Atlantic City Marine Station Troopers to the rescue This Story is recounted by Official Reports On August 31, 2000 a distress call was received by Atlantic City Marine Station on the VHF radio reporting a military aircraft crashing into the ocean near the Absecon Inlet. Trooper I T. Sost #4493, Trooper D. Rocap #5091, Trooper J. Ackroyd #5417 and Trooper J. Schreiner #5516 immediately departed AC Marine Station to assist in rescuing any possible survivors. While transitting the Absecon Inlet, Trooper Sost observed a green object floating in the ocean. As Sost approached the object he observed a pilot lying in a small life raft. All of the above troopers converged on the rafts location in 6 foot seas with their 18', 20' and 23' vessels respectively. The pilot, Major D. Haar of the 177th Fighter Wing Group was pulled from rough seas and transported back to the A.C. Marine Station where waiting EMS personnel rushed Haar to the A.C. Medical Center for treatment. Troopers Sost, Rocap, Ackroyd and Schreiner exemplified the bravery, professionalism and the commitment to the citizens of the State of New Jersey, which is the New Jersey State Police. “We lived by the Rules. We didn’t Complain” This Story is taken from the book, "Troopers, Behind the Badge" Written by: John Stark “If you want to know more, just call me. Have memory, will travel,” said Sgt. First Class Phillip O’Reilly (Badge No. 733), who with the help of his wife, Helen, came to my house one day for a visit. No troopers more exuded the authoritative look of a motorcycle cop-with his high leather boots, gray sweater, scarf, flared breeches, chin strap and goggles-than O’Reilly, who joined the Outfit in 1941, and rode a Harley Davidson for fifteen years. An opera and ballet buff, he was known as “Gentleman Phil.” “I was considered a pretty good boy until too many spills took their toll,” he says. “The patrols were beautiful,” he went on to say. “On a spring day, there was nothing lovelier than riding through the countryside. Or going out in the evening during a gorgeous sunset. You had a great rapport with the people. The two way radios didn’t come until 1943. If you were wanted by your sergeant, the dispatcher would call a designated place, such as a gas station or a private house, and the owner would hang out a red flag. That’s how we communicated then. Since you couldn’t ride a cycle nonstop all day, you’d get off to see people. In the rural country area we got to know everybody on the route. Around Great Meadows, the old Russian and Polish farmers who wore those traditional caps would tip them as you passed. All their kids would wave. In those days it was so unusual to see a trooper that everybody waved. We were really somebody in our uniform and boots.” “You knew everything that went on in your area. Instead of locking kids up. I’d hold court myself. I’d bring them home to their parents and tell them what they did. It was the humane way to do things.” “We didn’t have sirens on the cycles. If you wanted somebody to pull over, you motioned them with your hand. In the winter it was impossible to write tickets because your hands were so frozen. You could get caught in the ice and snow, but they’d never send you out in it. We carried a raincoat attached to a little carrier on the back. Todays troopers have so much equipment. Back then all we had was a small book which acted as our notebook for investigating crimes and as our summons book. You put everything in that book. It was part of your uniform. You stuck you pencil in your boot.” “Some of the cycles had sidecars, which had no winter fronts. The sidecar was just a thin sheet of metal. So, when the senior man took you out for a ride, and it was zero degrees, you froze to death.” “We rode the cycles during the day, not on night patrol. If you were riding when it got really cold out, or night came, you’d stop and buy a magazine or newspaper to put under your coat. Riding during the Japanese beetle season in the summer was the worst, though. They’d hit you on the nose and lips. I knew a fellow trooper who was all dressed and going to inspection when he was hit by a pheasant. It was all over him.” “We lived in the barracks, which were like boarding houses. Often families ran them. We had two, three, sometimes four cops in a room. We ate all our meals there. You’d get up at 6:30 and the sergeant corporal would assign you a patrol for the day. You’d line up and stand at attention. Invariably, the day you didn’t have your long johns on was when you got the cycle, and the day you did wear them, you got desk duty.” “We were off four days and six nights a month. All the rest of the time, we were at the barracks. Besides your four days and nights off, you got two other night passes. But if you had reports they could take that pass away from you. If you left your collar open on a hot day you could lose a night pass for that. You got one holiday off a year, Christmas or New Year’s, but not both. Vacations were two weeks, and had to be taken during the winter.” “Today, troopers say no one understands them. Yeah, they only work eight hours a day and get overtime. They don’t know what its like to have so little time off and then lose it because of a hurricane or a train wreck. There was nobody to tell you your eight hours were up. You just stayed. We lived by the rules. We didn’t complain.” “Even though troopers were seldom home, you never heard of divorces. When you were off you were with your wife. If you were divorced you were almost ostricized. It was just not the thing.” “In those days we had to pass an oral exam to get into the Academy. You were judged on how you spoke. If you stuttered they might disqualify you. They wanted a certain image and look.” “Tall and handsome,” says Helen. “I was a good rider,” says Phil. “I respected the cycle while I was afraid of it. But once I thought I was pretty good-it’s true with all the troopers-that’s when I’d crash. Most of your old-time troopers had broken bones from spills. My worst crash was Easter weekend, 1945. I was stopped at the Amoco station putting in a gallon when this car went by, whooooom! I cranked it up and started off. There was a long hill, and it took me awhile to get over it. I caught up with him on top of it, and started down it wide open, at 90 mph. As I went into a slight curve, the cycle went into a high-speed shimmy, and threw me off. I landed on my head, and we didn’t wear helmets then. I slid 153 feet down the concrete. I cracked my skull, broke my collarbone , my shoulder blade, eleven ribs, my hand and my nose. But I was back on duty in eleven weeks. “In twenty-five years with the Outfit, I only lost three days to sickness. You never let the other fellows down by taking time off. We were a pretty healthy group from being out in the open air all the time. Of course, we were pretty rugged when we came in. That’s why we’ve all lived to be in our eighties and nineties. One time, I got real sick and refused to stay home. Fortunately, they put me on desk duty and not on a cycle. The next morning I was in such pain I had to be driven to the hospital. I went into a coma for three days and was given last rites. My appendix had burst. But I healed fast. The big thing the Outfit looked for was attendance. They didn’t want any sugarbabies.” “He thinks he’s tough,” says Helen. Helen, he’s tough. “Then I felt the Impact” This Story is taken from the book, "Troopers, Behind the Badge" Written by: John Stark I was patrolling Route 42, which is the North South Freeway, by myself, says John Jacobs. "In the early eighties, we didn't always have partners at night. I was going northbound. About 1:45 a.m.., I clocked a Cadillac sedan in the passing direction going 82 mph. Trailing the vehicle was two motorcycles going the same speed. I turned around and started to follow them. When I got within pacing distance, the motorcycles took the next exit and disappeared. I caught up to the white Cadillac and pulled it over. I then called in the stop, advising the station. I proceeded up to the driver, who was by himself. He was a white guy with long hair and a ruddy complexion. I asked for his license and registration, which he was unable to produce. "He looked a little suspicious, and he was extremely nervous. I asked him to step from the vehicle. I thought I would pat him down, make sure he wasn't carrying a weapon. He was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, a white T-shirt, and jeans. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. I had him step to the rear of the car, between our cars. I had him place his hands on the trunk, in spread-eagle position. He was illuminated by my headlights. As I was patting him down, I felt a bulge in the left side pocket of his coat. I stuck my hand in and pulled out a penknife. I took a step back and put it in my pocket. Just then , he started to turn around. I thought he was going to say he used the knife for hunting or fishing. That's the usual response when you find a knife on someone. So I was waiting for him to make a comment like that. "It all happened so quickly. As he was turning to his left side, I could see the flash of a muzzle. Then I felt the impact. He had a Charter .38 special on him. It was in the front of his jeans, I guess. When I was searching him, he put it in his palm. The bullet went in below my left eye and hit the vertebrae in the back of my neck. The impact knocked me to the ground. The type of holsters we had then had snaps on them. In the position I was in, I couldn't get the gun out, a Ruger revolver. As I was laying there on the ground, I could see him standing over me. He was shooting, but missing. I kept waiting for a bullet to hit me. "I managed to get myself up and run across the highway to the grass median. As I was running, I was able to get my weapon out. When I got to the median, I turned around and returned fire. It was then I found out one of his rounds had struck me in the finger, which was part of the reason I had such trouble getting the gun out. At this point, I realized there was blood squirting from my face. I kept thinking, I better get him before I pass out. While I was shooting, he got in his vehicle and took off. It came out at the trial he apparently had a bunch of dope in the car. Ten minutes after he left the scene, he torched the car to destroy the evidence and the fingerprints. "I went to my vehicle and lay down on the front seat, hoping to feel better. But I had to sit up to clear the blood out of my mouth and lungs. I draped myself over the steering wheel and called in on the radio. I then unloosened my gun belt and blouse. I thought for sure I was going to die: at any second, a light switch was going to click off. I thought about my wife and three girls, what they would think when they got the news I was dead. I knew I had to stay awake until the ambulance arrived. I didn't want to die. Not then, not there. "They rushed me to Cooper Medical Center. They didn't want to operate right away, due to the location of the bullet. It was lodged between the two main arteries that led from the heart up to the brain. The doctors thought that if they decided it would be best to remove it. They were afraid, if someone slapped me on the back of the neck, the bullet might dislodge, doing terrible damage. The operation was a success, though I did lose the sight in my eye. "When I returned to work they sent me to ballistics. I would have gone back on the road, but my wife made me promise her I wouldn't. At first I had a lot of anger about what happened. This sounds funny, but the anger was at myself, because he got me and I didn't get him. I thought about it a lot. If only I'd felt the gun first, it never would have happened. But I'm not angry anymore. There's nothing you can do about it. You can't change it."