Ian Granland

Towards the end of 1971 I felt I had really outlived my stay at Glebe Police Station. I was suffering real mental problems I think because of my time in Vietnam but most of the time I managed to mask it, after all who understands the mentally ill?

I found it was difficult for me to go to work. I could not fit into the culture there and so I contacted Sergeant Bruce Scott at the Traffic Office to inquire about a transfer to the Special Traffic Patrol.

Riding a bike on traffic work was a place where you could get away from it all.

Sergeant Scott informed me that clearways would shortly be opened in Botany Road and more cyclists were required to work from Redfern Police Station and he offered me a position there.

I accepted and a month or two later it happened.

Along with three or four other young men I was transferred to Redfern. The day I arrived we were all lined up in the muster room, welcomed and asked which area we would prefer to work in, the Traffic Room or Summonses and Warrants. I chose the former.

Before traffic lights took over the control of major or busy intersections police would do the job of directing traffic during the peak hours. In the city areas, these police, who also performed similar duty at the races and football etc. would work in the ‘traffic room’ at the major stations.

At Redfern for example, there could be up to 20 police working in this environment. These police, working alternate day and afternoon shifts only, would attend all traffic accidents in the patrol and attend to other traffic related work. They did not, nor were they trained (or motivated) or had the vehicles to undertake high speed or pursuit work or the issue of infringements for speeding etc.

One of the advantages of the clearway job was having weekends off. The work was in pursuant to the week day traffic and so I worked Monday – Friday, alternating between day and afternoon shift, week about. I was allocated to a particular shift with other cycle and foot police who worked the major intersections during the peak. These were called ‘points’ and each of the major intersections was given a number.

The intersections which were worked by police when I was there included: Regent and Cleveland Streets, Regent and Lawson Street, Bourke and Crescent Streets, Botany Road and O’Riordan Streets.

There were two sergeants in charge of the traffic room. A traffic sergeant and assistant traffic sergeant.

George Kilham was the traffic sergeant when I started. His rank was Sergeant 2^nd Class (three stripes and a crown on his forearm sleeve), in his mid fifties, married with two adult daughters and lived some where in the inner west.

He had played rugby league with South Sydney between 1935-42 and later Canterbury, 1944-47. Although eligible, he did not serve in the second world war.

I found George, a man whom I could never get close to as a truculent person and as you continue to read, someone who I did not miss when looking for a target for our practical jokes. Of a day shift and early mornings we would purposely stay in doors at the station chatting right up till 7:00am when he commenced work and much to the chagrin of George, who would explode with: “right oh you fucking cunts, out on the fucking road”. We had to be on the road then by 7:00am to police the clearways.

The other sergeant was completely the opposite; Archie Willis. A tall, quiet, thoughtfull person who had empathy for his staff and was good all round company. He was a real gentleman and certainly knew how to get the best out of me. I had a lot of time for Arch and later met his lovely wife when she worked as an administrative assistant at Waverley Police Station.

Others on my shift were Senior Constable Ron Humphries originally from Botany, Bob Tunbridge, late of Redfern but following his marriage shifted to Sutherland, Frank Traynor, Johnny Budge, Paul Garner, John Magee, Dave Carson, Charlie Marshall, Ken Madden, Tony Parker, Gordon Brand, Rod Gollan, Alan Barwick, John Manion, Terry Youlten, who was later killed in a motor vehicle accident, Noel Maxwell and the Phantom: Brian Dunne. Each of the latter two were senior constables, Noel a reasonably serious minded fellow and Dave Carson used to sling off at him in ‘drag talk’ when he got too intense with us by calling him, ‘Noeleen’ and telling him not to be so bitchy. The Phantom was full of mischief. He was always bit of an enigma – thus the name, Phantom. But never in the same class as some of the rest of us.

Others whom I remember on the bikes were Dave Brewster and Vic Rogers and Endre xxx (forget his surname).

Life at Redfern was fun. A busy metropolitan station during the week but completely dead of a weekend. It was another place used as a penalty station for those police who had got themselves into trouble in the suburbs and a transfer to a city station such as Redfern was seen as appropriate punishment.

On my first day I was quite conscientious riding up and down Botany Road. In fact, it soon became quite boring and I was always looking for something else to do during these times of peak hours.

I couldn’t go back to the station (because we were supposed to be patrolling) so for the most part, I and those who worked with me on the local motor cycles, mostly Yamaha 650cc machines then later Honda 450cc machines, would ride into other local clearways and major roads, in an attempt to vary our work and scenery.

After a while we got to know the others at near stations also doing the same work. Two would patrol from Redfern, one from Mascot another from Rockdale and one or two from Kogarah.

Of a morning shift, we would sometimes meet when riding along General Holmes Drive at Mascot, the road which borders the airport on one side and Botany Bay on the other.

Just before the Cooks River overpass there is a former Air Traffic Control Tower on the bay side and adjacent to that is a multi vehicle parking area for no-one else apart from people who wished to park and either watch the planes arrive and depart or I imagine, stare at the water.

During the night hours it was known as a regular lovers lane and the following mornings quite often used condoms and other sex aids could be seen strewn along the bitumen pavement.

Between 8 and 9:00am of a week day sometimes up to six of us would gather there just to pass the time and chew the fat. It was out of the way and yet almost right on the main road.

One of the guys from Kogarah started us on ‘la mons starts’. To do this we would park our bikes across the road behind the tower in a line abreast (there was no through traffic). After we would finish our chat, one of us would shout “go” and we would have to run to our bikes, put on our helmets and gloves, kick the bike over and roar off. We did this many times over the period we gathered there just as a bit of a lark.

One time we sitting there on the concrete sea wall talking about nothing and a voice shouted “hey”. We could all hear it, but couldn’t make out where the sound was coming from until I looked up and saw a man standing on the balcony surrounding the control tower. We waved.

“Yous wanna come up and have a look around?” he asked. Why not we thought and soon we were making our way through the gate in the cyclone wire fence and up the internal stairs which transcended the tower.

I had never been in such a place before and was in awe at the number of people sitting around the slanted window, watching a radar screens (this was pre computer days) and talking to the pilots of various planes circulating around the airport.

We were given a cup of tea and encouraged to ask questions about the facility. After a short time the supervisor said, “how long yous been doing the la mons starts?” We all looked at him with apprehensive anticipation.

"Yeah, we’ve been watching yous for ages from up here. Really makes our day when we see yous run to your bikes and charge off. We take bets as to who we think will win”. We all offered synthetic laugher full well knowing that that was the end of our classy bit of morning fun.

After wasting time sitting on the sea wall chatting some of us would make our way to the police academy, then situated in Bourke Street Redfern, where we would have our morning tea and soak up another hour or so before heading back to Redfern and another morning tea.

On afternoon shift, after a quick patrol I would normally make my way to South Sydney Hospital which was in Joynton Ave., Rosebery. A friend had been badly injured in a motor vehicle accident and spent 6 months there trying to save his badly injured leg. I used to ride to the rear of his ward, open a window and chat to him and his convalescing mates for ages (at least until I had soaked up some time).

He loved me coming to visit him and often talked about it years later.

In fact, I took a couple of nurses out from there whom I had met in my afternoon sessions with Jack.

The people I worked with were a good bunch. Bob Tunbridge was one who had more points than a porcupine. He was born and raised in Everleigh Street Redfern where his mother still lived. He wasn’t that keen on work and occasionally I noticed some files put in my pigeon hole marked 'for action' – usually to interview a driver of a vehicle involved in an accident in a remote area where he failed to report or more particulars were required but with his name crossed out as the referring policeman and mine written in.

I checked with the inspector’s clerk (a public servant and the person who allotted the work) as to whom this particular file had been allocated and when I found it was him, it confirmed my suspicions that he was just reallocating his work to us unsuspecting punters.

So I just promptly tore up the file and every additional one that came to me with his name crossed out and mine written in. I let him fight that battle out. But in saying that, Bob wasn't a bad sort of bloke. I bumped him a few years later when I worked in licensing.

Each day before as the shift started, we would gather in the office and normally the most senior would read out a list of stolen cars. The rest of us would write these numbers in the back of our police notebooks. There could be up to 100 or so cars to enter. A stupid exercise really because I can’t ever remember referring to it but it had to be done because it was one of the areas the 'blue pencil boys' (supervising sergeants) used to look for when they came to sign your notebook - "Seen R G Smith Sgt 1/c"

Bob Tunbridge would normally be the one reading out the car numbers and occasionally, would call out one of the cars owned by the police in the room. He would look around to see if it was picked up. Most of the time it wasn’t.

Or he would say. Stolen from the city. A 1972 black Nash Ramber sedan, number Charlie-Oscar-Pappa 777, then wait with a big smile on his face. Only the astute would realise it was the commissioner’s car.

Most police of the time used to ring the local tow truck operator to tell them of the whereabouts of a collision. If they picked up the tow they would receive a small commission and more if the smash repair business they towed for got the repair job, they would receive more.

This was pretty wide spread certainly within the metropolitan police at the time. Though anyone caught in this activity though would normally be sacked. I didn’t think the practice was that bad.

A company along Botany Road Alexandria near the Star Hotel was the group the police within the traffic room used to ring. I must say at this juncture though, not all police stationed there did this, but from my knowledge, the majority did.

Normally on a shift any ‘commissions’ from a tow would be split between those working. The money would be picked up at a later date and let me tell you, it wasn't much. We aren't talking sheep stations here.

There was no organisation with this and it was based entirely on an honesty system within the group – if you could call it that – maybe thats an oxymoron?

I got duded a few times and dropped out of the loop. It just wasn’t worth the worry and besides later, those involved in that towing company found themselves on the receiving end of a number of infringements from me when they inadvertently left damaged vehicles on the clearway of a morning.

There was always frivolity in the traffic room, not practiced by all but most of the young guys.

The worst was the slipping of a lighted cracker in the toilets when someone was having a ‘sit’ and when they least expected it.

Dave Carson was the most brilliant exponent of this and would catch me in the toilet time after time. I only had to sit, begin to read the paper and ‘BANG!!!’, a cracker would explode from under the cubical door. It was truly traumatic.

I even used to go to remote toilets at the back of the court in an attempt to escape the harassment but got caught there too.

I gave back as much as I got, but never did win over Dave. I let one off when one of the old parking police was having a sit one day and he nearly had a heart attack. Abusing everyone in site after he came out of the toilet he aimed his cursing expressly in my direction. I just shrugged my shoulders as if completely innocent.

One morning shift the cleaners would still be in the building when we arrived. There was a slightly built Greek lady about 35 who used to clean on the first floor where our office was situated. (pictured: Redfern Police Station)

I used to practice my Greek on her but unfortunately the only words I knew were Greek swear words. One morning after I gave her the “scussa patarna” line she raised one of those office metal waste paper bins and threw it at me. This of course created raucous laughter within the office as we left to begin our rounds of the streets within the patrol. Apparently the words meant: (as I understood them) "Shut-up prostitute". Yes, another thing I shouldn’t have done.

As I have said, the traffic Sergeant was not an easy person to get on with. Although in saying that, he wasn’t an overly difficult person either. But very grumpy. As a police cadet I had learnt to use a sylvestor switchboard. One of the tricks was to ring ‘dial a prayer’ (or another similar type of service number) then as it was connecting, patch the call through to a particular extension to have the person on the receiving end greeted with “hello my son…..inter alia" (the prayer)

At Redfern, to do this, I would have to go to the station office on the ground floor where the switchboard was located. Of course the staff there didn’t know what I was doing and would have to ensure that I had a compliant station sergeant who wasn’t too upset that I was using ‘his’ equipment.

The first few times, I got George. He had no idea what was happening when he answered the phone in his gruff manner “Sargntt Killnnn, Redfn”. Soon though he realised it was me and his eyes would search the room ensure I was in the present before he would answer his line.

We had him stuffed though when Dave Carson picked up on the trick and would go to the station to ring him. He used to get terribly upset with us all, but me in particular. I did the cracker trick on him a couple of times too, but made sure I was well out of the station by the time he had finished in the toilet.

One thing George Killham, the traffic sergeant, did was to give each of the men in his section a single bottle of beer. He said this was kindly donated by a local funeral house apparently in recognition of us performing traffic duty for a number of their funerals. We really didn't mind doing the work on the intersections to get the mourning cars through and weren't really looking for anything in return. If it was them who provided the beer it was a nice gesture of them.

Poor George, he made a big deal of the presentation of the bottles, dragging them out one by one of his dusty old locker which was one of many bordering the corridor leading into the toilet and meal room area on the first floor. It caused a good deal of sarcastic mirth amongst the troops at the time.

John Murphy was a fellow cyclist who worked in the summons room, next door to the traffic office on the first floor. The windows of both rooms looked out onto the narrow Turner Street.

One night I became very bored and began to annoy Christ out of John by ringing his extension and doing all those stupid things. Finally he took the phones off the hook and locked his door. God knows what he was doing in there - I thought.

Not to be defeated, I found one of those cobweb removing brushes which are attached to a long pole, wrote a little sign to say ‘Hello John”, stuck it out of the window and edged it along to his and tapped the glass until he looked up. By then he had had enough.

Come 10:30pm, John had to knock off and his transport was his own purple Suzuki 900cc Sports Bike which was parked in the open police garage off Turner Street and under the building which also housed a police mini and the police motor cycles.

It had a hell of a sound to it and could be heard coming from half a kilometre away. I heard him start it. ‘VROOOOMMM, VROOOOMMMMMMM” came the echoing noise from the garage.

That was my cue. I raced to the toilet, filled a bucket with water, carefully raised the window in the first floor office and as he slowly cycled along Turner Street, I threw the water all over him and his lovely clean bike.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. The bike stopped, off he got and he raced up the stairs spitting chips. By this time, I had the sense to lock my office door to stop any ‘dangerous affray’ from taking place in the building. He was swearing and cursing me whilst all the other police in the building wondered what was happening. Luckily for me that was it. He stamped off, mounted his bike and roared off down the road. He was OK the next day, but still not happy. I think it must have been the red cordial I had with my dinner that night!!!

One of the greatest interests to us younger staff in the office was to play cards at lunch time. We would overtake the meal room and it would be a race to see who could get there in time. I, like everyone else, used to get very pissed off if I missed a seat.

The game we played was ‘Euchre – call a partner’. I think it was Dave Brewster who introduced us to it. Six would play and each would be playing for themselves, no permanent partner, as such. However the rules were designed that in each hand, whoever made it, must have a partner. To find him (the partner), and upon declaring what suit was trumps, the maker would call a suit from of one of the other three. So, the person with the highest card of that suit would automatically become his partner but for that hand only.

Now the player who held the ace of that partricular suit would know that he was the partner, but no-one else, including the maker would be aware of that. So it was in his interests to get it out on the table as quickly as possible. Of course the points would be shared if the 'two' won the hand.

In the pack configuration though, two cards would always sleep and those cards may well, but not likely, contain the Ace of the suit called, meaning in that case, the King of that suit would be the partner (are you getting all this?).

I think we played for 20c a hand. It was all very interesting and so much fun. Strantely I have never played that game since leaving Redfern.

One night there wasn’t much happening so four of us were playing normal euchre in the traffic office. It wasn’t a situation where we had to be patrolling. Normally, as I have said, we took particulars of motor traffic accidents and reported on files in out of the out of peak times.

The game got very interesting when a call came in: Major accident on the corner of South Dowling and Cleveland Streets. Damn!

I had the answer. This intersection was our station’s boundary with the Darlinghurst patrol, so it was just as much in theirs as ours. I rang their traffic office and spoke to the on-duty traffic sergeant. Being such a big station, they had about four of these men on the roster.

I told him we were very busy and couldn’t spare men to attend the accident and would he mind if his staff took particulars. No problems he said, so it was back to the card game.

The federal election was to take place in early December 1972. I had labor sympathies and was what you could call a passive labor supporter. The 'Its Time' theme that the Labor Party ran with caught much of the population up in an exciting lead-up to the election.

The labor leader, Gough Whitlam held a public rally or meeting at Randwick Town Hall in November and my friend Dick Henry and myself decided to attend. It was listed to commence at 7.30pm and by the time we arrived there well before that it was standing room only and that was out on Avoca and the side street to the town hall premises where masses of people had gathered.

Loud speakers were set up for people like ourselves and we stood and listened to what Gough had to say. Probably more taking in the euphoria of the occasion rather then the rhetoric.

It was generally an exciting time with the left looking to oust a stuffy conservative government who had been in power for over 20 years. Labor received a lot of support at this time.

In mid 1972, our boss George Killham was transferred to Regent Street upon his promotion to the rank of Sergeant 1^st Class (crown on sleeve – now called a senior sergeant). We didn’t celebrate, I don’t even think we had a send off for him.

His replacement was an ex-cadet (I am telling you that because traditionally, they are different, in one way or another - I was an ex-cadet, so that tells you something doesn't it?). His name was Bill Rossie, a Sergeant second class from Phillip Street Station. Bill was about 40 or so, and a knock around sort of guy. He didn’t like work too much, meaning that he wasn't over zealous but got the job done and and lived with his defacto wife who was the licensee of the Fortune of War Hotel at the Rocks. We all got on much better with Bill. It helped that he didn't mind a drink.

Between Christmas and New Year in 1972, QANTAS began developing their catering section at Mascot airport and a vehicular overpass was to be erected across QANTAS Drive and the adjacent railway line, connecting to their catering division. Its still there and each time I drive under it I remember this story.

This overpass was erected during the week and to do so there had to be a lot of stopping the traffic as the cranes hoisted the girders into place. The company, ‘The Men from Mars’ had the contract. I don’t know why, they were traditionally demolishers but on this occasion were building something. Maybe it was because they had cranes.

We worked on this for two days; a Wednesday and Thursday. Bill chose Ken Madden and myself to assist stopping the traffic to facilitate its erection. We started at 6.00am and went through till late - no paid overtime then.

On the first day the boss of the company, Mr Mars, who knew Bill, invited us back to his Alexandria based office for a drink and a bit of socialising.

There, with a couple of his cronies we certainly enjoyed ourselves and had a great time, all of us wearing the wobbly boot on the way home. Very wobbly, I might add.

The next day we were at it again and believe you me, I did it hard in the hot sun whilst Bill took the opportunity to sleep it off in our little blue mini minor for most of the day.

There was no invitation at the finish of that day. Just a thanks and goodbye. Well I guess we had outlived our welcome the day before.

John Budge, who also worked in the Traffic Room, and I knocked around a bit together at the time. He was a bit younger than me and had not long been married to a lovely girl, Henrietta. They rented a nice tenement house in Bronte Road, Waverley. The couple are now divorced.

John always had an eye for the ladies and one time when I was doing my rounds on the bike I came across him working the point at the intersection of Crescent and Bourke Streets, Redfern, just around the corner from ACI and Resch’s Brewery.

I stopped for a quick chat as he stood in the middle of the road and he said, motioning to a building which bounded the intersection “See the first floor of that building” as I glanced to the north west corner “theres a couple of sheilas in there who have been waving to me and they’ve invited me up for morning tea, you wanna come”? I was a bit apprehensive at first but said I would and promised to come back at around 9:00am.

Upon my return, John was waiting on the kerb so after parking my bike we both made our way into this small manufacturing business and walked upstairs to the office. It was here that we were greeted by three middle aged, married women who appeared just as embarrassed as I was, particularly when they shared their home made sandwiches wrapped in that old grease proof paper of the day. I just looked at John and closed my eyes, discreetly shaking my head.

I had introduced John to a girl I was going with at the time who lived at Randwick. As I said, he forever fancied himself and I always suspected him as a ‘grass cutter’. One evening I unexpectedly turned up at my girlfriend's place only to find John there attempting to make some headway with her.

“I was just in the neighbourhood so thought I would drop in and say hi” John said unashamedly as I entered the house. She looked at me with a slightly embarrassed expression and it was quite obvious that she wasn’t interested and just wanted him out of the place. He left soon after.

I fronted him over the incident the next time I saw him but he just smiled with that angelic grin of his and said he was just being friendly.

One afternoon shift I was working with John and he was called to an accident on the corner of John and Cope Streets, Waterloo. The intersection was bounded by some housing commission flats and some small businesses. I decided to ride down and see if I could help and as I turned the corner from Botany Road, there was a sea of emergency and damaged vehicles. It looked like a scene from hell and at first sight I thought it was a major catastrophe.

What made it all the worse was the strobe lights from the Fire Engine, Ambulance and police car all going at once and bouncing off the adjacent buildings. There were people injured in the collision and I began to help John as a crowd started to develop. It was strangely silent as we worked to extricate the drivers and passengers and take statements from witnesses. John was a good worker but just needed some motivation at times. I mention this, not because the accident was a big deal, in fact in the end it turned out to be quite insignificant, but the whole scene as I rounded the corner from Botany Road has never left me.

One day shift I talked John into giving blood at the Blood Bank in York Street. George Kilham gave us the green light to travel there in the police car so we drove down and began the preliminary interviews with the ladies who manned the place. Because I had contracted a dose of heptaitus 'A' the year before following my return from Vietnam I was not able to make a contribution but John, who was really only there to 'hold my hand' ended up being the next victim for Draqula.

One time I was called to an accident on the corner of McEvoy and Elizabeth Streets, right next to Waterloo Oval. A vehicle had gone through the lights and hit a taxi. The taxi driver, who was a man in his late fifties was not wearing a seatbelt, nor, as a taxi driver, was he compelled to under the Motor Traffic Act at the time.

He was injured and the ambulance personnel had put him in the back of their vehicle. After a quick survey of the scene I couldn’t get over how he would have avoided his injury had his seatbelt been connected.

In this instance, I couldn’t help myself, I just had to make a statement. I stopped the ambulance just as it was driving off and told them I wanted to speak to the injured man laying prostrate in the back. The driver remonstrated with me but opened the read door and I said to the patient, “You wouldn’t be in this position if you had your seatbelt on, see how important the wearing of seatbelts are”. He was in no fit state to reply and the ambulance driver bundled me out of the way saying he was going to report me for being so uncaring and heartless.

Later that day, Arch Willis called me aside and spoke to me about the complaint he had received from the driver of the ambulance. Of course he was right, but I just couldn’t get over how the simple wearing of a seatbelt could avoid such personal injury.

These days there is much conflict with the aboriginal community at Redfern and I suppose many things might be to blame for that. In my role then, working in the traffic room we didn’t have much contact with the Koories. As far as I was concerned, like all of us then, they knew there place in the pecking order of society and as I saw it, possibly because I was detached from main stream policing, caused little disruption to the way things went. They just seemed to get on with their lives then. I went to school at Matraville High School where a number of aboriginals also attended and there was never any trouble or discrimination there. It simply didn’t enter our heads, we were all friends.

Then was a time when all people had to have employment in order to earn money to live rather than rely on government handouts. I feel that benevolent attitude has done some much irrepairable damage to the aboriginal community.

Maybe to some, those are socially unacceptable statements these days but nevertheless, in my mind an accurate assessment of the situation.

The only real problem with the aboriginals was their drinking hole, the Empress Hotel which was in Regent Street Redfern, just south of Cleveland. Not a place for the white fellows to go.

It was in those days accidents were recorded on what we called a P.4 form. They could be typed personally or by using a then new method which was introduced whilst I worked at Redfern. It was to verbally record the particulars of a motor vehicle accident onto a (floppy) disc and post it to the Accident Information Bureau (AIB) vide police mail to be typed up and returned to the respective policeman for eventual submission to the Police Traffic Office for adjudication.

This new concept was supposed to remove the need for police to be stuck in front of a typewriter for hours on end typing up P.4 forms. It was not unusual for each policeman where I worked then, depending of course on how many were on duty, to attend up to 4 or 5 accidents in one shift. It got so you could do the formal police accident procedure with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back. It was like second nature.

For the recording of these accidents we were provided with a machine and discs, somewhat similar to the old big floppy discs which were used before compact 1.44mb discs were introduced.

Recording on them could be quite funny. Each item on the page had a number, ie, date might be item 1, day item 2, time item 3 etc. So after inserting the disc into the recording machine and giving the name, rank, registered number and station, the policeman begin recording using the item numbers and the answers.

In order to make it ‘interesting’ for the typists at the AIB, we would go as fast as we could. It was not unusual to record an accident in under one minute. In fact we used to have an unofficial competition between ourselves to see who could record these incidents in the fastest time. We would say it like this: “1 – 20 August 1973, 2 – Friday, 3 – 9.40am…and so on”

I believe that whilst the system and equipment was distributed throughout the state, though not many police took advantage of it.

Submitting reports on accidents in those days incorporated quite a bit of paperwork. There was the P.4 form, submitted in quadruplet, a breach report if it was considered someone was to blame (and this was normally the case), statements from both drivers and if necessary, witnesses (normally passengers in the car – the submission of these however depended on how serious the accident was) statements and a detailed plan of the scene of the collision, showing vehicles, streets, objects and of course an arrow showing north etc. We had rubber stamps to show the position of the cars and the offending vehicle was always stamped in red.

Also in our Traffic Room were parking police. Initially these were normally ex-servicement who had incurred a disability through their war service and it was part of the government policy of the day to provide work for them.

I have mentioned the parking cops who worked with us then. They used to dress in khaki, same boots, belt etc as police but worked alone and scheduled to a specific area by the traffic sergeant.

We had three at Redfern when I was there one of whom was Frank Gotch, who had lost his eye in the war and wore a cotton wool patch. He lived at Oyster Bay (he was the one I slipped the cracker under the toilet door to). Bill someone or other who lived at Merrylands and an English fellow, the name escapes me, who lived at Penrith. They were all second war men.

Frank was a bit stroppy, but the others were quite nice and easy to get on with.

One afternoon shift I had visited my brother who was the manager of the Better Brakes Shop in Botany Road, Alexandria, opposite the Gardeners Road, Primary School.

At about 4.30pm, I rode out into Botany Road and began to head south. Over my police radio I heard that there was a knife attack at Botany and the police radio, VKG was asking for any car to attend.

I responded and slipped the bike up a gear, switched on the hee-haws and away I went at 100 miles an hour. The problem was that it was very much peak hour and the traffic was stopped and banked back from the intersection of Gardeners Road.

As I made my way through the traffic and unfortunately for me, a car in front came to a dead stop as soon as he heard the hee-haws and I rode the bike straight into his rear.

I flew over the handle bars and smashed my teeth on the vehicle’s rear bumper.

My brother had realised there was a problem and sent two of his workers up to see if I was OK. By this time I was standing but in the state of shock. I was walked down Botany Road and across the intersection as what seemed like hundreds of people poured out of the Newmarket Hotel to see ‘the f**** idiot copper who came off his bike’. I knew one of the guys there and he approached me to inquired if I was OK.

A sergeant from Mascot was soon on the scene and took particulars then bundled me off to Royal South Sydney Hospital at Zetland. I was kept for a short period and then allowed to go. I had contacted my father who drove in to collect me. The accident gave me a few days off work. I wasn’t badly injured, apart from a smashed front tooth.

Subsequently, I went to my dentist, John Mison of Bunnerong Road, Matraville who removed most of the damaged front upper tooth and replaced it with a post and crown which unfortunately for me continued to fall out upon any pressure I might have had in biting and it hampered me for the next 20 years. Although I have since learnt that there is nearly always trouble with a 'post and crown'.

That was the only bike accident I had whilst at Redfern and it left a lasting memory with me, as you would expect.

The station had a social club and in 1972 I became the social secretary. There was no way we could raise funds other than membership but I came up with the brilliant idea of placing a drink machine in the foyer of the police station. Many people worked or visited the station during any 24 hour period and this machine became a virtual gold mine by purchasing the drinks at one price and selling them at a higher price in the machine.

I opened an account at the Commonwealth Bank in Redfern Street in which I made regular deposits. The balance grew to quite a healthy amount for the use of by the members.

I can remember going into the station on Christmas Day 1972 to fill the machine. I realised that it would get a fair bit of use over the festive period and had forgotten to fill it before I had my couple of days off.

I kept the refill cans in a cell where police exhibits were also maintained. Some of the police on duty were suspicious of my motives and suggested that if I had come to the station on Christmas Day just to fill the drink machine then I must be getting something out of it. I wasn’t but its amazing how the human (police) mind works at times. I later arranged for a cigarette machine to be installed, but we received little commission from this.

Future Assistant Commissioner, Jim Pyne was one a Sergeant 1^st class (crown on lower sleeve) and one of the ‘blue pencil boys’ at Redfern at that time was the president of the social club. They arranged cricket games and Christmas parties, most of which I didn’t attend. So the money was slowly syphoned out for these functions, but just as quickly replaced with the popularity of the drink machine. That didn't worry me, thats what it was for. Jim was a very nice man. I was to come across him on several occasions in my time in the job.

Just prior to Christmas 1972, I was filling the machine and one of the younger police colleagues beckoned me to a vacant cell. “Have you seen what they’ve got in for Christmas”? he asked. I shook my head and he opened the cell door to a 3m x 5m room which was stacked to the ceiling with canned and bottled beer. I was astounded at the amount of grog which had been ‘donated’ by local publicans and clubs from around the patrol. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t receive any of it.

It was whilst working here that I became social secretary of the South Sydney Aussie Rules Club. In that year, I started with $200 and finished with a couple of grand.

I quickly learnt to make all my social and football phone calls from work and would carry with me a small spiral notebook in my top pocket in which I would jot all the jobs I had to do for the day. My jobs, not police work. It was like keeping a ‘to do’ list and worked pretty well but I don’t think it impressed my fellow workers nor the supervising sergeants. In saying that though, I still managed to get my duties done without any of these jobs getting in the way.

In June 1972 during my time as social secretary of the football club that we decided to run a mens night under the grandstand at Trumper Park in Paddington. I went around to a number of local outlets and arranged to buy five 18 gallon kegs at a very cheap rate with Johnny Budge to work as barman on the understanding he didn’t pay an entry fee for the night.

Tickets were $6 each and as discreet as I had to be in their circulation I got them out and around to various people I knew who I thought might be interested in coming. The ticket sales weren’t too flash and we were all worried whether we would make any money at all.

I had organised fresh prawns, boiled potatoes and bread rolls for the food and one of the guys from the football club, a small time crim. ran a book on the Harold Park trots. Although the NSW TAB opened in 1964 it was far from the sophisticated operation than that it is today so a bet for the punters under those circumstances was appreciated. I think though we lost money on his betting genius.

I had locked all but one of the doors on which I had a person taking the money of the entrants. Numbers weren't looking good and the club officials were thinking what a dope I was for wasting their money. Suddenly a friend of my brothers turned up. "Is Ian Granland here?" he asked the doorman. When I went over to the door this guy had about 25 of his mates in tow so pretty soon about 150 or so filled the room and for the money, everyone had a great night.

We had as preliminary entertainment: a super 8 projector but only one film, so whilst waiting on the live performers the film was run forwards, backwards, sideways, any way to give some variation and stop the natives from getting restless.

Then this very unattractive red headed woman about 38 turned up. People glanced at me with the ‘you have to be kidding’ look. With her was a minder, a sleazy looking guy about 30. He asked who was in charge and when I introduced himself, he opened his overcoat showing me a pistol in a shoulder holster and said “I don’t want any trouble”. I had to do everything in my power to stop from laughing. If only he knew there were about a dozen police in the room at the time. He also told me the other girl was on her way.

Little did I know that these females did several shows a night and we must have been down the list a bit.

Well the natives were starting to get restless until, at last, the second female arrived and let me tell you, she WAS a stunner. And the rest is history.

We had a little stage built and the women called for any volunteers. My good friend Dick Henry was first up but unfortunately he had a bad dose of the flu and couldn’t raise it.

All the guys were cheering and going on and one of the girls bent down close and asked him what was wrong. When he told her he couldn’t get it up she said “assimilate, assimilate”. He remembers that to this day and just couldn’t get over how a person of that ilk could come out with such a descriptive verb as that in those circumstances.

She quickly booted Dick off the stage and called for any more. Poor old Butch who was a mate of Geoff Cann, screamed from the back of the room “Me, me, take me” and he literally climbed over those in the audience to get to the stage. We all agreed later that Butch didn’t get much (sex) in his time. He is another who is now dead – although I suggest, not from that experience.

After a slow start, it ended up a great night. We didn’t make all that much but the $300 profit (which doesn’t seem a lot now) certainly came in handy for the club.

As a group in the Traffic Room, we didn’t drink much together however found a hotel with a sympathetic publican in Wilson Street MacDonaldtown. Pat and his wife Rose were lovely people. They were in their mid fifties and were happy to have us use a back room in which to have a beer. They had owned a hotel in Temora before buying the licence at the Royal Hotel in MacDonaldtown (Redfern). Sometimes we stayed late. I lost touch after I transferred out of the area and I heard later that his wife, Rose had died from cancer.

Around this time, my father and myself became apiarists. Yes, we were bee keepers. We had about 30 hives, most of which we took to the country in search of blossom.

During the spring of 1972 the police were called to a swarm of bees in Redfern Park. Not knowing anything about bees, someone suggested they contact me and I rode down to see a nice big swarm hanging from a low growing bush.

I was in my uniform and had no capacity to bag the bees so I rung my father who brought in a box and his smoker. Just as he was placing the swarm into the small box a photographer from the Daily Telegraph arrived. The photo he took appeared on the front page to the next day’s paper.

The parent hive is still in that tree within the park, just off Redfern Street and I glance at it every time I pass, which these days, isn’t too often.

In about mid 1972, the police department introduced female typists into suburban stations. Luckily enough we got two or three at Redfern and they were placed in the unused Womens Police Room on the first floor.

Arch Willis was the only one whom I remember using their services as he virtually had to train these ladies in how to set out and type up his reports.

Arch left us towards the end of my time at Redfern, following his transfer to Waverley as the Traffic Sergeant.

A small function was held in a room of the Tudor Hall Hotel on the corner of Pitt and Redfern Streets. Arch made an emotional speech, telling us we were a great bunch to work with saying he could always count on us when needed. He was very popular with our group and when he left just by evolution, we began to fragment.

The police department soon realised the waste of manpower that clearway cyclists were to the system. In late 1972 all such cyclists were given the option of returning to general duties or transferring to the Special Traffic Patrol.

I opted for the latter and soon after, along with Johnny Murphy was posted to Waverley Police Station where I spent another great two years of my working life.

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