Enforcing The King’s Peace.
It is expected that when in such an occupation as the Police Force one has to expect nail biting situations, this one started off quietly. Split shifts consisted of four hour stints usually 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., all day off to do plenty of gardening, then 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. completing the daily eight hours. Starting the second half at 10 p.m. usually allowed enough time to travel to the centre of the village and be in the vicinity of Public Houses when they should turn out. On occasions when bars had not emptied by 10.45 p.m. I would enter the premises and, if drinking was still in progress, order the landlord to collect the glasses and clear the bar. However, that action was not often necessary. This night my 10.30 p.m. point was made near the telephone kiosk at Hunsdon Pump where I stood in the shadows but near enough to hear if the bell rang. Vic would sit or lay down at my side. Locals could be heard leaving the pubs and making their way homeward, the younger generation were a bit boisterous and rather noisier than their elders. As they passed me voices suddenly dropped to a lower tone, one could be heard almost whispering, “He’s there with his dog.” After that remark it was not long before the only sound one could hear was hobnailed boots on the hard tarmac surface. My job had been done without a word; my village was quiet as it should be at that time of night – the King’s Peace reigned. If lone pedestrians did not see me, I would quietly say, “Good night.” Within two years I knew from their replies and sounds of their voices, even in darkness, who they were.
A Missing Boy Leads To Unwelcome Dog Trouble.
This night after standing under the light given off by the phone box for a few minutes I saw a lady occupant of the nearby Manor House look out from her front door in the direction of Hunsdon Church, as if she was expecting someone. From my local knowledge this lady lived alone, her husband was away in the Forces. Regularly her two sons came home from college, their ages were about twelve and thirteen years. After returning inside for five minutes she repeated the procedure looking rather anxious. Becoming concerned I walked over and asked her if everything was in order. She freely revealed her youngest son had not returned home after an intended fishing trip to Hunsdon Mill. The river flowed along the edge of my Beat between Stanstead Abbots and Eastwick. Apparently, it was the lad’s usual practice to leave his fishing rod near the Millstone so if it was there he would not have taken it for use. Due to the lateness of the hour, by then 11 p.m., together with Vic I rode over the hill and down the mile to the Mill, searching with my torch. No rod was traced, therefore, an extended search had to be made on foot. The river wended its way through fields, some ploughed, woods and orchards where I continued both up and downstream from the Mill. After hearing Roydon Church strike one o’clock I thought it was time to return and check if the boy had arrived home.
Cycling past the church and approaching Nine Astres Farm Vic was some way behind, no doubt a little tired. When almost level with the farm drive, a huge Afghan hound bounded from the entrance on my right with the obvious intention of continuing up the lane on my left. With our speeds and distances coinciding it was inevitable we could not pass without a collision. I can remember the impact of the animal’s head and front feet on my front wheel. Although only travelling at about fifteen miles an hour my body was projected forward like a rocket at a speed great enough to hear the air rushing by. For those short seconds as parts of my anatomy came into contact with cycle, road, dog and any other objects, one’s brain appears to prepare for sleep or that’s what unconsciousness is. As I slowly awoke and feelings came back, some satisfying but some painful, dampness could be felt through my trousers where they had soaked up water from a puddle in the road. My hands and legs were very sore, an attempt was made to see how much damage had been caused to my poor limbs and torso, thoughts for light came to me, where was my torch? Just a few yards away on the grass verge my faithful Vic lay waiting, no doubt wondering why her pack leader had decided to have a nap in the middle of the road and why I had been so angry with my cycle that was yards away. After a considerable time groping about a reflection from the moon on glass and metal solved my torch’s whereabouts. Progress with a light improved matters so obtaining a full picture of the situation was now more rapid. My cycle was unrideable so without delay it was temporarily abandoned in the hedge. At the time my folded cape was being balanced on my shoulder and was, remarkably, still partly folded some twenty yards away behind where my cycle had been found. Now for the helmet which should have protected my head – no, this evaded being traced so was left until the following day. My leather gloves were in tatters after scraping along the rough tarmac road surface for many yards, at least far enough to cut away most fingers on one hand and the palm on the other. Scrutinising the gloves made me realise that my watch was missing. Oh, what was the time? And where was the missing boy. Another search for my watch was realistically left for later. With my cycle out of commission there was only one thing left: shanks’ pony.
Walking back towards the village was rather painful so slowed up my progress. When near the Rectory the church clock began to chime, one, two, three, four. No that couldn’t be, my brain was still not working correctly after its pounding with the road. Continuing to walk into the village and arriving at the Manor House, everything was very quiet and no lights showed at the windows. Same were partly open from where I was sure the sound of snoring came. It was a bit too late to awaken them if they were all asleep so again I thought the time must be verified. A quick few steps to the Post Office would clear up the mystery. Shining my reliable torch through the window the beam sort out the large clock face on the wall, both hands appeared to be between the figures four and five. To make sure my eyes were not deceiving me the remains of my gloves rubbed the mist away from the shop glass window. I peered again. Yes, it was 4.20 a.m.! Returning back to the Manor House, I banged on the door. After a few minutes the lady’s head appeared from the upstairs window. I asked if her son had returned. “Yes,” she replied, thanking me and apologising for the trouble caused but stating that she had informed Maria at about 11.30 p.m., Of course Maria had no means of informing me or knowing my whereabouts. The age of radio had not by then extended to the Hunsdon Beat.
Walking across to the Village Pump I sat on the surrounding stones with my head in my hands thinking about the time again. Something was wrong Roydon’s clock struck one while I was searching in the area of the Hill, allowing half an hour, ample time to get back to Nine Ashes Farm and searching for my equipment plus twenty minutes walk back to the village there was still sixty to seventy five minutes missing. Slowly I came to the stark and dangerous conclusion of having a long sleep in the darkness while lying flat out in the centre of a country road for an hour or more. It is a good thing that sometimes one does not know what is happening. The thought of being squashed by a ten ton truck and without your knowledge is a haunting thought.
Returning home I climbed into bed to rest my aching head and limbs next to Maria’s warm body, she did not know of my experience until she returned home later that evening from work. The only conclusion to this incident was that the farmer got summoned under a remote act for allowing a dog to stray during the hours between sunset and sunrise and keeping it without a licence. Once again the case made the local press as his solicitor was obliged to ask for an adjournment because he had not been able to find the remote act – a Herts County Bye Law made under the Diseases of Animals Act. This action was really taken to ensure that we had enough evidence to sustain a claim for my damaged clothing and equipment.
Becoming A Force Firearm’s Officer And Another Driving Course.
I was in for more training, this time the Force had found out that I had been a rifleman in the Army and men were required for Rifle and Pistol shooting. Present trends made it necessary to combat the increasing use of firearms by criminals. Visits were regularly made to Royston outdoor range and the small indoor underground range at the new Police Headquarters. Most often it was at Royston where we practised with both types of weapons at different distances during the mornings. During the afternoons we held a sweepstake while firing each weapon and I considered myself very unlucky if I didn’t win at least one prize. I presume this indicated what type of shot I was. Unbeknown to me this was the commencement of nearly twenty five years with the Firearm Squad and many incidents. To carry on with my advancement and gain more experience I soon found myself travelling again to Hatfield for another driving course, this time for vans and towing trailers.
The IRA And The Theft Of Guns.
At about that time PC Eric Richardson, [Pc 156 Eric Charles Richardson Ed.] ex-glider pilot and later to become one of my drivers, was on night motor patrol travelling between Puckeridge and Bishops Stortford. He saw preceding him a heavy laden van which he thought could contain lead, that type of theft then being prevalent and lead regularly being taken from churches in the County. Like one would expect from an experienced ex-serviceman, Eric waited his opportunity to overtake and stop his suspect along a sunken road, blocking the van’s driving door with his own car, a well used tactic by Police drivers. On questioning the driver as to who he was the man replied, “I am an Officer in the Irish Republican Army.” When the van was searched it contained numerous Bren machine guns, rifles and pistols stolen from, as far as I can remember, a college in Essex. My recent training on vans soon came in useful as it was to become my regular task to drive these IRA prisoners on the numerous journeys, back and forth from Court to Brixton Prison on remand. These journeys were escorted by MI5 or some similar department taking different routes via the back streets of London for security reasons.
PC 156 Eric Charles Richardson
Gardening And Chickens,
My garden now had become well established and visits to Hunsdon or Aldenham House walled gardens where permanent gardening staff were employed kept me up to date with many tips and odd bits for planting. The loan of a tractor and trailer from Livings Farm at Widford provided me with the means of transporting tons of manure that ended up being dug into Hunsdon police House soil. Only once did I cut my long hawthorn hedge by hand before being offered the use of an electric cutter. This was very useful as it was usual for the Assistant Chief Constable Camp to glance over my gate at least once a year to see if it was kept up to his standard! My numerous varieties of chickens were progressing well on their trials, the first winter showing good results and I felt confident of deciding which breeds could be purchased for main production. Negotiations to obtain a large laying chicken house from Westminister Bank Training College, situated near Ware, were well under way. They had obtained the house while egg rationing was still on and thought fresh eggs for their students would be ideal. When eggs came off ration they decided that it was not worthwhile so they disposed of the hens and had no further use for the chicken house.
Unwanted Amorous Attention.
After some eighteen months into my country posting most of the residents were getting to know me and I knew them, sometimes knowing more about them than they would have liked! A problem gradually came to light that I never realised could exist until the subject was discussed with my colleagues some of the old sweats having apparently been involved in some incidents. In Police Stations a list was kept of lonely women who continually contacted them on the slightest pretext! Most of these women were of the age group twenty five to fifty, whose husbands were away for long periods, single or otherwise neglected. Uniforms held an attraction for such ladies.
One such incident started indirectly during the hot summer days of 1951. Local gossip indicated that many of the young local lads were in the habit of boarding a top decker bus well in advance of it arriving at the next village. Surrounding the garden of a fairly large house was an eight foot high fence adjacent to the Central village bus stop. One afternoon my arrival in the village coincided with that of the bus which could possibly have been deliberately early, necessitating the driver to wait five or even more minutes. The surprising thing about this bus was its angle on the road, allowing for the normal road camber, it looked as if it was likely to turn over on to the fence. At my distance away the titters and laughter suggested the top deck was full of youngsters, approaching the bus so that I could get a better view the reason for the tilt became obvious, all the passengers were on the side overlooking the high fence. With disappointed sighs the bus pulled away. Still unsatisfied as to the full story, later, in civilian clothes I rode the bus but found the vehicle only stopped briefly and nothing could be seen. Eager to satisfy my own curiosity a further journey was made – this time conditions were ideal. There lying under a weeping willow tree was the completely nude occupier of the house, body glistening with suntan lotion and displaying herself to the passengers of the upper deck. Unfortunately, I had to tell the lady to curtail the display.
Three months later during the dark evenings the lady in question telephoned my house complaining of suspicious noises outside her dwelling. Could I attend? Mounting my two wheeled steed the journey gave me time to plan out some possible action suspecting that the lady belonged to the “Lonely Brigade” and remembering her display some months earlier. Arriving, the house appeared in darkness but as a result of my knocking she presented herself at the door a flowing dressing gown. Not appearing to be in any hurry for me to investigate the suspicious noises, I was invited to make myself comfortable on the settee. She described what she thought had been frightening to her and craftily slipping in the fact that her husband was away. After making coffee she sat down beside me but, before doing so, complained of being hot and discarding her gown she displayed more body than what was covered! What a cheek she had after my earlier chat with her about displaying her charms. I got the message, this was the appropriate time to search her garden and withdraw in all haste to other duties. Even after my obvious rebuttal the lady tried at least a half a dozen times to ensnare me, what awful dangers we had to face!
As previously mentioned, the war changed the village population somewhat. Another lady who had been in the services had married a local farmer, who, over the years, had lost interest in his wife. He then had more interest in Public Houses and Clubs over a wide area, resulting in being out most of the night. This lady used different tactics to contact me although on occasions she did use the telephone. Earlier meetings with her had been pleasant enough, while visiting the farm to examine cattle movement registers she had not shown any particular interest in me. Somehow, she had worked out the dates and times when my late or night shift would bring me to certain locations. One night I was approached by her in the village centre sometime between 11 p.m. and midnight requesting me to escort her down the lane to her home, as she had left it a bit late to walk alone and she was frightened. This pleasant duty I freely performed leaving her at her garden gate. Over the following few months she again “accidentally” met up with me but nothing untoward occurred. On the fourth occasion as we walked to her farm I suddenly felt a propelling force on my back and my feet were anchored to the grass covered ground. With helmet flying off as my head went forward and down the movement caused me to go sprawling flat on the ground. This distressed, frightened damsel, like a flash knelt down at my side with her hands in a position that, at first, suggested that she was about to help me up but instead of being assisted up she, in fact, held me down. Quite a new tactic, she had deliberately tricked me by putting her leg in front of mine while at the same time pushing me with her left hand. That was the nearest to being raped I’ve been – these country girls sure knew how many beans make five!
Another similar country encounter was rather high class. Residing on my Beat were many titled personalities, one lady of about thirty years living in a mansion. A short time before her husband made the National Press by running off abroad with another lady and had not returned. It was normal practice to have conversations with her Ladyship usually about Firearm Certificates, poaching or similar matters. When Maria made arrangements for me to call and see the Lady at about 9 p.m. on my next late shift, it was not unusual. Placing my cycle against the wall I pulled the great long iron pull and listened to the bell ringing in the kitchen. The large oak door was opened by the Butler whom I knew. He showed me through corridors, walking on cold, tiled echoing floors, then up the spiralling staircase to the first floor where I was handed over to the personnel maid. The living quarters were all on this floor, she showed me into a large lounge containing much antique furniture. After indicating a place where I should sit she called out, “Thorne is here my lady.” She replied to her maid from a distance, “Thank you, I will not need you anymore tonight.” Being inquisitive and walking round the room inspecting various objects and paintings I heard the sound of splashing water coming from a panelled area at the end of the room. These panels of glass were heavily steamed up. Adjoining what I presumed to be the bathroom was another area with an open door. Continuing to be nosy I walked over to this door for a better view where I could see a luxurious bedroom. A voice coming from the bathroom suddenly said, “I won’t be long Thorne.” The voice made me take quick steps back towards the centre of the lounge, in doing so I almost collided with the beautiful brunette, dressed only in a towel as she ran from bathroom to the open bedroom. After her Ladyship had disappeared, scented air enveloped me and the room causing me to be somewhat concerned, as with one of my previous encounters with ladies. Her Ladyship emerged from her bedroom with dressing gown flowing and dragging on the floor behind her. Sitting down at a small table that had already got wine and glasses on it she offered me a drink. As she spread herself out on a sofa she said, “How silly of me. I have sent my maid off and she usually gives me a foot massage; would you like to give me one Thorne?” As she said that I was taking my first sip of wine – that remark caused me to cough and splutter. How does one answer that? “I am sorry my lady, I have not had any experience of such things.” What did she really want me for? I asked and she replied, “I really can’t remember.” As quickly as possible my conversation brought up the subject of duty as she really hadn’t any business other than personal aims. Once again I escaped unscathed, scampering down her long sweeping staircase.
Armed Youths At Ware Drill Hall.
Owing to shortage of manpower in my Sub-Divisional Station of Ware many tours of duty, in fact too many, were just used as replacements for Ware Officers who never seemed to absorb any of their own deficiencies. It always seemed the shortages were during late turn, especially at weekends. My first experience of note in this town occurred during late autumn after cycling the five miles from Hunsdon through descending fog. After our refreshment break, about 5.30 p.m. we were preparing ourselves for likely trouble at Ware Drill Hall, the local Hall where dances were held every Saturday night and there they dispensed alcoholic liquor to their patrons. This function drew young people from miles around including some unsavoury characters who travelled from as far afield as Southend, Chelmsford or similar distances. Before leaving the Station Sgt. Capon, [PS 36 Eric Stanley Capon Ed.] a good steady man, walked into the Canteen with a written message in his hand and handed it to me. There are two men In the Drill Hall who are showing guns and ammunition to people. The fog density had increased to something like an old London pea-souper giving a visibility of about five yards so we decided to walk the ten minute journey. By the time we arrived at the Hall the fog smelled horrible, our lungs begging to be relieved. After asking a few questions information was gained that the two suspects had entered the men’s toilets. On entering Sgt. Capon called out, “Who has got guns in here?” We got no reply but two young men rushed out through the door and ran towards the exit, quickly pursued by us. The street outside looked like a sheet of cotton wool, however the two dark speeding figures were glimpsed as they ran beneath a street lamp. Together with Eric Capon we charged into the smog. Being the best runner I caught one culprit by his coat and with a good tug slowed him up enough for my Skipper to catch up and take hold of him. Looking in the direction of the canal now looked like a whitewashed wall, only sounds could be distinguished.
It was then that I realised the situation was not quite hopeless and the distinct sound of running footsteps was clear and echoed. They were slower now as the owner floundered into the unknown. I just managed to recognise the wall of the pub on my right when the sound of footsteps stopped, ending with a dull rattle. Using my torch, the light beam just picked out a pair of gates. Standing still and quiet for what seemed to be ages, the noise of my prey must have ceased somewhere in the vicinity of the gates. Desperately shining my torch again I saw the dampness on the recent painted gates showed clear marks that could have only just been made by someone climbing over. After some thought and against my better judgement I decided to climb over, it was the only way to eliminate a possible hiding place. But hold on, he could be armed and we knew they had ammunition. It was a long time since I had faced such a situation but then the decision was easier, a hand grenade thrown in and any opposition was destroyed. This was peacetime England where the King’s Peace and safety of the public had to be achieved by other means. This was what I was paid for so, here goes, with a great heave I pulled my fourteen stone to the top of the gates, continuing over in one movement into the dark empty space below. Rising up from my knees and pressing my torch on, just revealed a crouching figure back against a wall. Without time to think I flung myself across the space that divided us, groping desperately for the likely weapon the struggle continued until with great relief I managed to hold both his hands – they were empty.
In the darkness I managed to handcuff my prisoner who by that time had decided he had had enough. With thanks again to my torch, a loaded Italian pistol was found near the wall. Once again my service training came in useful and enabled me to make the weapon safe by ejecting five rounds. My problem was not yet over, what a damn situation I was in with a handcuffed prisoner in a surrounded area secured by locked gates. How could I get him over six foot high gates with his arms locked? I sure wasn’t strong enough to throw him over although I felt like doing so. This was a time for some thought so I searched the area more thoroughly and discovered another locked door, but this time it was in the wall on the pub side. By now my prisoner was becoming impatient and started shouting protests for being kept in such a hole. I thought my truncheon should now come into use, drawing the weapon from my long pocket with the intention to knock hell out of the door there was a sudden silence from “Matey.” Looking round at him he had his arms over his face, he had obviously thought that I was going to knock hell out of him! Continuous banging on the door resulted in a muffled, “What the hell’s going on?” from the pub. This finally resulted in the unlocking of the double gates. With no crowds to gaze at us while walking in the fog, through the High Street the journey was relatively quiet and arrival at the Police station very comforting.
Checking with Criminal Records Office indicated my dear friend had previous convictions as long as my arm. Charging and paperwork took me up to about 3.30 a.m. on the Sunday morning. It was sheltered in the warm Police station building but outside fog continued to restrict visibility to such an extent that cycling was ruled out. My options were to stay the night in a cell or to walk the miles back home, so I decided on the latter. With a scarf over my mouth I commenced my lonely walk back through the night. Pushing my cycle that continuously bumped into curbs or high banks my breathing gradually got slower, the density of the fog was unrelenting, by half way my scarf was soaked with breath and fog. Stanstead Abbots was about half way in the journey but there I walked straight into a wall where the road curved round near the High Street. The scarf protected my nose but I cut my chin. At the Y junction where the Hunsdon Road bears left the right fork climbs towards Roydon owing to my laboured breathing the incline was not noticed. It was not until the increase in height gave better visibility that I realised my mistake and saw Stanstead Oak (a landmark,) another mile of walking had been wasted. Finding the way back to my correct route and struggling on for three quarters of an hour, on through the village and home. Inserting the key and opening the door the welcome received from Vic was what I had come to expect. It had been thirteen hours since leaving for a four hour shift.
District Nurse Ruth Hutchins.
Policemen make regular calls at certain places where they are able to find out what is taking place on their Beat. Some of mine included odd Pubs, shops, Blacksmiths and garages. During the winter of 1951/2 I visited my local garage and saw the proprietor but noticed that his mechanic was missing. “Where is George?” I enquired. He replied, “He’s gone to get that silly bitch of a Nurse out of a ditch.” This meant that he had gone to recover our new District Nurse and her vehicle. She had recently moved into a house almost opposite to ours. She had failed to negotiate the first part of an S bend on the outskirts of the village at her first attempt. Being just about the two most important people serving the rural communities, the District Nurse and I had to work closely together. Towards the end of my tour of duty I presented myself at the house of Miss Ruth Hutchins, a fairly well built, tall lady of some twenty eight years. On seeing me she blushed terribly, thinking I was about to prosecute her for driving into the ditch. After setting her mind at rest within a short time she was at ease and told me a little bit about herself. She was born in South Africa but her parents were now living nearby at Bishops Stortford.
As the months went by we worked together on various occasions. One time was when a patient of hers was found dead and I had to break into the house and on another occasion a cot death meant that she had to notify me. On numerous occasions at night I would see her driving her Morris Minor to assist a mother in labour and if she saw me on the return journey, would stop and inform me of the new born parishioner. As time went on it was obvious that the residents grew to think a lot of her, working tirelessly at all hours, never turning down a request for help. As she lived almost opposite us it was not long before Maria and Ruth got to know each other well and developed a friendship which was to become lifelong. Often while I was out on late duty Ruth would sit with Maria keeping each other company. As she would be on call on these occasions the Switchboard operator at Much Hadham would be instructed to put calls through to my home.
Expecting A New Family Member.
In January 1952 when we were eating our evening meal Maria surprised me by stating that a regular event had not occurred and thought she had better attend the local doctor. If we were to have a happy event it had not been planned for, however, at that stage of our lives we had decided to allow nature to take its course. After confirmation of Maria’s suspicions life continued with few changes and Maria carried on working for several months. Her usual knitting of large garments such as dresses, suddenly changed to much smaller items. All baby clothes were knitted in white and the colour of any ribbons were left until later. As the winter drew to a close and when weather permitted, working on the garden progressed at a pace in an attempt to make sure all was completed before the birth.
The Pedal Cycle Is Upgraded To A Motorcycle.
Poor Vic’s exercise was about to be restricted, it had become known that outstation Beats were to be mechanised with motorcycles and later, fitted with radios. Very good for saving my energy and it would get us to and from our different villages very quickly. I think the best advantage was the speed of communication which enabled us to arrive at incidents very rapidly. As for catching criminals I was doubtful – not many thieves had their collars felt while Policeman sat riding in cars or on motorcycles. It was not long before Headquarters issued instructions for me to attend another course on motorcycles at Mill Green garage. The length of the course depended on any previous experience. It was soon established that I had ridden various types of machines while in the Forces so it was considered that a week long course was enough. I was issued with a noisy 250 c.c. Francis Barnet two stroke, the type that had to be fuelled with mixed petrol and oil.
Frances Barnet Falcon motorcycles leaving Hatfield Headquarters
As the week proceeded I disliked the machine more and more, poachers, criminals, in fact everybody would hear me approaching from miles away. For a period the Francis Barnet had to be put up with but there was hope, I had one of the first six machines issued and reports on these were so against their suitability that the ordering of more was stopped. After a few months the next issue was a very quiet Velocette, a little Rolls Royce of motorcycles. It was so quiet that a man could be held and arrested before he could hear it! I liked this type of machine very much and was to continue riding them until at least 1970.
Oswald Thorne on his Velocette in the rear garden of the Hunsdon Police house
Some Visiting Burglars.
It was a motorcycle trip from Ware that had an exciting ending. Again working on a 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift all of us were alert after receiving reports about three suspicious men travelling about the town. By my refreshment time at about 10 p.m. no further reports had been received, however, the Registration of the car was known which allowed me to trace the owner who lived in Walthamstow. Checks by New Scotland Yard verified that he had a criminal record. The second half of my shift, foot patrol of the town, passed slowly and returning to the station at 1 a.m. everything was quiet but I was still hopeful. The time to set off for home came and went, I still waited until 2 a.m. when my front door key should have been inserted in its lock at home. We decided to have a cup of tea and at 2.15 a.m. I thought nothing was going to happen so dressed with my heavy motorcycle coat I started up my machine and pulled away with the intention of getting home as quickly as possible. After passing through the High Street my speed was building up and increasing on entering Star Street. Passing the Co-op I glanced to my right where on the spare ground opposite I saw a car parked, in the shadows, near to the canal. Continuing towards home I kept thinking about the car but the warm bed was drawing me like a magnet. Having covered a mile or so of my journey the pull of the suspicious car was greater than that of my bed, so at the next farm gateway I turned round and sped back to the Co-op. Switching off my lights before reaching the site I knew very few people would hear my silent machine. Stopping at the side of the car I opened the door and surprise, surprise, in between the front and rear seats were three pairs of shoes. It didn’t want much working out as to what their owners were doing.
My machine had not yet been fitted with a radio so I considered it would be quicker for me to travel the short distance to the Police Station for assistance. On entering the Station Yard I blasted my horn. On turning round I heard Bill Burch [PC 383 Arthur William (known as Bill) Burch Ed.] shout, “He’s found them. Come on.” Three colleagues followed, enabling us to surround the Co-op. Sounds were heard on the roof and we could see something like ten men on the skyline. After a considerable time pairs of legs protruded over the guttering, when four were hanging from the roof we thought it time to get our hands on some of them. With a line of policemen jumping as high as they could and desperately trying to grasp at least one each I managed to hold a leg and pulled it. With a thud as it hit the ground, someone shouted, “You’ve pulled the poor devil in half.” Feeling the bundle on the ground there was, in fact, only half a body with a rope attached to the waist. Closer examination revealed a pair of trousers full of packets of cigarettes and in the centre of these were bottles of spirits in cartons. After long negotiations and great encouragement at last three complete human bodies slid down the roof and surrendered. It appears that after breaking into the roof light window the three villains had filled ten pairs of trousers, taken from inside the shop then filled then with cigarettes and spirits, tying the waists of the trousers with lengths of rope. They were in the process of lowering these down the roof when we arrived, in fact, they lowered their bounty into our hands. Completing the usual paperwork and feeling fairly satisfied I set out for home for the second time that night.
Preparing For The New Arrival.
By the end of February 1952 Maria complained of feeling tired but she continued to work. Anxious to get things together we bought a good second-hand cot, high chair and pram from people whom Ruth recommended and whom she knew personally, having delivered their babies. Ruth also assisted Maria through some of her prenatal training at home and this saved her some attendances at the Village Hall Clinic which Ruth also ran. Later when my dates clashed with the Baby Clinic I would often have a look in and have a chat with the mum’s, watching their new offspring being weighed. I was often lucky and a cup of tea and a biscuit found its way into my hand. Such clinics were always happy occasions and the women in the country were not shy of me being in their midst but I found it different when later I was transferred back to the town.
Old Fashioned Justice.
In the early fifties Policemen gave instant punishment to young offenders and the general population, including parents, used to welcome it if their offspring were caught misbehaving. There were two occasions I recall when this procedure became necessary. Firstly, a widow whose husband had been killed during the war had a family of four boys, the eldest lad was in the region of fifteen years of age and during the recent months was beginning to get in with a rough lot in Ware. Twice while visiting Public Houses in the villages I had found him drinking. To my knowledge he was under age but I didn’t proceed as the last thing I wanted was to upset his mother, she had enough to do looking after the family and to manage it was necessary for her to take in washing and do other manual work. However, a telling off didn’t seem to work so I thought that a word with his mother was called for. As usual, a worried mother invited me into her front room. After speaking to her she said the lad would no longer do as he was told or help in the house. He really deserved a back hander but she was no longer strong enough to manage it and he had started pushing her about. I called the culprit and he stood near me. Repeating the allegation the mother had made about him pushing her about, he did not deny it. Without delay I swung my leather gloved hand back across the side of his face. Leaving the house I said, “We will see if that works.” During the next six years there was no reason to call on the family again, but I after spoke to the lad and his mother in the street to enquire of their well being. My previous action must have been accepted in the right spirit because in 1958, or thereabouts, I was invited to, and attended, the lad’s wedding.
The second time “instant correction” was called for was a different matter. A poacher’s son from the next village had palled up with two local younger boys – it’s funny how the unruly or doubtful characters from the same type of parents always get together. In this case, the eldest, a seventeen year old youth got in the habit of shouting abuse when I rode by on my quiet motorcycle. With the helmet on it was not loud enough for me to hear just what he said. As time went on the younger ones got enough courage to shout. It became obvious that something had to be done otherwise this little gang could grow larger and all of them would be calling sweet nothings at me. One fairly dark night when passing, the group leader had another go. This time I stopped and called the two youngsters away from the ring leader and after a few words I instructed them to go home. Walking back to the big, surly so-and-so, my hand clasped him by the arm and somewhat forcibly escorted him down the lane opposite, at the same time reading the riot act to him. As we reached a stile he queried where we were going, waiting until he reached the top spar of the stile my weight somehow went against him, causing his body to disappear into the darkness. Leaving the moans and heavy breathing I walked back to my motorcycle and carried on with my patrol. The youth in question was not seen for several days after being dealt with, but in the meantime, via the village grapevine, the story I heard was that the poor lad had come off his bike leaving a gravel rash all down his face! That action appeared to have been a success because during the remainder of my time as a country Bobby, no one ever called abuse again as I rode past.
Two Police Officers Killed.
It was about this time that my great pal Bill Burch met his early death. After receiving an emergency call he and his observer were proceeding at a fair speed along a main road near Hatfield when an articulated lorry turned right in front of them, causing Bill Burch’s car to crash into the side of the trailer, killing both occupants instantly. This tragedy rocked all of us in the Division but they, as many policemen, gave their lives while trying to help others. [On 7th April 1960 PC Arthur William Burch (known as Bill) and PC Anthony Silcock were killed whilst apparently pursuing a car when the Police vehicle they were travelling in hit a tanker about to turn into a café car park on the Barnet bypass Hatfield. Ed.]
PC 383 Arthur William Burch
Another Fatal Crash.
Following closely after this, a distasteful task fell to me. A message sent me to the entrance of Bonnington’s Country Club, which formed a T-Junction with Hunsdon Road. There I found the dead body of a young sixteen year old girl lying in the road. Nearby was her damaged pedal cycle and a car, the second vehicle being involved. The poor girl had turned out of the drive entrance that was masked by a wall to her right, so she had failed to see the approaching car rounding the bend. As this was my first fatal road accident I was thankful I had a good faithful Sergeant who later assisted me in telling the victim’s parents the tragic news and was present while they painfully identified their beloved daughter’s body. Unable to control their emotions resulted in me being beaten on the chest until the mother was restrained by my Sergeant and others present. Dealing with such a tragedy taught me how understanding one must be when dealing with grieving relatives. Like all fatal accidents I later dealt with I always think of the incidents when passing the relevant locations, and sadly there were many to follow during my police career.
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