A Fair Cop. Michael Bunting

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       Chapter 3 Summer Madness

      Within two years of becoming a police officer, I had established myself as a member of the PSU (Police Support Unit). Better known as riot police, the PSU are available for large-scale incidents both planned and unplanned, like high category football matches and riots, as well as carnivals and demonstrations and the like.

      I enjoyed the training for the PSU as it was physically demanding and was based mainly on teamwork. From about my teens, I was always a keen sportsman and I have trained hard in the gym since before I can remember. It might seem odd, but it had been my ambition to be a contestant on the Gladiators TV programme and in 1998 I passed the physical fitness test for it. I managed to get down to the final hundred out of over sixteen thousand male applicants. Sport has always been a passion, and working long shifts in the police service hindered my training. I used to find this aspect of the job very frustrating.

      The PSU training was done in the grounds of an old hospital and the derelict buildings were very useful for practising ‘building entries’ in riot situations. On training days, there would be maybe fifteen or twenty police officers who would role-play rioters. They would throw blocks of wood and petrol bombs at our line of shields in order to prevent us from advancing to a certain point given to us by the PSU commander. I remember that on one of our training days, I was in a line of eight officers all with full-length shields. We were on the front of three lines. One of the mock rioters threw a petrol bomb high in the air towards us. We were standing directly next to an old storeroom-type building. The petrol bomb landed on the roof, which unfortunately sloped directly down onto the officer at the end of the line. In a flash of flames, the whole roof lit with fire and as the petrol spilled down the slope, the officer was engulfed. His supposed flameproof overall was inadvertently put to the test. It failed miserably. He ran around in panic, screaming for help. The flames soared from his feet to his head. Three short blasts of the instructor’s whistle sounded to indicate an immediate termination of the exercise. Three safety officers ran to the burning man, who by now looked like a stuntman as he walked, still ablaze, with his arms out in the crucifix position. One of the safety officers charged at him and rugby-tackled him to the ground. The other two used fire extinguishers on him and, within seconds, the flames were put out. We all lifted our helmet visors and watched with concern. To our relief, the officer got to his feet and removed his helmet. He shook his head, but was smiling. Due to the skill and speed of the safety officers, he’d escaped uninjured. One of them asked us to congregate at the car park so that he could debrief the incident. There was an unusual silence as we walked back. Occasionally, I would hear a shield crash to the ground, as an officer got too fatigued to keep it up. They weighed over twenty pounds.

      For you to hear me say I loved these kind of things might make you question my sanity, but such incidents bring hundreds of police officers closer together. It’s a feeling of kinship and we would always try to protect each other from harm. I loved that closeness. To me, a special part of being a police officer was the feeling of togetherness it produced. I was to learn how naive this view was later in my career.

      To be called from normal duty onto a PSU team for the day, or sometimes longer, was something I enjoyed. It broke up the daily routine of being a patrol officer, which is nothing like the way it’s portrayed on television. I found that a lot of what I did was mundane clerical work, not requiring the real skills of a police officer. However, the good days as a patrol officer were very good.

      The summer of 1995 provided many PSU days for me to attend. The temperatures were record-breaking and there had been a prolonged drought in the UK, leaving water levels in many reservoirs at an all-time low. This was the year I gained experience of real riot situations.

      The first riot I ever attended was in Bradford. At the time, I wasn’t aware of the cause, but I later found out it was as a result of the arrest of two young men. Their arrests had sparked a violent reaction from the local community and it resulted in hundreds of people surrounding one of the local police stations.

       I saw the news that morning before I went to work. I was due to start on a late shift at 2 p.m. Pictures on the television from the previous evening in Bradford showed police officers in full riot gear coming under fire from various missiles, ranging from house bricks to petrol bombs. Several cars were on fire and many of the shops had been looted. It didn’t occur to me that, in just a few hours’ time, I would be caught in the middle of it all myself.

      I remember the day well. The temperature soared into the 90s. The prospect of working in full riot clothing, which comprised overalls, flameproof balaclava, shin and knee guards, arm protectors and, worst of all, body armour, was not a pleasant one. It was only when I arrived at work that I was told by my inspector that my collar number was listed to go to Bradford in a PSU serial. This would comprise six constables and a sergeant. Being crammed into a transit van with all those clothes on was going to be very uncomfortable in this heat. I didn’t even contemplate the riot itself. I thought that if there had been trouble on the previous night then most of the violence would have subsided. How wrong I was.

      The journey in the van from Dewsbury (where I was stationed) to Bradford was about twenty minutes. The disorder from the previous night became more and more evident the closer we got to Bradford. Bricks were still lying in the roads and most of the shop windows were broken. They displayed handwritten signs apologising to customers and saying it would be a while before they reopened. Occasionally, we drove past a burnt-out vehicle, or we’d see a large patch of black on the road from where one had been removed. The place seemed derelict, the streets told their own story: it was easy to visualise the previous night’s disturbance.

       I saw shopkeepers sweeping up outside their shops or boarding up their damaged windows. My colleagues walked the streets in groups of four. Exchanging waves with your colleagues in these circumstances seemed compulsory. I liked this as it strengthened the bond between us all.

      ‘Right we’re here, lads,’ said our sergeant, who had the best seat in the van, in the front next to the driver. The rest of us were jammed in the middle compartment, fighting for space. We had arrived at the relevant police station in Bradford. ‘I’ll go in and see what we’re doing for briefing. You lot stay ‘ere.’

      At least we could get out of the van for a few minutes and try to cool off. I stepped out and the scorching sun was immediately noticeable. I unzipped my overalls right down to my waist and sat on a grass verge. There were about thirty police vans lined up in the car park. I began to realise the scale of the incident.

      Paul, one of my colleagues in my serial, came and sat with me. ‘Hope it doesn’t kick off in this heat,’ he said as he lay back with his eyes tightly closed.

      ‘Me too. Imagine СКАЧАТЬ