Tittle-Tattle on the Gate

Written in collaboration by the R.P’s of the 3rd L.G.H.

“ ‘Ere, Bill, look at ‘R.P.’ on the bloke’s sleeve. What’s it mean?”

“Rookie-Pincher,” sneered an Australian patient, winking behind the policeman’s back at a pretty girl in the road.

Perhaps this little colloquy sums up as well as anything the military policeman’s position. It is a hybrid one – something between St. George and the Dragon; but it may be asserted that the “copper” is “preyed upon” as much as he “preys.”

There is plenty of laughter, however, as well as tears, if he possesses a sense of humour, and the following gate incidents will testify as much, besides possibly furnishing some amusement for the gentle reader.

When not engaged in looking as important as possible and fiercely slapping his leg with a cane, the policeman’s secondary duties are to keep a percentage of human beings within the gate and the other without. Amongst the latter may be mentioned piebald urchins and stray dogs, nursemaids, perambulatory, rag-and-bone merchants, and Princes of the Blood. Keen intuition, initiative, and a glib answer for every idiotic question, are essential. Here are some fair samples of the above questions.

Paterfamilias with large family would like to look over the building, and is politely but firmly told that the 3rd London is not a museum but a hospital.

Dear old lady (very nervous and stammering profusely) informs gate policeman that her son went to Australia about four years ago, and she would like to know if, by chance, we could tell her whether he had enlisted in the Australian Army?

Florid female in tropic attire would like to know if Private Brown is a patient. As there are now well over seventeen hundred patients in the 3rd London, it is safe to say that he probably is. But which Brown? That is the question. A consultation of the register reveals two hundred and thirty six of that noble name!

“Have you seen my wife come in?” enquires a patient on visiting day. “You must know her, because she is the prettiest girl who comes through the gates.” Upon which comment it is discreet to make no comment – least of all when our Sergeant’s eye is on us.

And the number of relatives some patients seem to possess is truly remarkable. Lady cousins are especially numerous. Alas, the authorities insist on Passes, and the police are obliged to cross-examine those visitors who do not produce the necessary permit. One such lady, of eccentric appearance, recently came to the police-box seeking permission to visit a patient.

“A friend of your ma’am?” enquired the policeman.

“No, silly! ‘E’s me ‘usbin!” snapped the good lady, in high dudgeon.

The responsibilities of the gate are many and various, but the policeman can usually carry them off with a high hand if he salutes all and sundry, above the rank of sergeant, with punctilio – not forgetting doubtful denominations of the sister services: assistant cooks and head stokers are always glad to accept salutes! There are occasions, however, when even saluting is of no use in an emergency. A case in point occurred one day last month.

A distracted wife anxious to see her husband without delay, left her perambulator – and its occupant – in charge of our too rashly sympathetic sergeant. All would have been well if a chestnut had not fallen from an overhanging tree with precision on the baby’s nose. Thereafter, pandemonium reigned. Our sergeant, true to the best traditions of the police force, did his best in the emergency – his efforts consisted mainly in holding the infant sideways and digging it playfully in the ribs with his swagger-cane. But it was all useless, even when supports arrived in the shape of a gallant contingent of onlooking Anzac patients. Unfortunately they were not patient – and neither was the baby. For a solid hour and a half that lusty child occupied the sergeant’s full attention, and it was with no small joy that he was eventually relieved of his burden. It is to be feared that he has vowed a vow to be less good-natured in future.

Such incidents are trying. Likewise is the attempt to give proper directions to a visitor who seeks the exact location of D4, when one is simultaneously saluting an officer and at the same moment being asked for Gazettes and postcards and striving to keep a watchful eye on some stray urchins.

Our friends the char-ladies used to prove, on occasions, “flies in the ointment” of a policeman’s existence. For there were some – it is not insinuated that there are any now – who displayed a desire to keep the metropolis in cheaper food at the expense of the hospital. It then became necessary to investigate the contents of any bulky package which was observed to be carried out through the gate.

Mrs. Frump, one of the ladies alluded to, had no pass, and her “ridicule” (as Mrs. Frump would persist in calling it) being somewhat bulgy in aspect, the Sergeant thrust in his hand to make certain that no intoxicating liquors were concealed therein. The movement was quick, and maybe a little violent, the eggs were by no means fresh and rather soft – and the Sergeant was abundantly eloquent as he withdrew his dripping fingers.

“Eggs!” quoth he. “Eggs!” And then ( a little unreasonably, under the circumstances) – “Lawd lumme! Why didn’t you tell us afore?”