The Hospital for the Treatment of Rheumatic Diseases was pretty well in the centre of the city and a great place to stop off for a cup of tea on night shift.
We'd climb the fire escape to the fourth floor and sit and flirt with the nurses in the rest room. It was such a regular cooping spot for the foot patrol officers that
we had fitted the windowsill with two angled mirrors so that we could keep an eye out up and down the street for the Beat Sargeant.
My partner on the adjoining beat was with me on particular night we'd decided to bomb the sergeant, who was not a particular favourite of ours. With the
co-operation of a couple of nurses we filled up a condom until it was just about ready to burst. It took four of us to delicately man (an woman) handle it into
position. We could see Arnie coming down the treet, strutting his way towards us. He had been a drill sargeant in the Coldstream Guards and still carried himself
as though he had a broom handle inserted in his rectum.
Timing was all-important, as we didn't actually want to hit him; so whispered consultations went on continually. At the right moment we let the missile go.
Plunging four floors, it hit the sidewalk behind him right on target and burst with a horrible splattering crack, showering him with water from behind.
He leapt in the air, shouting obscenities and took off like a rocket, down the street, disappearing around the corner in the general direction of the police station,
two blocks away. Meanwhile, two cops and two nurses were crying with silent laughter and holding our aching sides.
My partner and I hurried down the fire escape and examined the scene of the crime. The torn and tattered condom lay in the street some twenty feet away, so that
was scooped up and we disappeared back into the side streets to await developments, watching the area from convenient doorways on our dividual beats.
Some ten minutes later, the sergeant and the duty inspector appeared in the distance. I emerged from my hiding place and strolled towards the scene of the crime
with hands behind my back, patrolling at the regulation 2.4 miles per hour. We reached the scene of the crime at about the same time and I pushed my helmet back on
my head and said, "Jesus, Sarge, looks like somebody pissed himself." All I got was a dirty look.
The inspector and the sergeant conferred for some minutes, looking for evidence of a leak in the sidewalk that would account for the large spread of water. Then my
partner from the adjoining beat came over and the four of us stood around speculating on the cause. In the end, it was decided that it was something that should be
looked at by the city Works Department in the morning.
Significantly, neither of our (alleged) superiors had the common sense to look at splatter patterns deduce that the water had come straight down. I guess our
bosses were not the sharpest knives in the drawer in those days — or now!
