Patrolman Vyskocil received a gold-plated cigarette case engraved as follows:

As soon as America entered World War II, soldiers started returning home with shrapnel wounds similar to Vyskocil’s. In 1942, Dr. John Moorehead and an engineer named Samuel Berman developed an electromagnetic medical device that was in reality a primitive metal detector. They tested the instrument on Vyskocil to locate the tiny metal fragment causing the severe pain in his ankle. Dr. Moorhead extracted a shard, no bigger than the corner of a postage stamp. The doctor then traveled to Pearl Harbor where he used the device to treat injured veterans, all of whom were completely unaware that a New York City cop had been his first patient.

Despite the excellent medical care, Vyskocil was surveyed out in November 1944 with an annual disability pension of $2,250, the equivalent of $26,258 per year today. Thanks to pension enhancements, a cop with the same time on the job as Vyskocil, retiring on a disability in 2009 would receive $58,295 per year tax free.

To supplement his pension, Emil Vyskocil bought a farm in upstate New York. It didn’t work out. Two years later, he relocated his family to Long Island and sought employment in more familiar fields, first as an insurance investigator and later as security guard at Republic Aircraft. He retired for good in the mid 1960s. He later contracted Parkinson’s disease. In 1974, he underwent surgery followed by a stroke from which he never recovered. Emil Vyskocil passed away that April. He was only 65 years old, but thirty-five years later, we remember him again thanks to his son, Emil Vyskocil Jr.

he New York Police Department immortalizes its dead heroes, embossing their names on bronze tablets displayed in the lobby of One Police Plaza. This is only right. They are the officers who have paid the ultimate price. But what of those serving at their sides who suffered career ending injuries? For most, memories of their heroic deeds fade quickly once they leave the NYPD, but their families remain proud of their accomplishments forever, as I discovered speaking with the son of Emil Vyskocil, a patrolman from 1932 to 1944.

Before joining the force, Emil was head typist for J.C. Penney. Like many talented men during the Great Depression, he sought a civil service job for the security it provided. On December 30, 1932, he was sworn into the New York City Police Department. A fellow recruit, Joseph Lynch, gave up a promising career as a pharmacist to follow in his father’s footsteps. Neither realized that their fates were to be forever intertwined.

The commencement ceremony took place on June 22, 1933, at Yankee Stadium in front of 50,000 people. Police Commissioner James Bolan addressed the throng. He reminded the rookies that they were public servants responsible for their actions in both their public and private lives, words not much different than what would be heard today. The next morning Patrolman Vyskocil, number 10412, reported to his first assignment, the old 3rd Precinct in lower Manhattan.

For the next two years Vyskocil tussled with Communists, rioters, strikers and assorted nut jobs. In 1935 he was transferred to the 109th Precinct and much closer to his apartment in Corona.

In the spring of 1940, Vyskocil drew what should have been a plum assignment — the New York World’s Fair at Flushing Meadows Park. It was pleasant duty. On the surface, all seemed well, but behind the scenes fair authorities were concerned that a serious criminal act might occur.

The war was raging in Europe. Poland and France had already fallen to the Nazis. Britain and Russia were threatened. On the home front, Americans were deeply divided over getting involved. World’s Fair officials received several anonymous telephone threats directed against the pavilions of the warring nations. The information was intentionally kept from the public to prevent a drop in attendance and loss of revenue.

When Patrolman Vyskocil reported for duty on July 4, 1940, he had no idea that it would be the final tour of his career. That afternoon, a suspicious satchel was discovered hidden inside the British Pavilion. The satchel was removed to a remote area of the fairgrounds. Two Bomb Squad detectives, Joseph Lynch, Vyskocil’s former classmate, and Ferdinand Socha responded to the scene.

Patrolman Vyskocil was assigned to crowd control. There were no guidelines delineating frozen areas back then, but he did his best to keep curious bystanders at bay. As the Bomb Squad detectives examined the satchel, Vyskocil observed a group of civilians sneaking in for a better look. He rushed toward them, waving his arms and shouting, “Get back, get back!” Suddenly, without warning, the infernal device exploded, hurling him into the air. Sharp metal fragments pierced his body. He passed out. When he woke up in Flushing Hospital two days later he learned that Lynch and Socha were dead and that three other detectives, William Federer, Joseph Gallagher and Martin Schuchman had also suffered serious injuries. Vyskocil believed that the civilians inadvertently saved his life. Chasing them away put just enough distance between him and the bomb to survive the blast.

Vyskocil gradually recovered from most of his injuries, but it was apparent that some fragments in his body would never be located even with X-ray equipment. Medically, there was nothing more to be done, so he was discharged from the hospital, but the tiny bits of shrapnel hidden within his muscle tissue caused constant debilitating pain. In April 1941, a representative of the British government, Viscount Halifax, journeyed to City Hall to present tokens of appreciation to the families of the dead and to the injured officers.