In 1949, when Bill McMorrow turned 21, he signed on with the West Virginia State Police. Training was largely apprentice-style, learning and studying with veteran officers. Six months later, he walked into a spanking-new facility called the West Virginia State Police Academy.
At 87, he may be the last living graduate of the academy's inaugural class.
He recalls details galore about the two decades he spent on the force. A keen mind churns behind the proud, stoic, matter-of-fact demeanor associated with the guys called Smoky.
Graduation sent him to detachments all over the place, from wild, vice-riddled Wheeling to the wreck-prone West Virginia Turnpike.
As he moved through the ranks to his final title of lieutenant, vehicle accidents, speeding tickets, robberies, murders and mayhem of all sorts filled most of his days and nights for 26 eventful years. Exciting stuff for a poor farm boy from Braxton County.
At the time, he loved it. Most of it. But he sure wouldn't want to repeat it. Nope. Not the way things are today.
"I was born March 20, 1928, at the beginning of the Great Depression. I lived at Frametown in Braxton County. We were very poor.
"We lived on a farm. No water, gas or electricity. My mother was a good canner and a hard worker. We never were hungry. I had two pair of bib overalls, a couple of shirts and a winter coat, and I got one pair of shoes in the fall to last me all winter.
"I went to a one-room school, about a two-mile walk. I was the janitor in seventh and eighth grade. I got there in time to start a fire in the potbelly stove. I made $9 every three months.
"We had a hot lunch program. We had a kerosene hot plate and we would put on a pot of beans when school started in the morning. It would be done by lunch. One of the mothers would bring cornbread. Nobody complained about the food. We were just glad to have it.
"I started at Gassaway High School in '41. My great-aunt and uncle asked if I would come live with them because they lived near the bus line. So I stayed there most of the time.
"At the end of my junior year, my aunt in Akron, Ohio, told me to come there. You could get a job because everybody who was eligible got drafted. I worked at an engineering company that summer. As soon as I graduated, I went back and worked at Firestone Tire and Rubber, where I was working when the Japanese surrendered.
"I joined the Navy in April when I turned 18. They sent me to hospital corps school in Portsmouth and then to Norfolk Naval Hospital. It closed while I was there, and I was on the decommissioning team, clearing out all the equipment. When I came back, I went to Virginia Electric. That was 1948.
"Someone told me about the State Police. I didn't even know a state policeman, but I got an application, and as soon as I turned 21, I turned it in. There were 600 in that group, and I was one of 20 that got selected.
"On June 1, 1949, I was sworn in. The first month, we got $175. But beginning July 1 of '49, we got a $50 a month raise. So we didn't always have a lot of money, but you learn to live on what you have.
"The academy wasn't done then, so they sent us to various detachments around the state. Waiting for the school to finish, we were sent out. I ended up in Kingwood in Preston County. We were with older troopers studying the road law book and state code and criminal laws. I was supposed to be wearing a green uniform, and I was green as grass. We didn't even have a uniform, but I had a gun and badge.
"They finished the academy in December of '49. The original building is the one you see from the interstate. The rest of it is all new.
"I was always very proud of the State Police. We're one of the oldest in the country, formed in 1919. Soon we will be having the 100th anniversary. They learned a lot from our class, because it was the first time they'd ever had a school like that.
"When we got to the academy, we came with khaki shirts and pants. Then our clothes began to come and the seamstress made sure they fit.
"We trained from October to December. We went through a period where the school was tied in to Marshall. A dozen years later, I taught certain classes myself.
"I went back to Kingwood a few months after I graduated, then I was moved to the Morgantown detachment until May of 1953.
"I was transferred to Triadelphia, the only place I ever asked to be transferred away from. Triadelphia was Wheeling. Bill Lias and all that bunch, it was too much.
"It was an accepted fact, slot machines, illegal liquor sales. As a young officer, I often went out to gather evidence to raid those places. I drove by places where you could look in the windows and see the slot machines. That's how open they were.
"When they asked if I wanted to go to Grafton, I was glad to get out of there. My main job was to patrol U.S. 50 from Grafton to the Maryland state line. U.S. 50 carried lots of traffic in those days.
"I got myself an apartment and before I got unpacked, I got a call about a transfer to Clarksburg. I was there from Nov. 1 of '53. I was there until Dec. 1 of '56. It was a good place. Police officers can only be as successful as the people where you live. If you don't have their respect and support, you will not be successful. Clarksburg was one of the best places.
"The lieutenant called me in early December and said they were transferring me to Sutton. In those days, they didn't send you to your hometown. I reminded them that I was from Braxton County. They said there had been some disagreements between the troopers and the newly elected prosecutor. They said, 'They're your kind of people. We figured you would know how to get along with them.'
"Shinnston was headquarters. Part of the time, we couldn't get Shinnston on the car radio. There was a place or two in Braxton County where we could get Charleston, so we called Charleston instead. While I was in Sutton, I was promoted to corporal.
"In May of '59, I was promoted to sergeant as commander in Morgantown. In August of '60, I was transferred to the South Charleston detachment as commander.
"I was there three years. That was a hard place to work. A lot of pressure on you. Next they called and said I was going back as detachment commander in Clarksburg. That's where I met my wife, Mary Lee.
"When I lived in the barracks at Shinnston, the radio operator went off duty at midnight normally. I was on the phone all night then after working all day. People would call about bad roads or a police problem, so you didn't always get a lot of sleep.
"You went to work about 9 in the morning and worked all day, then had a couple hours off, then went back to work say from 7 to 10 or 10:30. Then you'd be on call all night. We didn't get holidays off because holidays were our busiest times.
"You did everything back then. You might go to work in the morning and give driver's tests all day, and you'd get a call about a murder or bank robbery, and you'd have to close up. You never knew what you were going to be doing.
"In August of '65, I was promoted to first sergeant and transferred from Clarksburg to headquarters at Shinnston. In January of '67, I was promoted to lieutenant and transferred to the turnpike.
"In '69 I transferred to Beckley. [Robert] Bonar was superintendent. We didn't see things in the same light. He sent me back to the turnpike, where I retired.
"We finally figured out that if it was wet or snowy and you were driving too fast, it wasn't that you might have a wreck, it was where you were going to wreck.
"One time, a wreck occurred between Morton and Mossy. I got a call at home. It was bad. The troopers believed there was a baby in the truck, which was on fire. It would be 20 minutes before the fire department arrived. There was a woman crying, 'Oh my baby! Oh my baby!' This car had hit this truck head on. The woman was in the truck with her son. The 'baby' was her son driving the truck. He was one of the worst burned people I'd seen. When the car hit the truck, it pinned his feet. His mother did not want to leave her 'baby.' He was dead on the scene.
"I retired in '75 and worked 19 years for RESA as a regional coordinator for public service training classes.
"I should have written a book. I wouldn't sell my career for any amount of money. But I wouldn't want to buy any more of it. I would not want to start over. In my day, we were allowed to use whatever force necessary to achieve a lawful arrest. Now I see on TV that an officer shot somebody seven times. Seven times? So I think the police have lost control of themselves to some degree. The people they are serving have lost respect of the police officer.
"In my day, it didn't matter whether you liked me or not, while I am wearing this uniform, I expect you to respect it. If the people support you, you can keep law and order. But all this drug business now, I just wouldn't want to face that."
Reach Sandy Wells at sandyw@wvgazette.com or 304-342-5027.