Article reproduced from: http://www.savannahnow.com/

Patrolling the night with the Guardian Angels Angels spread their wings to deter criminal activity. By Eric Williamson 912.652.0365 eric.williamson@savannahnow.com "Suicide patrol." That's what they call it when they walk some of the meaner streets of a city. On this night, the Guardian Angels prepare to trek through Hitch Village, Fred Wessels Homes and surrounding eastside Savannah neighborhoods. Savannah? The Angels typically evoke images of bigger cities like New York City or Philadelphia. But the now-famous foot patrols have touched down here. Even though representatives of the group have been walking the city since March, most of the Angels have just finished their training and gotten their wings. Savannah residents still are surprised to see them. Their military-style uniforms of red berets, T-shirts marked "safety patrol" and camouflage pants still feel a little out of place. It's just after 11 p.m. Tuesday. The Angels' headquarters at 793 E. Bolton St., housed in an old apartment unit, doesn't give away its function until six men and one woman "post up" out front. James "Preacher" Horry, Angela "Angie B." Bostic, Anthony "Goose" Williams, Patrick "Double A" Watson and Shannon "Cabbie" Liles line up on the sidewalk with silent efficiency. They are joined by Frank "Gunny" Lee, an official with the Guardian Angels' East Coast chapters. He came to town to assist with training. Chapter Leader Norman "Whip" Whipple, 44, pats down the others for weapons before he, too, is checked for any contraband. Two rules are clear: Nobody carries a gun. Everybody carries a nickname. It's part of an image the Angels cultivate. They will defend themselves and their communities with hand-to-hand combat, if necessary, but everyone is considered a friend until he or she proves otherwise. "Let's move out guys," Whip says, and the unarmed soldiers follow until he commands them to break into groups. Into the night Whip speaks into his walkie-talkie: "Why don't we meet over by the bus station. There was some activity there last time we were out." He adds, after ending his transmission: "Get ready to watch 'em scatter."

Lookouts for the suspected crack house are already on the move. As the Angels near the Chatham Area Transit stop, there is the nervous bobbing of heads on a nearby porch facing Gwinnett Street. Some of the people go inside, while others get in cars and drive off. A young man is stationed at a pay phone a short distance away. In time, he too slinks away, out of sight. "You get to the point to where you know who lives on the street, who the dealers are, and they get to know who you are," Whip says. "And (when) they see you coming, more than likely, they take a walk. "They still don't know how to take us yet. And eventually one day, somebody's going to say, 'Man, they ain't going to do nothing' - and then they'll end up locked up." Whip adjusts his glasses and wipes the sweat from his face. When the Angels re-group, only the chirping of crickets is audible. It's a reminder of what's missing in the Angels' routine - chatter, laughter. Their silence belies the true dynamic among the group, which is one of comradeship. But on patrol it's all about creating an impression of seriousness, vigilance. At the intersection of Gwinnett and Live Oak streets, the night music of insects and air conditioning units is interrupted by a loud car stereo and a man speaking urgently to another, rambling about parental responsibilities. The Angels post up briefly, but find no reason to stay. The driver of a noisy street sweeper waves as he passes. Among the porch-sitters and passers-by, almost everyone waves or says hello. The group crosses the street to Live Oak Park. They tramp deliberately down a hill through overgrown, wet grass and surround a car parked with its engine running and its lights on. Whip approaches the driver's side window. "Ma'am?" Whip asks the female motorist, who is alone and has a cell phone in her hand. "Didn't mean to scare you. You OK?" She's taken aback by the formation around her car. Slowly it registers with her that they mean her no harm. As it nears midnight, she says she is just waiting for her boyfriend. The foot soldiers push on to Hitch Village, the next stop before an uneventful pass through Fred Wessels Homes and the completion of a loop back to headquarters. Coming home It's deceptively sleepy at Hitch. For Whip, this is a homecoming. His family lived in apartment 283A on Joel Court during his childhood and teen years. He recalls images of family gatherings, Halloween trick-or-treating and just hanging out with friends.

"When I was smaller, it seemed a lot larger," he says. Leading the group forward, he points to the right, where a pond lies just past some tall vegetation. The swimming hole is where his uncle unsuccessfully tried to save a drowning man - a family friend who, for $2, used to cut his hair. But his recollection is interrupted; he's brought back to the present. Just ahead, two teen-age girls are lounging and chatting in a vehicle until they spot the Angels. Their expressions turn quizzical. In the distance, young men congregating in a semicircle scatter. The Angels move toward the mice-like dispersal and post up in groups of two and three under the streetlights, so they can view the two facing rows of apartment units. "Obviously everybody's standing where they can watch everybody," Whip says. "We have such a trust with each other, we don't have to turn around to see if the other guy's alright 'cause everybody's watching everybody's back at all times. "What we like to do is get around areas like this. I guarantee you by now the word is all through Hitch Village that we're out here." From the look of things, he's right. Some people run inside apartment units. A man sticks his uncombed head out a window. Others aren't as obvious, but they are watching. Shadows move behind window shades. "Oh, they're flipping out now," Whip says. A large woman and some youths come out the front door of a unit the Angels are monitoring. Somewhere a baby is crying. The Angels make small talk. Whip learns the woman knows a cousin of his who used to live in Hitch. The conversation then turns to the neighborhood. "It's a good thing (what) they're doing," the woman says of the Angels, "but it's not bad around here, though. "I'm just saying it's the people that come here." She laughs boisterously when asked her name for attribution in the newspaper. The Angels exchange friendly words of parting with her and move on into the night.