THE DAY I MET 'HAWKEYE'

THE DAY I MET HAWKEYE

It's perfectly true. The old saying, “It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good” has just got to be right, because the day I stood in all innocence on the kerb edge in Earle Street next to Sergeant Harper; when he had brazenly let go one of his famous rip-roaring farts, certainly did me some good.

A couple of months later at breakfast time he called me into his office.

“Has thee ever ridden a motor-bike lad”?

“I certainly have Sarge. I've been riding motor cycles ever since I was sixteen; I've got one now, it's a Bianchi Bernina”.

Bianchi Bernina 125cc
of thrutching eye candy

“What the hell's that? Never heard of it”.

“ Well, it's an Italian job, a sort of racing bike”.

I was beginning to wonder where this conversation was leading. Had I remembered to tax it last month? Had I blocked someone in when I dumped it around the back at six o'clock this morning? Oh, heck what's coming next?

Anyway, I wasn't telling any lies. I was the owner of a beautifully crafted Italian machine with stunning lines in black and white. It did look like a racing motorcycle, it sounded like one too with the exhaust baffles removed, but its performance was more akin to a gentle Honda Wisp. It had once been stolen from the back of the King's Hall dance emporium and ended up in a lime pit on a building site in Stockport; but that's another story.

The portly Traffic Sergeant swivelled in his chair and in an uncharacteristically low voice confided in me that, those that be in Headquarters, had decided to increase the size of 'my' traffic squad and we were going to have patrol motor cycles for the very first time. Trouble is, he said, there's no bugger qualified to ride 'em.

“Are you up for it lad?  Am I to recommend you for an advanced course, then”?

Well, what do you think? I'm just twenty-one, at the end of my probationary period, toiling at 'the coal face' of constant foot patrols and here I was, subject to passing the driving course, of course; being offered the prospect of swanning about on a police traffic patrol motor cycle...and getting paid for it.

Ron Stockton astride a beast

Having nonchalantly accepted the kind offer and promised to have my application form with him before the end of the day; I began to have really serious doubts. I'd seen the Driving School fleet of motor bikes, BSA, 650cc 'Beezer' Stars, and they were bloody massive. The wife wasn't terrifically ecstatic when I told her either.

Life was good. On the morning of 20^th June 1966, I reported to the Driving School at the Force training establishment within the old convent and was greeted by the late Sergeant Geoff Whittaker, himself a fine driver of cars and motor-bikes, and a gifted instructor too.

Honestly, this was it

There were three of us on the course for Advanced Motor Cyclists, Constable Brian Davies was one and regrettably, I'm struggling to recall the name of the other student.

The day was used to fill in forms, “Blood Group A+” “Blood Donor = Yes”; collecting our temporary kit, cork helmet and goggles, fitted jodhpurs, leather gaiters and real plastic gloves; and, in listening intently to an introductory talk from the boss, Chief Inspector Freddie Heyhoe.  Mr Heyhoe was ex-Lancashire Constabulary and some time later left service in Cheshire quite swiftly following some sort kerfuffle and miss-calculation of numbers.

Gus Dermody 'One man and His Dog'

Our principle instructor was to be Sergeant Gus Dermody, a whizz on anything mechanically driven and fast and a really great bloke, to boot. 

Gus and his Geese

Gus, in later life would become famous in the BBC Television series, 'One Man and is Dog', featuring sheepdog trials and originally presented by Phil Drabble. Gus took over as commentator on the show and continued until 2012. At its peak the programme attracted over 8 million viewers. He was also well known at County Agricultural Shows, Fairs and Fetes for his act with is dogs and geese, which were rounded-up and penned, a la sheep.

Anyway, next day we are taken down to the garages and introduced to our sturdy chargers. I'd never had anything between my legs quite this big before and it didn't help that my issued jodhpurs had an ill fitting gusset with little give in the material.

650cc BSA 'Beezer' Star

We were urged to gently manoeuvre the beast off its centre stand and get a 'feel' for it. But these 'Beezers' were heavy as well as huge and mine just wouldn't budge.  After several attempts and lots of encouragement from Gus, the thing lurched forward onto its telescopic forks and bounced and bounced. Luckily, I had the thing tethered by the front brake so its urge to get away was restrained and slowly it diminished. I looked around and the others weren't performing any better which was rather comforting.

For the record, I couldn't get the bloody thing back on the centre stand either.

“The trouble is”, said Gus, “You need plenty of confidence and determination”.

“And, unfortunately, you lot haven't got either”.

We kick started our machines, which was no mean feat. The compression from the twin cylinders produced so much latent energy that if it ever did choose to 'kick-back', the hapless rider could well end up through the garage roof.

One after another, astride our mounts, we bucked and bayed out through the double sliding doors and into the yard where traffic cones had been strategically arranged in the form of a simple obstacle course. Concentrating fully we followed my leader, watched closely by Gus, who now had sunk into a 'de ja vue' moment, weaving in or out like drunken processional caterpillars. I swear that if I had been on a busy road right now the first pedestrian to cross my path would end-up dead meat.

When we did get going proper, we were out on the road all day long and it was exhausting hard work, requiring endless amounts of strength and full-time concentration. The three students took turns in leading along a predetermined route.

We had no radio communications so any ongoing instructions were given by gesticulation between each other. Gus Dermody was 'super-glued' to the back wheel of the student currently under instruction and at each changeover there was a short debrief. New communication developments saw a Cocoa can attached to each bike with a lump of string connecting them.

This method wasn't entirely successful though, as the string often snapped when the instructor couldn't manage to keep up!

By the end of the first week, with increasing familiarity, a growing but not necessarily justified confidence and widening experience, the ordeal became increasingly pleasurable. With my small frame I was able to crawl all over the seat and petrol tank with the agility of a monkey, so that finding and maintaining the correct lines through bends became much more instinctive. Gradually, speeds increased and the range of our forays extended into neighbouring counties and North Wales. Soon it was hard to hang-on and keep-up with the group if you were last in the convoy.

Speed was always a critical factor, strictly adhering to the limits in urban and built up areas and legally breaking all other such restrictions, when it was safe to do so, of course. Were they really going to pay me at the end of the month for this, I occasionally thought?

We had a few minor issues and 'hairy moments' and all of us had episodes of 'ring-twitter', especially in the wet. I guess this extended to Gus also as he was obliged to  view the antics from close behind. These machines were always prone to the back end breaking away with scant notice and although its power made its eager enough to get going, it was often reluctant to stop.

Once, in the wilds of North Wales we 'lost' Brian and it was several miles before anyone noticed. When we did we about-faced and retraced the route with considerable trepidation. When we next saw him his bike was on the stand in a lay-by and he was several hundred yards behind it, 'searching for the ignition key'. Apparently it had shaken out of the ignition lock and was lost.

On another occasion the spring link of my drive chain broke at speed on the A530 near Middlewich on the way back to base. Fortunately, the chain laid itself out on the road and had not wrapped around the sprocket, so risking locking-up the back wheel. There was nothing to be done except wait for a recovery vehicle from Crewe and that was going to take some time.

Our instructor and the other two students pulled up outside my home on Moreton Road and Gus strode purposefully down the long pathway and up to the front door to inform Lorraine, my newly married wife that I was OK; but would be late getting back, much later as it transpired. Looking through the window and having counted the number of bikes and not recognizing her husband being among them, Lorraine immediately decided that her worst fears had come true. This was the moment she had dreaded. It was a terrible shock for her, alone now, with our first child Anita, just four months old.

We have been blessed with good neighbours, none more so than when we had occupied police houses. We had moved into 23 Moreton Road, our first marital home, in Wistaston on 11^th May 1965; two months after our wedding. Lorraine can be certain of this date because it was the first day of her last period before giving birth to Anita, on 26^th February, the following year!

23 Moreton Road
Our first home

Sergeant David Roberts, his delightful wife Joyce and their three children, two boys and a girl, lived in the adjoining house. Joyce came from our home town and was full of 'mumsy' knowledge which came in mightily handy on many occasions later; such as, “You've got far too many blankets on that pram, it's not the north pole, you'll roast her to death”.

David was a gentle type of patrol sergeant, an Officer of the Order of St, John of Jerusalem and responsible for all first aid training, throughout the county. Sadly, sometime later he passed away far too prematurely following a heart attack.

One day our new home was broken into and ransacked in broad daylight whilst we we out. They'd smashed the window in the front door and brazenly gone through all the rooms and our possessions. Seeing that it was a policeman's house, they set about wrecking it.  I wouldn't mind but I'd just tidied-up the place before picking up Lorraine from The Barony Hospital in Nantwich, where she had been busy having our baby. Constable Alan Hague, a colleague, had kindly loaned us his car for the event and as we arrived home we were cheered by a small welcoming party outside, eager to tell us the bad news.

When I learned what had happened I zoomed off in the car towards Joey the Swan where I soon came upon three young men who were acting suspiciously. Without a scintilla of evidence whatever, I convinced myself that they must have committed the heinous act and promptly arrested them, placing them in the car.  Well, I wasn't to know that Dave Roberts had already arrested the correct felons and they were already in custody at Nantwich Road..

When I found out my faux-pas I quickly 'de-arrested' the suspects (a term not yet invented), dusted them down and thanked them profusely for their public spirited assistance and cooperation in this grave matter.

After the Roberts' moved into their owner occupier home, a rare thing in those days, the vacancy at number 21 was filled by Constable Anthony Taylor, destined to become an ever so astute detective, and his attractive bride, Margaret. It wasn't long before they became parents to a beautiful little girl, Nicola; a playmate for Anita.

We had quite a bit in common, mainly in that we both owned bugger-all, so we got on well. We traded spare cigarettes by knocking on the shared wall and opening the front window to enquire availability and negotiate repayment terms. It was on one such occasion, on the publication of Force Weekly Orders, that we spontaneously decided to enter ourselves for the sergeant's written exam; not because either of us was in the slightest ambitious for promotion but successful candidates received £30 tax free, a considerable amount in those days.

Oh how we had fun. Mrs Horton offered us a twelve inch black and white television in a large wooden cabinet, which I graciously accepted. I set it up in the living room, without an aerial of course and invited the neighbours around for an evening's viewing entertainment. We watched a snow-storm version of the BBC's “Sex Olympics”, sharing the only pair of sun glasses between us.

The following week Lorraine met me at the door when I got home from work and told me that there had been a strange white van lurking around the estate. A man, wearing a trilby, white smock coat and carrying a clipboard under his arm, had been knocking at doors. She hadn't answered the door because it was obviously the Television Detector people checking on TV Licenses and we hadn't got one.

Over decades this thing
has cost me a fortune

I went to the post office and purchased a black and white licence with a National Provincial Bank cheque, which inevitably 'bounced'. I have been purchasing TV licenses out of habit ever since.

It turned out that the man in the white coat was touting for business with Acme Laundry.

Tony would always rise to a challenge, so when I bet him a fag that he couldn't clear the hawthorn hedge between our gardens, he was up for it but only if I upped the offer to two fags. He took a decent run-up, launched himself and landed on top of the hedge. He screamed in agony and rolled off into his garden, writhing and rolling about. 

Not wanting to end up in the same sort of predicament, I walked around the front to see what it was all about. Still in great pain, I examined his left calf but all I could see was a thin black ring about the size of a 'petit-pois' with a greenish/cream inner. Margaret produced some tweezers from her make-up bag and I began to operate on the patient. Tony dragged on his borrowed cigarette for comfort.

We all gasped as I gripped the foreign object and began the extraction. It was a haw-thorn, a full two and a half inches long, black, and deadly sharp. It had penetrated the muscle at right angles but strangely, left no lasting damage and didn't bleed much at all. A tetanus injection seemed appropriate.

Just up the road were another pair of identical police houses. One was occupied by Sergeant Doug Mc Caskill who was responsible for warning the county of Cheshire when World War Three was about to start. We were towards the end of the Cold War era. 

"Wred Wrawning Bugwrawton"

Each police station had a device that bleeped every second or so and a needle on a dial swept nervously back and forth. Everyone was aware of the Home Office device but few had any idea what it was for. At strategic points around each town and village, on buildings and atop wooden poles, were sirens that would wail alarmingly if war actually broke out. They were constantly maintained and their validity tested, once a year.

It was Doug's highly responsible job to arrange for such tests and annually, at a pre-determined time and date, the whole system was checked and police officers in police stations throughout the county, stopped what they were doing to listen to the ticking machine and write down what they heard eminating from the loudspeaker.

What they were intended to hear was a clear message, transmitted by Doug from a central location. Unfortunately Doug had a slight speech impediment and what most people heard was:

“Wred Wawning Bugwlawton”. “Wred Wrawning Congwletwon”. “Gween Wawning Awlswager”, "Gwey...".

Why he chose to make the broadcast himself and not delegate the job only he will know. I often imagined Doug practicing his lines in the lavatory. This, then, was the country's last line of defence, 'The Cold War Early Warning System', now superseded by Social Media, Facebook, Whatsapp, Twitter and the like.

Next door lived Fred Hazelhurst until he too moved out and a young Constable and his charming Geordie, schoolteacher wife, Margaret, moved in. Ronald “Rocky” Mountain was fresh from initial training at Bruche and up for it. He was a mountain of a man, brusque, fearless, no nonsense and loud. He deserves a book all to himself.

The Mountain's became good friends of ours and they also had a lovely young child called Susan. Margaret shared her 21st birthday with Lorraine and we held a joint party at our house, complete with Spam sandwiches, a 'firkin' of beer, home made wine fermented in the airing cupboard and a Ouija Board. What fun we had but the beer ran out far too soon for most people's liking.

On Rocky's first night shift I had him in company and around eleven o'clock we were called to a disturbance outside The Blue Cap Dog, a salubrious town centre pub. As we approached we saw a small group of yobs deciding amongst themselves how to prolong the civil unrest. Constable Mountain registered his presence in a typically forthright manner by announcing to the group, “Shift yourselves right now or I'll walk through yer”. The lads quickly weighed-up the odds, judged them to be uneven and not in their favour and rightly dispersed along Market Street. Not lacking in confidence then, the new recruit.

Ron Mountain and a happy
Mick Rudham tucked in behind

There isn't enough space to describe Ron Mountain and to do him justice but he became a very capable Traffic Officer until some idiot drove across Grosvenor Street in Chester and crashed head-on with his patrol car. It left Rocky badly injured with a fractures of the vertebrae in his neck which left him permanently debilitated.

When prematurely retired from police work he, lectured in metalwork at high schools; fund raised and founded Chester's mobile 'Flying Doctors' and later concentrated on his business of developing and converting Range Rovers into long wheelbase fire engines, with high presure foam pumps and flogged them to the Arabs in the Middle East, for use on their airfields. After that he went on to build up a successful furniture company, 'Cheshire Oak', near Tattenhall, designing and producing bespoke hardwood furniture.

I last heard of him when he moved to Cambridgeshire and became a Justice of the Peace. Imagine telling 'porky's' to him from the dock.

Ronald “Rocky” Mountain died suddenly from a heart attack at an all too early age. One giant of a man with a heart to match, when the bell rung he was always first to help when help was needed. What flippin' irony.

At the top of Moreton Road, just around the corner in Readesdale Avenue lived a General Practitioner and dedicated Divisional Police Surgeon, Doctor Simeon Oshinsky. An elderly Ukrainian Gentleman who practised old fashioned medical techniques. He carried with him an early version of a 'Roy Cropper' bag in which he kept various drugs and syringes, a small milk pan for boiling stuff and 'sterile' cloth, just in case he he needed mobile autoclave facilities. The elderly doctor was available day and night both for National Health Service and police purposes. He was also our valued family medical practitioner.

Doctor Oshinsky's surgery was above a shop on Nantwich Road, located between Mill Street and the station. Access was by a steep, narrow staircase to a large waiting area with central table, always freshly covered with yesterday's Times newspaper and a supply of old, dog-eared 'Cheshire Life' magazines. The floor was dark brown linoleum, polished to a shine by the old Polish lady cleaner, always there in attendance, complete with scarf and overall tied at the waist. I think she provided 'chaperone' services too, when required. N e x t  please!

I went in with Lorraine for her regular pregnancy examination and was greeted by the doctor in a familiar way. He completed his examination, stood back with a satisfied look and without warning announced:

 “Nowz zen, zer iz no need to bize zee pram”.

“Why, why not? What's the matter, what's wrong?”

“Nossing, nossing at all, you have a very healthzy babi on zer vay. But, in mize humblez opinionz pramz are a complet vaste of ze money, zoh, get ze a leetle trolleez-chairz insted”. Ffs!

“Anz, anozer thingz missez Aldringztown, yourz 'usbanz, he'z puttingz zon a leetle veight, nail ze fryingz pan tooz zer kitzens vall and leeves it zer”.

Lorraine, Anita and Royale,
the Rolls Royce of perambulators

In the event we ended up with a magnificent coach built Royale pram, kindly bought for us by Lorraine's Dad, Ernie, which we proudly pushed around Crewe Park. We found, too, that it came in very handy to get the shopping home from the Cee 'n Cee supermarket, piled onto the mesh tray underneath. When the pram was occupied and the tray was empty our dog, Mandy, lay on it, and kept guard.  

But all in all the Doctor was probably right.

Our Ukranian doctor delivered our first child at the Barony Hospital Maternity Unit. That made our daughter officially a 'Dabber', the name given to Nantwichers'. The Doctor afterwards regaled us with gifts. Boxes and boxes of sample condoms and birth control devices of every variety, shapes, size and colour.

“Must makez zee wery, wery surez it doezn't happenz tooz zoon", He cautioned, "Not too zoon anyhowz”.

We made sure that Anita had all her vital vaccinations and inoculations as advised by those who know about these things and Doctor Oshinsky insisted that he should administer the stuff appropriately. Anita had been given her Salk polio immunization orally, a couple of drops on a sugar cube. We now took her to the surgery for her third and final triple vaccination for whooping cough, tetanus and diphtheria. We were welcomed as normal and I was asked the usual questions about the state of my career, of which he seemed sincerely interested.

We continued to chat casually whist he prepared the injection and Lorraine

prepared baby's bottom to receive the needle. Everything seemed fine as he made the injection. Anita screamed and bawled as usual and Lorraine commenced the comforting procedure. 

It was only when the grey haired doctor began pacing his surgery, smacking his head and repeating, “Vhat havz I donze?. Vhat have I donze? How did I dooz zat zing”?

“What have you done? What on earth have you done doctor?”

He had only gone and injected our child with a full syringe of non-sterile, oral polio vaccine, the sort you take on sugar, and it was anyone's guess what might happen next.

He frantically telephoned the County Medical Officer of Health, Doctor Crawshaw, confessed immediately to what had happened and begged advice on how the situation should best be handled. We were all swirling in the great unknown. It hadn't happened before so nobody knew for sure what would result.

The pair decided that it would be advisable to administer a large dose of the antibiotic, streptomicin, a procedure that can leave considerable pain and long lasting discomfort, and, to watch and wait and hope for the best.

We did a lot of watching and observing in the next hours and days, in fact we never took our eyes off her, sleeping in shifts. The worried doctor paid twice daily visits to our home for the next fortnight or so, checking on the swelling and administering further doses as necessary.

He hadn't covered up his error, we all make mistakes and after normality in the home was resumed he wrote a paper that was later published in the Medical Journal, The Lancet, for medical practitioners to absorb, should this aberration ever be repeated.

I know, I know. I can hear it now. If it happened today you'd be hearing the sirens of medical negligence solicitors circling above like vultures; with the prospect of a big fat cheque in the post on a no win, no fee basis. It wasn't like that back then and Simeon Oshinsky was a decent, honest bloke who served the community well over many years. He didn't deserve to be punished or pilloried for a simple mistake, catastrophic though it may have turned out.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The learning curve involved in developing the specialist handling skills demanded of advanced police motorcyclists, spiralled upwards almost vertically. The discipline required to pilot a powerful motorcycle at fast speeds on congested roads, safely and confidently was paramount.

But, there was always the small matter of studying and remembering the whole of Roadcraft and The Highway Code, in minute detail, in order to pass the written theory exam. Less than a 100% pass was unacceptable, so that meant learning the lot verbatim.

The accommodation block had not yet been built at FTC yet (I helped a bit in that construction project a short while later) so students lived either at home or in temporary digs. Even if there had been an alternative for me, my duty would have been to be at home at night as a new husband and father. All good then but it did make studying and relaxing after rip-roaring around the country rather difficult.

The day of the theory examination came and despite our collective concerns we all passed with upwards of 98%. I managed to score full marks and that was a first for me, in anything I did.

The training was coming to an end and our riding skills had reached incredible levels of perfection. Still, the thoughts of having a final test ride with a critical, experienced examiner constantly on your tail, stretched the nerves almost to breaking point. But, on a splendid summer morning, 8^th July 1966, we drew lots to establish the ride order and awaited the call. I went second, with examiner Sergeant Geoff Whittaker issuing final instructions; and off we went.

I had a dream start to the ride with all the motorists and pedestrians on Nantwich Road behaving themselves by shifting out of the way; so off we went into the countryside and gay abandon. There was never the slightest chance of losing Geoff Whittaker from behind me but once the initial nerves had calmed the excursion was fast, fluid and safe.

Cheshire constabulary's Advanced Motor Cycle Course had always set the bar supremely high so it was a great achievement that we all passed with Grade One standard. It must have been a satisfying moment for Gus Dermody who had manfully guided us at every step of the way; a testament to his own meticulous standards and skills.

We had won our Certificates on merit and, more importantly, we now had the written authority to drive police traffic motor cycles. A new chapter could now begin, except that authority dictated that I report for foot patrol on Monday.

Back to reality then, more plodding while waiting for the call. The call came at the end of August and on 9^th September I transferred upstairs to the Traffic Section, based in the new police station in Crewe town centre.

I collected my new machine from Crewe Maintenance Workshops, located behind FTC and drooled with delight. I had proper fitting tailored breeches by now, a new hard shell helmet and half-decent kit; I had invested in my own knee length riding boots. I was handed the keys by Ron Smith, the motor cycle specialist mechanic, who appraised me of the virtues of this mean machine.

Triumph 750cc Saint but
ours had full fairing

Triumph had seen a niche in the market and so had developed a motor cycle especially for the requirements of police traffic patrols, the twin cylinder 750cc Saint. A beautiful thing to behold, streamlined with a full white fairing, integral blue light set into the screen, two-tone horns, symmetrical panniers and VHF radio installed at the rear. The radio handset arrangement had been thoughtfully fitted atop the fuel tank, ensuring that any sudden arrest of speed would likely castrate the rider.

I rode my new charge in figures of eight around the yard to get the feel of it, stopping at the petrol pumps to fill up. Then off to real police work and new things; “Tango Foxtrot Seven, on patrol Crewe area”.. “M2BA, Tango Foxtrot Seven Roger, standing-by”.

As there were very few officers trained and authorized to ride motor cycles in Crewe Division I had the machine pretty much as my own. What fun and adventures we had together in the weeks to come, taking every opportunity to pose and show off the Constabulary's new tool for combating offending motorists, especially those with the inclination to dive too fast.

A 'Cracker' for Stanlow

Escorting abnormal loads was always an agreeable and responsible way to assist free movement of traffic, especially when it came to the really big ones operated mainly by Wynns and Pickfords; often huge generators down the A50 bound for Pomona Docks or massive phosphor bronze propellers for Camel Lairds; or 'Cracker' units for Shell at Stanlow. Continuity was always key, so slick hand-overs at county and divisional boundaries kept good progress and was greatly appreciated by the haulers.

On 6^th January 1968 a low loader transporter carrying a 120 ton electrical transformer was struck by an express train on a recently installed automatic level crossing at Hixon in Staffordshire. The collision resulted in eleven deaths

and 45 people were injured and led to improvements in signage around automatic level crossings. Many lessons were learned about ensuring the safe movement of abnormal loads and it's fair to say that nobody, even those remotely involved, came out of the public enquiry with heads held high.

All this, of course, was well before many of the motorways had been constructed. The Preston by-pass was opened by the Prime Minister, Harold MacMillan in December 1958 but the connecting route through Cheshire to Stafford took another decade, opening late 1968.

We used to be deployed to escort emergency ambulances at fast speeds, or sometimes at very slow speeds, even though ambulances were bigger, brighter, had acres of more florescent and reflective material; had more lights, flashing blue lights and louder klaxon's. I never did fully understand the logic of that but we did it anyway, forging ahead and assisting at junctions.

Escorting processions like the annual Crewe Carnival was quite another thing. All through the crowded streets of town, along West Street and Victoria Road to the magnificent Crewe Park and playing fields. Thousands lined the route and afterwards enjoyed the funfair and fireworks at dusk. A veritable poseur's delight and I remember Lorraine taking a pictures of me leading the parade but somehow they were lost.

Anita, me and sheepdog Mandy

Although Lorraine bought me a nifty little camera for my 21^st birthday, a little 'Halina' automatic for 35 mm film, I haven't many photographs of me at work; in fact, I don't have any. Well, that's not strictly true because I bought lots of film during that period and took dozens of photographs; mostly of our daughter. I did have some taken of me in action but we could never quite scrape enough money together to take them to the chemist and have them developed and printed. I did keep loads of spools of exposed film in the back of a drawer for years before ditching them. They're probably languishing in a land fill site outside Crewe right now.

Haway Man

I had spent my 21^st birthday at an RAF station at Leeming Bar, North Yorkshire on my final continuation course as a probationer. We had travelled up there in George Jones' Ford Anglia in the most appalling winter weather conditions with fog and knee deep snow everywhere, passing the bleak BBC transmitters at Emily Moor and Winter Hill. Freezing conditions persisted throughout January in and I had an illness 'man-flu', although that condition hadn't yet been invented.

I felt dreadful for the whole two weeks but on my birthday proper I managed to down several pints of Newcastle Brown in the Provost's

Bar with the lads; and later, after I had finished 'calling out for Hughie down the ceramic 'phone', I felt much better. I was just glad to get home at the end of it for warmth, comfort and sympathy. Thank heavens for George's little 'Angela'.

There were other less attractive times too, like in the winter of 1967/68 during the Foot and Mouth Disease crisis, when we worked seven days a week, twelve hour shifts, constantly criss-crossing the county escorting JCB's, diggers and bulldozers from one infected farm to another.

Several parts of the Road Traffic Act were temporarily suspended by unwritten decree. I was taking a huge bulldozer through Nantwich one wet, miserable evening when the blade caught the side of a wagon coming the other way and ripped a sizeable hole in the aluminium. Fortunately, there were no injuries and the wagon driver was quickly compensated by the haulage company's insurers. That was the end of the matter, there was no time for in depth formalities.

In January 1967 I was pretty chuffed to escape the worst of the winter on a General Car driving course at FTC. It was a very agreeable time in the company of a very agreeable man, the delightful Inspector Fred Hazelhurst. Despite the inclement weather, the course was uneventful and passed without incident, as did I during the theoretical and practical examinations.

So, I was now equipped to drive cars and vans of a non-emergency sort and from time to time, that's what I did.

FTC's Ursuline Convent and Accommodation block

When construction began on the building of the Force Training Centre's new accommodation block adjoining the Grade Two Listed convent, a pioneering approach to construction was employed. The whole of the building was to be of non-standard materials, fabricated off-site, and pieced together on site in sections, units and modules, using a massive crane. A bit like big boys' Lego really.

It was our job to meet each of hundreds of abnormal loads at the county boundary and escort them along the A534 Nantwich Road, into Salisbury Avenue and onto site. It was absolutely amazing just how fast that building went up and how soon that it became a functioning training centre, for the first time providing a decent standard of individual accommodation, complete with private washing facilities, recreation facilities and importantly, a well equipped classroom learning environment. Oh, and a bar.

Another enjoyable wheeze for police motor cyclists was the traffic policing of motor racing at Oulton Park, Little Budworth. Once the spectating public had entered the circuit, mainly over the bailey bridge, we were able to follow and enjoy the spectacle of the racing, sights, sounds, smells and all. No matter if it was Formula One, Formula Three, saloons, clubman motor cycles, sidecars or what, the spectacle of racers racing hit the spot every time.

Agostini in full flow

Once I had that pleasure of watching the great 'Ago'; the Italian Giocomo Agostini, multi-time Grand Prix road race champion cruise around the track, leaving the rest in his wake. The track side commentator at one stage simply held his microphone outside the commentary box window and allowed the crowd to listen to the magical sound of his MV Augusta pass by.

It's about time that I 'cut to the quick', so to speak. 

My one abiding memory of Oulton Park is of the events in the Royal Automobile Club Tourist Trophy meeting on Whit Monday 1969. The race had already started by the time I went over the bailey bridge and made my way to the pit area. I parked the bike up and wandered to the track side to savour the action.

'Hawkeye's' beautiful Scarlet Lola T70

Leading the race was a beautifully turned out sports saloon, a vivid scarlet Lola T70 driven by a very popular and handsome Australian driver, Paul 'Hawkeye' Hawkins. Paul was born in Melbourne 31 years earlier and was rapidly emerging as a top racer with his own racing team, The son of an Australian clergyman, he was regarded widely in car racing circles as a larger than life character and very much a 'man's man', with brash, colourful language to match; the sort of image his father wouldn't necessarily approve of.

'Hawkeye' at ease

He had led the race from the moment the starter's Union flag had dropped at he start of the race and remained well ahead of the pack, leading the race for the first eight laps. But, with his lap times starting to fall away, he returned to the pits for a set of fresh tyres. I watched as his team sprang into action changing all four wheels whilst simultaneously cleaning the windscreen and topping up with fuel.

'Hawkeye' letting-rip

The act of taking additional petrol on board was remarkable. The silver filler cap in the centre of the bonnet was flicked open, a stainless and copper churn manually upturned and and the high octane propellant forced by gravity into the tank. Even a layman such as me could tell when the car's fuel tank was sufficiently full because the residue spilled out all over the bonnet.

The cannister was swiftly whisked away, the car dropped unceremoniously onto the new tyres and off went 'Hawkeye' down the track, like a bat out of hell. I'd never seen anything quite like it and I distinctly remember thinking, 'Crikey, that can't be right' and instinctively having a furtive look around to see if anyone was smoking or if any other source of ignition was present.

Seconds passed and other cars flew by. Suddenly there was a huge pall of black smoke rising skywards from the direction of the Esso bend. The track-side race commentary Tannoys ceased momentarily and then announced that the race had been stopped. Racetrack emergency vehicles and the course safety car began to speed down the track and I joined them on my police patrol bike, blue lights and klaxon blaring.

As I approached Island bend just before Esso bend, the hairpin, the utter devastation was clear. The Lola and 'Hawkeye' had somehow 'lost it' on a fairly gentle bend, crossed a grass verge in a straight line and collided head-on with a substantial tree. Hawkins was almost certainly killed instantly by the impact but his body was trapped and the car had almost instantly caught fire. A following racer, Trevor Taylor, bravely and valiantly tried to rescue his colleague but was beaten back by the intensity of the fire and heat. Taylor, incidentally was later declared race winner.

Daily Express

There was not much left of the car but it was now of  paramount importance that Paul's body be recovered with as much respect and dignity as possible. I had assumed the role of Coroner's Officer, took charge of operations and supervised whilst fire officers and marshals placed Paul's corpse in a body-bag and into the course ambulance.

I escorted the ambulance out of the track and to the mortuary at Little Budworth. The body was laid-out and prepared, as best as was possible, for formal identification, prior to a post mortem. 

I couldn't help thinking, 'What a bloody waste of life'. The sights, sounds, smells and thoughts of events stayed present with me for some considerable time to come.

Daily Express

I'm not entirely sure but I think all necessary arrangements for identification, witness statements and evidence gathering for the formal Coroner's inquest were conducted by the Tarporley Sergeant, Hughie Dimelow, on who's patch Oulton Park lay. That's how racetrack deaths were usually taken care of in those days.

There's a strange post-script to this story. Decades later, in Autumn 1990 to be precise, we took our second daughter, Natalie and her fiancée Kevin on a tour of France as a treat for her 21^st birthday. At one stage we overnighted at a small town outside Le Mans

Hotel de France Le Mans

called La Chatre-su-le-Loir, where the famous 24 hours race is held annually. We checked-in to the Hotel de France and later dined in the impressive restaurant. I sampled my first and very last oyster and likened the experience to being sick...backwards.

I saw the elderly Patron mingling with the guests and all was charming and most pleasant.

Hotel de France Restaurant

After dinner I browsed the restaurant walls on which were hung dozens of framed photographs of famous racing drivers and their cars who had visited over the years. There, prominently displayed in the vestibule just outside the restaurant and in pride of place was a plain black picture frame displaying a picture of the patron and his wife and standing in between, a handsome, Paul 'Hawkeye' Hawkins. The racer had affectionately endorsed the photograph, dedicated it to the couple and signed it with a flourish.

When I was able to catch his attention I gently beckoned the elderly owner over and enquired of him, “Did you know 'Hawkeye' well?”

“Mais oui” He said with a wry smile, “He came here many years with the other drivers. He was a wonderful character, an Australian you know, always life and soul of the party, until his death in a tragic racing incident. And in your country, don't you know”.

“Oui Monsieur, je sais”. “Yes Sir, I know”.

Retired Inspector Graham German will know exactly what I'm talking about. In years gone by he never missed the spectacle of Le Mans, up all night with a stuffed baguette and flask of coffee.

Life was ever so grand and I was doing the job I wanted, riding bikes in the main but filling in with other driver duties. But having passed the General Driving Course in February 1967, my sights were now firmly set on getting an Advanced Car Driver's Course and driving patrol cars; as well as spells on the bikes, of course.

I got my chance in October that same year and was assigned, with two other students, to the care and instruction of Ron Stockton, himself a formidable driver of car and bike, preacher of the 'Road-craft' art, and thoroughly decent bloke.

Ron, during his youth had been a engine-fireman on the Royal Scot steam

engine, shovelling tons of coal for hours on end into the firebox of a greedy fire eating monster. Not many people can boast such an illustrious apprenticeship and an intimate association with such a nostalgic icon of British railway engineering.

Anyway, the course was highly enjoyable from start to finish. I'm sorry to keep reminding you but this was a time when many motorways and major road networks hadn't been thought of, never mind built. Ten years earlier the new Preston by-pass had been considered a mere guinea-pig.

We drove Mark Three Ford Zephyrs, of 'Z' Cars fame, but the Mark Four had recently been introduced and there was talk of adding Austin 1800's and Morris Marinas to the Driving School Fleet to compliment the ageing stock. The IV's weren't a patch on on its predecessor the 'Z' car Mark III at any level, they were big, clumsy, skittish in the wet and noisy, very noisy.

Later on, they did produce an interesting variant of the Mark IV developed in conjunction with Massey Ferguson of Coventry. Two of the prototypes, painted in police livery, were allocated to Crewe Traffic for evaluation. One was a normal gear shift model and the other an automatic. Both, uniquely, had four wheel drive capability, a new concept, and boy did they stick to the road under any adverse conditions.

Except for the time, that is, when Constable Baz Vernon inadvertently mounted the nearside verge on the bendy road between the A534 and the A50. He tried to correct the situation as would be done in an ordinary vehicle, drive it off and back onto the road surface. But this was no ordinary car; driving on both axles and   four wheels, the front tyres grabbed the road surface and propelled Baz and the experimental vehicle through the offside hawthorn hedgerow and into the middle of a ploughed field. Give it its due though, he reversed it back out through the deep furrows unaided but the vehicle was a wreck.

It came down to me to take it back to the factory in Coventry on a trailer, hidden by a tarpaulin and towed by a Land Rover. It seemed the whole work force came out to greet me and their secret project and they were angry. Crikey, were they angry; I thought I might be lynched!

But the driving course was the best I'd ever been on, certainly the most

Ron Stockton was equally at ease on
motor-bikes, cars and Flying Scotsmen

enjoyable. The theory wasn't presenting as a problem for once as most of it was fresh in my memory. Our daily range was vastly extended, faster equals further and we were reaching the east coast for lunch (Mabelthorpe or some such place in Lincolnshire) and back in time for tea. Shattered, absolutely shattered. It really was so very physically and mentally draining because of high levels of full-on concentration demanded, not just when you were in the driver's seat but as a passenger with vested interest too.

I can only recall one incident of particular interest and it happened to me after we had all passed the course at Grade I level and had our certificates safely in the bag. One of the crew was required to give evidence at Stockton Heath Court on our very last day. We were all totally relaxed by now and this was the day to have some fun. I drove to the court and dropped him off to be picked up later.

I set off along the A56 towards Daresbury and Chester. The road in those days was divided into three lanes, from just over the bridge at Walton, the centre lane shared by traffic in both directions. 'The Coroner's Corridor' as the centre lane was euphemistically called, came into my sight. There was a stream of mixed traffic in the left lane, a break from vehicles at the bottom of the shallow valley, then another line of heavy vehicles oncoming downhill toward us. The centre lane was free and available to me.

Ford Zephyr Mark IV of the type

We were in a Mark IV Zephyr, I instinctively planned my overtake; I was in the right gear at the right speed and in the right position on the road; so I let rip. Our speed increased smartly and so did the cabin noise, to an uncomfortable level, but just as I drew close to the rearmost vehicle on my left, I distinctly heard;

“NO MAN, NO!” shouted by Ron Stockton from the front passenger seat.

I took my foot off the accelerator momentarily, immediately realizing that I was already fully committed to the overtake and so slammed my right foot back flat down to the floorboards. The gap between the opposing traffic lines was closing rapidly and with the slight hesitation and resulting loss of speed, so was my escape route.

I completed the overtake, as I had planned, with yards to spare before we became, 'meat in the sandwich', a vulnerable position to be avoided. The manoeuvre wasn't in any way unsafe and didn't disadvantage other drivers but that slight indecision made it momentarily scary.

I slowed down marginally and turned to the now whistling instructor and said, “What”?

He said, “What did you take your foot off for”?

“Because you shouted no man, no”.

“Fuck”, he said, "I shouted, Go man, Go”...

Bet he never used that term again. Not in a Mark IV anyway!

At the beginning of 1987 I was officially posted to Traffic Operations, Crewe Division and alternated between Motor Cycles and Traffic Patrol Cars. Life certainly was treating me well and felt, 'There ain't no stopping us now'.

COMING UP NEXT...

Sometimes I laughed, oh how we laughed; sometimes I cried, oh how we cried; occasionally, I was absolutely mortified by what I saw. There was never a dull moment, well there must have been but the job was mostly packed with interest, just as I'd always wanted...

Things are always at their most difficult when children or young people have come to grief in some way. On one particular occasion, I transferred the grief and trauma of the three young victims and their loved ones to myself and it affected me badly, for many years afterwards. I've not talked much about this incident and a few other grave situations, to anyone and that reluctance to share pent-up emotions can create its own problems.

The next 'Blogette' might be a good time to off-load some baggage...