by Ray Deveroux
After it had calmed down, all prisoners away, I got back to the servery to find out that a whole tray of thirty meat pies were missing. The wing Senior Officer shook his head and pointed in the direction of the kitchen.
I think you had best explain it to the catering manager, he said.
Off I went to the kitchens, trying to make up an excuse for the missing pies. But in the end, it was an all too common an occurrence.
Little bastards had you over then? The catering manager said, shaking his head. Don’t let it happen too often son; it’ll come out of your pocket next time.
I never made the same mistake again.
On another occasion at the servery, one of the prisoners didn’t like his menu choice. Yes, they do get to choose what they want, from a limited menu. He decided that he wanted chicken instead of curried eggs, his menu choice. Since there is only enough chicken for those who had ordered it, he was refused. This happens now and again. In most cases, after a few complaints that it’s a load of shit anyway, they either take what’s been ordered or go back to their cells with an empty plate, usually with the parting comment of shove it up your arse!
On this occasion, the prisoner was having none of it. I told him his menu choice was curried eggs. He said I was wrong, and demanded the chicken. Getting the menu sheets out that he completed, he was proved wrong. He didn’t like that, accusing me of falsifying his menu sheet. Angry that he thought he was being unfairly treated, he picked up the tray full of curried eggs, and threw it in my direction. It splattered all over the server and me.
Curried eggs is shit, he screamed at me, and promptly picked up the tray of chicken. If I can’t have fucking chicken, no one can have fucking chicken, he screamed. That too came sailing my way. I managed to get out of the firing line and push the alarm.
Alarm bells ringing, staff rushing to the servery to see what was going on. By this time, other prisoners had joined in and it became a massive food fight. You’ve never seen anything like it in your life. There was food everywhere. I was dressed in a white coat, because I was behind the servery. One of the prisoners was making a beeline for the hot custard. I wasn’t going to wear that. As he got closer, I clouted him across the head with the large serving ladle I was holding. He went down, but someone soon took his place trying to get at the pud and custard. I swiped him around the head with the ladle as well. He went down into the mixture, holding his head and screaming at the top of his voice.
The battle went on until the whole serving area resembled a war zone, except it was well over a hundred portions of food, and at least a gallon of gravy. Officers, like the prisoners, were slipping and sliding around in the mixture of curried eggs, chicken legs and vegetables, with a pot full of gravy, for good measure. We were on the floor grappling with prisoners that were having a ball chucking food around. It was like a scene from a comedy film!
We eventually got control. Someone had the brilliant idea of bringing the dogs in, but they were more interested in the food all over the floor. Quickly, and to the sound of loud cheers and whooping, the dogs were pulled away to the end of the landings. Stupid idea in the first place.
After a struggle, we got the prisoners back behind their doors. It was well past our finish time, but as in any incident, no one can leave until all prisoners are safely locked away and the prison roll is correct. By this time, all the other house blocks had finished, their prisoners safely locked up. One by one they joined us, helping to finish feeding our prisoners
On our wing, only twenty or so of our prisoners had been fed. There was no food left, unless you count what the staff was wearing, so the kitchen supplied powdered mash and a boiled egg. We fed the prisoners at their doors, not wanting a repeat of another food fight. Staff had to endure more rounds of verbal and some physical abuse, I got another plateful in my face and I wasn’t the only one. This time the dogs were at each end of the landings away from the food.
I ended up in hospital that night. After rolling round the floor trying to get control of the prisoners, I had gashed my head on something. I didn’t think anything of it earlier, assuming that it was slops of food that were running down my face. Anyway, not too serious, slight concussion and four stitches later, I was back home. God knows what the wife thought at that time; me coming home after midnight, still covered in rotten food, stitches in my head. When she asked me what I wanted to eat for my dinner, I nearly balked.
That wasn’t the last time I was to visit the hospital. During my career, I have been assaulted over twenty times, six of which resulted in hospital visits and one serious enough to leave me disabled and off sick for three months.
And so it went on, incident after incident, a poor mix of new staff and experienced staff verses, old and wise convicts.
Just in case you, the reader thinks it’s all doom, gloom and fighting, it isn’t. Mostly, a prison Officer’s role is quite tedious. Our job is to monitor and supervise prisoners. That means for the most part of the day, we are standing round watching them.
Concerted Indiscipline
I remember an all-night incident where, during a very warm evening, the prisoners refused to come off the exercise yard. It was a glorious Saturday evening and the sun was still warm. Most of the staff, as I did, had plans to get home and light up the barbeque.
The prisoners had different plans – they were staying put. Not one of them moved when end of exercise was called. We went round the yard trying to cajole them into returning to the unit. If we could get just one or two moving, the rest would follow. Not even the presence of nearly every Officer in the jail – very nearly a ratio of one-on-one – would move them. The duty Officer stood in the middle of the yard, trying to reason with them. He wasn’t going to order us to drag them off physically; it would end up as a mass brawl in an unsecured area. Not something that we wanted. The prisoners had obviously planned this sit out and could be armed with makeshift weapons; it was a dangerous and volatile situation.
Dogs were called in, this time patrolling the perimeter fence of the yard. We wanted the dogs to be let loose on the yard, but apparently, the prisoners had rights. The dog handlers were not allowed to let them on the yard. It would have been amusing watching the prisoners running for their lives; the dogs would have torn them to pieces.
Even when the sun had started to go down, they still wouldn’t budge. Yes, there were the few that wanted no part of it and they went off, back to their cells. But the hard core were staying put, so we had to stay put with them.
This had now turned into a major incident; head office, the police, local fire and rescue were alerted. The incident had now turned into large-scale indiscipline. With some sixty prisoners staging a sit-in on the exercise yard, it was imperative that prison staff take control back. Incident commanders were called in, as were control and restraint teams from around the county. There were police helicopters overhead. The prisoners clearly loved it; every time a helicopter flew overhead, they cheered. When they heard police sirens, they booed.
Most staff were now kitted up in control and restraint gear and split into teams of four staff, with a Senior Officer in charge. We were on standby in a cordoned-off area, sweating like pigs in the hot evening sunshine, waiting for the call.
The plan was for eight teams of four to enter the exercise yard. Four were dispatched to the north end, four at the south and spread out on the inside perimeter of the fence, while the dogs still had the outside. All the prisoners at this time had moved over to sit in a long line in the remaining sunshine on one side. The incident commander entered the yard in a last attempt to give the prisoners the opportunity of leaving quietly before he gave the order to advance on the prisoners. We were told to move in and target the ringleaders. We could all see who the ring leaders were; the Senior Officer in charge split the yard into zones, each team was allocated a zone to advance upon and the target to apprehend.
Some did peel off; to the threats of other prisoners calling them nonces and black-leggers, but the dozen o
r more hardcore prisoners stayed, looking for a fight.
A battle they got. With the slight nod of his head, the incident commander needed no more. We were fired up. Red mist was taking over.
The Senior Officer in charge of our team pointed out our target and the four-man team was off like a pack of wolves. I could see over my shoulder, the others were doing the same. Although outnumbered, the sight of prison Officers in full riot gear is scary. Some of the prisoners bolted for the gate, not having the stomach for it. Others, still hell bent on fighting, were starting to charge back.
Our target was moving towards us. He had somehow managed to hide a table leg down his trousers, as did some other prisoners. This was clearly planned. He was joined by another prisoner, who took his boots off and put them on his hands as types of boxing gloves.
We went into them at full force, our shields knocking away the table leg, while the second prisoner with boots on his hands tried to out-flank us to get around the side. I saw this, and as he came closer, I pulled back. His eyes lit up with what he thought was a victory; getting an Officer to back down. Then I came back at him, head first, fully helmeted, hitting him straight across his nose. He went down in a spray of blood and tangled bones, his mate getting his balance and swinging the chair leg at full force towards us.
Shouting and swearing at the top of his voice, he came at us, but he was no match for four control and restraint trained Officers. We were upon him, twisting his wrists, until he screamed. With full locks on and in control, we took him off the yard, straight to the segregation unit.
We could see that the other teams had done their jobs and the yard was soon cleared. We earned our stripes that night. No longer could we be called “sprogs” – slang for new and inexperienced Officers.
Flushed with victory, we were de-briefed and allowed home. It was dawn before I got home. Because of the incident, the prison was on lock down the next morning, so we weren’t expected to be in until 10.00.hrs
The next day I was summoned to the Governor’s office. Shit, I thought, what had I done now?
The Governor was in a good mood, so I thought it couldn’t have been that bad. He started going over the events of the incident the night before, telling me what he thought was a good and professional job done by all the staff. He started to mention my name connected with a few things that were going on at the time. To be honest, I just wanted out of there, back to my wing where we were dying to compare stories with each other and of course, do the dreaded paperwork that follows any control and restraint incident.
So he says with the recommendations received by the incident commander, I have decided to award you with a commendation for your excellent work on the night.
Well fuck me sideways, I never expected that! Something to tell the lads on the landings.
The commendation was presented to me by the number one Governor in a full staff meeting a week later, with the jeers, claps and whistles from my colleagues. Me with a big red face, yet again. I was good at doing red faces back then. I was called to the front to have my photo taken with the Governor and receive my framed plaque.
I was told after the incident by the incident commander, who was also the segregation Principal Officer, Big Pete, that the prisoner with the boots on his hands had the bootlaces tied together. His intended target was not I; it was young Clare, who had been detailed as the legman behind me. His plan was to wrap the laces around her neck to take her hostage. The incident commander had seen this; however, before the prisoner with the boots on his hands could react, I had dropped him. I didn’t realize that he was after Clare at the time. I was just doing my job, protecting our flank.
Clare was a twenty-three year old single mother; slim, well proportioned, with auburn hair and green eyes that could melt any man. She was undoubtedly very pretty, but was poisonous. Good eye candy, for some; for others, she was a heart and marriage breaker. She had been transferred in under a cloud, apparently getting over-familiar with a convicted prisoner. She’s wasn’t the first female Officer and certainly not the last to get involved with prisoners. Just so I’m not accused of being sexist, it happens to both male and female staff. However, she had got her sights on the new wing Senior Officer on the 45 wing – the sex offender’s wing. You could see where it was leading; he was already married with a kid, but that small detail wasn’t going to stop her.
She also had the habit of taking time off because of child-care issues. Although most staff were understanding, in her case it was all too regular.
When Clare found out she was the target of a possible hostage situation and it had been foiled by my intervention, she didn’t come to thank me, as you would have expected. She went off sick with stress. No loss there, I suppose; at least the wing she was on had regular staff that would turn up every day for their shift.
Back On the Wing
Back on house block two, things were starting to settle down. The prisoner that tried to take Clare hostage with the boots was brought back on the wing after his ten days stint down the block. He recognised me as the screw that had head-butted him and challenged me to a one-on-one. This happens from time to time; some prisoners believe that Officers are powerless weaklings out of uniform. I, as usual told him that I wasn’t interested. It doesn’t do to get personal. However, he tried to drag me in his cell, scraping half an inch of skin from my shin as he pulled me over the steel bed. He soon discovered that not all prisoners are supermen and not all Officers are weaklings. A slight tap with the palm of my hand to his already injured nose was all that was needed to put a stop to that, but he still retained a hand on my belt, stopping me from getting out of the cell. I could hear staff blowing their whistles outside, and other Officers running to support me. All Officers carry whistles to alert of danger.
First to come through the door was our new Principal Officer, Allison, a tall reedy woman with long straggly hair, quickly followed by Les. I’d never seen him move so fast. They dragged me out of there, for the prisoner’s safety more than mine. I didn’t take too well at having skin removed from my shin, and I was well pissed off. The prisoner, at this time, was lying on the floor hands over his swollen nose, crying. He was quickly moved back to the segregation unit, where my mate John made him very welcome … sort of!
We had two new staff on house block two – Allison, our new Principal Officer and Cedric (aka Hamlet) our new Senior Officer. Allison was in her early thirties, a lesbian. Her partner was our wing Governor who looked like a character from Wallace and Grommet. Allison was all right; a good sense of humour, good to work with, and she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. She wasn’t an office wallah, preferring to be out on the landings with the staff rather than sit in her office. Although not minding a laugh and a joke, she was touchy about her sexuality and didn’t like queer bashing, or lesbian jokes. We respected her for that; it’s nice to know where you stand.
Hamlet was a different kettle of fish; he didn’t like women in the job, let alone lesbians, and someone who was his line manager to boot. Cedric came by the name of Hamlet because he smoked Hamlet cigars, and looked for all the world like the bloke in the Hamlet adverts at that time – short, fat, and bald, forever, sweeping greasy strands of hair over his bald patch. He had a habit of staying in the office. This infuriated Allison. He also prided himself on being able to fart at will, making various amounts of noise as he shot one out. Every one of them stank and reminded me of the slopping out days. We all like a laugh, but he was disgusting. Hamlet had a habit of ensuring he had a good meaty fart ready when Allison came into the office. Allison soon worked out his sick schemes and was no mug. She knew what he was up to and would summon him to her office, which she used to spray with perfume to annoy Hamlet.
We couldn’t understand why he had been transferred to Whitemoor. He had only a few months before he retired. However, it transpired that his wife had relatives in Wisbech and she wanted to move out of Liverpool, fearing there was going to be more troubles like the Toxteth riots in the e
ighties. She nagged Hamlet to get a transfer out of the area. She knew that while her husband was still in service, it would be a paid move.
Hamlet was always deriding Allison. He took pleasure in seeing her squirm. He wanted the rest of the Officers to side with him, but we were having none of it. A Senior Officer who never come out of his office, smoked cigars and farted a lot, versus, a Principal Officer who was fully supportive of her staff? We were on her side, no contest.
He went over the top one day and nearly made Allison cry. We knew he was trying to undermine her, but it was best not to get caught up in prison politics. Allison, in her wisdom changed her appearance, and dyed her mop of hair bright blonde, bordering on white. Hamlet thought she looked like a walking Tampax, and to be fair, she did. But we were not joining in his piss taking of our Principal Officer
The next week she dyed her hair red, having heard the Tampax joke once too often. But then she looked like a Swan Vesta match. Did the poor woman never learn?
Anyway, Hamlet went off sick. We never saw him again. Apparently, he died a few months later of a heart attack. Allison had the last laugh, telling us his wife had probably suffocated him with a pillow rather than put up with his farting.
Allison had been told she had to attend Hamlet’s funeral. The Governor wanted a representative there from Whitemoor prison. She promptly ordered me to go in her place. She hated him and didn’t want to be seen as a hypocrite, nor be anywhere the smelly bastard.
It was a day out, I suppose, me in full dress uniform meeting with his wife and family. Mind you, after meeting his wife, I’d have topped myself. I did get to meet with Fossie from Norwich. He was surprised to see me. Fossie was on funeral escort from Norwich prison; he had a prisoner from the jail with him. Turns out that Hamlet’s son was serving time at Norwich. He looked just like him – hair, or lack of it, short fat and smelly and obnoxious.