Being a student of history, particularly from WW II, I've developed an immense respect for those who fought and sacrificed in that war, a war that was fought on two fronts against three enemies: Germany and, to a lesser extent, Italy in Europe and the Japanese in the Pacific theater.
When I was writing the veterans stories for our local newspaper, my favorite subjects to interview were the veterans from the Second World War. That generation of men...they were just a different breed from a bygone age. They are and were, truly, America's Greatest Generation.
I mention that in order to tell this story.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of seventeen years ago I was working night shift with my pal Troy Weaver, who's now a captain at Lexington PD, and another guy I'll refer to as Goof, a man that should never have worn a badge.
Goof was probably 6 foot two and, in his mind, handsome. Arrogant doesn't begin to describe his attitude, coupled with a distinct lack of respect for those who commanded him. Here was a man who'd never, in his ten-plus years on the job, done anything he could hang his hat on. Goof would do the bare minimum in order to get by on the job.
This night, dispatch got a couple of calls from a local nursing home about a resident who was highly agitated and armed with a club and a large shard of glass, threatening staff.
The man had also recently had open-heart surgery.
The three of us arrived at about the same time, rushing inside. The nursing supervisor, obviously distressed, led us down a hallway until it terminated at a crossing hall. To the right, in a dead-end area that served as a waiting room, stood our subject, totally naked and bleeding from his recently acquired surgical scar, which ran from just below his throat to his belly. In one bleeding hand he held the piece of long, jagged glass; in the other a table leg, which still had the metal triangular fitting which had attached it to the bottom of said table.
He was somewhere around eighty or 85 years old.
"He had bypass surgery two weeks ago", exclaimed the supervisor, who was now huddled behind a large desk with a few other nurses. "He wants to see his wife."
Hearing those words, the man said, "You're damned right I wanna see my wife, now call her up and get her down here!" He then turned to us and semi-crouched, as if ready to attack. "I ain't afraid of no cops! I fought the Japs on Iwo Jima!"
The agitated man was a World War Two veteran and, if he'd been on Iwo, definitely a Marine.
About a year or so before this incident we'd had Taser training, qualifying our officers to carry and use the electronic device. I had conducted the training, having attended a week-long instructor's class.
The device delivers 50,000 volts of short, very quick waves of electricity, and is designed to sort of 'short-circuit' the connection between nerves and muscles, temporarily incapacitating its target. In my experience, if delivered correctly, it is very effective; however, at that time there were three instances in which it was NOT to be used: on obviously pregnant females, on subjects who would be injured by falling from elevation and on heart patients.
Naturally, Goof draws down on the man with his Taser.
"DO NOT use that weapon!!" I screamed. "He's a heart patient!"
Goof didn't care, keeping the Taser trained on the man. I stepped into his line of fire. "PUT THAT THING AWAY!"
He did, wearing a sneer on his face.
"I WANT MY WIFE!", shouted the old Marine.
The nursing supervisor crept up behind us, wary of the elderly man who no doubt would do harm to anyone who approached him. "His wife's been dead for three years", she loud-whispered to us.
Troy and I had a quick discussion and came up with a plan: while one of us kept the man talking and at bay, the others would retrieve two hospital-bed mattresses. We'd use them to pin the cardiac patient to the wall and disarm him. Meanwhile, we had nursing supervisor call for a rescue squad, as the distraught veteran would need more medical care than the nursing home could provide.
Weaver and I rushed the man, who'd tried feebly to swing the table leg, the blow cushioned by the mattresses. Once he was pinned, we successfully disarmed him. The man started crying, calling out for his deceased wife.
He was transported to the hospital; that was the last I ever heard of him.
Goof? Well, all I'll say is that he eventually resigned...after a search warrant had been served a few months later on a local drug trafficker and Goof's business card, with his home phone number written on the back, was found in the drug seller's coat pocket. It seems they'd had a cozy relationship, often riding their motorcycles together; we'd planned and pulled off the search warrant without Goof getting a whiff of it, otherwise, I'm certain Goof would have warned the mope. I probably should mention that, in addition to drugs shipped from overseas and cash, a .45 caliber Desert Eagle was seized from the doper.
Who knows what would have transpired had the trafficker been forewarned.
I sometimes think about that incident, knowing that the WW II Marine is probably gone from this earth by now, and wish I could have written about his military service.
What a story he could have told.
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