A force to be reckoned: memoir of a Hong Kong Policeman
Chris Emmett's memoir, Hong Kong Policeman, is an honest and often hilarious insight into how a small-town British bobby adapted to life in the exotic, chaotic Far East. The following is an excerpt from the book.
In the autumn of 1970, I did not have a care in the world. I was an English Bobby in a bustling little Merseyside town called Warrington. I was twenty-two years old, had my own little patrol car and so long as I kept one step ahead of the sergeant, life was sweet. It was not too exciting, but so what, who needs excitement? Then one weekend, I thumbed through the Sunday papers and there it was. I could not take my eyes off it. I read it several times, there was even a picture. It was a pen-and-ink drawing of a British officer leading a group of Hong Kong policemen up a dark staircase. He wore a smart bush shirt and a leather Sam Browne belt. A shoulder strap supported the weight of a pistol on his left hip. He looked like something out of Boys' Own comics. Above the picture, a headline declared: '2am in Kowloon is a fine time for self-discovery.'
I cut the advertisement from the newspaper and carried it around for days. I showed it to one of my section's older constables, a crusty veteran with twenty years service. He held it at arm's length and frowned. 'You're a bit young for an inspector,' he sniffed. 'And what's Hong Kong got that Warrington hasn't?' He thrust the advertisement back at me. 'Waste of time, if you ask me. You'll probably have to learn Japanese.'
Jesus, it's the bloody Orient,' I heard myself say ... It was the stuff of schoolboy fantasy.
I tucked the advertisement back in my pocket and checked my pigeon-hole for messages. The only one was from my sergeant, chasing me for a report on a broken street light. Outside, autumn had set in. There was a light drizzle and the days were getting shorter. I made my way to the station charge office and typed up the broken street light report. The charge office constable was sipping tea and reading a day-old copy of the Daily Mirror. He nodded to me. 'Nice and quiet,' he said. 'Let's hope it stays that way.'
I thought for a moment, then fed a sheet of paper into the typewriter. I checked that nobody was watching and began to type:
Dear Sir,
In response to your recent advertisement …
On Friday, November 13, 1970, a harassed official from the Crown Agents met me at Heathrow Airport's departure lounge. He checked my paperwork and pointed to a group of young men standing at the bar. 'You're the last,' he said. 'Introduce yourself and make sure you don't miss the bloody plane.' He wished me luck, hunched his shoulders and scurried off.