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

by Glenn Wood

  Okay. What actually happened was Dad sold him to some poor deranged individual for $400, and I celebrated for a week. Then Dad got his mate (the same mate who sold me Floyd) to find me another car. He came back with a dark red Mark Two Ford Cortina which made suspicious noises.

  Assured it was fine and lacking the mechanical knowledge to argue the point, I bought the car and called it Clyde after the orangutan in Clint Eastwood’s movies (I should have called it Lassie because it was a dog and it broke down twice on the way back to Trentham). Arriving late on Sunday I trudged into Mark’s room and told him I had a new car, it was called Clyde and was directly related to Floyd. There was no need to say anything else.

  One good thing came out of Clyde’s arrival at Trentham - it gave us another opportunity to tease Wayne.

  Wayne had a very sensible car, an Avenger, which was his pride and joy. He refused to name it, that would have been silly, and because it was such a boring vehicle we had been unable to come up with an appropriate moniker. Wayne’s car was parked between my car and Aqua’s car which is how we solved the naming dilemma. Aqua’s car was called Bonnie, so when I arrived with Clyde, the name for Wayne’s car became obvious - we called it ‘And’. ‘And the Avenger’. Wayne suddenly came up with a raft of new names for his car but to no avail. He was destined to spend the rest of his days at Trentham driving around in a car named after a joining word.

  Trentham carried on regardless of our car dramas and General Poananga, the patron of our wing, popped in for a visit. The year was nearly finished and it was the only time we ever saw him. He seemed a nice enough chap and was obviously chuffed at having a police cadet wing named after him. I was confused as to why an army officer was our patron but what the hell; the army had saved me (eventually) from being battered to death during our mock riot so it was cool by me.

  As our class work eased up, the emphasis was placed on our fitness. Our instructors were determined to have us finish the course in top shape. I was the fittest I’d ever been, having just finished a gruelling cross-country run (which stuffed poor old Phil’s knees for a week) and then competing in a relay race through a nearby valley.

  There had been no way to get out of it, or cheat, so I gritted my teeth and ran my part as required. I’m pleased I did because I ran faster than I had ever run before and felt great while doing it. There’s nothing like being 18 and in peak physical condition. It’s much better than being 51, and knackered with a dodgy calf, a bung shoulder and a wobbly ankle.

  The end was in sight. There were no more trips lined up so it would be difficult for me to sabotage my career. In fact it would have been damn near impossible to fail now. Or so we thought.

  On the fourth of November, just one month out from graduation, the seventh and final cadet to be thrown out of Trentham was expelled for the relatively minor offence of being caught drinking under-age in a bar in Upper Hutt. He had been warned for this offence several times during the year, and I assume it was his disregard for these cautions that saw him removed from the police. He was a very popular cadet and it was a big blow to the morale of his section to see him go. To have survived 11 months of Trentham and be dismissed just before the end must have been heartbreaking. We thought his punishment was particularly unfair as several other cadets were drinking with him and they only received warnings. The other cadets had very good academic and behavioural records and I think that is what saved them. Still, it was a cruel blow and one from which we never forgave the top brass. His expulsion did have one positive effect. It reinforced our vulnerability and everyone knuckled down, determined not to go the same way.

  The last month passed quickly as we finished our academic syllabus, completed our final RFL, and began swotting for our final exams. It became obvious no further cadets were expected to fail when we were asked to apply for our postings for the following year - our first year as real policemen. We had to name three preferences for postings but were told every effort would be made to give us our first choice.

  My elected location was Palmerston North (surprise!), my second was New Plymouth and my third was Wellington. In a bizarre move, we were given the results of our placements before we had completed our exams but were told these were provisional postings and dependent on our successful completion of the course.

  My posting was Palmerston North. I was rapt. I rang Carey, she was pleased. I rang Mum and Dad, they were delirious with joy. The thought of their son with police powers in the same town as them would have been too much to bear.

  The exams were stressful but everyone had swotted so hard it was inconceivable we’d fail. No-one did.

  On the official front all that was left to do was to prepare for graduation. On a personal level there were a few things that needed closure. The first was something we’d been threatening to do all year. Aqua, Phil, Pigpen and I were going to nugget Wayne’s eyebrows.

  Tidy, blond, ‘never a hair out of place,’ Wayne was about to get what he deserved - black eyebrows. Wayne had laughed at our promise to do this dreadful deed and he refused to believe we’d go ahead with it. The laughter stopped when we charged into his room, pinned him to the bed and brought out the boot polish. He struggled but we held on and before long Wayne had a whole new look. Photos were taken as evidence, cadets were paraded in for inspection, then finally, Wayne was released to rush to the bathroom and scrub himself back to pristine condition.

  Next came graduation. All our friends and rellies would be there for our big day and the police were going to make sure they put on one hell of a display for them. More accurately, they were going to make sure we did.

  Some genius, who had obviously never seen us on the parade ground, decided C Section was going to put on a precision marching display. The word ‘precision’ had never been applied to our marching before and I wondered how they were going to achieve this miracle. By having us practise four hours a day until we got it right, that’s how. The display required us to complete a complex series of manoeuvres without any audible instruction. This meant learning the moves off by heart and pacing them out as we went. Phil and I had a lot of trouble with this and we were given individual tuition after hours. By graduation we could perform the manoeuvres in our sleep.

  I was also in the trampolining display as I was quite good at gymnastics. I had little style or grace but technically I was very good, able to perform somersaults and half-pikes with the best of them. Our section was also called upon to give a horse-vaulting display. I was good at vaulting too, able to complete some flashy moves, but for the graduation demonstration we only had to do was a straightforward vault, simply on and off the horse, all the cadets in one impressive stream.

  On the day there would also be self-defence displays and a demonstration of the effectiveness of the new black batons. This was to be a choreographed incident in which an offender attacks a police cadet with a baseball bat. The cadet would ward off the blows with his baton then subdue the offender by sweeping his legs from underneath him. All very impressive except on the second day of training the cadet defending himself swung the baton incorrectly and exposed his forearm to the swinging bat. The bat smashed into his arm, shattering the bone and the cadet ended up in hospital, destined to spend the rest of his training, graduation and the holiday season in a plaster cast.

  Undeterred, the gym instructor simply replaced the injured cadet with another ‘volunteer’. The instructor didn’t care - there were still 70 of us left if need be. Fortunately the next guy avoided serious injury and the baseball bat versus long baton demonstration was one of the highlights of the day.

  Our marching display went without a hitch, to much ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ from the crowd - even Mum waving at me didn’t put me off my step.

  The horse vault was a different kettle of fish. I wasn’t worried about it at all. I’d done the vault hundreds of times and was capable of much harder manoeuvres, yet somehow I blew my approach and hit the springboard too hard. My legs were up too high and I was in danger of f
alling in a crumpled heap on the ground, right in front of my family, friends and the love of my life. There was a gasp from the crowd as it appeared I was going to terminate myself and a sigh of relief as I somehow managed to twist my body back into line, in time to hit the mat rolling in what must have looked like a planned move. It wasn’t and it hurt like hell.

  ‘Nice recovery.’ the gym instructor whispered to me as I went past. Yeah, nice recovery, shame about my back.

  The rest of the day went smoothly and just after lunch the graduating class of the 24th General Poananga Police Cadet Wing marched proudly through Upper Hutt to the town hall to be sworn in as police officers.

  I’d graduated. Despite everything I’d done to prove I was incapable of such responsibility, the police decided otherwise.

  The graduation ceremony was full of pomp and speech-making. Next was the swearing-in - we all soberly promised to do the right thing and be good little policemen. Then we threw our hats in the air, our Mums cheered and that was it. We were fully empowered officers of the law.

  It was an anti-climax after everything we’d been through. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We’d survived a year at Trentham because of the support of our mates. Now we were about to be torn apart and sent all over the country to fend for ourselves. Our umbilical cords had been severed for a second time.

  I felt completely unprepared for what was to come. And I was.

  It wasn’t anyone’s fault - my instructors had done an excellent job and I knew the law backwards. I was the fittest I’d ever been and had the skills I needed to be a policeman. The problem was I hadn’t finished being a kid yet. I was blissfully unaware of what was to come and the excitement of completing Trentham and becoming a police officer would take a long time to fade.

  The day after graduation our instructors waved us off, confident they were sending forth a troop of highly trained professionals, all ready and willing to carry the banner proudly for the New Zealand Police.

  Forgive them, for they knew not what they did.

  Police Constable Wood 7389

  I had been 19 for a month and seven days when I became a sworn-in member of the New Zealand Police. I wasn’t allowed to see R20 movies, I couldn’t drink in a pub by myself and I was still two years away from receiving the key to adulthood on my 21st birthday. I could, however, take away your car keys, your drugs, your money, your property, your right to work, your standing in the community and your freedom.

  I failed to see any irony in the situation and couldn’t wait to get started. I had to. The police had given me three weeks holiday which I was obliged to take. Not a bad idea given the rigours of Trentham and the demands from my family and girlfriend for some quality time. I too wanted quality time, but not with them. Instead hooked up with a mate of mine from New Plymouth and went to Christchurch.

  We picked Christchurch because that was where Phil lived and he said we could stay at his parents’ place for free. This turned out to an unpopular move with almost everybody (especially Phil’s parents). Mum and Dad were peeved they couldn’t show me off for longer than a few days (though I did promise to be home for Christmas), and Carey was livid. I tried to explain that I needed some space for a few weeks and that we’d have plenty of time together once I got to Palmerston North, but she was still mad I’d chosen to spend my break away from her.

  The situation wasn’t helped by the friend I’d elected to spend time with. His name was Nigel and he was a great guy, though possibly the maddest person I’ve ever known. He was one of those blokes whose exploits become legendary.

  Nigel had come to my graduation and surprised everyone by spending the evening waltzing beautifully with my grandmother, then returning to the motel and sleeping in the wardrobe, for no reason other than he thought it might be a cool thing to do.

  He and Carey disliked each other instantly. Probably because the first time he met her was at a barbeque at her parent’s place where he turned up uninvited. Actually, to be fair, I had invited him but, neglected to mention this to Carey, so technically he was a gate-crasher. This worried Nigel not a jot and he had a great time scoffing most of the food and leaping off the roof of Carey’s parent’s house into their swimming pool. This particular feat of craziness had never been attempted before but proved a big hit on the night. With me anyway. I was hugely impressed and was surprised to discover later that I had been the only one.

  The thing that worried Carey the most about Nigel was his madness was infectious and, much to Carey’s family’s disgust, it didn’t take long for me to join him in the roof leap. And Nigel had been on his best behaviour that night, which gives you some idea how lethal he could be when he wasn’t. Such as our jaunt to the South Island (the details of which remain sealed under the official secrets act). It had been exactly the sort of break I needed. One last fling of full-on craziness before the full weight of my new responsibilities bore down on me.

  I was due to start my new job in Palmerston North on the 31 December, a start date dictated by the police needing extra cops on the beat during New Years Eve.

  I was excited and fearful about the start of my career. But starting my new job wasn’t the only thing I had to worry about - there was the small matter of finding somewhere to live. As luck would have it one of Quentin’s teachers’ college friends had a boyfriend who was also looking for a flat. His name was Warren but everyone called him Sheep because of his blond shaggy hair and full white beard. I’d met him before at teachers’ college functions and we’d always got on really well. He was interested in flatting with me (the fool) and we decided to give it a go.

  The next day we sat down over a few beers and made a list of the things both of us could bring into a flatting situation. He had a really loud stereo, some pies and a beanbag. I had cassettes, I liked pies and I too owned a bean bag. A match made in heaven. With the entertainment and furniture sorted out, all we had to do was find an appropriate rental property. After a 2 second search we found a four-bedroom house in a dodgy area just out of town. It had a pub nearby and not a lot else to recommend it but we couldn’t be stuffed looking any further so we rented it.

  The baker and the policeman - both first-time flatmates, both under 20, both earning good money, both with girlfriends living elsewhere in the city, both keen on beer and fatty food. The stage was set. Heaps of fun but, oh, the damage done. Especially to my long-term health. But I was 19 at the time and my idea of long term was next week.

  So, I was set up in Palmerston North with a friend to flat with, the love of my life not far away, my police career about to start and, best of all, a brand new car. Clyde was no more. It had broken down one time too many and after putting a new engine in it (from Dad’s mate who sold me Floyd and Clyde), I sold it to a pal of mine from New Plymouth.

  Now I had to buy another new car. This time I was prepared. I had a plan. First I made sure Dad wasn’t involved. Second, I picked a car that wasn’t red or pink or any pigment thereof, and finally I gave my new car a much tougher-sounding name. I became the proud owner of a 1.6 litre Mark Three Ford Cortina, coloured yellow with the very cool moniker of Cortez the Killer, after a Neil Young song.

  This was definitely a ‘kick ass’ name for a ‘kick ass’ car, although Carey took some of the testosterone of out my sails by claiming it looked lovely and would be comfortable on trips. Still, I was master of my own domain and ready to show the world - or Palmerston North to start with - what Glenn Wood could do.

  The first thing I did was hide.

  As mentioned earlier, I was due to start on New Year’s Eve so my first shift was a night shift. I was incredibly nervous. I must have ironed my shirt 20 times and I’d cleaned my shoes so often I’d run out of spit.

  My shift was due to start at 9pm but I arrived at the station half an hour earlier to make a good impression. There was no-one around to make a good impression on as my section didn’t arrive until five to nine and everyone else was out on patrol or too busy to worry about me. I got a few
scattered hello’s and then went and sat in the lunch room to practice setting my handcuffs on the last click.

  I had already met most of the people in my section during an earlier introductory day. Keith (our go kart pilot) was there too. He was the only other cadet posted to Palmerston North and he’d been put in a different section to me. During the introduction we had been shown around the station by a senior sergeant and then introduced to our respective section members. After that we were given a rundown on how the sections worked and what everyone’s jobs were. We already knew most of this but we listened eagerly anyway.

  There were eight members to each section, including one sergeant and at least three senior constables (if you were lucky). Of the eight, one would be in charge of the operations centre and they would be responsible for taking incoming calls and dispatching officers to the various jobs. Two of the others would take out the I Car - incident car - which would be the first dispatched to any incidents. Another pair of officers would cruise around in a mobile beat car. Their job was to back up the I Car or attend jobs themselves if the shift became busy.

  The remaining two officers were dispatched on foot, or on ‘the beat’ in Police lingo. The beat officer’s job was general policing around the city centre, which meant making sure all the shops were securely locked and that order was kept in the streets.

  The sergeant took out his own car and turned up where and when he was needed. In addition to the section on duty there was generally an E car, (enquiry car) on patrol, plus a team policing unit on Friday and Saturday nights. This unit consisted of 10-12 large and brutal officers who were dispatched into the city’s worst trouble spots, or pubs as they are more commonly known.