by Glenn Wood
In this endeavour we would be hurtling down a steep slope in a cart, which again we had to build ourselves. Naturally, this filled the members of my team with much joy given the outstanding success of our home-made raft. Suffice to say we were put in charge of strategy rather than construction.
Only one trolley was required per section this time and we were given five days to find the materials and make the carts. Then, on the given day, we were to select a pilot and race the section cart down a yet-to-be named hill.
The instructors showed great cunning in leaving the venue unnamed until after the drivers were selected, because no one in their right mind would have volunteered had they known the location. With the benefit of hindsight it should have been obvious that the sadistic bastards would choose a venue capable of delivering maximum carnage. But we were still relatively unblooded and clung desperately to the mistaken belief that our instructors wouldn’t let anything really bad happen to us.
The venue for the trolley race was the water-tower hill. The same incline we had been forced to run up and down after the Gumbie water fight. Except, this time we would be travelling down the other side. The frighteningly steep, virtually inaccessible part, containing the worst hairpin bends. This would have been scary enough had it been a grass or dirt track. But no. The path they chose was covered in gravel. Nasty, skiddy, treacherous, dig bloody great holes out of your knees gravel.
Of course we didn’t know this as we built our trolley. Still, the level of danger for our unselected pilot increased daily as our cart began to take shape. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be taking the shape of a cart. It quickly became clear no-one in our group had even the most basic knowledge of physics or mechanics. To put it bluntly, our trolley was an ill-constructed, dangerous, piece of crap.
The steering device consisted of a mangy bit of old rope attached to the cart’s front wheels and the braking mechanism was a wedge of wood that the poor sod who was driving was supposed to kick between the wheel and what was loosely called the chassis.
The only safety feature our instructors insisted upon was that none of the trolleys were to be powered by anything more than a good push at the top of the hill. This was a small mercy because, had petrol been involved, I’m convinced half of Trentham would have been engulfed in a fireball of molten metal and smouldering cadets.
Astonishingly, the other section’s carts were not much better our sad machine. Some of them had brakes that looked like they might actually work, and one section had gone to the trouble of painting their cart but, all in all, it was a pretty decrepit array of vehicles that parked at the top of the water-tower hill on the day of the race.
The sections had drawn straws to choose their drivers the previous day. This gave the condemned men a chance to make their peace with their gods and contact their loved ones before the race began. The selected men moped around the barracks like they were walking the green mile, except for our driver. His name was Keith and he was surprisingly optimistic about his chances - but then Keith was surprisingly optimistic about most things. He was one of the few cadets who believed we were fortunate to be the last wing through Trentham because he’d been told the hardships we faced on a daily basis would prepare us for life as a beat constable. Bollocks to that. The only reason we were still in Trentham was because it made the police budget go further and the minister would look good come the end of the financial year.
Still, we did nothing to discourage Keith’s sunny outlook. We figured that if he approached the race feeling like he had a possibility of coming out alive then there was a chance, however slight, that he might cross the finish line in pole position, heaping glory upon himself and the section as a whole.
Our hopes were misplaced. Within the first 20 metres Keith deftly steered over a bank and the only thing left of him - and the cart - was the brake wedge sitting next to a skid mark at the top of the cliff. It took 10 minutes to untangle him from the wreckage, by which time A section’s cart had crossed the finish line. One of B section’s wheels crossed just before Keith’s stretcher and, in a hotly contested decision, they were awarded second place.
C section were last again but we knew revenge would be sweet when it came. The problem was that it would be a very long time before that day arrived.
While a great deal of emphasis was placed on the physical aspects of police training most of the day was taken up by more mundane matters. Like learning the law.
The task of teaching us the basics of policing fell mainly to our section sergeant. He was the most important person in our lives for the following 12 months.
Your section sergeant held total control of your destiny. He ran our day to day programme and was required to report on our individual progress each term, effectively deciding who passed and who failed. If your sergeant deemed your attitude inappropriate then you’d have to a pretty exceptional trainee to still be around for the next term.
Your sergeant was your teacher, your adviser, your confessor, your friend (occasionally), your enemy (more often), your personal trainer, your spiritual guide and sometimes even your mother, though naturally that was never admitted aloud. Accordingly, it was a damn good idea to get on with him.
Our sergeant’s name was Rodney Edwards and at 29 he was the youngest section sergeant at Trentham. To say he was a bit of a character is an understatement. I vividly remember the first day of our course when Sergeant Edwards introduced himself. He strolled into the classroom and to get our attention, slammed what I took to be a baseball bat into the desk. It worked! In less time than you could say ‘Al Capone’ we were sitting upright and facing the front. The offensive weapon he had bashed into the desk turned out to be nothing more dangerous than a sawn off pool cue, but Sergeant Edwards wielded it like a ninja. He could dint a dozing cadet’s head from thirty paces away and have it back in his hand before the swelling started.
To be fair, Sergeant Edwards seldom used the cue to inflict injury; he used it more to illustrate a point. And illustrate points he did. Sergeant Edwards had more points than a starfish menage a trois. He had a theory for everything and every time he expounded one of his philosophies he punctuated the salient themes by pounding the fat end of the cue into the nearest desk. This not only ensured we remembered the point he was making but also guaranteed no-one fell asleep in class. Not that this was likely to happen because Sergeant Edwards made even the most complex pieces of law interesting. He was a fascinating teacher because he was able to illustrate every lesson with highly embellished stories from his time on the beat. He made a mockery of the old adage ‘those who can do, those who can’t teach’. He did and he taught.
Sergeant Edwards was exactly the type of instructor we needed. He was strict when he needed to be but could also identify with us on our own level. He had the respect of every cadet in our section and I’m certain his unorthodox teaching style and approachable manner were responsible for many cadets sticking with the course where they might have otherwise packed it in.
An example of his ability to engender team spirit came on the first day. He shared his nickname with us, a small thing but it set the tone for the coming months. His nickname was ‘Jacko’. We never found out why, though we tried to on an almost daily basis.
This disclosure had an unfortunate spin off for me. Naturally once ‘Jacko’ had revealed his deep dark secret, the rest of the cadets set about uncovering old or making new nicknames for everyone else in the class. I felt I was safe though. I had sworn Goose to secrecy and was confident of finally getting rid of the Gonzo tag I’d carried around for the last ten years. Unbelievably, it was not to be. It happened like this.
A cadet several rows in front of me was one of the first to be singled out for a new nickname. Everyone looked hard at the guy trying to single out a physical characteristic or mannerism they could mercilessly exploit. Then some joker yelled out ‘Hey he looks just like Fozzie Bear from the Muppets.’ There was more than a passing resemblance and everyone started laughing. The poor so
d (whose real name was Greg before it became lost forever) jumped indignantly to his feet and cried out ‘I look about as much like Fozzie Bear as he does Gonzo.’ He was pointing directly at me.
Goose burst into hysterical laughter, which didn’t help my cause, but by then I knew the fickle hand of fate had once more slipped inside my underpants and given my testicles a firm squeeze. That was it: I was Gonzo again.
The nicknaming of section C continued throughout the week and by Sunday everyone in the section was covered. These names were, of course, a moveable feast and several cadets had many nicknames before the end of the year, some names reflecting moments of great bravery but more often, incidents of extreme stupidity. Some of the more creative names in the section included Pig Pen, Disco Kid, the Prince of Darkness, Dipstick, Captain Beekey, Duggy Wuggles and Shag.
The tallest cadet in the section was known as Big Jim while his best mate, and coincidently the shortest member of the wing, was called Little Jim. The section’s worst swimmer became “Aquaman” and two cadets of Dutch descent had their family names bastardised. Mark Van Der Kley became Van Der What and Craig Van Dugteren was forever after known as Van Doiger Doiger. Isn’t it comforting to know the people who invented these names are now patrolling our streets?
As you’d expect from an organisation such as the New Zealand Police our routine was set within the first week of the course and was extremely regimented. Breakfast was at 7am, followed by inspection and parade at 8.00. then we had to be in class by eight thirty.
Things were so strict at the start that we were required to march in formation both to and from meals. This was seriously irritating because it meant you couldn’t elect to sleep in rather than have breakfast. I’m not a ‘morning person’: my idea of a good sunrise is one that doesn’t involve me.
We studied law for the first part of every day, then had a break for lunch and were back in the classroom for general studies in the afternoon. General Studies was a new concept in policing and was one of the few courses taught by civilian personnel. It covered the more psychological aspects of policing rather than hard-and-fast rules of law. The topics covered were pretty heavy, and valuable though they may have been, we had little time for this course. It was hard for the majority of us cocksure cadets to imagine the stress the job would put on our health and mental stability. We were 18 years old and we were invincible. The concept that pressure from the job could rip marriages apart was hard to grasp when our idea of a steady relationship was if you called back for a second date.
Boredom wasn’t a problem during training as the police ensured our days contained a healthy sprinkling of things to look forward to. Periods we enjoyed included self defence and physical training, practical policing demonstrations, sport, weapons training and quite a few other activities, which I’ll put into the category of miscellaneous cool stuff. Generally any activity that involved shooting, driving, blowing things up and trips away from Trentham fell under this umbrella. The training was intense and by the end of the day we were knackered.
Our class work mostly finished at 4.30 and we had a free hour before dinner at 5.30 (I think the only people in New Zealand who ate that early were police cadets and rest home residents). I use the term ‘free’ in the loosest possible way, as there was always something to prepare for the next day. There was ironing to be done or law to swot, or shoes to polish and we frequently had to make up our rooms again after a midday snap inspection.
We didn’t have much time to ourselves during the first term: even Saturday mornings belonged to the police. We were required to be in class from 8am until noon to revise our weekly work. For ‘revise’, read ‘be tested upon’, because almost every Saturday contained a ‘surprise’ test. So regular were these supposedly unexpected tests that we were amazed if a Saturday went by without one. The police use the word spontaneous only on carefully planned occasions and I suspect they even had a written schedule for their random raids.
Our bosses deigned to give us the rest of the weekend off, providing we were back on base by 10pm on Saturday and Sunday nights. This restricted our social lives considerably but we were nothing if not resourceful and regularly found ways of getting into trouble.
I felt most sorry for fathers of teenage daughters in the areas of Trentham and Upper Hutt. Every year there would be an influx of 80 fit and horny young men who were suddenly away from their regular girlfriends and keen to liaise with the locals. These Dads learnt from bitter experience that aside from locking their daughters in the cellar it was nigh on impossible to keep the cadets away from them and vice versa. So they clubbed together and come up with a cunning plan. Within the first week of our arrival we were invited to the Upper Hutt hall for a ‘social dance’ with the locals. This enabled the fathers to get a good look at the bunch of deviants who’d arrived in town for the sole purpose of impregnating their daughters. It also gave us the chance to work out who we wanted to impregnate, and the girls got to choose who they’d like to be impregnated by. A good system all round.
You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that no untoward behaviour would be tolerated at the dance itself. The security was too good. Fathers started cleaning their chainsaws if you even looked like touching their daughters while dancing and the mothers hovered around like a cloud of angry bees. A relaxing evening it was not. Still, we did enjoy the female company and against all odds a few dates were arranged for the following weekend.
As I was still in madly in love with Carey, I was able to stare temptation straight in the face and tell it to naff off. Not that a lot of temptation actually came my way so my reserve wasn’t truly tested. But like any man, I had complete confidence in my ability to remain faithful when not faced with any other option. So far I’d only spent one day with Carey and it was getting monotonous professing undying love via New Zealand Post (no texting or email back then!). This was, however, our only option as she was based in Palmerston North, almost a three-hour drive from Trentham, and out of bounds at any time other than leave weekends.
These precious weekends allowed cadets to escape from Trentham on Friday night and not return until Sunday night. They were the only glimmer of hope on bleak romantic horizons and we looked forward to them with a passion. But there was only one leave weekend in the entire first term.
Why didn’t I just sneak out for the weekend after Saturday class you may ask? For two very good reasons. Firstly, cadets were not allowed to have vehicles at Trentham during the first term which made it bloody difficult to get anywhere. And secondly, there was a nightly inspection just to make sure every cadet was tucked up in his own bed. This check was done whenever the duty inspector felt like it so it was impossible to plan an escape. If you were caught not in your bed then you were immediately declared Absent With Out Leave and subject to instant dismissal from training.
A few cadets still found the possibility of a bonk so irresistible that they tried to beat the system. Most escapes occurred in the second term when the rules had been relaxed but even then it was still a risky venture. One cadet used a window dresser’s dummy head in the place of his own one night and got away with it but the most memorable deception featured none other than my mate Quentin.
For some inexplicable reason Quentin had woken up one night in his flat in Palmerston North and decided that it would be a good time to hitch around the South Island. It was the middle of winter and apparently he’d got as far as Blenheim, ran out of money and realised that perhaps he should have packed a bit more than just his father’s old coat before setting off.
So now he was penny less in Wellington, on his way back to Palmerston North, and desperately in need of a place to stay. He was at my mercy and where Quentin’s concerned, I don’t have any.
Remembering all the times he’d been ‘the sensible one’ I decided this was too good an opportunity to pass up so I suggested he stay in the police barracks with me. He was a bit surprised and asked me if I thought the police would mind. I said they probably would if th
ey knew but we weren’t going to tell them so it wouldn’t be a problem. I outlined my plan.
One of the other cadets was very keen to get out for the night but needed covering, so I suggested that Quentin sleep in his bed. The cadet, whose penis was well and truly in the driving seat, readily agreed and Quentin was out of options, so I set it up. I neglected to mention that he was required to be in bed when the duty sergeant came around. Or that he would be required to mimic the cadet’s voice and reply “here” if the sergeant so required. They did this sometimes after they got wind of the dummy incident. I left telling Quentin these vital pieces of information until it was too late for him to back out and by bedtime he was in a right state. It hadn’t helped his calm when a few of us informed him of the penalty for impersonating a police officer but the best moment came as he was preparing for bed. We told him the name of the cadet who he’d be impersonating - Rangi Waratene, one of the Maori cadets. Quentin’s face went a peculiar colour and he stammered ‘But I’m white!’
I told him he looked more greeny-orange to me and walked off, chuckling loudly all the way back to my room.
According to Rangi’s room-mate, Quentin went straight to bed and hid under the covers for the remainder of the night, though he could be heard practicing muffled Maori phrases under the blanket.
Fortunately the duty Sergeant only made a cursory check that evening and Quentin’s incomprehensible mumbling didn’t arouse any suspicion.
Quentin has yet to see the funny side of the incident and claims to have been emotionally scarred. He says he sometimes wakes up late at night sweating and shouting out “Kia ora” at the top of his lungs. His wife refuses to confirm or deny this story.
Armed and Dangerous
In case you were wondering, here are the main aims of the New Zealand Police (which I find disturbingly similar to the prime directives of Robocop):