<< Back 12/18/02 A cop gives what’s needed – at Christmas By Marshall Frank It was to be another ordinary day as Officer Douglas McHugh awakened to the morning alarm, head wracked from too many drinks the night before. Oh, those Christmas Eve parties at the F.O.P. lodge. After a hurried shower, he donned a wrinkled uniform, holstered his nine millimeter and gobbled a banana before heading back into the urban jungle. That was his beat. Minutes laster, he rushed back to his garage apartment to retrieve Tyrone, a large stuffed Tyrannosaurus Rex with a red satin bow around its neck, then placed it in the back seat of the cruiser. Perhaps he’d sneak away to see his boy during lunch break. It was Douglas’ first Christmas as a divorcee. Holidays were once a time of joy. But now, this was a day of loneliness. The morning excitement of his five year-old son, the aroma of a twinkling blue spruce, the sounds of “Joy To The World,” the touch of a loving woman, were all but a page in history. Today, there would be no hugs, no giving. Only taking. The taking of freedom, that is. It was his job. Wednesday morning traffic was sparse, a stark reminder that this was a special day. Kids everywhere rode shiny new bicycles. One of them, somewhere out there, was his. A small photo of little Timmy lay atop the dash. He had regretted it a thousand times, offered gushing apologies, but it could not reverse destiny. One weak moment was no excuse. Sharon, now remarried, could never trust again. A late model Toyota caught his attention speeding east on the wrong side of the road, weaving, jerking from side to side. Minutes later, the driver staggered on his feet beside Douglas’ police car reeking of whiskey, trying desperately to touch the tip of his nose. “Please, Offisher. I gotta see my kids. Please don’t put me in jail on Chrishmas day. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Douglas dutifully handcuffed the disheveled auto mechanic and placed him in the back seat of his patrol car. “Please, offisher. I jes’ got divorced. Got two kids. Lost my house, car, everything. My life’s ruined.” The drunk began sobbing. “I knows I was wrong. Please. Gimme a break. I’ll lose my job.” Douglas lifted the radio to announce he was transporting a prisoner. Then, he held back ... thinking. Christmas day, two kids, newly divorced. He watched the man wallow in self pity, strangely juxtaposed to that giant furry dinosaur sitting beside him. Douglas figured the fellow was a decent man, no past record. But, it was his job to enforce the law. Then he remembered the party at the F.O.P. lodge, his own arduous drive back to his apartment through blurred eyeballs. Finally, he ordered the dispatcher. “Send me a taxi cab. Stranded motorist here.” It was just past noon. A good time to call Timmy. He grabbed a cup of coffee at a donut house, plugged two coins into a pay phone, punched seven numbers and imagined the size of Timmy’s eyes when he gave him that dinosaur. The phone rang four times before a beep, then ... “Hello. You have reached 534.9685. Paul, Joey and I are out of town for the holidays. If you would like to leave your name and number ...” Just another ordinary day. Thirty solemn minutes later, Douglas heard his call number again. “6241, are you in the area of Eastern Shores?” “That’s affirmative,” he answered. He lay the radio on the seat and pulled to the roadside to write. A high-pitched tone sounded, the signal for an emergency. “6241, child drowning ...” As she recited the address, Doug scrambled for another pen. His was out of ink. No pen. Frustrated, he memorized the address. No time to lose. The call was life threatening. “... small boy fell in a pool ...” He turned on the overhead flashers, blared the siren and took off like a shot. He was less than two miles away. Cars scrambled to the roadside as he sped across the causeway, siren wailing, beacons flashing. He made a sharp left on two wheels into a residential district, then a fast right and another left searching for street signs. Four more streets to go. He backed up, turned left, then right at the next corner. A bustle of activity was seen in the distance at a cul de sac. As he screeched to a stop, a swarm of people, mostly women, ran to his cruiser and pointed frantically toward the graffiti marked house at the far end. When he switched off the siren, the strident shrill of a woman screaming in the distance pierced his eardrums. A large, balding man in a tattered tee shirt motioned for the officer to hurry. “This way, this way,” he shouted. Adrenalin rushed throughout his body as Douglas followed the sound of the woman’s voice, running closer and finally to the rear of the house. She was on her knees inside a dilapidated screened patio, trembling hands folded to her heart facing the green murky pool water, yelling in Spanish. Arms flailing, face contorted, she turned to the officer. A dozen people swarmed the officer, babbling hysterically. A surge of panic shot through his body. This was no academy exercise. No Resuscitator Annie here. The world was watching, it seemed, and there was a two year-old boy somewhere in that pit of thick, green algae water. The house had been abandoned for months. The mother began to tear at his uniform, eyes bulging, ranting in a language that the officer did not know, but understood. The officer quickly shed his gunbelt and shoes. “How long has he been in there?” he asked a bystander. “Less than five minutes,” a voice shouted back. Little time left. Douglas dove into the slimy water but it was like peering through an ocean of vomit. He squeezed his eyes shut and pumped his way to the floor where he felt the slimy concrete. Like a blind catfish, he swam back and forth along the bottom hoping to feel the flesh of a boy. Seconds felt like hours. Finally, an object. He pulled, then let it go. Just an old lawn chair. His lungs were ready to explode as he struggled to make it to the surface. Anticipation glared in their eyes as he broke the plane of the murky pool, gasping. Treading water, he shook his head while Mama, perched on her hands and knees, continued screaming. The large, bald man slammed hands to head and turned away. “I’m sorry,” choked the officer, “I’m going back again. I’ll find him.” He sucked a huge breath before submerging once more, this time to the shallow end. Too much time had passed, he thought.The boy could never survive. Like that blind catfish, he traversed the pool bottom again, back and forth, groping, when suddenly, inches below the surface at the corner stairs, he felt a tiny foot. Then, a leg. It’s him. I’ve got him. He pulled the child and emerged, shocking the crowd like a swamp monster. Amid a cacophony of deafening voices, he raised the limp child over his head and onto the coping. No time to lose. Coughing and gasping for breath, Douglas asked the bald man to restrain Mama as she raced over. First, he squeezed the boy’s chest, holding him upside down to drain his lungs. No signs of life, no pulse, no breathing. It’s too late, he thought, the boy is dead. But he had to try. Douglas had been on the job for only a year and never performed CPR outside a classroom. His mind searched the far reaches of his training. “Give me room,” he demanded, uniform clinging to his body. He went to work, carefully, patiently, just as he was taught. He wondered why the rescue unit was taking so long to arrive. He started with short, rhythmic depressions to the boy’s breast bone. Then he cupped his lips over the child’s nose and mouth and blew short, rapid breaths into his lifeless airways. Onlookers were eerily silent as they steeled intensely to the officer, some standing, some kneeling, all with hands to their faces, praying. Seconds, minutes passed with no response. A pall of pessimism chilled the crowd. Suddenly, like a bursting bubble, the boy coughed into the officer’s mouth. Everyone gasped. The boy coughed again. Mama exploded into tears, unable to utter a sound. Miraculously, the boy’s eyes fluttered and color started to return to his purple skin. Cheers and laughter erupted everywhere as the boy cried. Douglas barely felt those hands slapping his shoulders, pounding on his back. “Thank you.” “You did it! You did it!” “Gracias Senor.” At last, the sound of a siren from a rescue ambulance drew closer and then stopped. With the child cradled in his arms, Douglas raced to the street and transferred the confused little boy to a husky woman wearing an emergency medical technician’s uniform. As he took one last glance at the boy, the image of his own son flashed through his brain, dark hair, brown eyes, so innocent, so in love with life. Mama leaped upon him with a bear hug, holding and kissing his weary face, gushing tearful praises in Spanish and English. That was the moment Douglas McHugh realized the enormous feat he had just accomplished. He had saved the life of a human being. Sopping wet, Douglas sauntered back to his patrol car emotionally spent as well as physically. He paused a few moments to catch his breath then lifted the radio to advise the dispatcher. “I’m clear. The child is all right. I’ll be out of service to change uniforms.” The crowd looked on from their yards, a half dozen women and the large balding fellow all smiling and waving. He buckled up and started the engine when a barefoot teenage girl approached his window. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a toothy smile. Oh yeah, he mused. Christmas. “Well, Merry Christmas to you, too, young lady.” Shrouded with a sense of gladness, he pondered the awesome moment. Bearing a broad smile, he reached into the back seat, grabbed the furry Tyrannosaurus Rex with the red bow and passed it to the young girl. “Here,” he said. “His name is Tyrone. Give it to that little boy. Will you do that for me?” “Oh, yes sir,” she replied, beaming. “What’s your name?” “I’m Officer McHugh. Douglas McHugh,” he replied, gazing down at his son’s photograph. It was a day of giving after all. (Marshall Frank is a retired Miami law enforcement officer and a novelist who lives in Maggie Valley. He can be reached at mlf283@aol.com)