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

by Glenn Wood

  The Police, in their infinite wisdom, decided that our bushcraft survival course should be conducted in the remotest, most inhospitable area they could find. They chose the Kaimanawa State Forest. A place in New Zealand known for its wild horses and very little else.

  We were driven there in the back of army vehicles, which was cool but uncomfortable. I’ve always thought the armed forces should make their trucks more comfy -put a bit of padding on the seats, perhaps a recliner rocker or two. This is logical if you think about it because the soldiers would be heading into battle and they would be more effective at killing people and blowing up things if they didn’t have sore butts.

  Anyway, there we were, all revved up for our eight days in some of the remotest bush New Zealand has to offer. We put on our army-issue rucksacks and walked for about an hour to the spot where we would set up base camp. The plan was to spend the first few days there, learning bushcraft and other handy survival tips, then we would split up into groups depending on our fitness ratings and spend the last few days tramping through the forest.

  Base camp was made up of a series of tents erected in a clearing. There was an officers tent (flash), a meeting tent (flash), a cookhouse and meals tent (flash), and the cadets’ tents (crap).

  I was in charge of putting all the food supplies in the cookhouse tent. Typically, I managed to get all of the non-breakable stuff in without falling over but disaster struck when I was moving our supply of fresh eggs. Always on the lookout for new way to make a dick of myself I didn’t do the predictable thing and drop the eggs. Instead I tripped over a frozen leg of lamb and standing on them while trying to regain my balance. The result was the same: scrambled eggs.

  This made me very unpopular and at every breakfast for the rest of the week some smart-arse would comment on how nice it would be to have eggs with the bacon, followed by a universal glare in my direction.

  The next day we started our Search and Rescue exercises and were shown how to make stretchers out of tree branches, splint broken limbs and construct bridges from twigs. MacGuyver eat your heart out.

  Once the demonstrations were over one cadet per section was taken into the bush where he would become injured and lost. Our job was to locate him, fix him, build him a stretcher and get him back to base camp before the other sections could do the same with their injured. It was a lot of fun, or at least it was for the people carrying the stretcher. The poor wounded guy got dropped a lot because speed was deemed more important than care. If he wasn’t injured at the start of the exercise, he certainly was by the end.

  After Search and Rescue came Search and Destroy (it wasn’t called that but that was the premise behind it). During the exercise one section would be given a roped-off area in the middle of the bush to protect while the other two sections would try and infiltrate the area. It was similar to my sixth-form exercise but much more competitive. Only one cadet was allowed to stay inside the ropes and he was compromised as soon as a cadet from any other section got inside.

  The rest of the defending section had to roam outside the ropes tagging anyone they spotted. If an attacker got tagged he had to suffer the ignominy of sitting with the instructors until the game ended. The exercise finished when the defending section’s area was successfully invaded or the other sections’ players were all tagged.

  It was a great game which I enjoyed enormously, even though my natural clumsiness ensured I was tagged before getting close to the target. As one of the instructors unkindly pointed out, I moved through the bush with the stealth of a charging rhinoceros. I was better at catching people and our section held the others at bay for the longest time, winning the exercise.

  It was really windy the next day which was a bugger because we were supposed to go abseiling. I had never done it and fancied a go. Given my propensity for injury it was probably a good thing it was cancelled. Instead we prepared ourselves for the three-day tramp that was to begin the following day.

  We were split into groups depending on fitness levels and I was in the slowest group. Aqua and Phil drew the short straw by being in the next group up which was to be taken by the nastiest, most sadistic instructor in the college. I thought this was very funny as I knew he’d walk the legs off them and they’d spend their entire tramp marching through the bush.

  My instructor, on the other hand, was the nicest guy there and I was sure we’d end up having a gentle stroll through the forest. Nope. Our instructor saw the bushcraft exercise as an opportunity to prove that he was as hard as the rest of the instructors and spent the entire three days walking the guts out of us.

  In a cruel twist of fate, Phil and Aqua’s group ended up having the cruisiest time of all. The evil instructor started, as I’d predicted, by making them complete a four hour trek in just two hours but then his plans went horribly wrong. He’d pushed his troop so hard that Phil got really bad blistering on his feet - so bad that he was unable to walk any further. His instructor had a fit, claiming Phil had sabotaged the tramp and had ruined it for everyone else. Then he stomped off to radio headquarters for permission to leave Phil alone in the bush. Dickhead.

  Thankfully, headquarters said he couldn’t desert Phil and they instructed him to set up camp where they had stopped (an idyllic little valley). He was told to leave Phil at base to recuperate while he took the others on day tramps. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it so he sulked and let the cadets walk around doing whatever they wanted.

  Phil became an instant hero and proudly showed his blistered feet to all the other, completely knackered troops who passed through their valley. My group came through at the end of a solid eight-hour march during the second day. I was disgusted to see Phil and Aqua relaxing by a stream. We stopped for a 10-minute break, which Aqua spent laughing and pointing out the irony of the situation, then we were off for another two hour’s solid marching before collapsing into bed.

  The constant tramping was bad enough, but the worst thing for me was the hunger. I’d stuffed up badly. When we were issued with our rations (standard army field packs), I’d gone through my kit with a fine tooth comb. I instantly identified the things I knew I didn’t like and swapped the offending articles for foodstuffs I liked to eat.

  As all the food came in sachet form, the identification process came down to the description on the packet. I knew instantly that ‘lamb curry’ wouldn’t be for me, ‘beef stew’ had onions listed in the ingredients so that was out; and ‘steak and vegetables’ had the V word in it so that was a no-go as well. The only thing that sounded any good was ‘ham and egg omelette’, so I rushed around all the cadets swapping my meaty cast-offs for their ham and egg omelettes. By the time we set off all I had in my ration kit were army biscuits, dried raisins, a tube of honey and two dozen sachets of ‘ham and egg omelette’.

  Lunch time on the first day of the tramp was the first opportunity we had to try our dried meals. We all added boiling water to our sachets and waited eagerly for the taste sensation that was to follow. I realised the enormity of my mistake when I placed a spoonful of a congealed tasteless crap, which was supposed to be an omelette, in my mouth. A fouler, more inedible substance I have never found.

  One of the other cadets in my group had held onto of his ham and egg omelettes sachets and he also tried it at lunchtime. Word of the omelette horror spread quickly and within minutes there was no way anyone would swap back with me. I was stuck with three days’ worth of inedible meals and everyone in the group, including the instructor (who I was rapidly going off), thought it was hilarious.

  To compound matters, the other groups had also discovered that the omelette was to be avoided like the plague so even when we ran into them my pleading for a trade was met with derisive laughter. That left me with biscuits, raisins and honey. Not a very substantial meal for the amount of tramping we were doing.

  To make matters worse the biscuits were as hard as the hobs of hell and you could never tell which would break first, your teeth or the biscuit. Phil was relat
ively sympathetic when we ran into him. He wouldn’t swap any of his rations, but he did give me his tube of honey and a few more biscuits.

  Towards the end of the second day’s tramping I was close to passing out from exhaustion and starvation. Fortunately our instructor shot a deer and cooked it over a fire for dinner. It was the most delicious meat I’d ever tasted. I don’t know whether it was my ravenous hunger, two days’ worth of eating poxy army biscuits, or the freshness of the meat and the open-fire cooking that made it so tasty, but I’ve never had venison since that has come close.

  Tales of my traumatic culinary experiences spread through the wing upon our return and the irony of me being stuck with only omelettes to eat when I had destroyed everyone else’s eggs was not lost on most people.

  The Worst Car In The World Gets Worse

  When we got back to Trentham we took drugs. It was part of our final classroom unit on dangerous and illegal substances. We had a sniff and a quick puff of cannabis so we would know what it smelt and tasted like.

  We also got to rub cocaine on our teeth though I’ve never been able to figure out why. I couldn’t taste anything and it just made my teeth feel gritty. Still, it was what they wanted so why argue?

  As part of the unit we had a lecture from an undercover drugs cop. He was very interesting but some of the things he told us made me feel quite depressed. So it’s only fair that I pass it on to you.

  He told us about junkies who had destroyed the veins in their arms so badly they had to shoot up in other parts of the body, including between their fingers and toes and even into their eye lids. He told us some undercover cops get so involved in the drug scene that they become hooked on heavy drugs and have to go through hell to clean up. His lecture was a mixture of horror stories, gore and hopelessness. And though it was fascinating it put me right off drugs.

  There was however, a fix I desperately needed. I hadn’t seen Carey for several weeks. First there had been the marae visit, then I was confined to barracks, and finally we had gone bush. I was definitely in need of a trip to Palmerston North. The following weekend was not a leave weekend but the Saturday night inspection of the cadet barracks had stopped and the rules had loosened up enough for me to feel that going AWOL was worth the risk.

  As I’ve mentioned, it was pretty hard to get kicked out and I wasn’t even on a final warning. I figured if they caught me I’d get an ear-bashing and would probably be confined to barracks for the next few weekends but that would be all.

  I drove up to Palmerston North on the Saturday morning but had a few problems with Floyd’s brakes during the trip. When I arrived at Quentin’s place he told me he thought the brakes needed bleeding and volunteered to help. I was surprised Quentin had agreed to assist me. He said he felt sorry for me and that a mate’s a mate, even if he does have the crappiest car in the world.

  Quentin isn’t known for his mechanical abilities but his diagnosis made sense. On the way down I’d had to pump the brakes to make them go and this was an indicator of air in the brake lines. Q said while I was visiting Carey he’d have a chat with a mate of his who knew about these sorts of things and we’d fix the problem upon my return.

  Carey and I spent the morning becoming re-acquainted then spent the afternoon becoming re-acquainted again.

  I got back to Quentin’s flat late in the afternoon to find him keen to have a go at Floyd’s brakes. He had his tool kit out and had bought a large plastic syringe. I was reluctant to ask him what the syringe was for but in the end couldn’t help myself. Apparently we we’re going to pump up the brakes then release the air and fluid via the appropriate nipples. The syringe would be used to squirt more fluid into the brake cylinder that was housed under the bonnet.

  I was impressed. Quentin had obviously done his homework and before long we had all the brakes properly bled. All that was left to do was fill the brake fluid cylinder with new liquid, using the syringe. There wasn’t much room under Floyd’s bonnet and it was a struggle getting to the appropriate cylinder, which was at the back.

  After one successful squirt Quentin refilled the hypodermic and passed it to me but as he was backing out from underneath the crowded bonnet he bumped my elbow, knocking the syringe out of my hand.

  The syringe dropped neatly into the brake cylinder and sank to the bottom. We tried for about an hour to get the damn thing out but gave up in the end, reasoning it wasn’t blocking the fluid intake hole so it couldn’t do any harm. I stuck the cylinder cap back on and forgot about it.

  On the way back to Trentham the following night, I noticed that Floyd was running rough - the brakes were functioning okay but I figured the syringe in the cylinder must be causing other problems. The car would run well for a few minutes then it would give a jerk and lose power before kicking into action again. Anyone with an ounce of mechanical knowledge would have worked out this couldn’t be down to the rogue syringe, but not me. I simply resigned myself to another bumpy trip and decided to get Floyd fixed when I got back.

  I didn’t get back.

  An hour out of Trentham Floyd’s lights suddenly cut out and all the electrics failed, shutting the engine down. ‘This is bad,’ I thought as the car glided to the side of the road. I sat in the silent car wondering how a syringe could cause such carnage then it dawned on me that perhaps it wasn’t the syringe after all. I got out of my vehicle and was just about to look under the bonnet when, for some reason, I decided the trouble may be in the boot, where the battery is located.

  This decision may have saved my life. I went to the back of the car and opened the boot. The handle was hot when I touched it, which was surprising. As the trunk popped open I realised why. My car was on fire. Holy Shit! And it wasn’t just a small blaze - there was a raging inferno inside my boot.

  As I watched, a plastic can full of oil exploded in a ball of flame, singeing my eyebrows. I recoiled in shock wondering what the hell to do. Then I noticed that the half-full can of petrol I kept in the boot (a bomb waiting to go off) was sitting in the middle of the flames. The can expanded outwards with a sickening click, the way things do right before they explode.

  I knew if the can went up it would be all over. The car’s petrol tank was located in the back and I could hear a hissing noise coming from under the petrol cap. If I didn’t put the fire out in a hurry I’d see a car explode in extreme close up.

  The other option was to run like hell and let it blow. This would have been the sensible thing to do, but Floyd and I had been through a lot together - I couldn’t just desert him.

  As I reached into the flames and grabbed the patrol can it clicked again and expanded under my hands. It was seconds away from detonation. I hauled it out of the boot as quickly as I could and hurled it down the road. It sailed through the air, landed on the concrete and exploded with a loud boooff, shooting a small ball of flame into the air. Had I not been so worried about the bonfire still blazing in my boot I would have been hugely impressed.

  I rushed back to the car, grabbed a blanket from the back seat and set about beating out the flames. I had quite a battle on my hands as the blanket kept catching fire but after several minutes of furious beating I had everything under control.

  When I was sure the fire was out I collapsed by the side of the road. I needed to catch my breath and survey the damage. The blanket was smouldering beside me, my jersey was black and singed and I’d burnt my fingers when pulling the petrol can out of the fire, but aside from that I was okay.

  Floyd wasn’t quite so lucky. I waited for the metal in the boot to cool down then examined the damage. The trunk was full of melted and burnt things and as I laid the unfortunate items on the road beside the car I worked out what had happened. The syringe had nothing to do with it. Instead, the blaze was due to plain bad luck and the fact that I’m messy and disorganised. A metal screwdriver I had flung into the boot sometime in the past had fallen across the two exposed points of the car battery, causing a spark. The spark set fire to an oily rag that I had carelessly
left lying around in there. The cloth in turn ignited various other bits of rubbish that littered the boot.

  Once the fire began it burnt through the electrical wires that fed off the battery, causing the lights and everything else to cut off. This was what saved me - otherwise I would have been driving merrily along until the petrol can and then the petrol tank exploded. I must have been minutes away from that happening. On examining the debris from the boot I noticed that the fire had been so intense that the head of the screwdriver had burnt a hole right through a metal hub cap.

  On surveying the melted and twisted mass of wires in Floyd’s boot, I correctly judged my car would be going no further that night. I had no option but to leave it on the side of the road. This left me with a dilemma. It was eight o’clock in the evening, I was stranded miles from Trentham and I was AWOL.

  As I sat beside Floyd trying to decide what to do, a police car pulled up. Oh great, I thought. Just what I need. A passing motorist had seen me battling the flames and had reported the incident to the local cops.

  They were bloody good once I explained who I was. A lift back to Trentham was organised for me through a relay of police cars, and a tow truck was arranged to retrieve poor crippled Floyd. They even radioed ahead to let the duty Sergeant know what had happened, though my story of just being out for a Sunday drive caused a few raised eyebrows. I got away with it as the duty instructor was so overcome with the apparent hilarity of the incident (I was the only one not laughing) that he was prepared to buy my weak cover story.

  I flopped down onto a chair in Mark’s room. ‘That was definitely the worst trip I’ve ever had.’

  After my near-death experience I reluctantly decided Floyd had to go. The next weekend I made the long trek back to New Plymouth to seek Dad’s help. With my car firing on two cylinders, I limped home then handed Dad the keys and said ‘Do what you have to do.’ Dad understood. He took Floyd out to the back of the farm and shot him, humanely, in the head gasket. I cried for a week.