The New Centurions

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “All right, sit down,” shouted Randolph, who didn’t have to repeat the command.

  The class of forty-eight cadets, minus Roy Fehler, slumped to the grass happy in the knowledge that there was only relaxation ahead, unless you were chosen as Randolph’s demonstration victim.

  Serge was still tense. Randolph often chose the big men to demonstrate the holds on. The instructor was himself a medium-sized man, but muscular, and hard as a gun barrel. He invariably hurt you when applying the holds. It seemed to be part of the game to toss the cadet a little harder than necessary, or to make him cry out from a hand, arm, or leg hold. The class got a nervous laugh from the torture, but Serge vowed that the next time Randolph used him for a onesies on twosies demonstration, he was not going to stand for any rougher than necessary treatment. However he hadn’t decided what to do about it. He wanted this job. Being a cop would be a fairly interesting way to make four hundred and eighty-nine dollars a month. He relaxed as Randolph chose Augustus Plebesly for his victim.

  “Okay, you already learned the bar strangle,” said Randolph. “It’s a good hold when you apply it right. When you apply it wrong, it’s not worth a damn. Now I’m going to show you a variation of that strangle.”

  Randolph took a position behind Plebesly, reached around his throat with a massive forearm, and hooked the small neck in the crook of his arm. “I’m now applying pressure to the carotid artery,” Randolph announced. “My forearm and bicep are choking off the oxygen flow to his brain. He would pass out very quickly if I applied pressure.” As he said it, he did apply pressure, and Plebesly’s large blue eyes fluttered twice and bulged in terror. Randolph relaxed his hold, grinned, and slapped Plebesly on the back to indicate he was through with him.

  “Okay, ones on twos,” shouted Randolph. “We only got a few minutes left. Let’s go! I want you to practice this one.”

  As each number one man got his arm around the waiting throat of number two, Randolph shouted, “Lift the elbow. You have to get his chin up. If he keeps his chin down, he’ll beat you. Make him lift that chin and then put it on him. Easy, though. And just for a second.”

  Serge knew that Andrews would be very careful about hurting him after the outburst the other day. He could see that Andrews was trying not to, the big arm around his neck flexed only a little, and yet the pain was unbelievable. Serge instinctively grabbed Andrews’ arm.

  “Sorry, Duran,” said Andrews with a worried look.

  “’s alright,” Serge gasped. “That’s a hell of a hold!”

  When it was twos on ones, Serge lifted Andrews’ chin. He had never hurt Andrews in any of the prior P.T. sessions. He didn’t think Andrews could be hurt. He squeezed the throat in the crook, pulling his wrist toward him, and held it several seconds. Andrews’ hands did not come up as his had. He must be applying it wrong, he thought.

  Serge raised the elbow and increased the pressure.

  “Am I doing it right?” asked Serge trying to see Andrews’ upturned face.

  “Let him go, Duran!” screamed Randolph. Serge jumped back, startled, and released Andrews who thudded to the ground red-faced, eyes half open and glazed.

  “For chrissake, Duran,” said Randolph, raising the massive torso of Andrews in his arms.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Serge sputtered.

  “I told you guys, easy!” said Randolph, as Andrews lurched to his feet. “You can cause brain damage with that hold. You stop the oxygen flow to the brain for too long a period and you’re really going to hurt somebody, maybe kill them.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrews,” said Serge, vastly relieved when the big man gave him a weak smile. “Why didn’t you tap my arm or kick me or something? I didn’t know I was hurting you.”

  “I wanted you to get the hold right,” said Andrews, “and after a few seconds, I just blacked out.”

  “You be damn careful with that hold,” shouted Randolph. “I don’t want nobody hurt before you even graduate from the academy. But maybe you’ll learn something from this. When you guys leave here, you’re going out where there’s guys that aren’t afraid of that badge and gun. In fact, they might try to stick that badge up your ass to say they did it, and that big oval shield would sure hurt coming out. This particular hold might save you. If you get it on right you can put anybody out, and it just might rescue your ass someday. Okay, ones on twos again!”

  “Your turn to get even,” said Serge to Andrews who was massaging the side of his throat and swallowing painfully.

  “I’ll be careful,” said Andrews, putting his huge arm around Serge’s neck. “Let’s just pretend I’m choking you,” said Andrews.

  “That’s okay by me,” said Serge.

  Officer Randolph moved from one pair of cadets to another, adjusting the choke hold, raising elbows, turning wrists, straightening torsos, until he had had enough. “Okay, sit down, you guys. We’re just wasting our time today.”

  The class collapsed on the grass like a huge gray many-legged insect and each cadet waited for an outburst from Randolph who was pacing in a tight circle, formidable in his yellow polo shirt, blue shorts, and black high-topped gym shoes.

  Serge was bigger than Randolph, Andrews much bigger. Yet they all seemed small beside him. It was the sweat suits, he thought, the ill-fitting baggy pants and gray sweat shirts always sweat-soaked and ugly. And it was the haircuts. The cadets wore short military style haircuts which made all the young men look smaller and younger.

  “It’s hard to put everything into the self-defense session,” said Randolph, finally breaking silence, still pacing, arms folded as he watched the grass. “It’s damn hot and I run you hard. Maybe sometimes I run you too hard. Well, I got my own theory on physical training for policemen and it’s time I explained it to you.”

  That’s very thoughtful, you bastard, thought Serge, rubbing his side, which still ached from the twenty laps around the track. He was just beginning to be able to take large breaths without coughing or without his lungs hurting.

  “Most of you guys don’t know what it’s like to fight another guy,” said Randolph. “I’m sure you all had your scraps in high school, maybe a scuffle or two somewhere else. A couple of you are Korean vets and think you seen it all, and Wilson here has been in the Golden Gloves. But none of you really knows what it’s like to fight another man no holds barred and win. You’re going to have to be ready to do it anytime. And you have to win. I’m going to show you something. Plebesly, come here!”

  Serge smiled as Plebesly sprang to his feet and trotted into the center of the circle. The round blue eyes showed no fatigue and stared patiently at the instructor apparently ready for a painful, elbow-wrenching arm hold or any other punishment Officer Randolph cared to offer.

  “Come closer, Plebesly,” said Randolph, gripping the little man by the shoulder and whispering in his ear for several seconds.

  Serge leaned back on his elbows, happy in the knowledge that Randolph was evidently going to use the remainder of the P.T. class for his demonstration. Serge’s stomach muscles loosened and a sunny wave of relaxation swept over him. It was getting so he was having dreams of running the track. Suddenly he saw Randolph staring at him.

  “You, Duran, and you, Andrews, come up here!”

  Serge fought a momentary surge of anger, but then dejectedly plodded into the circle, remembering that the last time he had failed to master a complicated hold, he was given three laps around the track. He wanted to be a policeman, but he would not run that track again for anyone. Not this day. Not now.

  “I picked Duran and Andrews because they’re big,” said Randolph. “Now, I want you two to put Plebesly’s hands behind his back and handcuff him. Just simulate the cuffing, but get him in the cuffing position. He’s the suspect, you two are the policemen. Okay, go ahead.”

  Serge looked at Andrews for a plan to take the retreating Plebesly, who backed in a circle, hands at his sides, away from the two big men. Just like the Corps, thought Serge. Always the games. First in bo
ot camp, then in I.T.R. at Camp Pendleton. The Korean War had been over a year when he joined, and yet they talked about the gooks like they would be waiting to swarm over their ship the first moment they landed in Pacific waters.

  Andrews made a lunge for Plebesly, who almost slithered away but was caught by the sleeve of his sweat shirt. Serge jumped on Plebesly’s back and the little man went down under Serge’s two hundred and fifteen pounds. But then he wriggled and twisted, and suddenly Serge was under Plebesly and Andrews was on Plebesly’s back forcing the combined weight of himself and Plebesly on Serge’s aching ribs.

  “Pull him away, Andrews,” Serge wheezed. “Get a wristlock!”

  Serge pushed himself up but Plebesly had locked his arms and legs around Serge’s body from the rear and hung there leechlike with enough weight to topple Serge over backward on the clinging Plebesly who gasped but would not let go. Andrews managed to pry the little man’s fingers loose, but the sinewy legs held on and by now Serge was beaten and sat there with the implacable monkey clinging to his torso.

  “Get a choke hold on him, damn it,” Serge muttered.

  “I’m trying. I’m too tired,” Andrews whispered, as Plebesly buried his face deeper into Serge’s dripping back.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Randolph commanded. Plebesly instantly released Serge, bounded to his feet and trotted to his place in the grassy circle.

  Serge stood up and for a second the earth tilted. Then he dropped to the ground next to Andrews.

  “The reason for all that was to prove a point,” shouted Randolph to the sprawling broken circle of cadets. “I told Plebesly to resist. That’s all. Just to resist and not let them pin his arms. You’ll notice he didn’t fight back. He just resisted. And Andrews and Duran are both twice his size. They would never have got their man handcuffed. They would have lost him eventually. The point is that they were expending twice the energy to overcome his resistance and they couldn’t do it. Now, every one of you guys is going to run into this kind of problem lots of times. Maybe your man is going to decide you aren’t going to handcuff him. Or maybe he’ll even fight back. You saw the trouble little Plebesly gave the two big guys, and he wasn’t even fighting back. What I’m trying to do is tell you that these fights out there in the streets are just endurance contests. The guy who can endure usually wins. That’s why I’m running your asses off. When you leave here you’ll have endurance. Now, if I can teach you an armlock and that choke hold, maybe that will be enough. You all saw what the choke can do. The trouble is getting the choke on the guy when he’s struggling and fighting back. I can’t teach you self-defense in thirteen weeks.

  “All that Hollywood crap is just that—crap. You try throwing that haymaker at somebody’s chin and you’ll probably hit the top of his head and break your hand. Never use your fists. If someone uses his fists you use your stick and try to break a wrist or knee like we teach you. If he uses a knife you use a gun and cancel his ticket then and there. But if you find yourself without a stick and the situation doesn’t permit deadly force, well then you better be able to out-endure the son of a bitch. That’s why you see these newspaper pictures of six cops subduing one guy. Any guy or even any woman can wear out several policemen just by resisting. It’s goddamn hard to take a man who doesn’t want to be taken. But try explaining it to the jury or the neighbors who read in the papers how an arrestee was hurt by two or three cops twice his size. They’ll want to know why you resorted to beating the guy’s head in. Why didn’t you just put a fancy judo hold on him and flip him on his ass. In the movies it’s nothing.

  “And while I’m on the subject, there’s something else the movies have done for us—they created a legend about winging your man, shooting from the hip and all that bullshit. Well I’m not your shooting instructor but it all ties in with self-defense. You guys have been here long enough to know how hard it is to hit a still target, let alone a moving one. Those of you who make your twenty years will miss that goddamn paper man every time you come up here for your monthly pistol qualification. And he’s only a paper man. He don’t shoot back. The light’s good and the adrenaline hasn’t turned your arm into a licorice stick like it does in combat. And yet when you blow some asshole up and were lucky to even hit him you’ll hear a member of the coroner’s jury say, ‘Why didn’t you shoot to wound him? Did you have to kill him? Why didn’t you shoot the gun out of his hand!’”

  Randolph’s face was crimson and two wide sweat streams ran down either side of his neck. When he was in uniform he wore three service stripes on his sleeve indicating at least fifteen years with the Department. Yet Serge could hardly believe he was more than thirty. He hadn’t a gray hair and his physique was flawless.

  “What I want you guys to take from my class is this: it’s a bitch to subdue a man with a gun or a stick or a sap, let alone with your hands. Just keep yourself in half-assed condition and you’ll out-endure him. Take the bastard any way you can. If you can use these two or three holds I teach you, then use them. If you can’t, hit him with a brick or anything else. Just subdue your man and you’ll be in one piece the day your twentieth anniversary rolls around and you sign those retirement papers. That’s why I run your asses off.”

  2

  STRESS

  “I DON’T KNOW WHY I’m so nervous,” said Gus Plebesly. “We’ve been told about the stress interview. It’s just to shake us up.”

  “Relax, Gus,” said Wilson, who leaned against the wall, smoking, careful not to drop ashes on the khaki cadet uniform.

  Gus admired the luster of Wilson’s black shoes. Wilson had been a marine. He knew how to spit-shine shoes, and he could drill troops and call cadence. He was Gus’s squad leader and had many of the qualities which Gus believed men could only gain in military service. Gus wished he were a veteran and had been places, then perhaps he would have confidence. He should have. He was the number one man in his class in physical training, but at this moment he wasn’t sure he would be able to speak during the stress interview. He had waited in dread so many times in high school when he had to give an oral report. In college he had once consumed almost a half pint of gin diluted with soda pop before he could give a three-minute speech in a public speaking class. And he had gotten away with it. He wished he could do it now. But these men were police officers. Professionals. They would detect the alcohol in his eyes, speech, or gait. He couldn’t fool them with so cheap a trick.

  “You sure look nervous,” said Wilson, offering Gus a cigarette from the pack he kept in his sock, GI fashion.

  “Thanks a lot, Wilson,” Gus mumbled, refusing the cigarette.

  “Look, these guys are just going to try to psyche you,” said Wilson. “I talked to a guy who graduated in April. They just pick on you in these stress interviews. You know, about your P.T. or your shooting, or maybe your academic standing. But hell, Plebesly, you’re okay in everything and tops in P.T. What can they say?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  “Take me,” said Wilson. “My shooting is so shitty I might as well throw my gun at the goddamn target. They’ll probably rip me apart. Tell me how they’re going to wash me out if I don’t come to the pistol range during the lunch hour and practice extra. That kind of bullshit. But I’m not worried. You realize how bad they need cops in this town? And in the next five, six years it’s going to get lots worse. All those guys that came on right after the war will have their twenty years. I tell you we’ll all be captains before we finish our tours with the Department.”

  Gus studied Wilson, a short man, even a hair shorter than Gus. He must have stretched to meet the minimum five feet eight inches, Gus thought, but husky, big biceps and a fighter’s shoulders, with a broken nose. He had wrestled Wilson in the self-defense classes and had found Wilson surprisingly easy to take down and control. Wilson was much stronger, but Gus was more agile and could persevere.

  Gus understood what Officer Randolph had told them, and he believed that if he could outlast his opponents he
needn’t be afraid. He was surprised at how well it had worked so far in training. But what would a man like Wilson, an ex-fighter, do to him in a real fight? Gus had never hit a man, not with a fist, not with anything. What would happen to his splendid endurance when a man like Wilson buried a heavy fist in his stomach or crashed one to his jaw? He had been a varsity sprinter in high school, but had always avoided contact sports. He had never been an aggressive person. What in the hell had made him think he could be a policeman? Sure the pay was pretty good, what with the security and pension. He could never hope to do as well in the bank. He had hated that dreary low paying job and had almost laughed when the operations officer had assured him that in five more years he could expect to make what he, the operations officer, was making, which was less than a starting Los Angeles policeman. And so he had come this far. Eight weeks and they hadn’t found him out yet. But they might at this stress interview.

  “Only one thing worries me,” said Wilson. “Know what that is?”

  “What?” asked Gus, wiping his wet palms on the legs of the khaki uniform.

  “Skeletons. I hear they sometimes rattle the bones in the stress interview. You know how they say the background investigation of all cadets goes on for weeks after we enter the academy.”