Editor’s Note: Police1 “First Person” essays are the place where P1 columnists and members candidly share their own unique cop’s-eye-view of the world, from personal insights on issues confronting cops today to observations and advice on living life behind the thin blue line. The author of this column, Scott Johnson, is the Senior Patrol Sergeant with the Portland, Oregon Police Bureau. Do you want to share your own perspective with other P1 Members? Send us an E-mail with your story.
By Sergeant Scott Johnson
Portland (Ore.) Police Bureau, Southeast Precinct
It was after midnight, but still hot as the patrol cautiously made its way down the debris-strewn alley, the distinctive triangular front sights of their Colt rifles silhouetted in the slivers of light that escaped through drawn blinds of the houses that lined the narrow way. Boots fell heavily in the darkness; exotic smells wafted out of kitchens, and excited voices in several languages chattered noisily as doors slammed shut as the patrol went by. Body armor caused rivers of sweat to pour off of them, soaking into their uniforms. Flashlights caused weird shadows to dance off of buildings.
They were looking for the man who had fired upon a sergeant and another of their men a few moments before when they took a prisoner into custody outside of a garage pockmarked with bullet strikes. Shots had rung out over their heads as they had struggled with the gun-carrying local, as well as other residents that had approached the commotion on foot, drawn by his yells.
“My helmet’s in my rig, lotta good it’s doin’ me in there,” he thought. Then he called on the radio for assistance: “We were just checkin’ a suspicious guy.”
The sergeant had to pull out his .45 pistol, and order hostiles back at gunpoint, fearing they would attack in order get the prisoner released. The house and garage had been raided early one morning several months before, and obviously there was still some resentment in the neighborhood. There had been a rash of shootings in this residential section of the city in the past several weeks, and extra patrols had been going out.
Now they looked through the abandoned cars and piles of refuse, looking for evidence of the shooter. The shooter wasn’t found, and the patrol made its way back to their vehicles.
Was this Fallujah, Mogadishu, or Baghdad?
Were these men Marines, Regular Army, or National Guard?
Nope, none of these. The abovementioned men weren’t soldiers, but big-city police officers — the city wasn’t in the Middle East or Central Asia, it was Portland, Oregon.
It was July 2002, just a few blocks off of North Williams Ave. and just one little unremarked incident, the kind that doesn’t make the papers. These are the things most folks never hear about, much less ever experience, unless they’re in a combat zone, but Portland Police Bureau officers encounter with all-too-much regularity.
Is it a war? It sure felt like a war that night, as I sweated down that alley, my eyes expecting muzzle flashes anytime, looking for the man that had shot at me and one of my officers. As I searched, watching my men and others from different precincts, I felt the presence of the ghosts of Marines at Hue, Rangers in Somalia, and all the other men and women that have died while protecting their country and their city. You don’t have to go overseas to be in a combat zone.
Overseas or in our backyards, bad guys are still bad guys, and it’s the good guy’s job to go find them.
