by Glenn Wood
When asked if we’d like to see a practical tear gas demonstration we foolishly said yes and were told to stand in the middle of a nearby paddock. Our instructors said that we needed to be well clear of the firing zone so none of the gas would drift back towards us. This was a lie. We were the firing zone.
After we’d been standing in the field for a few minutes we heard a gentle thud and a canister flew over our heads to land behind us. This was followed by another canister to the left, one to the right and another in front. As huge clouds of gas billowed around us it didn’t take a genius to work out we’d been deceived.
There was nowhere to run, and before long we were surrounded by tear gas. I foolishly decided the best thing to do would be to hold my ground. The gas couldn’t be that bad and my best course of action would be to hold my breath and guts it out.
I was in the middle of the group and the cadets on the outside had already been hit by the fumes. I could hear coughing and spluttering but couldn’t see them as the cloud closed in on me. By the time I was engulfed the field was full of cadets running like buggery through the mist, trying to get the hell out of there. It was eerie - bodies were everywhere, with some cadets crawling on the ground and others doubled over retching.
Seconds after the gas hit me I realised the folly of my plan. There was no way I could tough it out. The effects of the gas were brutal and instant: it burnt into my eyes and clawed its way down my throat, reacting violently to any moist part of the body. I ran as fast as I could to get out of the deadly cloud, then fell to my knees coughing, with my throat on fire and my eyeballs exploding.
When the mist lifted the field was littered with cadets rolling desperately on the ground trying to get the irritating burn off their skin.
Once our instructors finished having a good old chuckle they advised us not to shower when we got back to the barracks as the water would set the irritant off again. They weren’t kidding - even several hours later the stuff still burned like hell and at shower time that night Trentham was alive with the sound of cadets moaning in pain. The day that started with a bang and ended with a whimper.
The Demon Alcohol: Part Two
It was time for our second-term exams. During the term we had studied police powers of arrest, crimes involving dishonesty, serious crime, the Sale of Liquor Act and police computer use and procedures. I was reasonably confident I’d pass but dreading the three-day wait for results.
To stop us worrying about how we’d done our PT instructors had kindly scheduled a marathon. We were going to be running 42.2 kilometres the day before our results came out and two days before we were due to go on leave.
This didn’t please me. I was fit enough to be able to do the marathon (just), but would be completely knackered and I wanted to conserve my energy for more pleasurable activities in Palmerston North. Like walks in the park and feeding the ducks. I also didn’t want to risk getting a nasty groin strain before I arrived (after was okay).
There was only one thing for it: I was going to have to cheat. I mentioned my plan to Phil, who had also expressed concern over the marathon. He had a ski trip planned during his leave and wanted to get home uninjured.
Skiving off wasn’t going to be easy, as our instructors had timed the marathon beautifully. We couldn’t pull a sickie because we had to be 100 per cent for our practical exams the day before the run, and taking a shortcut would be impossible as we were running through Whitman’s Valley, which was too steep to bypass. There would also be a PT instructor standing at the 25km mark counting cadets as they staggered past.
Phil and I decided our best course of action would be to do the first 25 kilometres, then fake an injury that somehow involved both of us. A paper-thin plot, I’ll admit, but it was all we had.
I was stuffed after 25 kilometres, though secretly quite pleased to have got that far. Phil was faring better as he was fitter than I was, and was having second thoughts about our plan. I didn’t want to cheat alone but I could see his point. Both of us crapping out at the same time would look suspicious.
My legs were starting to ache and I desperately wanted to be in tip-top shape for the duck feeding. I had to stop so I pointed to a nearby bush and suggested we pop in there for a breather. Phil agreed, and as we were catching our breath I peeped out to see if I could spot any instructors lurking around. Instead I saw an old ute driving up the road. I came up with an instant plan and leapt from the bush sticking my thumb out in the universal signal of the hitch hiker.
To my amazement the ute stopped. A young guy was at the wheel and he agreed to give Phil and I a lift back to Trentham. Brilliant! He had seen the other runners so knew what we were up to and thought it was a great lark. He even chucked a blanket in the back so we could hide under it in case our instructors were using spotter helicopters (I wouldn’t have put it past them).
Phil was reluctant at first but the skifields were beckoning so he agreed and we hopped into the back of the ute. The best part of the trip was sticking our heads over the edge of the tray and waving at the other cadets. They were struggling manfully onwards trying to complete the marathon in the conventional way and the looks on their faces were something I’ll remember for ages.
Finally a plan was working - about bloody time. We were sure none of the other cadets would dob us in, as this form of cheating was highly acceptable - even admirable - if you had the balls to do it. Being caught in the back of the ute by an instructor wouldn’t have been pretty though, and several weeks confinement to barracks would be the least we could expect.
The driver dropped us off at the gates of Trentham and we sneaked round the back of the gymnasium and hid. A trickle of cadets were coming past, heading for the finish line in the main compound. We couldn’t join in yet as completing the race at the top of the field would have been laughable given the condition we were in at the 25km mark. A respectable time to appear would be near the end of the main bunch and we had a lovely rest waiting for the poor saps who had actually run the 42.2 kilometres to wobble past.
We popped out amongst a group of 8 totally knackered cadets and, despite some uncalled-for-comments about our parentage, joined them for the final jog to the finish line. The plan was an unqualified success and Phil and I came out of it fit and injury free.
Exam results came out the next day. I hadn’t shone but had passed so I was happy. Two cadets weren’t. They had failed for the second time and were told not to come back after leave. A bitter pill to swallow after eight months of training.
The next day I headed for Palmerston North. Quentin was with me as he’d been visiting friends in Wellington and had hit me up for a ride. On the straight outside Foxton I saw my chance to show Quentin what Floyd could do and planted boot getting the mini up to somewhere near the legal speed limit. Ahead of us in the distance a small old car driven by a small old man, pulled up to a stop sign at a side road. Ignoring the stop sign and us he began to creep forward. Quentin and I looked at each other in amazement and shook our heads in disbelief. He was pulling out right in front of us and we were in a pink mini. He must have been blind as a bat.
Still he carried on, creeping inexorably towards the middle of the road. It finally dawned on me that I would have to take evasive action to avoid the dangerous old duffer (Quentin yelling “We’re going to die” helped my decision).
I slammed on the brakes, yanked on the hand brake and spun 360 degrees into the side street. As we skidded to a stop I wiped my brow and turned to Quentin to get his congratulations on what had been a spectacular piece of evasive driving. He wasn’t there. He was lying in the middle of the road. Floyd’s door had come open and he’d fallen out. Quentin was quite annoyed about this. Fortunately he wasn’t injured aside from a few bumps and bruises.
As I got out to help him, the old twit in the old car crawled past and had the nerve to shake his head and tut-tut at us. I was gobsmacked: if I hadn’t been so busy scraping Quentin off the road I would have chased him down and made a citizen’s arrest.
Quentin was reluctant to get back in Floyd (big wuss) and it wasn’t until I agreed to tie his door shut that he deigned to complete the journey. We reached Palmerston North without any further incidents but that was the last time Quentin ever travelled in Floyd.
Ahhhh, two weeks of leave. Two weeks of sleeping in, two weeks of making love to Carey (finally) and two weeks of explaining to my parents why I wasn’t coming home. At least I had parents who were disappointed they wouldn’t be seeing me: one cadet arrived home for leave to find that his parents had shifted without telling him.
I managed to stay out of trouble right up until the second-to-last night of my week of leave. It was a Friday night and Carey had a college function so I wouldn’t be seeing her until later that evening. We were sitting around at Quentin’s flat having a few beers when Quentin said he would like to try on my uniform. I didn’t think it would fit him but let him have a go anyway. It was a bit baggy but looked okay.
Then he said how much fun it would be to act like a cop for an hour or so. The alarm bells should have started ringing but, sadly, they didn’t. Quentin put an interesting scenario to me. How about he and I put on my uniform (me in pants, shirt and hat, he in civvy pants and police tunic), then we take a drive in his flatmate’s car and bust some people. I told him this was not only highly illegal but it was also really dumb and dangerous.
‘Hang on,’ he cried, ‘What if the people we arrested were friends of ours and we were only pretending - that wouldn’t be against the law would it?’
It probably was but I was intrigued. Quentin suggested sending some of our friends to Pork Chop Hill (a local scenic lookout overlooking Palmerston North where teenager’s went to ignore the view). Once they were in place we’d come roaring up in his flatmate’s car, pretend to bust them, they’d escape, and we’d chase them back to the flat. It was the stupidest, most dumb-assed scheme I’d ever heard, I loved it.
Quentin made a few phone calls and the deal was on. His girlfriend even had a dodgy spinning orange light she’d ‘borrowed’ from some road works. We could put on the roof of the car (a 1970 Datsun 120Y) my friend suggested enthusiastically.
I can’t think of a single reason why I even entertained this whole crazy deal. If we were caught it would be the end of my police career and Quentin and I risked being arrested for impersonating police officers. Somehow none of this occurred to me and I agreed to the plan. This highlighted my biggest problem at 18: the inability to think about the consequences of my actions.
Two car loads of friends drove up to Pork Chop Hill, which was full of necking teenagers. We arrived 10 minutes later. It was a spectacular entrance. Quentin was hanging out the passenger-side window of the car trying to hold the orange light on the roof. The batteries kept falling out so the light only worked in bursts.
How we could have thought anyone would believe the rusty old red Datsun with the weakly pulsing orange light, was an undercover police car I’ll never know. Then there was Quentin’s blatantly ill-fitting uniform and my epaulettes with CADET written on them in big white letters.
Still, there we were, skidding to a stop in the middle of the car park. We leapt out of the car and shone torches into other vehicles trying to look official. Surprisingly, all the onlookers bought it, hook, line and sinker.
It’s amazing the power a police uniform (or bits of one) can have on the general public. Not one of these kids thought to question our authority, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. They happily let us write their names and addresses in our notebooks and when our friends roared off down the hill, they watched in awe as Quentin and I dived back into the Datsun and drove off in hot pursuit, orange light spluttering on the roof.
We got back to the flat high on adrenalin and laughter. Our friends were buzzing too. We’d played a grown-up game of cops and robbers and got away with it. They thought it was a great lark, which it had been, but I should have known better.
When I told Carey she hit the roof. She reminded me that in about six months’ time I’d be arresting people who pulled stupid stunts like that. She couldn’t believe how foolish I’d been, to risk everything I’d worked so hard for. I lamely tried to blame Quentin. I’d never seen Carey so angry before and it bought home the immaturity of my actions. It took a lot of grovelling and soul-searching before she’d even talk to me again. The lesson I learned that night would be with me right up until I did my next unbelievably idiotic thing, which was about two weeks away.
I went back to Trentham for our third and final term feeling sorry for myself. Carey’s farewell had been decidedly frosty and I knew I had ground to make up on the romantic front.
It would be easier in the third term as we were allowed to apply for leave most weekends. Discipline was relaxed as well, with very few bookings dished out and more freedom allowed. We were told we’d have to do something really stupid, or fail our last exams badly, to get kicked out now. This was a relief but we still had a lot to learn and as always our fitness and stamina were constantly tested.
Our fourth RFL was scheduled for three days after the start of term and I made sure that I didn’t accept any cans of Coke beforehand.
I felt really good on the RFL, posting my best results to date. I was fit, I was happy, and I’d penned some brilliant love letters to Carey and managed to repair the damage somewhat.
I received mail from my girlfriend with a regularity that astounded the other cadets. I was always at the front of the queue at mail-call time and a day rarely went past when I didn’t get a letter. It was one of the many things the other cadets teased me about.
The ribbing was almost always in good fun but it did get tiresome after a while. Particularly when it came to my taste in music. I was (and still am) a musical snob and my tastes sit on the fringes. The current week had been an exciting one for me as I’d discovered that legendary Irish blues guitarist Rory Gallagher was playing at the Wellington town hall that coming weekend. Naturally I thought interest amongst the cadets would be high and before class began I made an announcement to see who wanted to go with me. I was met by a stunned silence and then Fozzie spoke up: ‘Why would we want to go and see some guy bend spoons.’
It took me a while to figure out what he was talking about; suddenly I clicked on.
‘No, no, no,’ I belatedly replied ‘Not Uri Geller, Rory Gallagher.’
But it was too late. Everyone found it much funnier to think I was going to see an Irish spoon-bender and I got teased about it for the rest of the year. As a consequence no one would go to the concert with me so I went by myself. It was the loudest concert I’ve ever been to and I spent the next two days totally deaf. He was a bloody good guitarist though, and I’d like to say for the record he didn’t bend one spoon all evening. Peasants.
The following Monday we were told we’d be spending the coming weekend on a marae in Hastings. I was still deaf from the concert and asked Phil who Marie from Hastings was, remarking that she must be a friendly girl to let 73 cadets stay with her. He cuffed me around the ear and yelled that we were staying on a Maori marae.
I got it then and prepared myself for a week of politically correct lectures from the general studies crew. They did not disappoint. I was a little nonplussed about the whole thing. Being from Taranaki I had been around Maori’s all my life and never had a problem with the whole black and white thing. I’m not saying I was an exceptionally well adjusted, culturally sensitive sort of guy. If anything I’d avoided racism through apathy - I had no knowledge of what went on in other cultures and had no interest in finding out.
Unbeknown to me, racism was a burning issue for the police. The percentage of Maori offenders dealt with by the constabulary is wildly disproportionate to their percentage of the population and the police were copping (no pun intended) some flack for picking on Maori. This wasn’t actually the case, but it had become a political hot potato so the powers-that-be were anxious to be seen doing the right thing. Hence the marae visit.
I had
mixed feelings about the trip. I’d rather have spent the weekend in Palmerston North with Carey but we weren’t given an option and the Maraes I’d been on before had been fun. Who knows - I might even learn something.
Unfortunately, my marae visit was a disaster of epic proportions, even on the Gonzo scale.
First day, not a problem. Got there, met the locals, rubbed a few noses, had a couple of speeches, enjoyed a sing-song and some great kai (food. Cooked in a hangi and much better than roast beef and spuds – though I did have to eat some smoked veges), immediately liked everyone, slept in the meeting house and was overwhelmed by our hosts’ hospitality. Brilliant.
The next day we went to Napier, visited some local schools and went to another marae in the district. It was a cool day, which was capped off with some interesting insights into the gang culture, including a discussion on why so many Maori youths ended up affiliated to the gangs. It was a refreshing perspective with talks from current and former gang members who spoke candidly of their motives for joining up. Some of us had joined the Police for similar reasons – a sense of belonging, excitement, fashion (okay, so that’s pushing it a bit). It’s not for nothing that the police are known as New Zealand’s biggest gang.
I came away from the lectures with a new understanding about the problems Maori youth were facing. So far so good.
Then along came Saturday night. We were given a choice of things to do, which was where our instructors made their first mistake. We got into a lot less trouble when we were just told what to do.
We could volunteer to be waiters for a police function at the Civic Chambers (the boring option). We could go out with the local police for the night on a kind of station duty deal (the sensible option). Or we could go to town by ourselves (the ‘potential for trouble’ option). Guess which one I picked.