allowed me to peek inside form the alley. 

Bingo! The suspect car was parked in one of the garages, facing inward, so I was only able to see the back of the car. I do not recall if I could read the rear license plate on the car from outside or not, but thinking about it, I don’t think it mattered in the end. Despite that, I was pretty sure I had the correct vehicle. The driver made it home without being stopped by the police and hid the car. I radioed to the investigating officer at the crash scene and told him that I had found his car. I stood by and waited for him to clear the collision scene and head over to my location. 

The officer who was handling the call was an older, more experienced cop who I had a lot of respect for. He arrived, and when I took him to the garage, he tried the door and I was surprised it was unlocked. Without hesitating, he then raised the door entered the garage and inspected the car further. 

Now initially, my instinct was that perhaps we needed a search warrant to enter that garage. But he went into the garage immediately with no time for discussion and I followed him in if for no other reason than to cover his back incase our suspect or someone else happened to be hiding there.

There was no one in the garage, but we could confirm from the plate and description, and the damage on the front end of the car, that this in fact was the suspect vehicle. We also noted that the windshield was “spiderwebbed’ on the drivers side (something that we couldn’t have observed from outside the garage) and that kinda changed the complexion of the investigation because we now had reason to believe the driver had been injured, possible seriously. I believe there was hair and a bit of blood on the windshield as well. We also noted a couple of beer bottles in the front on the floor, some open and empty, others unopened. This was certainly evidence of DUI. Also, we found the car was unlocked. We went on to take various photos of what we had found (the car, damage and beer bottles) then removed the bottles from the car for evidence. I did have a brief discussion with him at one point, and he felt that because we could see the car from outside of the garage, in other words, because we were lawfully present when we discovered the evidence inside, we could seize the evidence with a search warrant. I knew that what he was saying was true on it’s face, so I relied on his judgement and experience and we continued to note our observations and take evidence from the scene. 

Now just a word now about Search and Seizure law. Evidence of a crime can be seized by police without a search warrant if 1) The evidence is in plain view and is obvious at the time it is evidence of a crime and 2) If the officer who observes the evidence is lawfully at the location when he or she first observed the evidence. There are exceptions to that rule based on exigency and other issues, but generally speaking, those two points I make here allows police to seize evidence without a search warrant. When a cop seizes evidence without a warrant (or occasionally with a warrant) and that seizure is later ruled by the courts to be unlawful, the standard remedy (as long as the cop did so in good faith) is applying the “exclusionary rule” and the evidence is thrown out and not allowed to be presented in court. 

The search and documentation of the car and it’s contents then being complete, we had the task of trying to locate the owner of the car, who was the suspect. We went to his apartment, and not only did we find the rear entrance to his kitchen unlocked, it was partially open. We announced ourselves before we entered the apartment, but there was no response. Since we had reason to believe the suspect may have been injured and possibly in need of medical attention, we decided to search the apartment for him. I had no issue entering his apartment at this point based on the fresh information we had and the circumstances present. I believed then that the entry was lawful, and still do. Once inside, we found the suspect passed out in his bed. We roused him from what I believed at the time was an alcohol induced slumber and got him out of bed. 

The first thing we noticed was a bump and small bruise on his forehead. This generally appeared to me to match up with the damage to his windshield and directly tied him to the collision he fled. The second thing we noted was that he appeared to be very drunk. We asked the suspect if he was alright and offered to call an ambulance to have him checked out. He said he was fine and declined our offer. The officer I was then started to question him about the collision, fleeing the scene, then conducted a field sobriety test inside the bedroom. The suspect failed the field sobriety test miserably. 

Once completed, the officer placed the suspect under arrest and charged him with DUI and fleeing the scene of an accident (known under NH law as Conduct After and Accident) We got the keys to the apartment, locked it up for the suspect, and called for a wagon. It was the other cop’s call and arrest, so he went into the PD to process the prisoner and do the paperwork. In my mind, we certainly developed enough evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt that this guy was the culprit who fled the scene. In fact, the reason he fled the scene was most probably because he knew he was drunk. I thought it was a good arrest. As the case made it’s way through the system, I learned the suspect would not take a plea, and so several months later the case went to trial. 

The day of the trial came, and I noted that a particular judge who wasn’t assigned to Manchester District Court but often filled in there was hearing this case. I had been before her many times in the past and found her to be a very polite judge to all parties involved and very respectful. However, I had come to judge her as defendant’s judge and therefore soft on criminals for many reasons I won’t go into here. Therefore, based on my previous experience and observations I wasn’t confident that our case would be as “Open and Shut” as I thought it would be. 

What normally happens during trials is that the witnesses that are to testify to the crime are sequestered on the day of the trial, in this case that meant that once the trial began the other cop and I could not talk to each other about the trial, the case, or the testimony we gave or heard. It also means and we can’t be in the courtroom during the trial other than when we were actually giving testimony. Once being sequestered, I, along with other cops involved always scrupulously followed those rules. So it was that when it was my turn to testify later in the day, I had no idea what had transpired before I got on the stand.  

Once I was sworn in, the prosecutor took me through my involvement and observations that day, and when he finished with me, the defense attorney started to question me. He took me through the whole thing, step by step, questioning me about everything I did, everything I saw and why I did what I did. I’m sure he was probing for inconsistencies between my partner’s and my testimony as well as my reports. Finally, after about an hour , maybe more, of answering his questions, the defense attorney asked me if I believed at the time that I was conducting a lawful search when I entered the garage without a search warrant. 

I thought for a brief moment. I realized what the attorney was fishing for as he questioned me, and what his defense was for his client. I figured I was in a tight spot, and the case was on the line. I then answered with the following statement:  “WELL, IF I HAD TO DO IT OVER AGAIN, I WOULD HAVE OBTAINED A SERACH WARRANT BEFORE ENTERING THE GARAGE”. Which was certainly true, especially after I realized this arrest and case would be based on the legality of the search we made when we entered the garage which was private property.  

My answer appeared to surprise and take the defense attorney aback for just an instant. It was apparent to me that he wasn’t expecting that answer. I think he was hoping to make me appear incompetent and at worse, paint my actions in a nefarious light. After a pause, the defense attorney changed his demeanor. The seconds ticked by as I waiting for this attorney to pounce on me and really sink his teeth into me and my actions. After giving some thought, he then made the following statement to me: “WELL, THAT’S FAIR ENOUGH.” He then told the judge that he had nothing further for me. It was apparent that he felt he got what he needed from me and I was always thankful he didn’t turn my testimony into a real shit show. The prosecutor and defense attorney made their closing arguments and the judge came to a rapid decision, but took some time and trouble to explain her reasoning on each issue presented at the trial. 

Ultimately, the judge found the defendant not guilty of all the charges. The reasons she gave for doing so went a long way to guide me through similar circumstances and cases for the rest of my career. 

The judge ruled that once I observed the car through the window of the garage, I should have then stopped, and obtained a search warrant (or permission form the suspect) to enter the garage. Furthermore, she ruled that once in the garage, we should have obtained a further search warrant (or permission from the suspect) to enter his car. I’m not sure I agree with that second ruling, since the items we saw in the car were in plain view and could be recognized immediately as evidence of a crime. In any case, she disallowed any evidence or observations we made once we entered the garage without a warrant. 

Furthermore, the judge then went on to invoke the Fruit of the Poisonous Tree Doctrine of constitutional law. This legal principle states that ANY and all evidence or information obtained / gained from an unlawful search cannot, under any circumstances be introduced as evidence in a trial. Therefore, when we relied on that evidence to then continue our investigation and use it for probable cause or even use it in developing probable cause for arrest, anything we gained from the suspect could not be used against him because it was fruit of the poisonous tree, the unlawful search. 

The judge went on to say that even if the search of the garage and car were carried out legally, our observations of the suspect, his condition or behavior were not evidence enough to convict him of DWI in this case. 

The judge noted there was compelling evidence to believe the suspect hit his head, therefore his behavior during the field sobriety test could reasonably be attributed to head trauma, and we certainly did not provide any evidence to dispel that possibly. The burden was upon us to prove that wasn’t the case, not on the defendant to prove it was.

Furthermore, regarding the strong smell of alcohol on the suspects breath at the time we made contact with him, we had to prove that he was intoxicated at the time of the accident, and enough time had passed that unless we could prove he didn’t consume alcohol after he arrived home, there was no proof he was actually under the influence when he drove his car into the garage, never mind the accident he was alleged to have caused. 

Finally, the judge noted that regardless of the issues mentioned, and even if we assume his car was involved in the hit and run, we presented no evidence that he was driving the car at the time of the accident and he was the one who fled. There was no ID made by the victims or any other witness, and not that it would have been admissible in this case, the suspect himself did not admit to us that he drove the car or even was involved in the accident. 

You may be able to imagine how disheartened I was as the judge just went down the list and ticked off the reasons we screwed this case up. However, there was one bright spot as I sat in the courtroom and felt publicly humiliated.

The judge called me out by name, saying that, in spite of the outcome of the case, in her opinion Officer Swirko would have been derelict of duty, knowing what I knew, regardless of whether or not I had obtained a search warrant, had I not entered the suspect’s apartment and insured that the suspect was not injured or in need of immediate medical care. She emphasized (possibly for the defense attorney, and possibly for the other cops present) that we have a duty to follow up and ensure that members of the pubic are not injured or need care, even if we enter or force entry into an abode without permission under certain circumstances, and this was certainly on of those cases.

In the end, I walked out of the courtroom well chastised but feeling a little better about the day. It was obviously important to the judge to make that final statement, for whatever reason, and it certainly made me feel less of a heel after getting my you know what whacked for executing a search and arrest that the judge deemed unconstitutional. 

I made many DUI arrests during my career, but the lessons I learned that day were invaluable to me and I applied them to every case I became involved with. I never made those mistakes again. The judge’s assertion that I had a duty to enter and check on the well being of the suspect guided me throughout my career when confronting those situations. Many times I found it prudent to force entry into apartments to check on the occupants well being when I had a valid reason to do so. Appellate court decisions throughout the years that followed only bolstered that judges assertions during that trial. 

Today, when I think about it, that court case really educated me on many levels and immediately had an effect on how I did my job from that day forward. That is one reason I choose to write about and share this experience. With one exception, that case turned to be the only DWI case I ever lost during my career, and as I think about it, this really wasn’t my case or arrest in the first place. I eventually came to the conclusion that if the arresting officer did his or her job correctly when making a any DWI arrest, the case would always end in a conviction and very difficult for any defense attorney, no matter how experienced or high priced that attorney may be. I certainly never held any anger or hard feelings towards that attorney, he did his job and did it well, unlike my partner and I did that afternoon. 

As for me, I am just happy that I made those mistakes in a case where no one was seriously injured and the charges were misdemeanors. No one’s life was negatively impacted. Of course the suspect had been arrested and needed to hire a lawyer so he was certainly inconvenienced.  Other than minor damage to her car, and whatever hoops her insurance company put her through, the victim was OK in the long run. But hey, in the end, we all knew, including the judge, that the suspect did what he was accused of doing, so I don’t feel overly sympathetic to him. I hope he thought better of drinking and driving after that experience. And, if I had done my job better, we would have obtained a conviction. 

By First Sergeant (Retired) Martin Swirko, United States Army

As this Memorial Day weekend has approached, I find myself thinking about, sometimes brooding, over the loss of those I knew, and especially those whom I had the honor to serve with that made the ultimate sacrifice. I also think about their families, some of whom have honored me by staying in touch with me over the years. I always feel as though I should sit down and write about Memorial Day, write something meaningful, but in the end, there isn’t anything I can write or add that I or anyone else hasn’t said or written. As I scroll through Facebook, I see endless posts admonishing us all that Memorial Day isn’t about celebrating a weekend off, and it isn’t about Veterans, it’s about those who gave their lives fighting for this country. True enough. So, this year, I thought I’d pay tribute to three great men by re-posting something I wrote and shared a few years back. Maybe someone will come across it that hasn’t seen it previously. Well, here goes…

ANOTHER MEMORIAL DAY

Well, here it is, another Memorial Day weekend. I envisioned myself writing and posting some meaningful tribute to those we honor at this time each year, but I can see now that it’s not to be. Don’t get me wrong, I made an attempt, several attempts. But, in each case I failed to get beyond certain platitudes that somehow ring hollow to me. Maybe, I’ll just settle for writing a brief explanation about what Memorial Day means to me, which really comes down to how it affects me. Then perhaps I can coherently weave some thoughts together and actually construct some meaningful sentences and then combine them into a few paragraphs that might, just might, capture the spirit and meaning of Memorial Day. At least as I have come to view it. 

I will start with my alibi first. Memorial Day is about those who gave their lives in the service of our country. And, in my mind, it’s also about the families and loved ones who were left behind.

Memorial Day is not supposed to be about the rest of us. To me, however, it sometimes feels as though I carry a heavy weight. A heavy burden borne by those of us who served amongst those heroes who never made it home.

Ever since I returned from Iraq, no matter how many years have passed, each and every Memorial Day the same thing happens to me. As the weekend comes upon us, I get very introspective. I think, probably too much, and, at least on one of those days I drink a bit. Truth is I usually drink too much as Memorial Day approaches.  

I usually make it through Memorial Day, more or less intact, and go back to living my life. Something, those we honor never had the opportunity to do. Therefore, I’d like to share some of my memories, and honor a few soldiers that I had the privilege to serve with. Soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice for this country.

My memories leading up to that dark day began three days earlier in the fall of 2005. We were in Iraq. Prior to that, in July, my brother and I arrived in Iraq and were assigned as embedded advisors to an Iraqi Battalion. We had four small teams. One was the HQ Team, who advised the Iraqi Brigade we were part of, and then there were three other teams. One was assigned to each Iraqi Battalion we advised. My brother Frank, at the time an E-7 was assigned to the 2nd BN, and I was assigned to the 3rd. 

Our Commander was LTC Leon James, a Regular Army Officer, and he commanded all four teams. I liked LTC James immediately when I met him, and I remember telling him that I was looking forward to working for him over the next year or so. I do remember that he gave me kind of a weird look when I said that, didn’t respond but shook my hand when I offered it. LTC James was originally from Springfield Ma, and last I knew his mother was still living there. 

Master Sergeant Tulsa Tuliau was the Senior Non Commissioned Officer in charge of the four teams. Tulsa was a huge guy, with a physically intimidating presence. Tulsa was from American Samoa and was what we in the Army would call a “Hard Charger”. Shortly after my brother and I arrived, he held an NCO meeting where the topic was TTP (Tactics, Techniques and Procedures) regarding whether standing UP in the gun turret of our HUMVEEs was preferable to sitting on the strap and therefore being DOWN, or a lesser target. The discussion involved dealing with snipers vs dealing with roadside and suicide vehicle borne bombs. The discussion ended when Tulsa stood up, took a shooting stance while leaning forward and declared gunners should be UP always, show an aggressive stance and appear intimidating to those who contemplated attacking us. We agreed. To me, it was a sad irony that, Tulsa was soon after killed in the UP position, and several other soldiers in the unit we were attached to were also killed in the UP position. But Master Sergeant Tuliau died as he lived, a Hard Charger all the way. As time went on, I realized that there were times when it was prudent for the gunner to be up, and others when it wasn’t. 

Sergeant First Class Casey Howe, had just joined our unit a short time before he was killed. He was from Michigan. The day I met Howe, I liked him immediately. I thought he’d be a great asset to our team and mission. Casey was on his third tour in Iraq when he was killed. Casey had lied to his wife, telling her that he had a safe job in “The Rear” because he didn’t want her to worry. The reality was that he was in one of the most dangerous assignments in Iraq at the time. We rolled outside the wire daily, deep in hostile territory with rarely a break. In fact, his wife later told me that on the morning after Casey was killed, when the Chaplain and others knocked on her door, she believed they had mistakenly come to her residence because she knew her husband couldn’t have been killed because he had a “safe” job. But there were no “Safe” jobs where we were. Only jobs that were less dangerous than others. All three were married, and all three had multiple daughters waiting at home, at FT. Drum. 

On the Saturday before that tragic day, I was in the motor pool, pulling maintenance for our HUMVEE and crew served weapons. Tuliau had just returned from spending time with his family on leave. He stopped by to talk to me about a few issues, and then we all went about our business. Later on, a few of us met LTC James out side of the building we were living in. He smoked, (funny for a marathon runner!). Some amongst us enjoyed a cigar and all us were sipping either cold Gatorade or Near Beer. It was hot as hell, but the NCOs enjoyed kibitzing with LTC James, and it was apparent to me that LTC James enjoyed being around his NCOs. 

The next day was Sunday. I don’t remember what we did that day, however, I was going to be able to sleep in a bit late the next morning. My brother and I obtained a portable radio, and a few of cans of Alcohol Free Beer from the mess hall. That evening Frank and I sat on a stone picnic table near “the house” and stayed up a little longer than normal. We enjoyed our frosty near beer, listened to the sporadic gunfire on the other side of the concrete barriers, and occasional explosion off in the distance. We talked about whatever, but we could find nothing but Arabic music on the radio. Eventually we went back to our room and called it a night. I never went near that stone picnic table after that night. 

Sometime early the next morning, LTC James, Tuliau and Howe went out with their team on a mission. Frank was also going out with his team on a mission. Frank grabbed the .50 Cal machine gun that belonged on his gun truck. He hefted it up onto his shoulder and walked over to his truck in order to set it up. As he walked across the gravel, he twisted his ankle, and fell to his knees under the weight of the machine gun. Sergeant Tuliau, saw this and ran over to help. Tuliau grabbed the gun, telling Frank “Hey big Sarge, let me get that for you”. Tuliau took the machine gun from my brother, and brought it to Frank’s truck. That was the last time Frank ever talked to Tuliau or saw him alive. 

Colonel James’ team went out first. Tuliau was the gunner inside the turret of James’ HUMVEE, Howe was the driver, and James was obviously both the Truck commander and Patrol Commander.

A short distance outside the wire, the Colonel’s truck was ambushed, hit by an EFP (Electrically Fired Projectile). It was devastatingly accurate. It was set off by an infrared detector on the side of the road. Once his vehicle (in this case the targeted vehicle) was detected by the infrared  device it triggered the EFP.  His vehicle was hit by five separate projectiles. It was the first US Vehicle in country that was hit by a five projectile EFP. 

As far as I can tell, Tuliau and Howe were killed instantly. LTC James was hit by shrapnel in the neck and throat area. The medic on scene was able to keep the Colonel alive. He was brought back to the Aid Station at our FOB by ground EVAC, and he was alive but unconscious when I saw him a short time later. After this patrol was hit, my brother’s team rolled out to the site, and he and a few of his team tried to take care of Tuliau and Howe, both of whom were still at the scene, but had died of their injuries. 

I was in my rack. At one point a Major, who was part of the Colonel’s patrol burst through the doors. He was yelling my name, over and over again, and when I finally awoke from a deep  sleep, I saw the Major and I noted his uniform was splattered with blood. I’ll never forget what he said next:

“SERGEANT SWIRKO, THEY HIT US! THEY HIT US! TULIAU IS DEAD. HOWE IS DEAD! COL JAMES IS BAD…” 

I’ll never forget how those words hit me, and never be able to describe that feeling. It was worse than any gut punch.

I pulled on my Desert uniform, boots, grabbed my pistol and went to work. Suddenly I was the Senior Enlisted Man on the ground. I found myself the temporary NCOIC of the team, taking Tuliau’s place. The major thrusted a broken and blood stained M-4 rifle at me, along with a bloody set of ID (dog tags) Tags. I think he had the need to get rid of them, and fast. I took custody of them, and eventually cleaned them up. 

Many things happened that terrible day and the week that followed. However, as bad as it was, I had a job to do, and I didn’t have the luxury of grieving. I remember the interim commander, telling me that he needed me to advise him, and if he did anything I thought was stupid, not to be afraid to kick him in his ass with my size 12 boots. 

Later that morning, I was present when Colonel James was loaded into a Blackhawk, heading to the CASH. I looked on while several of his soldiers who were present, openly and unashamedly wept for him as he was carried away. My brother, was  also very helpful to me during those days. Without him, I don’t know how I would have accomplished the tasks that suddenly fell upon me to complete.

I also remember, later, being present and helping load Sergeants Tuliau and Howe into a Blackhawk helicopter. I remember the pilot of the helicopter getting out of the bird, facing us, coming to attention and then saluting us. He executed an about face and the two Blackhawks, with their door gunners at the ready gracefully lifted up, up high into the sky. I watched as Tulsa Tuliau and Casey Howe started their long journey home. It was my turn to cry, and I wept as hard as I can ever remember weeping. I stood and watched as the two Blackhawks disappeared off into the distant clear blue sky. Sadly, Leon James succumbed to his wounds a short time later after arriving at Walter Reed Hospital. 

Our mission continued. In time, our team personnel were moved around, replacements arrived, and after helping to deal with our dead, and all that went with that, we got a new commander, and I was sent back to the 3rd Battalion Team. However, I went back to that team as it’s NCOIC. I found myself in a leadership position. I had troops to care for, and combat missions  to carry out. Suddenly there were soldiers, some of them new arrivals looking to ME for guidance and assurance. ME, a citizen soldier, far away from my roots in Massachusetts and my home in NH. I now understood there was no slack for me. I did not have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself. The unit and our mission, in part, largely depended on me in my new role.  

The months dragged on, day after day, week after week, mission after mission. Some missions lasted a few hours. Others took several days. Every mission was a combat mission and therefore dangerous. I did my best. I know in my heart that my troops deserved better. However, we accomplished all our assigned missions from that day on. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the day to go home finally arrived, and in the spring of 2006, we all got our orders to go home. My brother and I flew to Ft. Carson Colorado where, in three days, Uncle Sam, sent us packing. Back to the Guard, USAR or wherever our citizens soldiers originally came from. Uncle Sam had no further use for us, at least not at the time. Many of the other soldiers we served with in Iraq retuned to their duty station at Ft. Drum NY. 

My brother and I, after leaving Ft. Carson flew to Chicago, and then to Manchester. We were both traveling in our desert camouflage uniforms (DCU) which was authorized wear for travel at the time. The flight crew was great to me, they brought me back to the galley with them, and when they found I was returning home from Iraq, they all took turns chatting with me. I went back to my seat, put on my earphones, turned on my MP3 player. I thought about James, Tuliau and Howe, that they were not coming home with us. I thought about their families. How much it must hurt knowing the rest of us were going home, but without James, Tuliau and Howe. And then I cried. The tears flowed uncontrollably as though a faucet had been opened. I couldn’t help myself. I hid my face. I don’t think my brother knew. But, I cried for a very long time. 

Well, Frank and I made it home. Our closest family members were waiting to embrace us at the airport. No fanfare, didn’t want any. Very quiet and low key. I just wanted to be home with my family and friends. It felt so good, not wearing a helmet and body armor. Not carrying a rifle with extra ammunition felt almost luxurious. Not having to scan my surroundings like I’d had to do for so long, looking for snipers and listening for incoming rounds the way I learned in order to survive. Mostly though, it just felt good to be alive. It was then that my not so easy adjustment that all combat vets have to make, began. Just like I had no idea what I would face when I headed to Iraq the first time, I had no idea what lay in store for me and my family in the year to come.  

Sometime later that year, Frank and I traveled to Ft. Drum where we had the honor to meet the families, wives and children of LTC James, MSG Tuliau and SFC Howe. Each wife reacted differently to us. I won’t share those moments publicly, except to say how it made me feel: I felt like a piece of shit, embarrassed that I was in one piece to meet those families, while their loved one was gone. Please don’t misunderstand me. None of them said or did anything to make me feel that way. It’s just how I felt. At times, survivor’s guilt is a real thing. 

In the years that have passed since, much of those feelings have not been blunted by time. I have visited Colonel James and Sergeant Tuliau’s gravesites at Arlington several times. I can confess to you that I know that my soldiers deserved a better leader than me. I know that the soldiers we lost were better soldiers and leaders then I could ever have hoped to be. I also know they were better men. Yet, here I sit. 

Like each Memorial Day weekend since that time I struggle with the losses we have suffered as a nation throughout our history. Yet, despite the fact I know Memorial Day is not for those of us who survived, it is through my grief, my sense of loss, my pain, and, at time my tears, this is the only way I can pay my personal respect and deep thanks to James, Tuliau, Howe and all the others that have unselfishly given their lives. I owe it to them to remember and share their memories as often as I can. My future has been inexorably intertwined with the loss or absence of their own. 

And, since they all died so abruptly and before their time, I feel I owe it to them to live my life, which, up until now has still been gifted to me, the best way I can. I promise guys, I won’t let them forget and I will not waste what time I have left. 

Happy Birthday, It’s a Girl!

By Detective (Retired) Martin Swirko

It was during the early morning of my birthday during the spring of 2005 that I found myself working midnights in the Patrol Division. At that point, the nearly two year old oddity and fall from grace which landed me back in Patrol at that time was both sudden as it was  unremarkable yet predictable. It was also somewhat perplexing to me at the time that it happened. By the time that spring had arrived I had more or less made peace with the fact that I would most probably spend the rest of what was left of my career pushing a black and white around town. I had no problem with that in principle. I was not the kind of cop that thought I  was too good to work Patrol, however I came to know many cops who had been removed from specialty divisions for whatever reason who really did feel they were above working Patrol and would do almost anything to either get out of Patrol or, once out, remain out of Patrol. In the end, by the middle of 2003, after almost six mostly great years in the Domestic Violence Unit, I finally demanded to be transferred back to Patrol. Looking back on that tumultuous time, tumultuous as far as my career was concerned, it was most likely the goal of the multiple bosses I answered to that I finally raise the white flag and gave it up. If that was what they wanted, they finally succeeded by May of 2003. 

Within the Patrol Division, we bid for shifts during shift change which occurred every four months. After a long hard fought battle by our Patrolman’s Union, we finally got the Chief to agree to assign Patrol shifts by seniority, which the administration had fought against, long and hard. Prior to Shift by Seniority, shift assignments were used to reward cops that the administration wanted to take care of, and it was also used to punish whichever cops they had a case of the ass for, often times due to no fault of the cop him or herself. I had seen it so often. However, by the time I landed back in Uniform Patrol I had enough seniority to choose whichever shift I wanted. So, since I was angry, I decided “screw them” I was going to work Day Shift from September though April. After working from 6PM to 230 AM for almost six years, which pretty much guarantied my family life would always be second behind work, I thought it was time to give my wife and family a break. I figured I’d be home most nights, I’d be able to actually assist my wife with bringing up our kids for a change. But, I still had the bug, and despite the fact that working day shift returned me to a bit of normalcy in life (aside of the fact that I would still work weekends and holidays) I missed being out on the street after dark. So, for those couple of years I was back in Patrol, each May though August shift, I chose to work midnights. I loved being on the street over night. It was a love I developed many years before when I drove a taxi in Boston. I loved being part of the nightlife back then, and I still craved that nocturnal thrill, especially in police work. 

For the one and only time in my police career, the shift commander in May of 2004, offered me my choice of assignments on midnights that summer. He said I was a hard working cop, and he thought I deserved to select my assignment. Without hesitation, I told him I wanted sector car 1-4. This car covered downtown, much of the Millyard that abutted the Merrimack River and a slice of the inner-city neighborhoods adjacent to downtown Manchester. It was a busy car, and the surrounding route cars were also busy. The shift commander who was a captain that I held in high esteem, was surprised I asked for that assignment. He was ready to assign me to a quiet car in the outlying part of the city, or even an inside assignment working for him at the station, if I so desired. No way, I was a working cop, and I wanted to work, even after 16 years on the job. So, I got what I asked for and had a great summer. 

Midnight shifts that year started out busy most nights, and stayed busy until all the night clubs downtown plus the dive bars in and near that sector (I always called them local stab and jabs) around the city closed, and even then it didn’t quiet down most nights until the few all night greasy spoons around the city emptied out and the drunks headed off to home with full bellies or to wherever it was that they retreated before the sun came up. It was at that point, sometime between 3 and 4 AM, when dispatch started giving us calls that had been hanging from the 4-12 shift, all low priority past-tense calls for service. Things like past tense thefts, neighbor disputes and loud party calls were low priority during those busy evenings.  We didn’t ingratiate ourselves any with those callers who had called at 10 or 11 the previous night and we came knocking at their door at 3:30 or 4AM, long after the problem they called for was resolved and they had gone to sleep. The steady stream of more serious “in progress” calls usually kept the 3-11:30 PM shifts from getting to those less urgent calls for service before the Midnight shifts came on duty. A regular routine developed for me on those busy nights. The only exception would be if I caught a particularly hot call out of the barn, like a shooting, stabbing, arrest at the first call or a serious car collision. In those cases, I’d be tied up for the busier part of the shift.  

Not every night was like this, but by the summer of 2004, I found there were more nights like this than not. In the early 90s, we had two of three busy midnight shifts a week. By 2004, it was the opposite, depending on what part of the city you were working. And, when we did have a quiet midnight shift, I got to the point where I actually appreciated it. So, many mornings after the radio calls slowed down, I would go inside around 4 or 4:30 AM and catch up with the reports and paperwork I had accrued, at least up until that point. Sometime around 6 AM, if I was clear, I would head over to one of the better downtown hotels and hang out there and complete my Daily Shift Report. I’d just chat with whomever was around the lobby. They usually had coffee in the lobby for whomever, and most hotel personnel liked having the police presence. Often, I was able to talk with the flight crews that were up and checking out of the hotels for their morning flights out of Manchester Airport. I really got into a good groove working those midnights during the summer, and as busy as it got, I think I handled the grind pretty well and actually enjoyed it to the point that when September came, and it was time to switch to days, I was always just a bit regretful. However some of that passed after I started enjoying a bit of a normal life with my family. There would always be next May. 

In the spring of 2005, I was still a member of the Massachusetts National Guard. The insurgency in Iraq was starting to heat up. My unit hadn’t been called up for Iraq or Afghanistan  and I became both tired and embarrassed watching soldiers I trained go off to war and return (some of them wounded in combat) while I occupied a rather safe slot in the Guard at home. I was a career infantryman, albeit a mostly weekend warrior, but I felt I had something to prove to myself. So, when the US Army sent out an RFF (Request for Forces) for a certain mission in Iraq, after talking it over with my wife, who supported me (which I know was very difficult for her) I decided to volunteer for it. When I told my brother about it, he told me that I wasn’t going anywhere without him. That was the kind of relationship we had with each other since my childhood. My brother was also a Manchester cop at the time, and a member of the Army’s IRR (Inactive Ready Reserve). 16 years earlier I had followed him to MPD and now he was determined to follow and accompany me into combat. 

After going through all the bureaucratic minutia, and believe me there was plenty, I got my orders for active duty in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom, first stop for me being Ft. Carson, Colorado. By the time my birthday had arrived, I was finishing off my last week or two at the PD, and getting ready to take military leave from the department.

On a Saturday night in May, the night before my birthday, I reported to early roll call at 11PM. We had two midnight shifts then one at 11 PM and a second that went out at 1130 PM. I had a downtown car that night, and at midnight it became my birthday. I didn’t’t think much about it at the time, I was just doing another midnight shift. I was looking forward to my day off the next morning and night because my wife always did something special for me for my birthday, so as always, I had that to look forward to. 

I don’t remember anything specific about that night, although the night was pretty steady with calls until after the bars let out and the drunks finished eating at whatever places were still open. Eventually it got light, and quiet as did most (but not all) early Sunday mornings. 

I remember joking early in my career after working midnights that the reason most Sunday mornings seemed so peaceful when just an hour or two earlier mayhem was occurring throughout the city was that most people were either sleeping it off at home, in the hospital or in jail. Only the folks headed to church were stirring or early risers who could be found sweeping the sidewalks off in front of their homes were up and out. This Sunday morning was no different. 

I believe that it was sometime around 6:30 when I was sent to a call for an unknown medical problem. I don’t recall the exact address I was sent to, so for purposes of this story I’ll use a fictional address, that being 22 Skye St. which was just north of downtown. The address sounded a bit strange to me. Didn’t sound quite right. That section of Skye St. was a mostly residential area with multiple old wooden three and six family apartment buildings. It was a neighborhood I got to know quite well because we were often responding to that area for various calls for service. But, I didn’t recall a 22 Skye St. I was also told that EMS was on the way. So, I grabbed my mike, copied the call, repeating the address in case the dispatcher made a mistake, and they reconfirmed it. I then jotted it and the time onto my notebook, and headed over. There was no need for either blue lights or siren on this peaceful spring morning.  

I did find 22 Skye Street. The reason I didn’t recognize the number when I was first given the call was that 22 Skye St. turned out to be a small law office squeezed rather innocuously between two large tenement buildings. I had never been to that building, so the number 22 didn’t stick out in my memory. I called off at the scene and found the building to be, not surprisingly, dark and locked. The surrounding area was also quiet and no one was around. I informed dispatch of what I had found and asked them if they had any further information on the caller or where the caller may be. They said they had nothing further so I told them to cancel EMS since they hadn’t arrived yet. I cleared the call as “unfounded”. 

I got back into my cruiser, and as I made my notes on the call, it occurred to me that there was a 22 WEST Skye St. I was very familiar with that location. 22 West Skye Street was close to 22 Skye Street. West Skye Street was the portion of Skye Street that continued west on the other side of Elm St. 22 West Sky St. This was a four story apartment building, kind of a long , narrow old wooden type of tenement that was probably built to house workers from the nearby mill yard early in the 1900s. This building was usually occupied by the most recent wave of refugees that had been brought and settled in Manchester. Manchester had been designated a destination city by the Federal Government for political refugees for sometime and this contributed to the ethnic, racial and cultural diversity that made up Manchester. In the early 90s one could find many Asian families living in this building. Later, as different wars raged at different places around the world, the newest groups of settled refugees reflected those conflicts. After the influx of Asian refugees, the building was often filled with families from Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia and that part of the world where “Ethnic Cleansing” and other war crimes were being committed. Over the years I had the occasion to respond to that building for various problems and issues which often arose among people new to our country and our ways. I also knew that at that time in 2005, the residents were mostly refugees from various parts of Africa.  

I thought, since the call was supposed to be for an unknown medical problem, I’d go over and check out 22 West Skye St., just to be on the safe side. Besides, there was nothing else going on that quiet Sunday morning and I still had about 45 minutes left on my shift. 

I let dispatch know that I was going to check 22 West Skye St. I pulled up to the east side of the building, and much to my surprise I found the main door to be open and unlocked. Once I entered the building I realized I was looking for a needle in a hay stack. However, I just decided to walk the corridors to see if I could detect something out of the ordinary. As soon as I entered the hallway, my senses were overcome by various acrid and unpleasant odors. The smells were familiar to me, and they emanated from a mixture of garbage bags left in the common hall in front of individual apartments. Also, many residents were up and cooking, and the not so familiar culinary odors from whatever they were cooking inside didn’t mix to well with the garbage smell and just general stale odors that flow from common areas that aren’t kept especially clean. I walked each corridor, going upstairs, one floor at a time without coming across anything unusual. I had pretty much given up on finding anything until I was half way up the stairwell to the top floor. As I approached the door to that hallway, I could hear some type of a disturbance, although it was muffled. I stopped at the door to the hallway to try to listen and figure out what I was walking into, but I couldn’t figure out what was going on. 

I entered the hallway, and when I did I saw several young kids running in and out of an apartment in an excited way. When they saw me, they ran towards me and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the apartment. None of them spoke English, and eventually I found out that everyone I was dealing with were from Somalia. I told dispatch that I was checking out a disturbance on the fourth floor, and they asked if I wanted a unit for back up. The old salty cop that I was, I told them no, (probably a tactical mistake, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of something that was probably more drama than trauma) so I told them I’d let them know once I figured out what was happening.

When I entered the rather bare apartment (there wasn’t not much in the way of furnishings) I observed at least a dozen youngsters running around in a tizzy, along with three very agitated female adults. To make matters even more confusing, they were all yelling at me in a language I didn’t understand. Finally, they led me to a room, and in the room I found what I thought was a young teenage girl laying under a blanket on top of a mat which was on the floor. To start with, in order to regain some semblance of sanity, I was able convince one of the adults at the scene to take all the kids out of the apartment, and amazingly she did exactly that. So, now at least I have a somewhat calmer scene, although the other women in the apartment continued to shriek at me and point to the woman lying on the mat. There were no beds in the apartment that I could see, and I have no idea to this day who or how many people were living in that rather sparse dwelling. 

I knelt by the girl laying on the mat, and it was obvious that she was in pain and very scared. She did not speak English so that was a problem. Finally, I decided to remove the blanket that covered the young woman. What I saw was a girl I estimated to be about 15 years old, naked from the waist down, and imagine my surprise when I saw the head of an infant baby crowning from her vagina! Now, I had been present during the birth of all three of my kids, and had some rudimentary First Responder training for delivering a baby, but this sight astounded me. I certainly wasn’t prepared for it. But, being the veteran cop I was at the time, I immediately shook that feeling off, knowing I had to act at once, without making the situation any worse.  

First thing I did was get on the radio and advise them of the situation and pleaded to them to send EMS, and I told them to have them step on it! In the meantime, the baby was coming. Somehow I was able to get the women present to get some clean towels and sheets, water as well. As the minutes ticked by, I realized that I may have to actually deliver this baby. This, was a first for me! In the old days, cops routinely delivered babies. But now, with sophisticated EMS systems in place, it was rare that a cop found him or herself in that position. 

I learned a long time ago that outward calmness and confidence was infectious and somehow I succeeded in calming everyone present. Now they were all looking to me to make everything OK. I can only imagine what they were thinking. I got back down on my knees and continued to try calming the new mother and reassure her. As I did, the baby’s head slowly, bit by bit came forth. I was careful and ready to grab the baby’s head as it came out, with what I hoped was a clean towel, but it was a slow process and I wasn’t going to push or force it. I tried to encourage the mother, despite the fact that I knew she didn’t understand a damned thing I was saying. Sometimes, somethings, like body language and bearing are in themselves a universal language. 

At one point, dispatch called me and asked for my location because the fire department had arrived on the scene and they couldn’t find anything or anyone. I was a bit appalled, repeated where I was, and said the baby is coming. I was then advised that both the Fire Department and EMS were at 22 Skye Street! By this time, I was trying to protect the newborn’s head with one hand and talk on my radio with the other. “Stay Calm”I had to tell myself, and I slowly repeated, without a single obscenity, where I was and pled with them to tell FD to hurry. 

After what seemed like an eternity, several firefighters entered the apartment along with two paramedics. The baby still hadn’t completely emerged, but it’s head had mostly appeared, and I wasn’t about to do anything except to try to calm the mother and protect the head and wait to grab the rest of the new baby and protect it. 

Thankfully for all concerned the paramedics took over. I got out of the way and let them handle the baby. I backed away, relieved and exhausted. The medical folks were finally on scene. After a short time, they rushed mother and baby to the Elliot Hospital. I led the ambulance with blue lights and siren wailing, and into the emergency room we all went. Even thought my shift was over, I waited around in the hospital to learn of the outcome. I was still a bit shaky, and the adrenaline rush was subsiding and I found myself experiencing a kind of an energy drain so I sat down. 

After a short time, a nurse came out and told me that the woman had given birth to a healthy eight pound girl. I also learned that the mother was twenty-six years old, not fifteen like I first guessed. The nurse then congratulated me telling me I earned an official “assist” in the delivery of the baby, whatever that meant. In the end, I think my entry for my daily report was simply that I assisted EMS with the delivery of a baby. Exhausted after a long midnight shift, I headed back to the station. I still had a report to write. Everyone else from the midnight shift was long gone, and only the day shift bosses were around. I turned in a card for my overtime, (the call caused me to work a couple of extra hours) and the supervisor that morning looked at me suspiciously as though I was trying to put something over on him. Finally, after questioning me, appearing reluctant, he signed off on it without further comment. Maybe I was overtired, but his attitude went right up my ass. This just reaffirmed how much the worm had turned for me. When I was working in the Domestic Violence Unit, I was allowed to determine, on my own, when I would stay late on a case and when not to.The bosses up there never questioned me when I did. Now, back in Patrol things were very different. The boss here was treating like I was new on the job, yet I had more time on the job than he did. Regardless, I was tired, and finally headed home. I got there around 10 AM and I plopped on the couch. As tired as I was, I was too wound up to sleep. 

I was actually pretty ecstatic about the new baby, even more so that this young lady was born on my birthday. It really did make that birthday very special for me. Eventually, I told my wife the story and she prepared a wonderful birthday / hero breakfast for me. I thought a lot about what may have happened if I had just cleared the call at 22 Skye St. and not gone to follow up at 22 West Skye St. I suppose it still would have turned out OK. If it had been a busier night, I may not have done that. However, I learned early on to follow my instincts, and doing so paid off for sure that morning. 

A few days later, the Day Shift commander approached me and told me how grateful he was that I took the extra step to go to 22 West Skye St. and found that family. He told me that he hated to think of what may have happened had I not done so. In a profession when pats on the back are rare and formal recognition even more so, I was happy that Captain Tracey sought me out and congratulated me, especially since I didn’t even work for at the time. 

About a week later, my son, who was and still is a Manchester Firefighter, told me that an FD Lieutenant who was apparently at the scene told him about the incident. He told Tim that his old man (meaning me) was calm, cool and dealt with a crazy situation and did a really good job.  I didn’t say a lot to Tim when he told me that, but deep down inside, I was satisfied and proud that someone at the Fire Department told my son about what I good job I did. 

I never came to know whatever happened to that newborn and her family, nor did I ever learn what her name was. I sincerely hope that today she is a healthy 16 year old high school student, and her family has prospered and found a peaceful, safe and rewarding life here in the United States. I like to think my presence there that morning made a difference to that family. As for me, I can truthfully boast that I once assisted in the delivery of a baby on the job. Or, if I brag that I once delivered a baby, I’d only be exaggerating a little bit. My birthday that year turned out to be a very special one. Not long after that, I put away my blue uniform for the next year, replaced it with an OD green uniform, and headed to Fort Carson, which was the first step in a journey that I was fortunate to return intact from. But, before I left, I had the opportunity to do something meaningful, and I still smile about it to this day.