was sworn in as a police constable on Tuesday, 1 August 1967 at 10.00am and because I was an ex-cadet, the swearing in process took place in the Office of the Deputy Police Commissioner of Police, Matt Chasling on the first floor at the old Police Headquarters in Phillip Street Sydney (since demolished), rather than en-masse at a normal passing out parade.
 
Cadets were sworn in on their 19^th birthday whilst those in the initial training class I had undergone basic instruction with were all sworn in some weeks previous, apart from some of the dozen or so cadets who made up the 130 in the class.   We were termed, 'Cadets in Limbo'. So it was fellow cadet, Martin Crew, who's birthday was on 30 July and myself who faced this senior police officer before whom we had to take the oath.
 
The ceremony was over in a matter of minutes, I was handed my appointments (pistol, handcuffs and baton), bid good-bye by a ruddy faced Sergeant Cadet Sergeant in Les Thompson, the Cadet Sergeant (there were three) and I guess one of my mentors who had officiated at the proceedings.  He shook my hand then told me go get a bus from Elizabeth Street to Darlinghurst Police Station, my place of employment for the next 18 months (after I had asked Les for a lift there) whilst Martin took a train to Burwood, the station to which he had been posted.
 
I had not been to Darlinghurst (one of the busiest in the state, if not the country) before and walked into the charge room where I was met by the former shorthand sergeant from my cadet days, just a couple of years before, Joe Hall.  The room was to the right from the vestibule and consisted of a very small waiting area and public counter opening up through a swining door to a larger room about 6 metres x 4 metres which housed the bench behind which the staff worked and two 'charge docks' - described later.
 
By this time Joe was a Sergeant 2^nd Class (three stripes and a crown on upper arm) and was the station (or desk) sergeant.  Joe wasn’t his real name but one given to him at the Police Training Centre because there were two Sergeant Arthur Halls in the instructional section at the time.

He was a person who had and used his sarcastic wit on most everyone he dealt with.  He would have been about 42 or 43 at the time.
 
Darlinghurst was so busy that on Friday and Saturday Nights, the station would be staffed by no less than a Station Sergeant, Reserve Constable (helper to the sergeant), Assistant Reserve Constable and a switch board operator, all working out of a very small area.
 
Quite often there would be more than one person to be charged, so at Darlinghurst there were two ‘charge docks’.  A dock is a restricted area behind a post and rail enclosure where the accused would sit or stand whilst the charge procedure was being applied. There was always one of those height denominators on the wall in inches and feet to identify the charged person's height which, along with other particulars, was written into the large bound official charge book.
 
Anyway, I was met with “What are you doing here Granland?” (Joe added no added ‘s’ to the end of my name, one of very few who did in my life time).  When I explained that I had just been sworn in and had been stationed at Darlinghurst, he directed me to the roster clerk who in fact was a Constable 1^st Class (one stripe), Stan Barker.   Stan worked in an adjacent room at the bottom of the stairs and Joe told me to tell him that I was to be allocated to his shift. (no doubt he knew talent when he saw it!!)
 
Stan was a nice fellow, tall and getting a bit thin on top however receptive to most and showed some interest in my appointment.  He explained that if I particularly wanted a day off, there was a special book within his office in which to write the request.  He also requested me to write in the days when I had to return to the police training centre for ‘intermediate instruction’.  These were periods during the 12 month probation period when young or new police had to undergo further training  in law and procedures.

Apart from that brief introduction, that was it.  No buddy system, no training sergeant just straight into it.  How unprofessional it all was then – maybe it was because I was one off, as an ex-cadet, coming in on my own.  ‘They’ didn’t know I was coming, no-one was there to introduce me and show me around the station.  I was just added to the list and expected to know and get on with things.
 
“Yes that’s OK” Stan said “You go on Joe’s shift.  Day shift till Thursday then you go on three weeks of night shift”.
 
Day shift consisted of 5.30am – 1.30pm for the station and truck (the divisional work vehicle) staff whilst others could expect anything from cricket/football at the SCG or the Sports Ground to working on the prison van.  One thing, the work at Darlinghurst was extremely varied.
 
“Go report to Joe” Stan told me and when I did, he instructed me to walk the beat till I knocked off. 

“Now you’re on the reporting sheet, so make sure you get a mark every hour” he said in his firm but friendly manner.  I don’t know if he realised how daunting it was for me to virtually being a civilian one minute and a policeman the next, with no help or guidance.
 
The reporting sheet was a pre-printed blue sheet placed on a clipboard with the names of the police on duty who were performing working outside of the station itself.  Their names were type listed in the left hand column.  Those police would either call in or ring in and the time of their report would be written consecutively next to their name.  This was normally done every hour and was for accountability purposes and to ensure that you were alive and kicking.
 
It was the job of one of the Sergeants First Class (a crown on the forearm sleeve and generally old blokes - remember, I was only 19 at the time) on duty to check and make sure those listed were getting regular marks.  I ended up calling these men “blue pencil men” because they checked everything accountable and wrote “SEEN” or “CHECKED” followed by his name and rank.  If something was out of the ordinary they would mark it with a cross and if any problems, a note with “SEE ME” would be attached to the clipboard.  I got plenty of ‘see me’s’ during my time.
 
So here I was, a brand new (but so naive) young policeman who thought all his christmas’s had come at once, walking out into the public arena.  Hmmm it was a different feeling which didn’t last long.
 
So down Oxford Street I began to walk where the Gay Mardi Gras now starts and winds its way east until I reached Wentworth Avenue, then across the road and up the northern side to Taylors Square.  I repeated this again and again.  The only action I got was “do you know where Winns is?” (a department store), or “Can you tell me if this stop is for the 372 bus?”  I was a mobile street directory!

When knock-off time came the station staff had changed shift and I didn’t know any of the new ones.  I felt as if I had to report to someone that I was going home, but no-body seemed to care.  I mentioned to the reserve constable that I needed a mark and that I was going home.  “OK” was the reply, he didn’t know me from Adam.

I needed to know what I was doing the next day therefore I went I slipped in to see Stan, the only friendly face I knew but he had long gone home, so I had to check the roster.
 
Now the roster in those days was a big sheet of purpose-printed off-white paper, back and front, measuring about 80cm x 60cm and normally attached to a just as big a clipboard. Rosters for the next 7 days or so were also appended but these were often changed, sometimes by an agrieved but experienced officer who knew which side was up.  He might be down to do a crappy job and swap it by erasing his name and inserting some probationary constable's name who may have had a reasonably good gig for the shift.
 
All the names of the general duty or uniform police would appear on the roster.  The sheet was divided into three segments: one for each shift and all the names of the police on that shift, which I guess could be up to 25, on each segment. The lower portion of the back page was devoted to additional personnel: prison van staff, court staff, summonses, warrants, all the sergeants first class, roster clerk etc. etc.  In the case of Darlinghurst, there could be up to additional 50 or so names there.

It was here that I learnt the meanings of  the terms: Rest 1 and Rest 2.  These were the days off indicated as such on the roster.
 
It took me a while, but I found my name: “Probationary Constable Granland – Beat 1, 8.00am – 4.30pm”. F******* beat 1!!!!  I thought. Beat 1 was to walk up and down Oxford Street (again).  I wanted to be a real policeman, not the plastic stuff. 
 
Jobs like ‘beat 1’ were allocated to young police who were surplus and had nothing else to do with them; too many police than they have jobs for - at the time.  Just coming in unannounced as I did, I suppose there wasn’t anywhere else to put me.
 
So it was off home and I walked across to Taylors Square, Oxford Street where a traffic cop was out in the middle of this big intersection, now and for a long time since controlled by traffic lights, directing traffic and wearing his white pith helmet and white gloves.  He nodded to me as I crossed the road (I am one of them now, I thought) to wait for a 394 La Perouse bus, all spick and span in my brand new uniform AND I DIDN’T HAVE TO PAY on public transport!!
 
The next day after I battled for a parking spot in the congested Burton and adjacent streets I walked into the station all ready for my beat 1 job only to be informed that someone hadn’t turned up at the Albion Street Childrens’ Court and I would be required to work there.   I had no idea what I would be doing.

This was one of the additional jobs listed on the back of the big roster sheet and because the court was in Darlinghurst's patrol area, it became part of their system.
 
I drove my car about a kilometre to Albion Street Surry Hills and looked around for ages before I got myself a parking spot, then entered the building at number 66 on the corner of Commonwealth Street.  It was a split level structure built in 1911 with two courtrooms, a Boys Shelter, an internal court yard, cells below street level offices which all incorporated a four winged rectangle.  It was then known as the Sydney Childrens’ Court and juvenile retention establishment.  I bumbled along to find the police room to be greeted by two older men dressed in plain clothes, obviously police who, from what I worked out were permanents at the court.
 
After some very basic introductions they asked me if I had a plain clothes coat with me. Apparently I would not be permitted in the court in uniform (must have scared the kids or something).  When I told them I didn’t, they produced an old moth eaten one which I needed to wear only when I entered the court.  So in the meantime, I just sat at a desk to pass the time doing some filing or such whilst the two other gentlemen, one an elderly senior constable (who I called sergeant, I didn’t know his rank) and the other I would have suggested a younger senior constable, doing paperwork and drinking copious cups of tea.  Tea drinking by police office staff was a major part of their day.  Coffee wasn't the in drink then.
 
They told me my job there would be to escort the boys individually from the incarceration section (that was what they referred to as a ‘shelter’ attached to the court) to court, sit there whilst the matter was heard and return them.  They were only youngsters - well up to 18, so for the most part in those days there was little trouble.
 
The older policeman who turned out to be an aging senior constable (one of many who had never sat for the sergeants examination and was content to work in the backwoods of policing) did the work of the police prosecutor, presenting the facts of the alleged crime to the magistrate.
 
A couple of those who appeared before the magistrate that day did so by summons so I just had to sit in the court.  Many, but no all, were with their mothers.  Easy work but boring.
 
At 4.30pm I drove home and had the next ‘day’ off.  Our station shift worked 5.30am – 1.30pm then backed up again at 9.30pm for the night shift.
 
Night shift at Darlinghurst was a whole new ball game.
 
My first job was on the switch.  This was a Sylvestor switchboard - with the lines and plugs, similar to the one I had operated at Newtown Police Station when I was there as a cadet, except that this was much bigger.  So it wasn’t a big deal, I was a past master at this AND knew how to link up Dial-A-Prayer or anyone else for that fact to any of the extensions – that was a well worn prank.
 
The switchboard had five incoming police lines: 3301, 3302, 3303, 3304 and 3305.  Unlike most other police stations, this one did not have any direct outside phone lines connected to the station through the switchboard.  Everything mostly went through the main (20966) police switch or the station could be accessed by dialing 219-3301, the prefix ‘219’ giving the direct access to any police extension.  This was generally not know but the public.
 
Besides this, there was about 35 extensions operating from the switchboard, ranging from the station sergeant’s desk phone to ‘call boxes’ (small police unmanned remote posts which were slightly bigger than a country outhouse, but provided some relief to police to rest or phone in when they were away from the station.  They were introduced into the Sydney scene by Commissioner Childs during the 1930s).  There was one in Elizabeth Street Strawberry Hills, near the now Chinese Consul’s Building, at Kings Cross, which had since been developed into a pseudo police station under the Crest Hotel in Victoria Street, one in Glenmore Road Paddington at the back of the Womens’ Hospital and another at the Sydney Stadium at Rushcutters Bay.  These shelters, where it was handy to take a piss in the sink there if you were busting, don’t exist any more. I can remember that it was a rostered Sunday job to drive around to these boxes and give them a sweep out and wash down the 'smelly' sinks.
 
Apart from in the station itself, other extensions were at the police office at the SCG, Sydney Sports Ground, Childrens’ Court in Albion Street and many, many more.
 
I didn’t realise there were hierarchial police stationed at Darlinghurst.  The regional superintendent, detective inspector and detective sergeant all had their separate offices and not attached to the Darlinghust police system as such.  I started to put all inquiries for detectives through to the extension with the title “Det Sgt”.  Only to be soon berated by the area detective sergeant about the incorrect routing of these calls.  A red face man in his late fifties came raging into the station, demanding that all calls for detectives go through ‘their’ lines and not his ("you fucking idiot!!!")  Well, you live and learn.
 
People from all over the place would call and wanted to be put through to the detective office, traffic, inspectors etc.  The job was a busy one with a telephonists headset which left your hands free for the typewriter on which you could take any formal message onto to the ‘telephone message pad’.
 
This was another official form.  Official messages to police stations were (I’m not sure if it is still the case) typed on a sheet called ‘Telephone Message Pad’.  I imagine its all on computer now.  Often for a joke I would type a message for Constable xxx to ring Mr Lyon at 9969 2777 or similar.  That was the zoo.  Pranks like that were quite common place then.
 
The actual telephone message sheet was again, a pre-printed form of off-white, foolscap size and divided into three columns, front and back.  The centre column was the larger and reserved for the message text.  The column on the left for time, date and the callers details.  That on the right for what action taken.  This was one of the columns the ‘Blue Pencil Boys’ loved. These messages were not only for police but death messages where relatives had to be informed etc. In these and other cases messages would have to be delivered by police to a person’s home.  The telephone message pad was the way the message was received and recorded. If a house call and it happened to be unattended, many police would return and leave the comment “NCH” and the time in the right hand column. (work that one out).
 
Over the years these telephone messages have saved and in some cases, damned many a policeman in a sticky situation.  I know too that some of whole sheets had to be re-typed in their entirety because of 'incriminating evidence' inadvertently typed on them.  And, then all the messages re-typed and in some cases with the new copy taken far afield to the homes of the various policemen after they had knocked off for their shift to get them to re-sign their respective re-typed message to authenticate the page.  Even the ‘Blue Pencil Boys’ had to re-sign their ‘SEEN’ messages.  This didn't happen often and was highly illegal but they are stories that others have a far better insight on than me.

Later in the night I received a call from a male who would not give his name.  "You're all fucking cunts" this voice, which appeared to be well affected by alcohol, said.  My endeavours to obtain more information from him failed and he went on with a tirade of abuse against police and the system generally.  He was such a wacka I got him to hold whilst I explained the situation to Joe Hall the station sergeant. "Thats that old prick from the Albury Hotel (in Oxford Street, Paddington). Joe got me to put the call through to the extension on desk and incredibly the caller was still there. "I know who you and that you still live at the Albury" Joe confidentially taunted the caller "We're coming up to get you now" and with that person from the Albury Hotel terminated the call.

"He gets half full of soup and thinks his nights fun is to ring up and abuse the police" Joe told me.  "The idiot has been doing it for years.  He lives in the pub.  If he rings again, just give him a mouthful and tell him you are sending a police car up to pick him up.  He'll soon hang up"  The police car never visited the hotel.  His calls were more of an irritation than anything else.
 
My second night shift I was rostered to work as the car ‘observer’ on vehicle 3-8.  This was a 1966 Ford sedan with a police sign on top and acted as a second general duties vehicle of a night shift.  It had no siren.
 
The driver was also an ex-cadet, the name escapes me but I can remember our biggest piece of drama that night was getting an injured dog to the RSPCA pound, which at that stage was in South Dowling Street Moore Park, now part of the golf course but the site can still be identified where two or three palm trees growing in the course and adjacent to the road.
 
After a few hours in the car the station sergeant decided to take it off us and give it to someone else while we were sent to walk the beat.
 
There was a definite pecking order at Darlinghurst, which I expect was consistent to most other parts of the inner metropolitan police stations.
 
The new boys get the worst jobs.  They weren’t encouraged or even permitted to ride in police vehicles.  It was “yes sergeant, no sergeant”.  Start and knock off on time, including the half hour meal break so you started at one time and finished 8½ hours later.   Young police hardly ever got to work in a vehicle and to be able to drive one police had to undergo a special driving test and if that was failed then onto a full blown driving course.
 
Darlinghurst was one of four inner city stations.  The others were Clarence Street and later Central (where I started as a cadet in 1964), Phillip Street and Regent Street.
 
Besides having the most police attached there, these were the main stations within the state, and as opposed to others, they were also classed as penalty stations to where police would be transferred from outer or suburban police stations if they got themselves into strife.  Consequently the staff was peppered with shonks or crooks who then worked with the brand new young police coming straight from their initial training at the Redfern Centre.  You can imagine what resulted.
 
One of these older men was a Sergeant 3^rd Class (three stripes only), B.A. Turner or Bernie or the BAT (his initials) to his mates.  I called him Sergeant.  He was a second war man aged 45 and like most of the sergeants at the time I entered the police force and I would say with a fair amount of confidence that he was an alcoholic.  Bernie lived in a tenement house in Redfern on the corner of Pitt and Turner Streets.
 
I understand that Bernie had hit so many hurdles (got himself into trouble with the police internal discipline system) in his time in the police force that he was quite regularly reduced in rank only to be promoted again as his time came round.  Some called him ‘Grand National’.
 
I imagine the main reasons for these penalties could be attributed to the drink.
 
One evening on this, my first bout of night shift, round about 2.00am I heard Bernie inquire with the station sergeant if anyone had "got the beer yet?"  The answer was no and so he said he would “go across and collect it”.
 
“You got a cardigan” he asked me in a very gruff and unfriendly manner.  “Yes Sergeant” I replied, “Well put in on and come with me”.  I had to shoot upstairs to my locker, in which I put my gun and handcuffs, donned a blue hand-knitted cardigan and joined him at the front door of the Police Station in Forbes Street.
 
“Where are we going?”  I eagerly inquiried.  “Taxi Club” came the curt reply.  And that was the last words from him until we got to the first floor bar of the club at 40 Flinders Street, Darlinghurst – just a stones throw from Taylors Square and now a club for people of alternative life styles.
 
“You drink?” he questioned.  When I replied I did, he ordered two schooners and just stood at the bar drinking – he didn’t pay and didn’t talk to me so I didn’t talk to him either.  After we consumed another two, Bernie pushed a box of one dozen Reschs DA Long Necks, which had been placed on the bar towards me and said “Bring 'em, we’re going back”.
 
After I gulped down my remaining beer, I struggled down the narrow steps of the taxi club, and if you have ever been in there, they are narrow, across busy Oxford Street to the station where they were placed in a fridge in the front or Taylors Square end of the building.
 
Some of the police then appeared and began drinking the beer from glasses.  Evidentially, this was a regular event during our night shift sessions from around 4.00am till knock off time and I joined in.  That was when most of the paper work had been done and things were quiet for the station staff. The only time that the drinking would stop was when the Night Officer - an inspector from the region who would travel around the various stations of a night time signing all the pads in red ink and ostensibly overseeing any major incidents.  Night Officers were seconded from the various district stations and would be rostered for this work for about 2 weeks at a time.  In my time they had a driver and most would always as they left the station - "Well, I better make my way to ... Randwick or some other local station."  This was the signal for the station staff to ring that station after he left and tell them the Nighto was on his way.  That way they had time to prepare and make sure things were "on the up and up there".  As well, the Nighto didn't want any trouble to contend with on his shift.
 
Most of my time in that first three weeks was kept in the station and I learnt about the charging of people, taking fingerprints, searching prisoners – what a buzz that was. (Not)
 
Men who you would now know as ‘street people’ we referred to as ‘warbs’.  I don’t know where that name came from but generally they were alcoholics who lived on the street.  If they were lucky they got a bed at the Matthew Talbot hostel in Foster Street Surry Hills, if not they slept in a bus shed or on a park bench with a bottle of sherry to keep them company.
   
In those days we were not taught compassion.  These men got short shrift from the police as ‘no-hopers’ and would either be locked up for being drunk – a charge to keep them off the streets for 4 hours or as a vagrant where the person had no visible means of support.  The latter could earn them a gaol sentence of 6 months.  The police attitude towards them depended on the empathy of the particular officer.  Drunks could bail themselves for $1 but in most circumstances the warbs didn't have that much on their person and would stay incarcerated until they had to front the magistrate the next day.  If of course they were locked up of a Saturday Afternoon they would be in the cells until Monday Morning.

This was all changed when Neville Wran's Labor government repealed sections of the Summary Offences Act.  Now you can find the warbs and vagrants all over the place.  The 'do gooders' simply did not understand that whilst the odds were weighed heavily in favour of the police, it also made society more liveable and these poor men were given a roof over their heads for the night/s - albeit in a police cell.
 
Some of the older ‘warbs’ had early forms of demensure and would carry all their goods and chattels with them, mostly in their pockets or in a bag.  Some odd balls pushed a trolley.   The station staff got a laugh when I searched one of these people early in my time there one night, only to reveal human faeces rolled up in newspaper in his pockets.  There were no protective rubber gloves in those days to search the prisoners with.
 
On my shift there were two or three or four police who had come through the same class as me and with whom I shared these demeaning jobs. 
 
Once back on day shift the jobs varied but the work was at times, very boring.
 
One Sunday I worked at the Sydney Domain as crowd control.  The Sydney Domain is a large park behind Government House near the harbour where people who wanted to speak their mind would stand on a box or a stool and just start talking or lecturing.  The public knew of this Sunday afternoon entertainment and would come to listen.  This type of ‘entertainment’ in fact had begun in 1878 and before clubs opened on Sundays the numbers would swell in excess of their thousands listening to these various amateur orators.  By the time I worked there, the number had shrunk to a couple of hundred but the people representing their views were healthy in numbers and for the most part, very good too.  Special Branch police would patrol the park looking for 'Fifth Columnists' and in some instances, thankfully before my time, cadets and ex-cadets would have to take down in shorthand whatever they were spruiking.
 
Another job was working at the Supreme Court which was across the road from the police station at Taylors Square.
 
The job there was to guard the prisoners, some of whom were quite violent.  One time Jockey Smith, a notorious criminal was charged over some incident by members of the Consorting Squad and I had to sit next to him whilst he was in the dock.  He defended himself and I thought making quite a good fist of it.  A lot of the charges by the police from the CIB Squads were allegedly trumped up; it was the criminal’s word against the police, but in the cold world of reality, this was almost necessary in society for the police to have some type of control over the underworld, unfortunately this very environment produced police demigods.
 
At a break in this particular proceedings, I chatted to Smith saying how good I thought he was going.  A detective from the Consorting Squad approached me and told me not to get too friendly with this man and how bad a person and that he would not hesitate to kill me if he had the chance.  He had attacked police numerous times and was probably one of the reasons he was in court.  I simply didn’t know.  No-one told me about any of this before the trial started.  In fact no-one told me anything about this job in the supreme court.  You just turned up and did what you were told.  A few years later Jockey Smith was convicted of the attempted murder of a colleague at the Highway Patrol at Waverley.  Later still he was later shot dead in a gang land killing.
 
Many of the people appearing at this court were hardened criminals.  The prison van bringing them in from goal would enter the lane or access road to the court, which runs between Darlinghurst Road and Forbes Street and between the read of the court was East Sydney Tech., the old Darlinghurst gaol.  There was always a rumour that there was an tunnel which had been subsequently closed up under Forbes Street which connected the police station with the court .  That was all it was, a rumour.
 
The security gates in this lane in front of and behind the truck would be closed and then the prisoners shunted into one or two cells within the complex.
 
I think there were 3 or 4 courts operating at the time and the criminals would be filed from the cells, down stairs and underground to another series of holding cells before being led up another set of stairs into the dock of the respective court.
 
For lunch and at the end of the day’s proceedings, the prisoners would all be taken from their holding cells back along a tunnel to the main cells.  This tunnel was punctured with red alarm buttons every few metres in case of emergency.  This indian file procession would be led by a policeman, then one or two prisoners, another policeman and so on.  In the limited time I spent working in the court there was never any trouble, but I considered it very dangerous.
 
One time I was there a well known TV personality of the day, a former American entertainer who appeared for possession of marijuana found on him on his re-entry to Australia.  (In those days that offence was a judged as a serious crime).  He was placed in a separate cell to the other felons whilst the meals were distributed.
 
I can remember working with another young policeman who wanted to show his (weird) humour saying to me “Watch this.  Hey xxxx, the jury is back and its not good news.  You got 10 years” followed by raucous fits of laughter only for his target to retort, “Oh you’re a fucking smart ass” was the entertainers very apt reply.
 
As I said, working in the PD truck, a Ford F100 with a caged tray on the back was almost out of the question, and besides, as I, said, I didn’t have accreditation to drive any police cars.
 
To overcome that I soon applied to do a police driving test at the St Ives Police Driver Training School.
 
There were two ways to undertake the test.  A day test: when the applicant would be tested on F100 trucks and also sedans OR a three week intensive test where a class of 10 would be trained rigorously on how to drive under pressure, against obstacles and at different speeds.
 
I tried the day test and failed on the police trucks but passed on cars.  A lot of good that did the people I worked with because if and when I worked on the P.D. (truck), I would have to take the observers role and have the other person drive, regardless of his rank.
 
The initials PD were given to the general duties truck normally attached to the head station of each division.  It stood for Police Department and when vehicles were first used in about 1925.  In those early days a PD number plate was issued to the car which then went from car to car as it was replaced.
 
Another job I was regularly rostered for was the Prison Van which transported prisoners from Long Bay gaol to and from the Supreme Court.

Because our station was adjacent to the Supreme Court, a large navy blue 3 tonne Chev Truck with covered in with metal panelling was part of the station’s fleet.  It would normally have a permanent or semi permanent driver and the remainder of the staff: a sergeant as observer with rear gunner, normally a young constable, taken from the G. D. staff on duty.  The constable would sit at the rear of the truck to observe the prisoners  There was no communication with the police in the front, other than a bell to the front cabin..
 
The prisoners accessed the van from a rear covered in door and were then handcuffed and seated along the sides, facing inwards where there was a thin sheet metal wall down the centre of the vehicle, dividing it into two chambers.  When I was rostered for this work, I wasn’t told what I had to do, where I had to be or with whom I was working.  All I knew was that three manned the truck. "Just turn up".
 
I made enquiries and found that the van started its day’s work from the station at 6.00am, taking prisoners from Long Bay Gaol to the Supreme Court and return.  The van was parked in a pseudo garage, situated in an alcove housed at the back end of the police station in Forbes Street.  During the day, when the van was out, the area superintendent used this space to park his brand new 1967 Holden Premier car.

I can always remember the name of the prison official who used to record all the details of the prisoners.  I think he also worked at the Supreme Court.  As you can see it was an easy name to remember: Harold Horder - the gaol recorder.  He was a brother of one of the law instructors at the police academy at Redfern.
 
In years past, a prison tram used to run from the back of the Supreme Court to Long Bay Gaol.  It was from one of these, that the notorious criminal, Darcy Dugan escaped as the tram travelled along Moore Park outside the SCG in 1947.
 
My first day in the prison van we took females to women’s prison at Malabar.  There was a large Hungarian female prisoner aged about 40 in the van.  From my subsequent enquiries quite a violent person who was facing a lenghty prison sentence for cutting someones ears off.  During the trip she continually made sexual suggestions and spat at me from her area of incarceration as we travelled to the Bay.  Pity I wasn’t as cheeky on that occasion as I had known to be. She was just a true arsehole.
 
I hated the prison van.  I disliked dealing with these hardened criminals some of whom you could see in their eyes hated you with a passion.  When I travelled in the van to the male prison at Long Bay I would be shit scared.
 
One time I looked at the roster and found myself rostered to clean the cells the following  Sunday Morning.  It was called Fatigue Duty.
 
Any prisoners who were arrested on Saturday and Sunday would stay in the cells until bailed or they faced court on Monday Morning.
 
Consequently there could be up to 50 or so men behind bars in the cells at Darlinghurst Police Station.  Apart from Central, Darlinghurst had the most cells in any police station in the state.
 
On a Sunday Morning the smell was putrid.  Bail for ‘drunk’ was $1 and for obscene behaviour or language and the like: $10.  If the offenders did not have their bail money, they would remain incarcerated all weekend.
 
The accommodation was primitive.  Built in the late 19^th century, the cells offered no comforts of home and would become very impersonal when locked in with a group, which quite often happened when space was at a premium.
 
Only people charged with murder or other major offences were isolated.  The cell complex also featured a padded cell for the loonies.  I only saw this used once when a female was going off her head.
 
Beds for prisoners were a softwood timber panel about 90cm wide and 1.8m long.  Blankets were limited, although I always dolled them out freely when it was cold.  The toilet in these multi-person cells was a pan blocked from view by a waist high 1.5m long modesty wall.
 
I had heard about the job of cleaning the cells and luckily this time I had another young probationary constable to help.
 
I came dressed in old gear and made inquiries with Joe Hall as to what we needed and he produced a bottle of sherry and said this is all you need for the day.
 
My puzzled look encouraged him even more and he gestured us to follow.  Joe went to the cell which contained all the old warbs who did not have their bail (of $1) and asked firmly who amongst them wanted a drink.
 
Several put their hands up and requested the bottle only to be told by Joe if they agreed to clean out the cells then they could have the lot.  “Aha”, I thought, “very clever”.  So he left us two in charge of these men as they swabbed out the cells and mopped the area over a period of a couple of hours to be rewarded with a yarn and a drink from the community bottle.  I was so pleased with their effort (and my lack of it) I ended up searching out another bottle for the men to have an additional quiet drink. They appreciated it believe you me.
 
It was on this day that I realised what the prisoners were fed.
 
Sunday lunch for them was a jam sandwich and a cup of tea which were made at a local milk bar in Oxford Street and brought across by the ethnic owner.  The tea was already made up with milk and sugar contained in a not so clean, galvanised bucket.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been used in the cleaning of the floors at the shop in the morning.  These meals were supplied under a government contract.
 
The tea was dolled out into pannikins and was certainly appreciated by the consumers.  These pannikins were maintained by the station cleaner who was young and a bit of a nut.  I think he got the sack for overstepping the mark during the time I was there. I often wondered from that day on if I could ever do anything to improve the quality of the meals but, I didn't.
 
Sometimes during night shift when nothing was going on I would wander through the cells to make sure there were no problems.  I wasn't required to do this, just filling in time.  Early one morning I came upon a cell which had a large viewing window fitted with steel bars separating it from the corridor in which I was standing.
 
In my rubber soled police boots I made not a sound as I walked down this corridor and peered into the cell through the darkness.  It contained around 8 or so prisoners arrested for offensive language and behaviour, not what you would call heinous offences.  All were asleep apart from one.
 
As I stood there and watched I saw this one young man stand on the lavatory pan.  He had obtained some string or twine from somewhere and was attaching it to the lever which releases the water in the cistern to flush the pan.  It was obvious that he wanted to hang himself.  He did not see me. All articles which might have helped suicide were removed from a prisoners person before they were incarcerated so the string was a real mystery.
 
After seeing what was about to transpire I quietly ran to the charge room, not 10 metres away, explained what was happening and about four or five other police, including the station sergeant, silently made their way to the area outside the cell and watched as the person, only about 4 metres from us, loop the string around his neck and then jumped from the pan.
 
Trouble was, the string he chose was far too flimsy and as he jumped his weight caused it to break and he fell onto the ground.  Well, the entire group of police burst into fits of laughter as if on cue.  It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen and the guy didn’t know what to do, because he hadn’t seen us till then and must have been terribly embarrassed at what he did – and failed and in front of a live audience.
 
The station sergeant gave him a firm talking to and told him he would be out in the morning and to wake up to himself.  After that we left him alone, but in the meantime his colleagues had woken and wanted to know what was going on. I regularly checked on him till daylight.
 
Part of the job of working in the station was to fingerprint prisoners.  It was a dirty job and everyone got finger printed, apart from the drunks (thank god).
 
I can remember fingerprinting a man charged with obscene exposure (one of many) at a toilet in Greens Park, which is between East Sydney Tech and St Vincent’s Hospital. 
 
In those days Greens Park was a notorious hangout for queers and the perverted - has it changed? He was arrested by what was colloquially termed, the ‘Peanut Squad’.  By the way, he was one of many of that ilk whom I had to fingerprint during my time there.
 
Homosexuality wasn’t accepted in society with the same open-mindedness as it is today, and particularly so by members of the police force.  Homosexuals were poorly rated by the police then - how times change.  Now a contingent marches in the Gay Mardi Gras.  Of course some didn’t do themselves any favours either by their meeting in public toilets which police  then tended to bunch all into one basket.   By the same token, we were VERY institutionalised and so was the general male population of the day.
 
At these toilets and in the case of Greens Park, the poofs would stand at the urinal and play with themselves hoping the person standing beside them would react favourably.  The Peanut Squad used young police in jeans and a casual shirt to would act as “agents provocateur”, in that they stood beside the person at the urinal and waited to be propositioned.  They had to get the offender to make ‘the suggestion’ before they could effect an arrest. (what a bloody job, eh?)
 
Well, I had to take this particular fellow to a room between the two cell wings where the fingerprinting process took place.  It was quite remote from the charge room a situation which was quite perilous for the young police when dealing with dangerous or irrational prisoners. 
 
In fact a prostitute made a complaint against an ex-cadet colleague, Ian Barnes soon after this for putting the hard word on her when her fingerprints we being taken.  I understand the allegation was totally unsubstantiated of course, but quite open to abuse in such a remote area like that and you would have thought the authorities recognized the potential for trouble.
 
Anyway, his hands were clammy and soft and I reeled at the job of holding them as I rolled his inked fingers onto the paper.
 
I couldn’t help myself and asked him “Do you like it?”  He asked what I was talking about, and I replied “fucking blokes”.  He went on about how it was a big mistake and he wasn’t doing anything of the sort in the toilet and he would be pleading not guilty at court etc. etc.  Not my problem I thought.
 
At the end of each shift the station sergeants would do a change over.  They would count the money, the valuables in the safe and check the well being of the prisoners etc. because it was the Station Sergeant who was responsible for all that type of thing whilst on duty.
 
In one of my silent cell walks I had found an old warb dead.  I alerted the station sergeant (SS), who checked the body, looked at his watch, noted that his replacement, Herb Gilbert would be taking over within the hour.  He said to me “Don’t say anything”.
 
You see if the station sergeant could get Herb to take over without noticing the deceased then Herb would be stuck with all the paperwork and not have to stay back, go to the morgue etc. if and when the body was discovered.

Unfortunately for the SS , old Herb, who was a former rugby league footballer with St George and later Balmain and had the cauliflower ears to prove it, didn’t come down in the last shower and was a wake-up to all the moves, spotted the stiff body laying there amongst the other dozen or so who were sleeping it off and as a consequence the SS, himself a St George player of the early fifties, had to remain behind after knock-off time and process the deceased. He wasn't happy.

The matter subsequently became an issue for the coroner and I can remember being called as a witness 18 months or so later to the Coroners Court which was then at Circular Quay in George Street North.  Nothing illegal happened, just a matter of buck passing OR rather, trying to pass the buck.

There was a short TV series released in 1985 called "Scales of Justice".  So much of what occurred in those episodes were very close to the mark.

After I had worked at Darlinghurst for two months or so I read on the roster: ‘Probationary Constable Granland – Metropolitan Superintendents Office’.  I asked Stan what this meant and he said I had been seconded for three weeks to the Metropolitan Superintendent’s Office – an office job.
 
I knew this was as a result of me being an ex-cadet but didn’t know who to blame.  In any case what I could do, I was at the bottom of the pile.
 
The Metropolitan Superintendent was virtually the Chief Superintendent of Sydney – the boss, just a couple of rungs under the Commissioner..  At that time it was Fred Hansen (later the Commissioner who after his retirement, committed suicide).  His offices were on the third floor at the CIB which was the old hat factory in Campbell Street, Surry Hills.  He worked in the same rooms where Superintendent Don Ferguson had shot himself in 1966 following allegations of his involvement in an abortion racket. 
 
They talk now about making abortions illegal.  It was illegal then and because of that legislation there was so much graft and corruption and, besides Ferguson’s, other deaths as well.  So my thoughts were and still are, the banning of it would never justify the legislation.  Let people do what they want to do. (off the soapbox now and back to the story)
 
There were two young constables working there, both ex-cadets who were on the permanent staff.  One who would become a future Assistant Commissioner was the office ‘doer’ come bright spark.   There was another with whom I was quite friendly and had known for some time who would many years later rise to the ranks of  Deputy Commissioner. Both of these men were pretty switched on people.  Maybe I should have stayed there, but it wasn't my scene.
 
The basic job was to start at 6.00am, collate and precie all the crime and operational occurrences from the stations around the metropolitan area which had been forwarded by police courier into the CIB into a readable document for the information of the Metropolitan Superintendent.
 
I hated the job.  I had done all that type of stuff as a cadet and didn’t want to do it as a policeman.  I wanted to be an operational officer and so my attitude towards the job was less than gracious.  I didn’t last long, although ironically I was back there for a second stint 12 months later – someone obviously had it in for me.
 
Years later as a senior constable at Hornsby and whilst working in the licensing office there, I was seconded to work with Superintendent Ray Williams (‘the bald eagle’) monitoring the traffic flow from an operational office during a Royal or US presidential visit also in a room at the CIB and working through the RTA traffic cameras which operated throughout the city.
 
So, I guess my talents weren’t all that ignored whilst I was in the police force.
 
Sooner or later I got a job on ‘Beat 8’ which was the Kings Cross beat.
 
The Kings Cross Police Station I remember was in Victoria Street, under the then recently built Crest Hotel which was on the corner of Darlinghurst Road where the old 'Surf City' was.  This small office took over from the call box from which police operated and as the area became a tourist mecca, the 'new' accommodation ended up entirely inadequate.
 
Kings Cross was and still is a dirty, unfriendly place in Sydney full of prostitutes, spivs, strip joints, spruikers and no-hopers.  If I didn’t have to work there, it was a place I would have hardly frequented.
 
The problem was that where we worked wasn’t really a police station.  It was a place where the patrolling foot police could rest, have a meal and lock up any prisoners in holding cells for eventual processing and transit to Darlinghurst.  Prisoners could not be charged there. 
 
The station consisted of a small inquiry room, with counter, meal room and two small cells.  There were no toilets for the police although each cell contained a WC.
 
With the advent of American Servicemen on R & R from service in Vietnam staying in the Cross, the facility quickly became too small for the needs of the community, but it took many years before this situation was acted upon with the eventual building of a new station near the El Alamein Fountain on the corner of McLeay Street and Darlinghurst Road.
 
Walking the beat at the Cross was like going from kindergarten to doing the Higher School Certificate overnight.  It was a quantum leap and the trouble was, some of  those - but I might add not all, in supervisory positions were for the most part, the shonks and crooks from the outer stations I mentioned previously.

Looking back though it would have been very hard not to follow that line.
 
Again I must say that not all were like that all were like that and in fact I worked with some very nice and conscientious police.
 
I am imagining that they would reel in horror to know someone whom they worked with 40 years ago would be writing of the times when so much happened.  It might be worth noting that my experiences were that of a  probationary constable.  I am writing as I saw it.  Others of senior rank could tell some very interesting tales of their involvement which would make much more engrossing reading, but I guess we may never see that for fear of incrimination and possible litigation.
 
The job at Kings Cross for the most part, comprised mostly of walking up and down Darlinghurst Road and McLeay Street.  Of course we got to know the business owners, the spruikers, strip joints, prostitutes etc.  I found it a false time.  I hardly ever applied any real policing techniques and besides that, I didn’t make any lasting friends.  When I was transferred out, that was it.  I never particularly followed up on any relationships.
 
However, it opened a whole new world to me.
 
For the most part we were information directors.  We didn’t do much police work nor were we ever in contact by portable radio, which in retrospect should have been mandatory, particularly in that environment.
 
Some of the young police from my class worked there and I think finished up very disillusioned.  Some got themselves work in the warrant room or other office job which allowed them to be remote from the (man made) hazards and pitfalls of life on general duties in such a seamy location.
 
In the police force, I found you had to go with the flow, but be smart about it. Buck the system and you would be ostracized.  Unfortunate but true - a fact of life.  The system spat out many good men over the years. 
 
Day shift was reasonably boring at Kings Cross.  I used to chat with the regulars I would see along the streets as they worked.  We worked three shifts there, 7.00am – 3.30pm, 3.00pm – 11.30pm and 11.00pm – 7.30pm.
 
One person I did meet whilst walking the beat was a Greek fellow and a cleaner in a café in McLeay Street.  We struck up some type of a friendship and he eventually invited a colleague and myself to his Bronte Road home to meet his wife and dine with them.
 
I was a bit taken aback by this offer of genuine friendship because I always thought for the most part there was a catch to everything.
 
Whilst he was a lovely man of about 35 or so and a firm favourite of mine until I left the area, I think he liked having police as friends or acquaintances.
 
One day I was working in the station answering the phones and attending to inquiries when in came the Police Commissioner, Norman 'The Foreman' Allen with two or three other cronies.  I, nor from what I was told, anyone else had any idea he was coming.
 
He asked me how I liked it there and were there any problems.  I told him that the biggest obstacle to working at and in that 'police station’ (come elaborate call box) was the confined space and lack of toilet facilities. To utilise toilets, the staff would have to walk out of the station, into the adjoining hotel carpark, then to the toilets some distance away.  In fact he asked to see the situation and I had to walk him through the set-up.
 
It was lucky that the beat police were out on their walks when he came in for their hourly mark, otherwise it could have been a bit uncomfortable because the beat police weren’t supposed to be lazing around the 'station'.  By the way, he signed the pads (telephone, reporting and occurrence) when he visited, but I forget in which coloured pen!!!

One time working with one of the shonks, a constable 1^st class, we had to attend to a death in a doctors surgery on the first floor of a building in Darlinghurst Road, about where McDonalds is now.
 
The man had died of a heart attack and the ambulance needed help to get him downstairs.  I was petrified of death and refused to touch him, much to the  chargrin of my colleague and the ambulance man.  How this was to change for me with death eventually consistently staring me in the face over the next few years.  As I look back at that incident, I think how naïve I was,  It was just another learning curve in my life.
 
Being young and in the scheme of things, we had little power or real authority on the streets of Kings Cross.  Sure we could arrest and do other things but because of so much graft and corruption at the time, different CIB squads held sway with most if not all the street criminals and prostitutes.
 
Early one morning, I was walking with a colleague in Darlinghurst Road and this young prostitute, whom I’d had seen often and over the time and had been involved in the (station) charging process at Darlinghurst   This over weight brunette was probably the same age as me and came from a NSW country town.  I had made small talk with her before but on the occasion she took the opportunity to belittle us by laughing and pointing our way..
 
Not one to be intimidated, certainly by the likes of her, I moved towards her group and asked what her problem was.  When she denied, in a patronising manner, that she had done anything of the sort I asked the names and details of her and the other prostitutes with her.
 
As they gave their names I wrote all the details in my notebook and mildly informed her that I was booking her AND HER FRIENDS for consorting with other known criminals.   I could see they were not impressed - particularly with her.
 
In 1929, legislation was passed by the Government of the day to prevent the consorting of criminals, known prostitutes, and persons of ill-repute. At the time, the City of Sydney was infested with criminals, undesirables, and nefarious groups, better known as the 'razor gang' element. This legislation was imperative at the time to combat the predatory activities of criminal gangs operating in the inner city precincts. To enforce the provisions of the new legislation, a Consorting Squad was formed within the Criminal Investigating Branch.
 
If a person was booked for consorting five times within six months they faced an automatic 6 months gaol sentence.
 
About an hour later when I was back at the police station the prostitute came in and wanted to speak to me.  She pleaded with me not to go ahead with the booking.  She offered me anything I wanted, yes sex and of course money.  I just told her to “fuck off”.
 
Now I have to tell you that I had no idea what to do next, other than I knew there was a ‘consorting book’ in the detectives office at Darlinghurst and I needed to record these details in there.  I had learnt all th is in my initial training but not how to actually put it all into practice.  The next night before I started work I made my way to the darkened detective room in Forbes Street where all the police had gone for the night.  I found the ‘consorting book’ which was just a hard covered ruled foolscap paged book, nothing official, and inserted all the particulars I had taken.  I didn’t hear any more of this incident, but it certainly satisfied my ego and hurt hers.
 
No doubt someone received some money to delete or quietly remove the report.  From how I saw the system, there was no accountability or follow up to it.
 
Walking up and down the street we got to know the business owners and one was a German restaurant in Darlinghurst Road, Reinsloss (sic).  The owner was an older man, always dressed in a dinner suit who spent most of his time on the footpath outside his business, not so much soliciting customers but welcoming them as they entered his downstairs eatery.  It was not exactly a dive but a place of reasonable fare.  I did hear this fellow was a member of the notorious SS during the war.
 
He was always on us to come inside as well.  Now if someone beckons you in often enough and is giving something away, as I said, there is always has to be a catch to it.
 
The premises were very cramped and more often than not he would put my partner and myself in the cloak room which was not more than a metre wide, where the patrons hung their coats and jackets.  There he would sit two chairs, one facing the other and we would lodge ourselves in this tight accommodation with clothing dangling in our faces whilst he plied us with beer.  (I really don’t know why).
 
Quite often startled customers would come to retrieve their jackets only to see two police sitting in the very narrow space, just as startled, as the garments were removed.  Yes, it was a bit embarrassing. 
 
A couple of times he would have us in the kitchen for a meal whilst his floor show was on entertaining the patrons.
 
It was only a few years later when I read on the front page of the Sunday Mirror that the owner had been convicted of selling horse meat in his restaurant.  So much for the free meal.  (I told you, theres always a catch).
 
Working with a certain colleague (one of the shonks) we would often visit a certain strip club in Darlinghurst Road, operated by a person who more than likely had colourful background: Bobby Black.
 
He wasn’t a bad sort of bloke, but with most of that type saw the value in having the police on his premises and visually used us in any way he could given that there was always a beer in the conversation.  I don’t know if these people realised that we were a fair way down the totem pole so we could exert little or no influence with his situation.  Maybe the site of a uniform gave them some feeling of creditability or there was something else to our presence that I had no knowledge of.  Or maybe they didn’t have any type of liquor licence at all. 

Besides this, the shonk I worked with that night was also out for anything he could get and he had an eye for detail, and himself.
 
I would say that most of these strip premises operated on a restaurant permit, it was not an open licence and of course had a certain amount of restrictions.  In fact it was only when Neville Wran became premier in 1986 that he thankfully opened up our draconian liquor laws to the twentieth century.
 
One night we were in the Pink Panther club where Sandra Nelson, a renowned stripper, was the main act.  Some how she had grabbed my police cap and was doing all sorts of things with it and when I remonstrated she threw it at me which hit me fair in the face.  It hurt and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  I never did like spending time in those low life establishments.
 
Another time I worked with a Sergeant on the beat.  He was one who had been transferred to Darlinghurst for some departmental misdemeanour at his suburban station and of course, in my mind joined the long list of shonks at the station.  Having said that though, he wasn’t a bad type of bloke.  He was nice enough to me.
 
We were walking down William Street very early one Sunday Morning and he decided we should go into the notorious Whisky-A-Go-Go, another restaurant come night club catering mostly for the R & R American Servicemen trade.
 
Unfortunately (for the operators) the place was almost closed but that didn’t deter the Sergeant.  He told the proprietor that he or rather, we, wanted a drink.  After all, it was only about 4.00am.  To be honest, I really didn’t want anything.  But I was in no position to call the shots.
 
The person in charge placed us in the kitchen and opened a couple of long necks which we started to consume when the sergeant spotted some of the cutlery.  “I need some of those” he said, and proceeded to fill his pockets with knives and forks as I stood there astounded.   Like, who would do something like that?
 
Shortly after the proprietor came in and said that they were closing and suggesting that we might leave.  “Would you like to take something with you Sergeant” he asked – there was never an reference to the constable.  He meant a few beers and we did.  As we walked up the stairs to the William Street entrance with a few bottles in brown paper bags, the cutlery began clanging in his pockets, much to my concealed mirth.  Yes, he was real class.
 
Around the same time in September 1968 pop group, The Monkees visited Sydney and stayed at the Sheraton Wentworth Hotel which was in McLeay Street, Potts Point.
 
The same sergeant and myself spent a Saturday Afternoon standing out side the No. 40 McLeay Street premises following bomb and other threats made against the group because of their anti-Vietnam war attitude.
 
In those days speedway races were conducted of a Saturday Night at the RAS Showground, Moore Park (now Fox Studios).
 
They were the days of George Tattersall, Johnny Stewart and Howard Revell in their in their famous Mackay Offenhausers midget speedcars.
 
I used to work there as a 13 year old selling cordial drinks for a man named Podesta in 1961.
 
The police office, also used at the RAS Show at Easter, was at the back of the Commemorative Stand at street level.