THE SCHOOL OF POLICE.
In the long chain forged for the preservation of law and order in the
metropolis the constable is the chief and, in some ways, the most
important link. The heads of Scotland Yard have to make it certain that
at moments of unexpected strain or heavy stress no link will fail. To
that end every candidate for the Metropolitan Force is rigorously tested
and prepared, physically, morally, and mentally, before he becomes an
accredited member of the service.
For, to vary the simile, the constable is the foundation on which all
the rest is built. Every man in grades right up to the superintendent
has begun at the bottom of the ladder. You will have seen the constable,
placid and unemotional, pacing the streets at the regulation beat of two
and a half miles an hour--do you know how much he has to know before he
is trusted alone on his duty?
He has to be ready to act decisively and firmly at an instant's notice,
to solve on the spur of the moment some intricate problem of public
order, to know the law, so that he may arrest a person on one occasion,
and let him go on another, to act as guide or consultant to the public,
to aid at a fire, or capture a burglar.
He must know everything out of the common that comes in his sphere of
duty, enter the particulars fully in his note-book, and be prepared to
swear to the accuracy of his notes at any time. It would be easy for a
man less carefully selected and trained to make a slip of judgment, to
succumb to a temptation.
It would be futile to pretend that there are twenty thousand plaster
saints in the Metropolitan Police--there are not. Yet, man for man, in
efficiency, in honesty, there is not their equal in the world in any
profession.
The Metropolitan Police is a business body, controlled by business men,
and run on business methods. But it is a specialist business, and so it
has to train its recruits, making sure, first of all, that they are of
the right material.
Before Sir Edward Henry's time a candidate had only to fulfil a medical
qualification and a test of character, and then, after a few weeks'
drill at Wellington Barracks and a few days' watching the procedure in a
police court, he was turned out into the street to get on as best he
could. A veteran detective officer told me how he was treated twenty
years ago.
"I was pretty raw," he said. "I came straight out of a Bedfordshire
village, and was boarded out at a sergeant's house. He put fourteen of
us in a back room with a tiny window, and charged us 14s. 9d. a week out
of our pay of 15s. The food! I should smile. In case we overdid our
eating, meals were never placed on the table until just before we had to
parade at Wellington Barracks for drill.
"Then we were sent to the old Worship Street Court. We were glad enough
at last to get out on the streets for a breath of air with all our
troubles before us. The very first day, I was called on to arrest one
of a gang of men in Whitechapel. His friends had knives, and they
threatened to 'lay me out' if I touched him. I didn't know whether I was
justified, but I drew my truncheon and swore I'd brain the first man who
came near me. But I was in a cold sweat all the time. They didn't coddle
us in those days."
That was the old system. The wonder is that the police did so well. But
now all that is changed. A policeman is prepared for his
responsibilities by a thorough course of training, as scientific in its
way as that of a doctor, a lawyer, or a school teacher.
Instead of going on his beat redolent of the plough, with a thousand
pitfalls before him, the young constable now has a thorough theoretical
acquaintance with his duties before ever he dons a helmet. More than
that, he has been shrewdly observed for weeks to see whether his
temperament is fitted to his calling. If it is not, be he ever so able
in other respects, he is of no use as a police officer.
In a big building, hidden away in a back street at Westminster, the
embryo policeman learns the first principles of his trade. Peel House,
as this school of police is called, was established by the present
Commissioner a few years ago, and since then has trained thousands of
men.
Always there will be found two or three hundred young men gathered
together from the remote corners of the British Isles, being gradually
moulded into shape by a corps of instructors under Superintendent
Gooding.
They have two characteristics in common--a character without flaw, and a
good physique. For the rest, there are all types, with the agricultural
labourer predominating--a country-house footman, an Irishman from some
tiny village near Kilkenny, a sailor, a clerk, a provincial constable
hoping to better himself, and, more raw than the rawest, men from
Devonshire, Yorkshire, Wales and Scotland.
It is said that a _good_ Irishman makes the best officer, while perhaps
the least teachable is the Londoner. A countryman is fresh clay to the
potter's hands, the Londoner has much to unlearn before he can be
taught.
While these men are undergoing their training, they are not
uncomfortable. Peel House has all the comforts and conveniences of a big
hotel and club. Each man has his own cubicle; there are a billiard-room,
a library, gymnasium, shooting gallery, scrupulously kept dining-rooms
and kitchens, and, for the primary purpose of the school, a number of
class-rooms.
Mr. Gooding holds no light responsibility. His duty is to see that no
man leaves the school to be attached to a division who is in the
faintest degree lacking in all that goes to make an officer of the
Metropolitan Police.
Tactful and sympathetic, a shrewd judge of character, able to
discriminate between nervousness and stupidity, a disciplinarian, with a
gift of lucid exposition, an organiser, and a man with a fixed belief in
the honourable nature of his calling. That is Superintendent Gooding,
and his characteristics are reflected in his staff.
As the _corps d'elite_ of the police services of the world, the
Metropolitan Police is careful in the selection of its men. Before a
candidate is admitted to Peel House he must prove that he is of
unblemished good character, be over twenty and under twenty-seven years
of age, stand at least 5 ft. 9 ins. in his bare feet, and be of a strong
constitution, free from any bodily complaint.
Then he is passed on to the school, which will be his home for at least
eight weeks--unless before that time he is shown to be obviously unfit
for the service. There he will work from nine in the morning till
half-past seven at night, learning the thousand and one laws, written
and unwritten, that a policeman has to obey. In cold black and white the
curriculum, of which even a summary would occupy many thousand words,
looks formidable. But so minutely, so lucidly is everything taught that
a man of average intelligence finds no difficulty in grasping it.
Every contingency that a constable may have to face, from dealing with
insecure cellar flaps to the best method of stopping a runaway horse, to
action in cases of riot, and the privileges of Ambassadors is gone into.
Nothing is omitted. And day after day the instructors insist: "Remember,
the honour of the service is in your hands; you are to serve, not to
harass, the public."
That is dwelt upon and reiterated until it is indelibly impressed upon
the memory of the most dull student.
A candidate begins in the fifth class. He is supplied with an official
pocket-book and a thin paper-covered book called "Duty Hints" wherein is
set forth, carefully indexed, a mass of concise information as to laws,
regulations, addresses of hospitals, and so on. Should he ever, when a
fully-fledged constable, be in a difficulty he has but to refer to his
"Duty Hints" to have his course made clear. It is, in fact, a _precis_
of the "Instruction Book," which deals with everything a police officer
should know and be.
He is told the difference between a beat and a fixed point. He is shown
how to make a report, and warned of the perils of making erasures or
tearing leaves from his pocket-book. The unobtrusive marks to be placed
on windows, doors, walls, shutters, and padlocks so that he shall know
if they have been disturbed are made clear to him. He is told what to do
should there be a sudden death in the street, should the roadway
subside, should a street collision occur, should a gas explosion occur,
should he be assaulted. He is initiated into the mysteries of the Dogs
Act, the Highways Act, the Vagrancy Act, the Aliens Act, the Lottery
Act, the Licensing Act, the Larceny Act, the Motor-Car Acts, the
Locomotive Acts, the Children's Act, and others.
Nor is he merely crammed with these things. He has to know them, to be
able to make a plain report, to answer an unexpected question.
As he passes upwards to the first class his instructor reports as to his
progress and prospects of becoming an efficient police officer. It is a
tedious process, this hammering raw countrymen--for most of the
candidates are from the country--into serviceable policemen. Yet it is
worth it.
Very craftily a candidate is instilled with the self-reliance and
confidence so necessary in a police officer. He is not bullied or
badgered. The staff patiently discriminate between nervousness and
stupidity. The ordeal of giving evidence for the first time, for
instance, is feared by a raw countryman, and for that reason a
practical object-lesson is given to the senior classes at Peel House
once a week.
Three of the instructors play the part of shopkeeper, thief, and
constable. Little strain is put on the imagination of the men. They see
everything for themselves, from the actual robbery to the procedure at
police station and police court. In quiet, level tones Mr. Gooding gives
the reason for every action taken. Then the men are called upon, one by
one, to take charge of the case. Mr. Gooding explains:
"Now take hold of your prisoner. No, no, you must not use ju-jitsu
except in self-defence. Take hold of your man firmly, so that he is in
custody. That's it. Bring him to the station. You will let him stand by
the dock and outside. In no circumstances must a person be put in the
dock unless he is violent. Now I am the inspector on duty. What is
this?"
Candidate: "At 2.40 this afternoon, Sir, I was on duty in the Strand,
when I heard loud cries of 'Stop thief!' I saw this man running towards
me, closely followed by prosecutor. I stopped him till prosecutor came
up, who said (referring to official pocket-book): 'This man has stolen a
gent's gold wristlet watch from my shop 1,009 Strand. I wish to charge
him.' The prisoner then said: 'This is monstrous. I really must
protest.' I then took him into custody and brought him here, Sir."
Mr. Gooding (suddenly): "Suppose he had been a well-dressed man and had
said, 'You're a fool, constable, I am Lord So-and-So, and I shall report
you to the Commissioner for this stupid insolence'?"
Candidate: "I should have still brought him to the station, Sir."
Mr. Gooding: "Why did you refer to your pocket-book for what he said?
Couldn't you remember it?"
Candidate: "Yes, Sir, but it is necessary to give the exact words as far
as possible. I am not to put my own construction on what is said."
So the case goes on, with now and again a little lecture in the law of
evidence or the police regulations.
"Remember, the only evidence you may give is as to the prisoner's
actions, your own actions, things said by the prisoner or in the
prisoner's presence--_not_ things heard. In a court you swear to speak
the whole truth--all you know in favour of, as well as against, a
prisoner. It matters not a jot to you whether a man is convicted or
discharged. You are not to judge. Every person whom you have to take
into charge must be considered as innocent, and is innocent in the eyes
of the law, until proved guilty. Don't forget that."
After which the prisoner is searched, makes some remarks, and the charge
sheet is signed. Then there comes another little hint--one of vast
significance in view of the misapprehensions of many of the public of
the police system.
"You must never take your own prisoner to the cells unless directly
ordered to. A constable in reserve will see to that. A man may bear you
ill-will and may assault you in the corridor or he may say that you have
assaulted him. If you only bring him to the station such a charge can be
easily refuted."
It is in this manner that the constable is shown not only the purpose
of the regulations but how easily a little thing may trip him up.
Following the charge-room procedure, the case is brought before a
magistrate. Each man is warned to state exactly what took place. The
evidence is the same as at the station, but, in addition, the result of
the search has to be stated, and what the prisoner said on being
charged.
A great trap this last. Many of the men omit it altogether, and again
and again the importance it might have as bearing on the guilt or
innocence of the accused is pointed out. But always the instructors are
kindly, forbearing, tactful. A man blunders.
"Perhaps you feel a bit nervous," says Mr. Gooding. "Go to the other end
of the room. The rest of the class look this way. Now."
And so the candidate gets through, without the disturbing effect of
twenty or thirty pairs of eyes fixed on him.
I cannot refrain from emphasising the manner in which the relations
between police and public are dealt with during the training--a matter
of greater importance, to my mind, than anything else taught in Peel
House. A course of lectures is interspersed with lessons and drill on,
among others, the following subjects:
Truthfulness, Civility,
Command of temper,
Inquiries by public,
Complaints by public,
Constable to readily give his number on request,
Tact, Discretion, Forbearance,
Avoidance of slang terms,
Necessity of cultivating power of observation,
Liberty of the subject (unnecessary interference, etc.),
Offences against discipline (drunkenness, drinking on duty, etc.)
To familiarise the men with the surroundings, they are taken sometimes
to a real police court while a magistrate is not sitting, and lectured
on the surroundings. Everything is done with the idea of wearing away
their rough edges, of smoothing the path for them when they should come
to have only their own knowledge to rely on. All that takes place at
Peel House is aimed to that end. There are classes on such subjects as
reading, writing, grammar, composition, the use of maps, drawing plans.
There is foot drill, Swedish drill, revolver practice, and ambulance
classes--all these in addition to an acquaintance with police law and
the routine work of the force.
As they progress they are taken to the Black Museum at Scotland Yard,
where they are given a practical demonstration of the kind of tools
criminals use--from scientific and complicated oxygen and acetylene
apparatus, used to break into safes, to the simple but efficacious
walking-stick to which may be attached a bird-limed piece of wood for
lifting coins off a shelf behind a shop or public-house counter.
So for eight weeks the candidate is taught the manner of work he will
have to perform. He is given every opportunity to prove himself capable,
but at any time he may be courteously told that he is not fitted for the
work; 15 or 20 per cent. of the candidates are rejected for one reason
or another before their term is over.
But, thorough as the training is, no constable is considered fully
qualified when he is drafted from Peel House to a division. Tuition,
both theoretical and practical, still goes on while he is a unit in the
station. He goes out with an older man to see how things are done, to
learn his "beat" or "patrol." There is a class-room at the big police
stations where his education is carried on. For a period too, he must
attend an L.C.C. evening school. And at last he becomes a unit ranked
efficient in the critical and criticised blue-coated army of which he is
a member.[3]
FOOTNOTE:
[3] Peel House during the war has been temporarily converted into a club
for overseas soldiers.