THE DAY I WAS AWARDED A "BARNEY'S BUGLE"

THE DAY I WAS AWARDED A “BARNEY'S BUGLE”

I got to thinking the other day that if, somewhere out there in the Cheshire Constabulary fraternity, another example of “Barney's Bugle” still exists. I have my own signed copy, neatly folded and

placed in the back pocket of my official leather notebook holder, which stored with the rest of my police 'souvenir' memorabilia and ephemera, somewhere up in the far reaches of the loft.

Amazingly, during the whole of my police service, spanning over thirty years, I have only been involved in an incident involving firearms twice. And they both occurred during the same week of nights. The culmination was the award of the rare and coveted “Barney”.

Not that I was in any way a complete stranger to firearms I hasten to say, after all I had become a trained and authorized divisional firearms officer as a constable and had re-trained, to preserve a credible level of accuracy, on several subsequent occasions, including when I became a patrol sergeant. Armed police officers were not as ubiquitous in those days mind and there was nowhere near the perception in the police service that a requirement for instant fire-power, 24/7 was remotely needed.

The redoubtable Sergeant Derek Dunne, who just happened to be both the Force fingerprints and firearms expert organized the training, ably assisted by several experienced firearms instructors; for example the late Sergeant John Hamlett, a true gentle-man in every sense of the word. For the most part it was good fun; especially on such occasions when the Force took over a huge white, empty mansion on Eaton Road, Handbridge, for bespoke firearms training purposes.

The exercises here were specifically to educate students in the art of entering, re-taking and flushing-out a bunch of armed criminals in a siege situation. Instructors acted as the criminal gang, embedded in the large, three story multi room old house. We were instructed to open fire only when absolutely necessary and the taking of live prisoners was preferable. What could possibly go wrong?

Right from the start there was an unspoken but justified sense that the meticulously planned operation wouldn't end well. The first clue was when we couldn't gain entrance through the rear door because nobody had 'clocked' that it opened outwards. It all went downhill from there really. When we did eventually get in, working in pairs, we moved stealthily along the ground floor corridor checking each room for insurgents until the leading group came to the large family kitchen.

The leading officer spied a pair of boots, strategically placed by the instructors in a gap under the large open pantry door and immediately convinced himself that he was about to come face to face with his nemesis and therefore, in real life, his maker. When the pantry door suddenly violently swung, under the influence of an attached string pulled by one of the cunning 'criminals', in hiding a safe distance away; he instinctively reacted and let rip with a few rounds toward the door panelling of the empty walk-in cupboard. 'Tap-tap'...'tap-tap'. More accurately, in the echo inducing deserted building, 'boom-boom'...'boom-boom'.

That was the trigger and catalyst for blank rounds to be discharged by both sides from every nook and cranny in the rambling building, in a scene reminiscent of the shoot-out in 'OK Coral'. The house quickly filled with acrid cordite smoke.

I am now at liberty to tell you that this tactic isn't an option to be undertaken lightly because it's nigh-on impossible to 'flush-out' anything by this sort of dangerous notion – save, perhaps, for employing the extreme strategy of letting loose the SAS, as in the style of the Balcombe Street siege of 1975. The lesson learned now was graphically clear.

Firearms training took place at several venues including Sealand Ranges and occasionally, in a massive borrowed remote farm barn off the Calveley Straight. On one particular occasion the afternoon session was to familiarize students in the deployment of CS Gas and for them to gain an appreciation of its effects through personal experience of the substance. It was to be a reality check for everyone because we were to be administered a goodly dose of the stuff in an intimate group environment. No expense spared.

For those interested, CS Gas is so named after its inventors, Ben Corson and Roger Stoughton at Oxford in 1928, the title assuming the first letter of each surname. The noxious gas was further developed for military purposes at Porton Down in the 1950's and 60's and now it was to be our pleasure to sample some of it for real, within the confines of the barn. Its effects are instantly debilitating, causing immediate symptoms ranging from mild 'tearing' to choking, vomiting and prostration. Strangely, it doesn't affect dogs (and many other animals) much because of their hair and under-developed tear ducts.

So then, I had been chosen, quite randomly from the group, to deploy a canister of CS from a shotgun type launcher and was directed to aim the missile through the huge open barn doors in the side of the building from about 50 metres distance. I shouldered the instrument, identified the target, closed one eye, aimed high and to the centre of the substantial opening, fired...and missed. The projectile had missed the generous target by a country mile. The smoking missile had started its journey in a rather pleasing trajectory toward the farm building, had caught a sudden crosswind and veered off-target left, ricocheting off the roof.

The thunderous metallic noise from the corrugated iron roof panels causing a nearby herd of grazing Frisian cows to panic and bolt in every direction; and the voluminous white smoke and gas slowly drifted in the breeze, serenely in the direction of heavy vehicular traffic at Bluestone Crossroads, leaving several of the beasts coughing and spluttering.

Sergeant Dunne was mortified by what had taken place and stood motionless,

gazing at the billowing clouds racing away, diminishing exponentially in potency but nevertheless still representing a hazard. Apart from the expense involved, what if the milk curdled and there was a claim from the farmer? Worse still, what if passing drivers became victims and sprung a chain reaction?

My fellow students who had gathered to observe my marksmanship skills at a safe distance fell about on the grass convulsing and writhing about in uncontrolled fits of laughter, tears in their eyes, pretty much as if they themselves had copped for a decent dose of the gas.

Needless to say I was severely embarrassed by my unfortunate personal misfortune and endured uninhibited mirth, in the form of, “couldn't hit a barn door”, for several years to come.

Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself, both gun incidents happened during the same week of nights when I was on Traffic Patrol duties in Chester Division. We had two cars out that Monday night, Tango Alpha One covering Chester and the south and Tango Alpha Three over at Ellesmere Port; both single manned. It was quiet first half and after my scheduled refreshment break I called in at the Force Control Room as requested to pick up a package wanted next morning at the Port.

It was just after two o'clock and there was quite a bit of interest going on in the room; several operators were monitoring the progress of a 'high speed' chase along the coast road in North Wales. In rapid succession on the previous evening there had been a robbery at a convenience store, a burglary on school premises and a bilking at an all-night petrol station.

The culprits had made off in a stolen Ford Cortina towards English border, with somehow, a North Wales police van in 'hot' pursuit. Incredibly, the van had got fairly close-up to the suspect vehicle when the police driver reported being fired at, apparently from a hand-held firearm brandished by a passenger from the passenger window of the fleeing Cortina. The police officer had reported seeing flashes each time the gun was discharged; but nevertheless, to his unnerving credit, the policeman kept up the chase as best he could. For his outstanding bravery he was subsequently awarded the Queen's Commendation for Bravery; and rightly so.

Perhaps predictably, the stolen car eventually ran out of road in Broughton near the aircraft factory, mounted the verge and crashed into a substantial tree. The passenger, with firearm in hand, made good his escape on foot, vanishing into the darkness. The hapless driver was arrested at the scene by the police van driver and was safely in custody.

I ran from the control room to my patrol car parked in the yard below and blasted down Hough Green toward the boundary at Saltney where I took up a position to intercept vehicles or pedestrians heading for the city. Constable Ian Litherland in TA3 was making his way across to join the search but to be perfectly honest neither of us realistically expected the fugitive to come our way.

It wasn't long before North Wales Police circulated details of the wanted shooter, provided in short-shrift by the arrested getaway driver. And it emerged he was a bit of a bad lad. David Jones from Wigan, Greater Manchester, six foot-four inches, well built with long, spiky ginger hair and copious self-inflicted tattoos. He was wearing jeans and a distinctive chequered jacket. Jones had been in trouble with the law since early childhood and had dozens of convictions for assault, theft, drugs, robbery and...firearms offences. He ad no fear of the police and was wanted on warrant.

We set-up a block on the boundary and to pass time stopped and checked everything that moved in or out of the city, including the driver of Pickering's Dairy milk float. Ian had stopped a car heading out of town and was busy chatting to the driver.

It was just after three-thirty when I saw in the distance, near to the entrance to a small trading estate, a darting movement of some sort. I told my buddy what I had seen and that I would drive up and have a “shufty”.

And so I did, switching off the headlights and turning slowly into the estate entrance. In truth, I couldn't swear that I had seen a 'person' in the roadway; had I been absolutely sure of that I probably wouldn't now be approaching in such a cavalier fashion.

I got out of the patrol car and stood there for a moment not immediately realizing that I was silhouetted by the sodium street lighting behind me. As my eyes adjusted, I couldn't believe what was emerging. From behind a low brick

wall, twenty yards or so from where I stood, a head 'popped-up' and faced toward me. The head was covered in a thick matt of spiky ginger hair and two piercing eyes were looking in my direction. In modern parlance he was Ed Sheerin's doppelganger.

I was clearly in deep trouble, a 'sitting duck', so to speak. I'm still not sure what motivated me in that instant. Most likely it was the 'fight or flight' response, the physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack or threat to survival. It certainly got me thinking that I might not be that immortal after all.

There was no alternative; I launched myself towards him, screaming like a mad, male Banshee, simultaneously drawing my baton and raising it swiftly to the one o'clock position, determined to surgically neutralize him before he could inflict any harm on me. Madness abounded, especially as I reached the wall and David Jones, for it was him alright, inexplicably dropped down into a foetal position, curled up, both arms raised over his head in self-protective mode.

I have absolutely no idea what made Jones capitulate so rapidly; whether it was through his sheer exhaustion, a resignation that arrest was certain or simply to avoid waking up with one very sore head.

I seized the opportunity and handcuffed him, used every ounce of strength that I could muster and dragged him around the wall to my patrol car where I unceremoniously deposited him, face down over the bonnet. Marvellous this adrenaline stuff, but in truth, I was still shaking uncontrollably when Ian arrived a minute or so later.

The pair had stolen two weapons and ammunition. It turned out that they were

in fact starting pistols, stolen earlier that day from the sports hall of a secondary school they had broken into in Wrexham. Nobody involved could have known that the weapon was to turn out a harmless imitation. Both pistols had been ditched by Jones on seeing my approach. They were found nearby.

Jones was handed over to the North Wales police together with a statement of arrest. Job done. I understand that some years later David Jones died from an unprescribed, self-inflicted, drug induced episode in his cell whilst serving a long sentence in Strangeways Prison.

The rest of the week passed off reasonably quietly until Sunday, that is, when I had a young probationer straight from Bruche, riding 'shotgun'. I regret I can't recall his name but he will surely recall this event if he ever gets to read about it.

We had purposefully held close to the city to get stuck-in to any weekend action but about half-eleven we had a call to a traffic accident on Sealand Road near to Ferry Lane. A driver had 'lost it' on the bends and rolled his vehicle, half

blocking the road. He had fled the scene but witnesses were eager to tell us that he was well drunk. We cleared up the mess and established that the driver was from the Eastham area. So we repaired for an early break, intending to deal with him later when he arrived home.

About half-past one we set off from Chester along Liverpool Road turning left onto the A41 at Moston. Just beyond the bend a beige coloured Austin 1100 straddled the left hand pavement, partly on the road. The rear offside tyre was flat and two youths were standing aimlessly at the rear, one holding a scissor-jack, the other the jack handle. I had recognized the vehicle registration number straight away.

I placed the patrol car in a protective position, switched on the hazard and blue lights, and radioed control room to send back-up assistance, urgently. I had no idea if the probationer was up to speed with the current situation or how he would react if it all kicked-off, as I fully expected it would. But as we exited the car I urged him to be vigilant.

The car and its occupants had earlier been circulated by North Wales Police as wanted in connection with a series of armed robberies throughout their area at petrol stations and shops. On one occasion a sawn-off shotgun had been discharged into the ceiling of the garage to draw the cashier's attention to the seriousness of his predicament. These villains were potentially dangerous.

As we approached the men they were clearly agitated, the one with the jack in his hand particularly so. I had no intention of letting them gain an advantage by getting themselves behind us, that's for sure. They told me that their problem was, that although they had a good spare wheel and jack, they had no wheel brace, so couldn't remove the wheel and flat tyre.

“What a shame”, I said, but no matter, we could help.

I asked the probationer to get our wheel brace out of the boot, knowing full well he would have a job finding the tool among the masses of equipment; and anyway, even if he did, I knew it wouldn't fit the wheel-nuts of the stricken Austin. The young officer took his head out of the boot once or twice to report that he couldn't find the wheel-brace but I urged him to renew his efforts, winking at him, raising eyebrows and developing surreptitious, convulsive and spasmodic tick, just for emphasis.

The atmosphere grew tenser by the minute and it was becoming increasingly clear that this prevarication wasn't going to last much longer. Luckily it didn't need to.

The sweet, high-pitched sound of a screaming Morris Marina engine, ear-

piercing decibels in the still night air along Liverpool Road, was unadulterated music to the ears. It just had to be my counterpart, the late (I seem to be using that word far too often lately) Constable Richard “Dick” Perks, clearly with his right foot flat down to, or perhaps through, the floor-boards.

The sound of Dick's, err, Richard's imminent arrival had another inevitable effect too. The pair had smelled a rat and the bloke with the jack decided it was high time to take a swing at me; I got to grips with him and all hell broke loose as we both dropped to the deck with evil intent on both sides and in equal measure, both struggling to get the upper hand.

The probationer realized instantly what was happening and grabbed hold of the second bloke before he could exacerbate proceedings, cause a nuisance of himself or retreat into the night. In the circumstances the young lad had acted marvellously well; astutely correctly interpreting my weird gesticulations and sudden facial afflictions; and pouncing to make the arrest at exactly the right moment.

And Dick Perks' timely intervention finished off any threat of further violence that this malevolent pair of Scousers might have intended to inflict, especially if we had been daft enough to allow them to regain access to their vehicle. For lying there, on the back seat of the car, hidden under a jacket, were two fully loaded firearms; a sawn-off single barrelled .410 and a sawn-off, side by side, twelve bore shotgun. Both weapons ready to go.

That particular summer's week North Wales Police had suffered a spate of really nasty crimes committed by interlopers visiting from metropolitan areas far away. A friend of mine, an inspector from Pwllheli, told me that in the summer months the population of North Wales can swell by well over 50% with hoards of resident holidaymakers and day visitors. But the number of police officers on duty remains fairly constant.

Where was I? Oh, yes, after a well earned two days off I returned to duty on Wednesday afternoon and was summoned to see the sub-divisional superintendent. I can't possibly divulge his name because he is still about so I'll do all that I possibly can to protect his anonymity and call him by his nickname; “Dixie”. See what I did there?

The superintendent was newly in place as sub-divisional commander having been promoted to uniform duties from his detective superintendent role in Special Branch. Apparently, there had been some sort of 'kerfuffle' in the elite echelons of this mysterious group. It had been described by one insider as “the night of the long knaves” or something like that and Chester Division had been the winning beneficiary of the outcome. For “Dixie” was a real breath of fresh air.

“You had a bit of an exciting week, last week by all accounts, didn't you Roy”? He said, looking pretty chuffed.

“Well, you can say that again, Sir”, says I.

“Seriously though, both jobs are well worthy for a Chief's commendation. But you can't have both, not two in the space of a week, it wouldn't look right. So which one do you want then?”

“Both”, says I.

Without speaking further he began to draw something on a small piece of paper, I couldn't make it out but he signed it with a flourish, folded it carefully and handed it to me with a kindly smile. I opened it up; upside down as it happened, and stared at it for several seconds; bemused.

“Know what it is”? He asked.

“A trumpet”? I said.

“No”, he said.

“A cornet then”? I offered.

“Nope, it's a 'Barney's Bugle' for you to keep safely and treasure. Consider it to be a personal award in lieu of the Liverpool Road job. Next time you get into deep doo-doo I will personally exchange it for a mitigated pardon. I owe you one, a sort of Monopoly 'Get out of Jail Free' card, do you see”?

Now, I don't know for sure but my guess is that the seriousness of your alleged misdemeanour would be roughly commensurate with the “mitigated pardon”; and would therefore dictate which end of the bugle is inserted during the redemption process.

See what I mean? This style of boss was like a breath of fresh air and always a pleasure to work with.

I have “treasured” my 'Barney's Bugle' all these years but I can tell you that, on the one occasion when I needed it most... it malfunctioned, spectacularly!. But that's another story.