On February 1, 1909, the first fifty on the list were ordered to report at headquarters. Commissioner Bingham called me into his office, went over my whole record and troubles and said he was convinced I had been wronged. General Bingham was a square shooter.
“Remember you are a Bingham sergeant. Live up to that. I hope to see you promoted higher in the department, and am sure you will be.”
It all meant the chevrons! Policemen saluting me! A boss in. the department! I wouldn’t have swapped positions that day with the mayor of New York City. I imagined that every lady I passed was looking at my gold colored shield and my chevrons. I thought of all the hard-boiled superiors who had bawled me out. Now I was one of them myself.
I was transferred to the Sixty-Ninth Precinct, Westchester, and reported there for my first tour. Black Jack McCauley, an old friend I had known when he was a detective sergeant, was captain of the station. He told me it was a hard precinct to cover unless a man was a “native,” as the old-timers were called.
Westchester of those days was a wilderness and the precinct covered an enormous district, all of which, of course, a sergeant had to oversee. The captain cheerfully added that the posts were from two to four miles long and just as wide, with all kinds of lanes and woods to get lost in.
“No cars running to Classon Point, Throgs Neck, Pennyfield and Pelham Park,” he went on. And I was a foot sergeant, and the mercury was at zero. I didn’t get far on that first tour. In fact, I went out into the stables to see that the horses were all right, and I stayed there until the tour was over.
It didn’t take long to get acquainted, though. There was little to do in the way of police work, and everybody was happy. We were like a bunch of retired business men, drawing full pay while we loafed. I made it as easy for the boys as I could.
I’ve spoken before of the old system of judging a sergeant’s efficiency by the number of complaints he turned in against his men. For the first time, I began to find out what a tough job that means for the sergeant. The inspector wanted complaints and I was expected to provide them. No complaints no discipline, was the way the inspector figured.
Well, I hadn’t forgotten my own troubles. Up in that desert, I saw no reason why the men couldn’t take time off, now and then, for a bit to eat, a smoke or “to take it in” — the police expression for a shin roast. I used to do all those things myself on post, and why expect others to do more than I’d done myself. I knew what I’d be doing and saying if I had to spend eight hours in zero weather wandering around the edges of Long Island Sound and Pelham Bay. No man can do a trick like that without getting frost-bitten. Besides, there were the horses to think about!
So, as long as the boys kept close to the posts to hear any possible cries for help, and made quick laps at intervals over the beats to guard against fires, I was satisfied, no matter where they were. They always hung out in some place where there was a phone and I always knew — unofficially, of course — just where that place was. A hurry call in case of trouble would bring a gang of men in no time.
As days and weeks went by without “didos” against my men, the inspector lost his patience. He sent for me and came straight to the point:
“Get me complaints, or I’ll put you back on patrol!”
I told him my men were on the job and that I had no cause for complaints against any of them.
“I won’t bring men in here unless they’ve done something wrong,” I wound up, with more boldness than discretion. The inspector glared a little, but I stuck to my guns. For the whole year I was under his command. I complained against only one man in the entire year. That particular patrolman had mislaid his shield. It was a simple case and no one got hurt.
Of course, I could have made plenty of trouble for the boys. Any sergeant can if he wants to be a strict disciplinarian. Four of the men were particular offenders. They figured they were putting something over on me, and that’s a bad feeling for men under you to possess. So I thought of a scheme to teach them a lesson without hurting them.
The four were mounted men. It’s always difficult for a foot sergeant to control such a force, for the simple reason that he can’t move as fast as they can. The territory I had to cover couldn’t have been inspected in four full tours of duty, let alone one — of which fact the boys were aware.
I learned that the Deaf and Dumb Asylum on Throgs Neck was a coop for the mounted men. My evidence was the best. I had taken out a horse belonging to a policeman who was on sick leave. The animal tried to turn in at the asylum driveway and I had all I could do to get him past the gates. The asylum was it, but I knew my men would be tipped off by telephone any time I showed up publicly in Throgs Neck.
I said nothing and waited my chance. On one late tour I slipped over to Eastern Boulevard on foot, sneaked through St. Raymond’s Cemetery and got inside the asylum gates. I saw the watchman coming and leaned up against a tree so my chevrons were hidden. I took off my cap and held it so it would conceal the bright, telltale shield.
“Hello,” he exclaimed, “since when have footmen been coming over here?”
“I’m not on post,” I answered. “I just slipped in from Union Port to tip off the toys that two ‘shoo flies’ (the sergeants in civilian clothes) are on the way over here. Tell the toys to get out P. D. Q.”
As the watchman hurried off to the barn to give the alarm, I closed the gates and waited. It wasn’t long before the four men came riding for the gates at a gallop, like cavalrymen charging the enemy. They caught sight of the closed gates just in time. The horses reared up. Only expert horsemanship saved an accident.
“Whoa! Whoa! What the hell!”
Then I slipped from behind a tree right into their midst.
“Well! Well! Good morning, boys. Why in such a hurry? Dismount!”
The most sheepish looking men I ever saw climbed out of those four saddles, and faced me.
“Where are you on post — and you... and you?” I shouted. “You better think quick and give me a damn good excuse. You’ll need it when I take you down town!”
All four were married men. In one minute I found out how many kids they had and how many national, patriotic and fraternal reasons there were why they should be given another chance. They expected to be busted, for while I didn’t intend to report them, I wasn’t showing my hand. These boys needed a scare.
“I’m too old a cat to be fooled by kittens,” I snapped. “Get to hell out on post!” It did kind of nettle me to think that these young patrolmen had expected to get away with something on me after all the tricks of the game that I knew — and had practiced.
The four boys nearly spoiled my good intentions. When I got to the village the next morning, I was approached by brother Masons, politicians, and clergymen, even by Mr. Falk, the baker, where I got my coffee and rolls, and Lieutenant Billy Ferdon, a fine old policeman. With all this hullabaloo I was afraid the news of the affair would reach the inspector’s ears and then I’d have been in hot water up to my neck. I pleaded ignorance, telling the policemen’s friends that some one had been kidding them. I didn’t want to lie to an old clergyman, and I told him the story. I guess he passed it along the line under a pledge of secrecy, for the excitement stopped. But whenever I visited a mounted post after that, I found my man on the job.
Chapter XXXII
The Gas House Again
Dead as the precinct was in the winter, the summer was another story. Picnic grounds were plentiful throughout our station territory and every Sunday were occupied by dollar beer “rackets” from distant parts of the city. A “racket” then meaning a gathering, not a type of criminal activity. A big gang of toughs, known as the Bergens, showed up every Sunday and attempted to break up these parties. Battles were many and gory.