John Ramwell

FROM ESTATE HAND TO HOSPITAL PRISON OFFICER TO GOVERNOR - 1960 TO 1997 MY TIME ON THIS SIDE OF THE BARS.

HMP WANDSWORTH

The training was thorough but compared with the nursing degrees and training required by today 's nurses, it was minimal. I was going to say, 'insufficient' but it was probably just about enough, given you continued to receive training on the job. I don't recall any prisoner patient dying of malpractice so the training must have been at least adequate. In my case, this on the job training occurred at HMP Wandsworth to where I was posted on qualifying. Here I spent a satisfying couple of years whilst remaining on quite a steep learning curve.

In those days we did 'sleep-ins' which meant being on call through the night ready to attend to any incident of a medical nature.

Being able to sleep through the night, unless called upon, meant you were available for duty the next day. There was an allowance of ten shillings for these 'sleep-ins' as there was for assisting the coroner with post mortem. You had to have one years' experience before undertaking this duty. My first night was very uncomfortable. My colleagues, God bless them, had laced my bed with itching powder.

You could guarantee several call outs to prisoners with headaches, stomach aches, tooth aches, any sort of ache to get a little attention and break the depressing monotony. Occasionally, and I'm not proud of this, we would administer a dose of asafetida which tasted awful. It is derived from a fennel like plant that grows mainly in Iran and India. The powdered gum resin of the asafetida imparts a very strong onion-garlic flavour and is used in small quantities to Indian dishes. This spice is not known much outside India but our pharmacist knew about it. The taste is bitter and acrid and had an offensive smell. We might even spill some in the administering which gave an equally awful aroma. Not that this made much difference as the nuisance call outs persisted. The officers tasked with unlocking the following mornings were met with a wall of obnoxious gas!

One of the frequent pleas was, 'I can't sleep. I need something to get me off.' I'd make a big play about the strength of my treatment and, with some ritual, give them a Vitamin C tablet. You'd be surprised just how often this worked. 'Best night's sleep ever.' some would say.

A death in custody could mean a visit to the local mortuary. On one occasion I was in the mortuary when a body laid out on a slab relaxed from their rigour mortis so that their arm slipped off the body just as a young police cadet on his first day on this particular duty was passing by. He continued passing by for a few more seconds but horizontally.

Deaths in custody, some natural and some due to suicide, were always disturbing. Young males had a propensity for suicide as they continue to do to this day and they were the hardest to deal with. We had to play down the location of any death in a cell as getting it inhabited again was difficult. Later on when I became a Governor Grade I had the unenviable task of calling on the next of kin to inform them of the details; the police already having informed them of the death. One was often met with antagonism and mistrust but a cup of tea was usually proffered and this lubricated the proceedings considerably. I was always sorry for those few 'lifers' (those serving long or life sentences) who died in prison and for whom there was no next of kin. Officers who had got to know the deceased in prison would often turn up for the funeral in their own time and expense; a side of prison staff largely unrecognised by most of us.

I had charge of the TB or tuberculis ward at Wandsworth. Back then this was still a killer disease. Treatment of those affected was daily injections of Streptomycin and I used to pride myself on being able to often administer this injection without the patient being aware. I’d do this by slipping the needle in their buttock as they were completing their ablutions. Practise makes perfect!!

It was whilst at HMP Wandsworth that I had my second encounter with one of the infamous mail train robbers; the first being at Oxford Prison where they were first remanded. It was Ronnie Biggs. I always claimed to have been the last one on this side of the law that had encountered Ronnie prior to his escape to S. America. Briefly the story is that I was escorting a couple of dental patients back from the hospital to the main prison when I noticed a fracas in the adjacent exercise yard. Most of the exciting activity centred around a rope ladder that had been draped over the prison wall from a tall pantechnicon. This had been modified by having it’s roof cut open to allow access by the accomplices; two of whom positioned themselves on top of the prison wall hold Kalashnikovs. ‘ Biggsy’ wasn’t the first to make it up the ladder. His name escapes me now but Ronnie was a close second. Pushing my two charges into the confines of the prison, I hot footed to the outside of the prison and the location of the removal van only to see Biggs and his friends making their smart get away by car. As the escape occurred by the bachelor quarters where I lived and where my car was parked, I was able to give chase. Needless to say I didn’t get even close and their escape vehicle was later found abandoned by Earlesfield Station not far from the Prison.

It was at Wandsworth that I met one of my 'unforgettable characters'. Des, his name; obviously i'm not giving his full name. He was known for being into every fiddle and scheme going and was a source for a range of goods whose providence was, to say the least, suspect. He sold watches for a fiver which, back then, was dirt cheap. Every staff member, from the top down, proudly wore one of Des's watches. You older readers may remember a five minute television slot broadcast on Saturday afternoons before the football titled, 'Police Five' in which the police were given the opportunity to fight crime. I was watching one Saturday in a ward full of prisoner patients all keen to see the football when up comes Police Five and a picture of the watches we had all bought from Des. 'If anyone is offered a watch of this description they are to contact Whitehall 1212 immediately.' Oooooops!

Des was the senior hospital officer (before we had such a designated rank) in charge of the VD or venereal disease clinic, today callled STD clinics. He once persuaded me that he tested urine by dipping in his finger and tasting. 'Write down 1.5%' he said. 'You can't be serious,' says I. Of course he was dipping in one finger but putting another finger to his mouth. I tried this out on the clinic 'red band', a trusted prisoner assistant, but got my fingers mixed up and spluttered everywhere!

On one occasion we heard a loud stomping coming from his clinic and rushed in thinking he was under attack. Instead he was trying to perform a prostatic massage on a big and black prisoner who insisted on running around the room trying to escape yelling for Des to desist. You'd understand the funny side of this so long as you knew how such a procedure is performed.

It wasn't until 1965 in Great Britain (1973 in Northern Ireland ) that capital punishment was abolished and so we still had cells designated to those sentenced to death in use; colloquially referred to as the condemned cell. I can remember taking the daily quota of beer to a young polish prisoner who had been sentenced to death. He seemed quite ambivalent to his fate I recall but then he had been reassured by his brief that he was not going to hang. The law was soon to change that would remove capital punishment from the statute books except for the crime of treason until it was completely abolished in 1998.

I was at Wandsworth Prison when, in 1964, the last two criminals were hung by the neck until dead. This event had a really sobering effect on the staff. The lead up was quite dramatic with the visit from the executioner in order to ensure he had everything in place, including height, weight and neck size (!).

The day in these old victorian prisons started off by the day staff taking over from the night staff by counting and checking every prisoner in every cell. The officer in charge -determined by length of service - would yell down to the Wing Principal Officer stood in the centre of the prison, 'Sixty. All correct on the fours.' Once every landing was accounted for in this way the order was shouted out, 'Unlock.' and the cells were all unlocked to allow the inmates to slop out.

I'm thinking that the sum of human knowledge is now on the internet. I looked up 'slopping out' not expecting a result but Wikipedia had it covered. This is what it said, 'Slopping out is the manual emptying of human waste when prison cells are unlocked in the morning. Inmates without a flush toilet in the cell have to use other means (formerly a chamber pot, then a bucket, now often a chemical toilet) while locked in during the night. The reason that some cells do not have toilets is that they date from the Victorian era and were therefore not designed with plumbing. As a result, there is no space in which to put a toilet, together with the expense and difficulty of installing the necessary pipes.'

This unsavoury practice was in place up to 1996 but was, in fact, soon phased out not that long after I worked in these old prisons. None the less I remember well the morning ritual and the smell and noise that went with it. It was said it was dehumanising and maybe it was but there was a general acceptance of the practice. Prisoners seem to take this procedure in their stride. In fact when moved to a prison where there was integral sanitation - a flushing toilet in each cell - it was said they complained they actually missed the smell. Some said, and some left wing organisations agreed, that prisoners were being made to live in a toilet. All the same I remember it as a dehumanising morning ritual. It would not be too unusual to have a pot thrown over a fellow prisoner or, indeed, a member of staff. Slopping out remains a dim and distant memory and we're better off for it. Working in the hospital meant that I avoided this daily ritual.

Reception Duty as a Hospital Officer involved assisting the Medical Officer as he medically examined every new prisoner arriving at the prison. For the older recidivists it was a well rehearsed event but for the uninitiated it was all pretty much overwhelming. Taking men straight from the streets via the courts meant they often arrived with a host of issues. I used to feel for the old tramps who had not had their clothes off for years and years and were filthy dirty and infested with lice and vermin. They had to be put into a bath fully dressed so that their clothes would soak off them. Often they required assistance and many is the old man of the road who has almost died of heart failure from the shock. I once had the unenviable task of resuscitating one old fellow who, on getting out of the bath, collapsed in a heap. This had to be a task beyond the natural call of duty but I did my best to apply mouth to mouth and he survived for another day. I recall describing this event in graphic detail to a bunch of colleagues whilst ‘enjoying’ our meal. “You dirty bastard!“ was their retort.

One doctor I worked with was not a happy chap and lacked a sense of humour. He told one young man to drop his trousers and touch his toes as was the norm as part of the examination. I was stood at the back of the room. Suddenly I fell about laughing. He had two eyes tattooed, one on each buttock. As he bent over each eye appeared to open wide in amazement!! Fortunately the doctor shared my amusement.

Before I joined the Service I worked in the bar of my busy local. One night I refused to serve a local gang as they were drunk. The landlord gave them short shrift and they were sent packing. They were waiting to pounce as I walked home and I got a fair bruising. Revenge comes best served cold, as they say, and to he who waits, as some years later the ring leader of this gang came through reception. Though some time had passed I readily recognised him. 'Remember me?' I asked. Initially he didn't as the circumstances were so different and I was in uniform. Very quickly it clicked. Of course I just let him sweat but he must have wondered whether I might come a calling to redress the balance from those few years ago. 'What goes around comes around,' I thought and chuckled away to myself.

I am often asked what working in a prison is like. If you can remember the television sitcom, 'Porridge' with Ronnie Barker; well for me, this was a good representation of prison life. A sense of humour was essential. Often a sick and gallows humour was employed but without humour to oil the wheels I guess prison life on both sides of the fence could be pretty trying.

It was whilst at Wandsworth that I completed several tours at small establishments up and down the country who had only one Hospital Officer on the pay role. He -it was always a 'he' back then - needed to be replaced when they went on leave or went off sick. Being single I was always up for a change of scenery which was also well remunerated. It was meant to work on a rota system but several staff did not appreciate being away from home and I would take their turn. So I kept a small suitcase ready packed and would find myself at establishments as varied as Holloway Female Prison and rurally situated Detention Centres like Blantyre House and Borstals like Pollington in Yorkshire. Holloway could be almost a certainty for daily 'incidents'. This was the reason why there had to be a male Hospital Officer on duty at all times. It was said that women were far more difficult to handle physically than men. I would vouch for this. Not that I had too many occasions to deal with. Even in Holloway humour came to one's relief.

One bleak and snow driven winters' night at Blantyre House DC located in the middle of the Kent country. I was called to assist with a birth. This was definitely not within my remit. An officers wife was bringing a baby boy into the world. This procedure was not covered by our tuition at the Scrubs. Oh Dear! Fortunately I had a rough idea as my Mother was a midwife and during summer school holidays I would go along with her and one occasion in particular I needed to be more than just a bystander. Anyway, all you need is hot water, towels and a sharp knife - don't you?!!

Like Borstals, Detention Centres, designed to provide a short sharp shock, have entered the history books. The Criminal Justice Act 1982 officially abolished the borstal system in the UK, introducing youth custody centres instead. As society had changed the system was then already outdated especially since the late-1960s and early-1970s, with many borstals being closed and replaced with institutions called Detention Centres (not to be confused with the early Centres mentioned above) and, from 1972, also with Community Service Order sentences. I worked in a few old style Detention Centres which were established to inflict a 'short sharp shock' on those convicted of fairly serious offences but with no previous history of incarceration. Seeing young thugs from inner city's reduced to having to mend their own socks and rise by 0530 for early physical exercise consisting of running around the sports field carrying a huge medicine ball; well, it was quite a revelation. Pity of it is that after a few weeks they became as fit as butcher's dogs and loved it. The food was better than many ever eat at home and they had companionship of fellow 'sufferers!'

I felt somewhat exposed at these small institutions as being on one's own meant that you had to rely much more on your own resources. Of course there was always the local GP who was contracted to be on call as well as make regular and routine visits but they were busy people and you got one with it. There was, after all, French's Index of Medical Diagnosis and MIMS or Monthly Index of Medical Specialities available to refer to. I even bought my own copy of French's and it wasn't cheap. Anyway, I never actually killed anyone and may even have cured the occasional patient. I remember at one open Borstal in Yorkshire being approached by a member of the admin. staff who suffered from chronic ulceration of the legs and would not, under any circumstances, visit a doctor. Before I returned to my home establishment I had her virtually cured with the use of daily Eusol (Edinburgh University Solution of Lime) dressings and after this, at least at this particular establishment, my rep. went before me.

Playing at doctors was possible back in the 60's and 70's as even with such inadequate training and qualification there was little else to fall back on. We were just allowed to get on with it. The war had left the country desperately short of qualified personnel and compromise was the only way. I, for one, was appreciative of the opportunity to work on the fringes of medicine. Today the training and qualifications demanded are marathon. I am not saying that I might not have coped with these demands; the point is, I didn't have to. I recall a colleague showing round a party of Members of the Board Of Visitors (rather like a board of governors) and being asked what qualifications he had. Without hesitation he said, 'QBE.' They pursued the matter no further. Later I asked him, 'What's with this QBE?' 'Qualified by Experience,' he replied. Very apt.