Commotion in the Pews

First, don’t get all crazy and nuts because I didn’t say the politically correct thing. I said the right thing. Read the story and you’ll get my point.

I’m writing this in regard to a Facebook post this week. The graphic below was posted on my timeline. One of my friends (who is a brave and capable man) responded that if the assailant has a weapon he’d not jump in: allergic to lead. That brought the story below to mind.

My very first day out of the police academy I was assigned to work with Harry as my FTO (Field Training Officer). Harry was a laconic cat from New Jersey who reminded me more of Droopy the dog than Quick Draw McGraw. Harry was a thoughtful, quiet, brilliant man who was the epitome of a harmless looking constable. Yeah. Until…

Day one proceeded in the way most patrol days do, Harry at the wheel, the rookie taking notes (mentally) and watching. Right out of Adam-12, except we didn’t work any snitches, nor did our car have that horsepower: it was a Dodge Aspen, a vehicle hopelessly under powered with an inadequate electrical system for police loads. But, I digress.

We were on the midnight shift, so we’d started at ten that evening. The afternoon shift was already off the street when we came up behind a car with busted out tail lights. No biggie, but a good ticket for a rookie to write and get some experience. Harry radioed in the plate and where we were, pulled them over, and sent me to write the citation. We were on a hillside about 1/3 of a mile from the police station. There was no traffic, and a we had a good position for our car to block anyone from accidentally hitting me while I wrote the ticket.

All those plans went to hell in about thirty seconds. Instead of handing me his license, the driver and his two passengers boiled out of the car and attacked us. (Harry was standing at the corner of the vehicle covering me and observing, not behind the wheel.)

The next six or seven minutes were some of the longest of my life. We were probably stronger than they were on a normal day, but these three had been “dusting” (using PCP) and because of the drug, they felt no pain.

Harry and I rolled around on the ground fighting the three of them, exchanging punches, wrestling moves, and desperately trying to protect our weapons. I don’t know about the dude on Harry, but the one punching me in the groin and face was very much interested in getting my weapon. I knew that if that happened we’d both be dead.

There was no way I was going to pull that gun. The quarters were too tight, too big of a chance that one of those maniacs would snatch it away and use it on one of us. We had to win the battle on a physical level or it was all done.

If you’ve ever really fought someone, not just thought about it, it’s exhausting. Especially when it goes on for more than five minutes. There’s a reason that professional boxers have three-minute rounds. Five minutes is also what we knew as the time limit for radio communications. I never heard the radio – it had come out of it’s holder while we fought, but the dispatcher was checking on us and getting no response. We drifted past the check mark and another minute ticked by.

The call went out “officer needs assistance, check on Unit 107” and our location.

That’s when God stepped in as far as I’m concerned. The evening shift had just finished turning in shotguns and flashlights when the call went out. They all ran out to their cars and were on site with us within 30 seconds. I only vaguely remember a lot of people prying the bad guys off of us and trying to cuff them up – it took ten of them to get it done.

We booked those guys in and assessed damages: broken glasses, torn uniforms, lots of bruises and cuts, but we were alive. Because the cavalry came to save us.

Today, while you drive to the grocery store, you might see a cop getting their butt kicked by an assailant. Your calling it in, and then stepping in to help the officer might save their life. I’m not saying that you should do your best Kung-fu, nor am I advocating that you do anything beyond asking the officer if they need help. They might not. But knowing that backup is there (you) might give them the extra zip to take the win. It also demoralizes the bad guy. You are certainly at risk doing it: no doubt. That’s a moral dilemma for you.

But I was the guy on the ground, about to lose his weapon, and his life, 35 years ago. I would have been thrilled to see you. I sure was thrilled to see my fellow officers.

Now, in conclusion, spare me the hate. If you hate cops, hate the idea of helping, are sure the bad guy has a good reason, know that all cops are secret rapists and racists, you can skip any commenting on the post. They aren’t. They’re just like the rest of us, but they take on the troubles of our world.

Me? I’m getting out of the car to help. Won’t you?