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

by Glenn Wood

  Nearly half the cadets opted to see what nightlife Napier had to offer and after about an hour we had all come to the same conclusion, none. We’d have to make our own fun. This meant immediately finding alcohol. Pubs were out of bounds, as the chance of a station duty cadet finding us was high and of course, we were all under age. That only left liquor stores, so a band of four of us set off to find one. It wasn’t difficult - there was a store on almost every corner. Evidently we weren’t the only ones to find Napier’s night life a little dull.

  Fozzie, Phil and Pigpen and I perused the fine range of wines, beers and spirits on display.

  One of the other things I was regularly teased about at Trentham was money. I have inherited the genes of my late grandfather, Sydney Lionel Wood, and he was well known for being careful with money. He wasn’t mean - quite the opposite - but he loved to find a bargain and if that meant scraping around in the sale bin then so be it. A watered down version of his blood flows in my veins and I only spend money when it is absolutely necessary.

  On the night in question I found the bargain of a lifetime. Three bottles of wine were in the sale bin priced at a mere 99 cents each. I snapped up this incredible offer and told the lads our alcohol requirements were filled. They looked dubious and bought some beer in case the wine turned out to be undrinkable (a safe bet given the price).

  I would be the first to admit I’m not a connoisseur and frankly, I don’t know my sauvignon blanc from my beaujolais, but we weren’t trying to sample the great wines of the world. We were out to get pissed and I thought these would do the job nicely. We wandered down to the waterfront along the Marine Parade and found a nice bench by the sea where we could sit and consume our goodies. This was of course, against the law - drinking in a public place - but we seemed to have conveniently forgotten everything we’d learned about the Sale of Liquor Act. Besides, we were almost police officers now and could control our drinking. I personally controlled half a dozen beer and a bottle and a half of wine, which, as predicted, turned out to be undrinkable. Or would have been if not for the other genetic trait passed to me by Sydney Lionel. Trait 2: Once you’ve bought something, you have to get your money’s worth no matter how crappy it turns out to be.

  Once the beer was gone the other three lads tried manfully to consume the rest of the wine but the stuff was so vile they ended up tipping half of it out on to the sand. I would have been horrified had I been able to comprehend what was happening. But I couldn’t. I was completely wasted and very, very sick.

  Obviously I had learned nothing from the unfortunate Geoff Redfern incident and had fallen prey to the demon alcohol yet again. I’m not a big drinker so when I do partake I get drunk very quickly and then what few brains I have, go right out the window. I never get violent or destructive; instead I turn into a large helpless mass. I also have a weak stomach and a year’s worth of poor diet and stress was starting to take its toll. After half an hour of heavy drinking I started to vomit. I’m not sure whether it was the quantity of alcohol or the poor quality of the wine (or both) but I was as sick as a dog.

  Once I’d been vomiting continuously for an hour the other guys started to worry. By this stage I was so weak I could hardly stand. My friends decided it was time to get me back to the bus that would take us back to the marae. They carried me to the bus, leant me against the side of it and left me throwing up in the gutter as the other cadets were rounded up.

  I had never been so sick in my entire life. I couldn’t move without feeling nauseous and was in a lot of pain from stomach cramps. The colour had washed out of my cheeks and I am told I looked like the living dead.

  The other cadets didn’t know what to do with me. A crowd had formed around my pathetically heaving body and discussions were being held about what action should be taken. No one wanted to tell the instructors we’d been drinking but it was obvious I needed help. They decided to get me back to the Marae as surreptitiously as possible and sneak me into bed. I was lifted into the bus and hidden in the back corner with a paper bag to throw up in and a few coats tossed on me to keep me warm. A roster was drawn up and cadets took turns checking up on me during the 20- minute trip back.

  Back at the marae I was helped off the bus and propped against a nearby wall while a plan to move me into the meeting house was formulated. I started vomiting again and fell against the wall, doubled up in pain. Then I heard a sound I’d hoped not to hear. It was the voice of the chief inspector.

  ‘What’s the matter with that cadet?’ he said with obvious displeasure.

  He had just returned from the mayoral function at the Civic Chambers and was making his way to bed when he came across us. The chief inspector was addressing Phil, who had the presence of mind to lie brilliantly.

  ‘That’s Cadet Wood, sir. He’s very sick, we think he’s got food poisoning.’

  Well done Phil! There was a possibility the story could be true, but the chief inspector didn’t believe it for a minute and came over to have a look at me.

  As he approached I turned around and did my best to stay upright. I wasn’t drunk anymore - I’d vomited all the alcohol out of my system hours ago. I was just very, very ill.

  As the chief inspector got closer I was struck by another huge wave of nausea and before I could say or do anything else I threw up once more, all over the chief inspector’s shoes. I was too sick to realise the enormity of what I’d done but the other cadets drew in a collective gasp and waited for the world to end.

  At exactly the right moment I fell onto the ground moaning, shaking and semi-conscious. This saved me from immediate expulsion. The chief inspector took one look at me and could tell I wasn’t just drunk or faking it. He called an ambulance and detailed a couple of cadets to find a blanket to keep me warm until it arrived. The chief inspector turned to Phil.

  ‘Food poisoning, you say.’

  He stared long and hard at Phil before continuing. Phil held his gaze.

  ‘Well, we’ll leave it at that shall we?’

  Just before leaving, the chief inspector asked Phil if he’d mind coming to the officer’s hut the next morning. Phil nervously asked why. The chief inspector gave a small smile and replied. ‘To clean my shoes, of course.’

  I was taken straight to hospital and given an injection to stop the nausea, then I was put on a drip to stop me dehydrating. There were traces of blood in my vomit so I was placed in intensive care and watched closely until I stopped being sick. The injection worked quickly and the nausea eased off. Once my stomach settled down I was taken out of the emergency room and placed in a ward for the rest of the night, or more accurately morning. It was about 3am before I finally fell asleep.

  The next day I was collected by the police and taken back to the marae. There was a day and a half left of our visit and it was felt I should join the rest of the cadets - besides the hospital wanted the bed back. I was incredibly weak from all the vomiting and couldn’t hold down anything other than water. The hospital recommended I be confined to bed for the next few days so a mattress was set up in one end of the Marae’s main meeting house and I was left to lie there.

  I immediately fell asleep and embarrassed myself and the police as a whole by snoring loudly through the two remaining days of lectures. Apparently my timing was immaculate. Every time a Maori leader or a police representative made a deep and moving point the words were punctuated by a pig like snort or a rasping grunt from the bunk in the corner. It was undoubtedly the most culturally insensitive two days of my entire life and I don’t remember a moment of it.

  I was still unwell on the bus back to Trentham but as I started to recover I knew this wasn’t going to be the end of the matter.

  By rights I should have been thrown out of training, but Phil’s quick thinking and the fact the police had no proof of my drinking saved my bacon. The hospital said I had been poisoned but were unsure as to whether it was by something I’d eaten or something I’d drunk. The instructors knew I’d been on the booze but despite my occas
ional lapses of judgement I was still considered to be a good cadet. I was doing well in my exams, my fitness was above the required level and I was conscientious and honest. Stupid, but honest.

  A serious discussion was held by senior staff about my future and it was decided I’d be given the benefit of the doubt. I think Senior Hanley put in a good word for me and I was grateful. I really did want to be a policeman and it would have been a tragedy to have been thrown out so close to the end of the course.

  As a punishment for causing the police embarrassment I was confined to barracks for the following weekend. Normally when you’re confined to barracks, that’s where you stay. However, on that particular weekend our wing senior sergeant and his wife had an important function and were unable to find a babysitter. Guess who? Myself and Pigpen; who was also confined to barracks for an unrelated series of offences against hygiene regulations. Not, you would have thought, the ideal pair to leave alone in your family home in charge of your loved ones. Obviously the senior sergeant was desperate. And surely we wouldn’t be stupid enough to cock this up, given we were both under disciplinary clouds as it was?

  I’m happy to report that no, we weren’t stupid enough to get into further trouble. We sat back in his comfy lounge chairs, watched his big screen television and ate his chips without even considering the beer in the fridge or the booze in the liquor cabinet. I was right off alcohol anyway - my stomach was still dodgy from the previous weekend and any further dalliances with drink would probably have been fatal.

  The kids got up a couple of times during the night so we gave them chips and fizzy drink then sent them back to bed (judging by the racket coming from the bedroom, not to sleep). This babysitting lark was a breeze. The senior sergeant had a great night out and seemed relieved that everything was in working order when he returned home. For one brief second I considered asking him for standard babysitting rates but, what with being confined to barracks and everything, it seemed a bit cheeky.

  Going Bush

  The next day there was a riot at Trentham. The Army had called our duty instructor and asked if there were any cadets available to help with an exercise they had planned for that afternoon. The scenario was as follows.

  A large number of civilian youths from the surrounding districts had been gathered in the parade ground and were asked to act as protesters during a pretend commie/greenie/save the lemur type rally. The plan was that the protest would get out of hand and overrun (did he say overrun?) the thin line of police that were controlling the rally, then the army would be called in to sort things out.

  The police front line was to contain about a dozen cadets, myself included, and any other cadets wanting to join the exercise could go on the protester’s side. As Pigpen and I were still confined to barracks we were given no option but to be in the doomed police squad. Aqua and a few other cadets, who were around but weren’t confined, thought it would be excellent fun to be protesters and have a chance to attack us.

  Those of us in the police line weren’t keen on facing an angry mob with no protection so we asked for full riot gear, including the new black long batons that had just been released.

  We had already been given instructions on how to use the new batons or the ‘black whacker,’ as they were nicknamed, not for racial reasons, but because it was coloured black and you whacked people with it. The baton was two and a half times longer than the standard issue one and had a small handle on its side. It was housed on a small metal loop on your belt and in the hands of an expert it was lethal. The idea was to draw the baton out of the loop using the small side handle, flicking the baton round in a loop as you drew it and finishing with the long end tucked neatly under your elbow. Our instructor told us that when spun correctly the tip of the baton would travel at speeds in excess of 120 kilometres per hour. He personally had drawn it once on a gang member who was running at him and said when the baton slammed into the nasty man’s chest’ he dropped like a sack of spuds. It was later revealed the baton had shattered three of the bad guy’s ribs. Choice.

  Unfortunately our request for this essential equipment was denied. We were issued riot shields and could carry our standard-issue batons.

  Thus armed we prepared to face the youth of the greater Wellington area (and a few turncoat cadets), in a mock riot situation. This would have been fine if some idiot from the army hadn’t told the good citizens to make the riot as real as possible. They arrived armed with placards to wave and vegetables to throw, which they did with great vigour.

  We huddled behind our shields and waited until the bombardment of spuds and tomatoes finished, then inched forward in a vain attempt to make them disperse.

  Instead of retreating they rushed straight towards us, punching and kicking as they advanced. We were under strict orders not to hurt these alleged innocents but they clearly hadn’t received the same instructions because after 10 minutes of play riot they became over-excited and began attacking us in earnest.

  Once the vegetables were used up they started throwing rocks and their placards quickly turned into weapons. Several cadets were struck down, hit by stones and hunks of wood. I remember thinking ‘fuck this for a game of tiddly winks’ as a large rock ricocheted off the side of my shield and an ugly youth tried to push me over, ripping my uniform in the process.

  Any thoughts of not harming the locals had disappeared when the first cadet went down and we hit anyone who came near us with our batons or shields. I was right in the thick of it and was being attacked on all sides by out-of-control youths. The cadets on the protester’s side suddenly realised what was happening and did their best to help us. I remember seeing Aqua ripping a large stick off one of the mob as the kid tried to smash it over our unprotected heads.

  The army officers finally figured out that perhaps it might be a good time for their boys to come to our aid. Amidst cries of ‘about bloody time’ the soldiers trooped in and charged the now rioting ‘protesters’. When the mob realised the army had arrived and meant business they split up and took off, running to hide behind the barracks and dropping what was left of their placards amongst the rubble on the parade ground.

  From the state of our ripped and bloody uniforms the army officers could see things had got out of control and they rushed around pretending everything had gone as planned. Fortunately no one had been seriously hurt, though most of the cadets sported cuts and bruises. I’m pleased to report some of the rioters had similar injuries, and now they had calmed down they were starting to whinge about it.

  In an attempt to diffuse the situation the instructors got both sides together on the parade ground for a debriefing and some lemonade and biscuits. We stood there quietly drinking, eating, rubbing our bruises and glaring at one another. Before the volunteer youths left we were asked to shake hands with them. We did so reluctantly, only because we knew the importance of retaining good relations between the police and the public, who, I’d like to add, were trying to smash our brains out with rocks about 10 minutes earlier.

  If nothing else, it was a good lesson in how quickly a supposedly peaceful demonstration can turn ugly – a lesson everyone in New Zealand would learn on a much larger scale in the coming years.

  The emphasis went off the classroom in the third term as we got into practical exams with real people instead of our instructors. The police also dialled up the self-defence and endurance parts of our training. It appeared we hadn’t proved our death-or-glory attitudes enough in the cart race, the raft race, the harbour swim, the marathon, a year of highly competitive sport, the rifle range, driving school or the hundreds of other activities designed to push us to our limits. Nope, what we needed now was to run through 10 kilometres of tough cross-country course with a telephone pole on our shoulders.

  This wondrous event was called the poleathon. Naturally we would be racing the other sections for the honour of crossing the finish line first, just to add a competitive edge to the already treacherous nature of the race.

  I don’t know if y
ou’ve ever lifted a telephone pole (I suspect not) but I can tell you they are bloody heavy. It would take eight to ten cadets at a time just to carry the beastly thing. Our approach was once the initial carriers got tired a fresh group would slip in and take the weight, giving the others a break.

  During a practice run we discovered something very nasty about running over bumpy ground, carrying telephone poles on your shoulder - it hurts. The motion of running was bad enough because the pole bounced up and down on our shoulders, painfully bruising the bones. And because we were different heights the taller cadets got more weight on their shoulders, while the shorter ones got bashed around the ears by the movement of the pole.

  Our instructors were as sympathetic as you’d expect (i.e. not at all). They told us to stick padding on our shoulders and not to be such big babies. We took the padding suggestion literally and on race day our whole section turned up looking like a squad of Quasimodo’s. I had two bath towels and a pillow taped to my shoulder and my lump was nowhere near the largest. The padding had a down side - while it took a lot of pressure off your shoulder it meant that the pole bashed against the side of your head.

  The course made things even more awkward - we were expected to run down muddy hills and up steep banks. This put added weight pressure on the cadets’ unfortunate enough to be at the front or the rear. Half way through the run there was a particularly nasty bend on the side of a scrub-covered cliff. I was near the back of the pole and didn’t realise how sharp the bend was. The runners at the front didn’t realise either because they turned the corner quite sharply, forgetting their action would swing the back of the pole wide, forcing those at the rear to fall off the cliff. Four of us were pushed over the edge and we fell about five metres through mud and scrub. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction and this put too much weight on the guys carrying the front of the pole. They over balanced and fell to the ground as well.