The Laughing Policeman: My Brilliant Career in the New Zealand Police

by Glenn Wood

  To protect life and property.

  To prevent offences.

  To apprehend offenders

  To preserve the public peace

  So now you know.

  And while I’m in the mood for disclosures, here’s one that may surprise you. Amongst the equipment a Police Officer is advised, nay required, to carry is ...a crayon. So when he is confronted by an armed maniac he can yell ‘Drop your weapon immediately or I shall be forced to draw a hopscotch outline on the pavement.’

  As you can see this book is not afraid to make the tough calls and take you deep inside the seedy world of modern law enforcement, which brings us neatly to the General Poananga, 24th Cadet Wing’s first field trip. Where do you think our kind hearted instructors decided to take us?

  The zoo. No.

  The park. Not on your nelly.

  Stock car racing. Nup

  They decided to take us to the mortuary to see an autopsy being performed. I was dreading it. I was extremely squeamish and my biggest concern about joining up had been whether I’d be able to handle the blood-and-guts side of the job. I didn’t have a good pedigree in this area. When I was a kid I didn’t do as much fishing as I would have liked because I couldn’t stand gutting fish. Still can’t, I don’t mind catching them, but there’s no way I’m going to cut them open. These days my friends realise how sensitive I am and do the yucky stuff for me. I have an arrangement with my brother-in-law whereby he gets half the catch, if he guts and scales my share as well.

  My mates at school weren’t nearly as understanding. I remember a bunch of them chasing me around the house with fish hearts still beating in their nasty little hands. It was like something out of an Edger Allen Poe novel and it’s a wonder I grew up to be the well adjusted adult I am today.

  C Section was scheduled to visit the mortuary last and Sergeant Edwards was making the most of it. He spent the entire week telling us dead body stories that increased in grossness and became more graphic as the dreaded day approached. I was disturbed to discover that not everybody shared my concern. Some cadets were actually looking forward to it.

  A and B sections were to visit on Monday and Tuesday and C section was to go on Thursday. By Tuesday night the barracks were rife with stories of rib cutters and skull saws. According to eye witness accounts rib cutters were huge scissor-like implements that could chop through the rib cage in three easy cracks. One member of A section was able to mimic the sound the disgusting tool made perfectly and he regaled us with details over dinner. He was able to give an impressive reconstruction of the whole surgical process courtesy of a couple of chop bones and some tomato sauce. I felt quite woozy by the end of his performance.

  Skull saws were in a different league altogether. Their effects were discussed in hushed tones by small pockets of cadets huddled in dark corners around the barracks. It seemed this incredible surgical tool was similar to a hand held circular saw and its spinning blade was used to slice through the bone at the top of the skull, cutting it open like a knife through the top of a boiled egg, as one cadet put it. The stories got worse with tales of skin being peeled off the skull and brain oozing out all over the place. I didn’t stick around to hear the really gory details as I had to get to the bathroom urgently.

  So far the instructors had been disappointed with the cadet casualty tally. From the first two sections they only had one vomiting, one full faint and two partial faints, however they were expecting big things from C Section - and from me in particular. Imagine their disappointment when the hospital phoned on Wednesday afternoon to say there had been an outbreak of Legionnaires Disease in one of the wards and the hospital was under quarantine. All visits were cancelled. Woo hoo! Saved.

  Our instructors had to be satisfied with first-aid classes instead, in which they got to show us horrible car accident movies and slides of burn victims. At least the room was dark and I was able to hide behind my hands during the yucky bits, which turned out to be nearly the entire course. Even with my fingers providing shelter I could still hear the soundtrack and caught the odd unavoidable glimpse of munched-up human beings. This proved too much for me and by the end of the first showing I had to be sat by the door. By the end of the second day (drownings), I was seated outside the door where I could draw in big gulps of fresh air to stop from keeling over.

  I was quite worried by this time and had convinced myself I’d be dropped from the course for being such a wuss. I’d be hopeless as a policeman if every time I attended an accident I took one look, and spent the rest of the evening standing in the background hyperventilating into a paper bag.

  I told Sergeant Edwards my concerns. He was great. He took me aside and said he had the same problem in training but when he got out onto the streets and had to deal with the blood and gore first hand he found he was too busy to worry about feeling sick. He told me people look to you to take control of the situation so you just have to grit your teeth and get on with it no matter how you feel. He also assured me that after I’d seen a few bodies I would become desensitised and it wouldn’t worry me as much. I had my doubts, but if he was confident I wasn’t going to argue.

  My other main worry about the course was keeping up with the RFL’s (required fitness levels). Our fitness was tested when we first arrived and another was scheduled for a few days after the first aid course. I had sustained minor damage from the beer-can bazooka and the abortive raft race but was in pretty good shape.

  In my first RFL I finished in the middle of the pack and I felt my fitness was coming along nicely. The Police drove us very hard physically, with gym work and runs or tramps every day. I was also playing rugby for one of the police teams and was training after class at least twice a week. Sergeant Edwards was my coach and I was looking forward to a good season. I was disappointed not to be in the top police team but was reasonably happy to be in the Second XV. I had been a good rugby player in my first two years at secondary school but had changed position in my third year and hadn’t got to grips with the new spot. Originally I played hooker and loved it but I had to move out of the front row when I grew taller than the props. Now I was trying flanker, number eight or lock and didn’t know where I belonged.

  On the rugby field as elsewhere, the spectre of injury hung over my head. Dad always said I stuck my head where most players wouldn’t put their boot and I often came out of a game more battered than the other players. This wasn’t due to exceptional bravery on my part - more an inability to get out of the way of danger.

  Fortunately the high level of fitness forced upon us in the police was working in my favour and to date I was injury free, which boded well for our second RFL. This time I wasn’t the one who was struggling. One of the guys from our section was finding the going very tough, especially the 2.5km run. His name was Mark and he was a hell of nice guy, the sort of bloke who’d do anything for you no matter how much it put him out. He was big but a touch overweight, and the few extra pounds he was carrying were causing some problems. He was struggling with the sit ups and chin ups but the run really worried him.

  Mark had failed the first RFL and it was made clear that if he didn’t pass this one he was out. His generous spirit and easy going nature made him very popular and no-one in the section wanted to see him fail so the fittest guys in the class set up a rigorous training schedule for him. These guys gave up what little spare time they had to work with him. It was amazing to watch everyone get behind Mark; whenever he was training the Section was always there egging him on. On the day of the RFL we all gathered around and cheered loudly every time he completed a push up, sit up, or pull up. We were willing him on and it seemed to give him strength. It was obviously hard for him but he did the required amount of repetitions in the requisite time.

  Now came the run.

  In what I can only describe as an astonishing display of teamwork, every cadet in the section sacrificed their own RFL rating to run with Mark. Not a single cadet passed him on the track that day. We ran alongside him encouragi
ng and pushing him for every metre of the course. He was shattered when he crossed the finish line but he’d done it in his personal best time and had passed the RFL. And because he was under the required time we all passed as well. It was the most selfless display I have ever seen. What made it momentous was that normally we were such a highly competitive bunch of bastards. There were always petty little battles being fought to see who was the fastest, the strongest, the smartest, the fittest, had the biggest penis etc, but that was all put aside for this one brief but memorable moment.

  This story should end happily but this is real life and it didn’t. Mark’s personal best wasn’t good enough for the police and even though he’d improved in his first two fitness tests they failed him a month later after the next RFL. It was decided that his improvements hadn’t been great enough and he was asked to leave the course. We were devastated. In his own way Mark had been tougher than all of us put together. He had faced an uphill climb right from the start but he stuck at it with guts and determination. What’s more he did it without complaining or blaming anyone but himself. We all thought the police could have given him another chance as he was exactly the sort of cop they needed. I know why they failed him; the demands on our fitness got tougher and tougher as the year progressed and there was no way the rest of us could have continued to help him the way we had. It was hard enough getting ourselves through, let alone anyone else. Selfishness, it appeared, was one of the lessons we had to learn to become police officers.

  With the second RFL out of the way we were ready to get on with our next challenge and this one definitely fell into the ‘cool stuff’ category. It was time for the cadets of C Section to be unleashed on the rifle range.

  Finally we were getting to the things I’d joined up to do. We were about to get tooled up and boy, was I looking forward to it. Our batons and handcuffs were still a term and a half away and the most lethal things we’d been exposed to so far were the cookhouse potatoes.

  I’d done rifle shooting before as my school ran an army training course. I shot really well in that exercise but it may have been a fluke because I only just scraped through at Trentham.

  I really enjoyed shooting but was unable to do much more than give the paper Nazi soldiers I was aiming at a nasty fright. I did manage to do quite a bit of damage to the Nazi next to my guy. I was informed this was not the aim of the exercise. I suggested that even though technically I hadn’t hit my Nazi, I had inflicted an enormous psychological damage on him. After all, he’d just seen his best mate cut down in a hail of bullets and would be in counselling for years. My argument was rejected and I was given another magazine to see if I could do some actual damage to him. This time I blew his paper butt away. We had a great morning on the range but the best part was yet to come. That afternoon we were to have a go at pistol shooting. A’right!

  I’d never shot a pistol before but had watched a lot of Dirty Harry movies and was confident I could handle it.

  Our instructors had set up a really cool course and we were excited about the prospect of an afternoon on the firing range. The course was arranged with three standing man-sized targets which were set up about 15 metres back from the firing area. They stood beside each other about 5 yard metres apart. Directly in front of them in the firing area were three square wooden shields of about the same size as the targets. This was our cover. About 20 metres away was a small wooden stake. We had to run around this between firing at the targets. The idea was to race past the wooden peg with your pistol loaded and holstered, then sprint to the first cover barrier, remove your pistol from its holster, take off the safety catch and fire three rounds at the adjacent target from a standing position. Once you’d completed your three shots you had to run back around the peg, return to the second firing area and fire three rounds at the next target from a kneeling position. Your pistol was now empty and you were to eject the spent shells onto the polythene beneath your knees, take cover, and load three fresh bullets into the chamber. Once reloaded you were to run around the peg again and return to the third firing zone where you could fire your final three rounds from a lying position. It wasn’t until you got into the final position that you discovered how well you’d loaded the gun after the kneeling round.

  It was really tricky because if you hadn’t spun the chamber into the correct firing position then one of the following things would happen. If you’d spun the chamber too far the second bullet would fire instead of the first. Then the third bullet, then nothing, you’d hit an empty chamber. This left you with one rogue round in the gun. Bad. If you didn’t spin the chamber far enough then your first shot would be a click as you again hit an empty chamber. Also bad.

  Points were deducted from your score if a click was heard where there should have been a bang. Points were also deducted if your bullets missed the target or if you took longer than two minutes to complete the course. You also lost points if you were unable to find all six empty cartridges from your gun (see the Arthur Allan Thomas case).

  After you’d fired your final three lying shots, one last dash around the peg was required before you could return to the starting position with your pistol holstered and the safety catch on. It was a hell of a lot to remember and the time limit meant you had to squeeze off your shots quickly. The pistol shoot was going to be fun but it wasn’t going to be easy to pass.

  I was second up to shoot and I tore around the course like a madman. My standing shots thudded into the suspects vital organs no problems at all. I sent the second bad guy to meet his maker with my kneeling shots, emptied the chamber, reloaded and headed off for the peg confident that all was well. I got cocky as I approached the third target and decided to roll into the lying position, as I’d seen people do on many 1970’s cop shows. I whirled on the grass with my weapon over my head and spun onto my stomach, then pumped hot lead into the last scumbag’s groin. He wouldn’t trouble the good folk of Dry Gulch again, no siree.

  I was sure my fancy rollin’ and shootin’ had impressed the hell out of the instructor, so I sauntered back to the starting line, half expecting applause. Instead I got a right bollocking.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ the instructor shouted into my face from about 10 centimetres away. I was too shocked to answer. It appeared that as I’d rolled over, my gun had travelled in a wide arc around my head and everyone had to dive for cover. I tried pathetically to explain that this was how Starsky did it and he’d never shot Hutch, but it was no use, I was in disgrace.

  We were all given a lecture on the difference between real life and the movies and were informed that points would be deducted for any variations from standard shooting procedures. My misdemeanour would probably have been overlooked if I’d turned out to be a crack shot but sadly, out of the nine shots I’d fired only two had hit kill spots, five had done some minor wounding and two had missed altogether.

  I had failed the pistol shoot. This meant I wasn’t allowed to be armed as a police constable until I sat and passed a test at the station I would be sent to, assuming I passed the rest of training and graduated. It was a black mark on my record but only a minor one - several other cadets failed the shooting as well.

  After we had finished feeding lead sandwiches to the paper crims we were taken aside for a lecture on firearms safety (a bit late, I thought). We had been shooting with standard issue .38s and though they gave a bit of a kick they were relatively easy to handle and we felt confident with the weapon. At least we did until the instructors began swapping stories. Our instructor had been on an Armed Offenders call-out to a gang confrontation, when things got out of control. As the trouble reached its zenith one particularly large gang member broke ranks and charged the police lines. He was brandishing a large kitchen knife. He was warned to drop the knife several times but just kept charging so our instructor shot him in the leg. It didn’t make a jot of a difference; in fact it just seemed to piss him off. So our instructor shot him in the other leg. This slowed him but he didn’t stop completely until a dog t
ook him down. They found out later he was high on drugs and booze and didn’t even remember being shot. After that the Armed Offenders squad made sure they had quick access to bigger calibre guns.

  This story was a lead-up to our instructor’s next trick and he pulled out a .357 magnum (a bloody big gun). He then picked two ‘volunteers’ to shoot the pistol. Phil and I were selected. I held the pistol in a relaxed manner, concentrating on the target not the kick of the gun. This thing exploded like a cannon, snapping my wrists back and sending the bullet way above where I was aiming. I was relieved to see Phil had the same problem and was also rubbing his wrists. Once our instructor finished smirking, he came over and showed us how to brace properly. My second shot hit the target and I was seriously impressed at the size of the hole I’d made in the paper guy’s chest. But not half as impressed as I was when our instructor fired the same gun at a piece of sheet metal. The bullet punched right through it. Cool.

  Several other weapons were on display that afternoon. I’m not a gun nut so I can’t remember exactly what they were but I was very impressed by the carnage they inflicted on the various tin cans, water containers and wooden targets that were our opposition for the afternoon.

  New Zealand Police 573, Paper Nazis 0.

  Best of all, at the end of the day our instructors snuck off early, leaving us to pick up the cartridges and collect the targets. This meant we were able to dig around in the dirt banks behind the range to find the heads of the fired bullets. I found one in almost perfect condition and was certain it was one of my shells. After all, most of the bullets I’d fired weren’t impeded by hitting anything so they were bound to be undamaged.

  Being the sentimental old romantic I am, I decided to steal a cartridge case, mount the head back on it, shine it, get it engraved, put a chain on it and give it to Carey. You should have seen the look on her face when I presented her with a beautiful bullet pendant inscribed with the tender words ‘To Carey, you blew my heart away, from Glenn.’