I had held the rank of Sergeant for some years and had been employed on plain clothes vice duties in central London for around six years or so. I was awaiting transfer to another squad at New Scotland Yard where I would remain for around eight years until my retirement.

My old boss and good friend, the chief Superintendent had asked me if I would go back into uniform for a couple of months to cover a shortage of experienced sergeants. I had a good moan but agreed as he was such a nice bloke.

Saturday late turn (3pm-11pm) I was the patrol sergeant at a central London police station. I had just finished posting the lads and lassies to their allotted beats and patrols when I was called to the phone, it was the information room at Scotland Yard. Apparently reliable information had been received from the flying squad that a cash-in-transit van on route to pick the takings from a local dairy was about to be robbed by a gang of London's finest blaggers, they, the flying squad, were unable to cover the incident so it was down to us. Fortunately I was an authorised firearms officer, as was the other sergeant on duty with me, also a CID officer doing his turn in uniform, I will call him Jim, not his real name. I quickly got authorisation for both of us to draw firearms. We consulted the area map and drew up our fiendish plan to bring the incident to a successful conclusion. Basically it was this. Jim and I would go the dairy and liaise with the manager before hiding ourselves away and waiting for the bad guys to turn up, we would then round them up, hopefully without shooting anybody or getting shot ourselves. Meantime several of my officers would be a few streets away in vehicles, ready to charge to the scene once we had control.

The dairy layout consisted of an outer area for parking cars, an inner area for the milk lorries and floats and a single story office with a covered approach.

On arrival at the dairy it was obvious the manager knew nothing of the impending robbery and almost passed out when we told him. The usual Saturday events at the dairy followed a pretty well established pattern. The milkmen would go out on their round, deliver the goods and collect the cash for the weeks bills from the customers before returning to the depot and handing it all in. The milkmen then went home leaving the manager to await the arrival of the cash-in-transit van to pick up the money, several thousand pounds apparently. So far so good, we instructed the manager to act as normally as possible and meet the security man when he arrived to pick up the cash, which he did from the office. Myself and Jim would be hidden from view waiting for events to unfold. I was hidden behind a big fat fork lift truck with loads of metal to fend off any unfriendly bullets or other missiles that may come my way and Jim was behind a low wall on the other side, now the anxious wait began. The clock ticked ominously towards the time the cash van was due, then I heard it, squeak, squeak, rattle, a little old lady with a shopping trolley came slowly into the dairy, she stopped in front of me and in my immediate line of fire about fifteen feet away. The manager came rushing out of his office to confront her, "Can I have a pint of milk please" said the lady. Please clear off I thought looking at my watch. The manager grabbed a bottle and thrust it into her hand , "I just remembered" she said "I need some eggs". God, the cash van is now due any minute, please let it be late, what would happen if the bad guys turn up just as she is trying to get eggs! The manger now doing a passable impression of an Olympic sprinter, rushed back inside and came out with a carton of eggs "There you go love, have them on the house" not this lady, she's old school, "Oh no, I have to pay, how much is it please?" she then fumbled through her bag and purse before slowly counting out the money. By now I am almost melting, I can only imagine what Jim is going through. Finally the nightmare is over, no little old lady is going to be killed or injured in crossfire between the police and the enemy. The squeak, squeak of her trolley slowly faded as did the sound of my heart.

Thank God I thought. I was just about to call over to Jim when it happened! A blue Triumph 2000 containing four big men roared into the car park area and did a handbrake turn on the gravel, at the same moment the cash vehicle began to turn in. Jim and I burst from cover and ran to the vehicle, weapons drawn and screaming something along the lines of "Armed police! Get out the vehicle with your hands up!" "Do it now!" The cash-in-transit vehicle started to reverse out as the men climbed out of the car, "Get on the ground, face down" we yelled. Three did so right away but the one in front of me began to question my instructions in a very bad tempered way despite looking down the pointy end of a gun. Nothing for it but to give him a bit of help, down he went, no more arguments.

I called up the reserves who appeared in a very short time and took control of the 'prisoners' whilst Jim and I searched the car for weapons, nothing found. The car meantime smelled strongly of alcoholic beverages, as did the four men. One of the men, the one I had assisted to get on the ground, asked if he could speak. What followed would do justice to a 'Carry On' film.

This is what he told me. He was a milkman employed by the dairy and had been so employed for a couple of years. Every Saturday he finished his round early, usually around 12.30pm when he went to meet his three mates (not milkmen) in a local pub for 'a few beers' and some serious games of cards. On this particular day his wife had given him strict orders to bring home a frozen chicken for Sunday lunch as her parents were visiting. Being a dutiful husband he had followed her instructions, bought the chicken and placed it in the refrigerated compartment of his milk float. Having completed his round it was back to the dairy to check in, this is where it went disastrously wrong. Excited by the prospect of meeting his mates for beer and cards he completely forgot poor old Henrietta the hen residing in his milk float and went off to the pub. Several beers later the lights came on and he remembered the chicken. He had to get back to the dairy before the manger locked up and went home, fortunately one of his boozy mates had a car! You know the rest.

In order to verify his tale I went to get the manager who had locked himself in his office (I don't blame him). After assuring him it was the police and not Dick Turpin at the door he opened up. I explained the situation to him and asked him to confirm the man's story. Once outside I confronted the two men. "Is this man employed here as a milkman?" I asked the manager "Not anymore he isn't." came the reply. "When did he leave?" I asked. "About five minutes ago and I would appreciate him leaving the premises." "What about my chicken?" Mr manager explained that the refrigerated units on the milk floats were turned off when they returned to the dairy, his chicken would have defrosted and he would kindly throw it away for him!

To make matters worse the lads told the driver he was too inebriated to drive, and they would park his car for him on a side street and he could collect the keys from the police station the following day. Mr Milkman wandered off home on foot minus a chicken, I can't imagine what he told his wife, she would never have believed what really happened.

Did the real robbers show up? We will never know. If they had they would have seen the next best thing to a passing out parade at the police college and driven away.

Jim and I went back to the nick for a nice cup of tea, job done.


Tight lines.

Bernie