Cop Out - The End Of My Brilliant Career In The NZ Police (The Laughing Policeman)

by Glenn Wood

  Three days later, 25 July, the Springboks were due to play the Waikato rugby team in Hamilton. Waikato was a strong team and I was looking forward to the game. I was working a late shift and I clearly remember the mood of the station. Everyone was keyed up with a combination of interest in the game and concern at how big the protest would be. As the news coverage started I remember being amazed at the size of the protest marches and in awe at how organised they looked. The police on the other hand looked lost and unsure how to handle the crowds. This gave me quite a start - it was not the way I was used to seeing things.

  I had written the protest groups off as a bit of a joke, full of drugged-out hippies, cardy-wearing grannies and trainee accountants from Auckland called Nigel. My opinion was based on the stupid names they gave themselves. COST (Citizens Oppose the Springbok Tour), CAST (Citizens Against the Springbok Tour), MOST (Mobilization to Stop the Tour - this one obviously organised by a group who didn’t understand the basic principles of acronyms) and the Doctor Seuss-like CAT (Citizens Against the Tour) and BAT (Bay Against the Tour), sat on the hat. The best known group was HART (Halt all Racist Tours) not exactly a name designed to strike fear into the souls of their opponents. If they’d called themselves BASH (Biff All Springbok Home) or ARSE (All Rugby Supporters Eliminated) then they would have been taken a lot more seriously right from the beginning.

  Despite their wimpy names they showed themselves as a force to be reckoned with. The first real demonstration of their power and determination came that very day, before the match against Waikato. A large gang of protesters who had been milling around outside the gates were able to push over a wire fence and gain access to the ground. Several other groups of protesters had bought tickets to the game and were in the stands. When they saw their compatriots invade the pitch, they braved the horde of angry rugby supporters in front of them and rushed onto the ground. I watched all this with a group of other officers on duty at the station. We couldn’t believe how quickly everything got out of control. The police were caught in the unenviable position of trying to remove the protesters from the ground whilst trying to ensure their safety from irate rugby supporters.

  There weren't enough police to keep a lid on things and once the protesters had invaded the pitch in such numbers, moving them was going to be a nightmare. The crafty buggers also showered the pitch with tacks and broken glass so getting it safely cleared before the players could come on would be near impossible. The first issue to be addressed was to get the protesters off the pitch. I watched in disbelief as the officer in charge of the situation (poor bugger) tried to get them to leave the field. He negotiated with them for over an hour and with every minute that ticked by the crowd grew more angry and restless. Everyone at the station could feel the police’s control of the situation slipping away.

  Then we heard the dreaded announcement: the game was called off. I looked at my colleagues to see if they were as horrified as I was. They were. The protesters had won. More importantly for us, the police had lost. At least that was how everyone in the station saw it. We had failed in one of our prime directives - to prevent offences. The protesters were breaking the law. They were guilty of trespass, wilful damage, disorderly behaviour, and pissing me off (technically not a law but they were guilty of it all the same). Worse was to come as we watched the aftermath of the game cancellation. If the protesters caused us to fail in one directive, the rugby fans (or mindless thugs as it turned out) demolished the others. All four main aims of the police fell by the wayside that afternoon. We failed to protect life and property, many protesters were badly injured and many homes and cars damaged. Serious offences were being committed at will and the police seemed powerless to stop it happening. Our third directive - to apprehend offenders, had seemingly been forgotten as I watched rugby supporters violently assaulting protesters as the police looked on. Our last directive - to preserve the public peace, was rendered a joke. There was no doubt about it. The knitted jersey-wearing Nigels had completely and comprehensively defeated the New Zealand Police. It was a black day in the history of law enforcement.

  From a personal perspective, I was angry with the protesters for ruining the game and putting the police in a no-win situation, but I was also appalled at the behaviour of the rugby supporters. They were hitting women, children and priests. Some of the things I saw that day made me feel sick to my stomach. I also had contradictory views on the police’s role in the conflict. Legally the protesters were in the wrong and it was our job to prevent them from committing a crime. But on the other hand if upholding the law meant belting the crap out of people who would normally be law abiding citizens then perhaps the law was incorrect. Such lofty issues were out of the hands of your average police officer and we had no option but to enforce the law as it stood.

  Keeping the protesters out of the grounds also became a matter of police pride. I had never seen morale as low as it was the day after the Waikato pitch invasion. There was a palpable feeling of failure within our ranks and it wasn’t isolated to my station. I spoke to several of my mates in other centres over the next few days and the feeling of defeat was nationwide.

  News coverage of the increasing nationwide demonstrations revealed a disturbing development within the protest movement. We saw gang members amongst the protester’s ranks. To my mind, this was the biggest mistake the anti-tour movement made. Allowing the gangs to take such a high profile role in their clashes with the police only strengthened our resolve to crush them. Suddenly the face of the protests changed from Clive the Computer Programmer to Masher the Mongrel Mob Member. This made it easier for your average cop, who may have initially felt some empathy with the protest movement, to harden his heart and take part in a baton charge. Or at least that was the effect it had on me and I felt justified in taking part in the policing of the remainder of the tour. Provided the tour continued. After the Hamilton debacle there was an enormous amount of pressure placed on the government to cancel it. However, the prime minister made it clear he had no intention of calling the tour off.

  The only other bodies who could have cancelled the tour were the Rugby Union or the police. There were no doubts on the Rugby Union’s stance and the police now had too much to prove to let the tour end prematurely. It was mooted that the police could claim that they didn’t have the manpower to handle the situation which would force the cancellation of the tour, but the police weren’t going to do that. It was no longer a matter of legal principle; it was a matter of mana. If we faltered now or asked the army for help (a move too horrible to contemplate) it was tantamount to admitting that we were unable to do our job. Quite simply, it wasn’t going to happen.

  The next game was scheduled for Wednesday the 29 July at New Plymouth, my old home town. The Springbok were to play Taranaki, the team I have supported (for better or worse - worse mainly) from the moment I picked up my first rugby ball. Rugby was a way of life in Taranaki and the focus of the community. Taking to the pitch in New Plymouth would have been a suicidal move for the demonstrators and while a protest was organised, there were no plans for a Waikato-style invasion.

  This time the police were prepared. The marches were stopped a considerable distance from the game and the protesters effectively contained. One group went past its determined boundaries and for the first time the main police riot squad, the Red Squad as they were to become known, was brought in. These officers were highly trained and well equipped. They also worked very effectively as a squad, charging and attacking in unison. The skirmish was brief and precise and the protesters were easily pushed back to where they were supposed to be. It was good effective police work, with the minimum of violence used to achieve the objective.

  Further south in Wellington things didn’t go so well. A demonstration had been arranged in the capital and a large group of protesters had assembled to march through the city streets. Their target had originally been to storm Parliament but they changed direction mid-march and decided to take the protest to the South African c
onsul’s residence. The protesters were in a jubilant mood, cocky after their victory in Hamilton. Stupidly, they weren’t afraid to rub this in and a guy on a loud hailer spent the majority of the march taunting the police. He flaunted the fact that they felt they could march wherever they pleased. The protesters couldn’t have known the mood within the police and their comments inflamed the situation to such an extent that it needed only one small spark to set off an inferno of bottled up frustrations.

  That spark came in Molesworth Street. The protesters were told twice that they were not to proceed into that area. A large group of them, mainly students, decided they would call the police’s bluff and march there anyway.

  Big mistake. The police were in no mood to be challenged that day and desperately wanted to reassert their authority. When their commands were so flagrantly ignored the police rushed into action. A large squad of uniformed officers streamed into the protesters and pushed them backwards, violently batoning anyone who got in the way. It was brutal and bloody with many protesters badly hurt. The police action had to be taken but many officers used excessive force. Many police officers, including me, were disappointed by what we saw. But we were also pleased the police had proved we were not about to lie down and let the laws we were sworn to protect be broken.

  I should qualify this by saying that many actions taken by the police during the tour that were unforgivable and indefensible. Our top brass were guilty of employing ‘the ends justify the means’ tactics. However, I would like to give readers an insight into why many police officers acted as violently as they did. I’ll do this by relating how I felt in the midst of the madness that was to come.

  On Saturday 1 August the tour came to Palmerston North. I had been in the police for seven short and quite disastrous months. I was still only nineteen years old. On the afternoon of the game I was on late shift and was assigned to normal police work although if things got out of hand it would be all hands on deck.

  Considerable work had gone into securing the Palmerston North Showgrounds for the game. Barbed wire barricades were erected around the exterior and forty four gallon drums full of water were positioned by the exits. Plus the Red Squad was in town.

  Tension was high. As a city with a high student population we knew there would be a large demonstration and we were ready for it. The inevitable march, full of hardened protesters and out-of-town troublemakers rumbled through the city. I was in the police station when it began and could clearly hear the protesters slogans and chants. It sounded pretty scary outside but it was much worse sitting in the station. I wanted to be amongst the action; the station was abuzz with reports of the march’s progress and it was frustrating knowing I was missing out.

  It’s hard to describe what I was feeling. I didn’t want to hurt anyone but I also felt a primal urge to do combat with the enemy. And there was no doubt about it, the protesters were the enemy. In the police consciousness they had lost their individuality and become one big threat to law and order. They had to be stopped at all costs and there was an unspoken understanding amongst all police that the use of force was acceptable. This was an unusual situation because my training had been biased toward diplomacy. Force was only ever to be used as a last resort and even then, if you did strike someone there would be serious questions asked afterwards. No matter how justified your actions were. The memory of what happened to Keith was still fresh in our minds and yet we were now being encouraged to hit first and ask questions later.

  This dichotomy came about largely through fear. Our superiors knew they were placing their troops in volatile and dangerous situations and if the worst came to the worst they didn’t want their constables to hesitate and be hurt. It was definitely a 'get them before they get you' scenario. With this in mind and at the peak of the march we received the call to reinforce one of our lines. I was thrown a riot helmet and piled into a van with several cops from other sections.

  We heard over the van’s RT that the main group of protesters had been turned away by the Red Squad (a cheer). The march had now splintered into smaller groups who were probing the less protected entrances to the ground, looking for a way in. We were to reinforce a side street near the park and we arrived just in time. I barely had time to get out of the van and plonk the helmet on my head before I was pushed to the front of a thin line of police. Before us, a large group of protesters approached. I didn’t get a chance to think about what was happening. I just walked into the wall of blue, grabbed my baton; realised how ineffective it looked, slid my helmet visor down and waited. I felt buoyed up by the closeness of my colleagues. In some ways it was like being in Trentham again. I was surrounded by mates who I knew would look after me if the worst occurred. Gone were the petty animosities of station politics. I was back where I belonged and it felt good.

  The protesters stopped just before our line. They weren’t a hard core group. Mainly mums and students. They didn’t challenge us in any way, just yelled abuse and told us we should be ashamed of ourselves. It worked. I did feel ashamed standing there with my truncheon out (so to speak) and my visor down, staring meanly at someone who could have been my mum. When it became obvious we weren’t going to have to baton anyone we all relaxed. I had been breathing heavily and my visor had fogged up. I decided to lift it. When raised it gave me a much better view of who was standing in front of me. To my surprise I saw a girl I’d been keen on at school standing to my left. She spotted me at the same time and we both temporarily forgot the situation we were in.

  'Gidday Sonya.' I said brightly.

  'Hey Glenn, how are you?' She replied with a smile.

  We chatted for a couple of seconds before a nudge from the cop beside me reminded me that I was fraternizing with the enemy. She was also copping some sideways glances from her protester pals. We curtailed our conversation and returned to our opposing stances, occasionally giving each other a guilty smile.

  Just then the order to advance came through. The brass wanted the road cleared. Bloody fantastic timing I thought. The protesters now had a human face and it was the girl I’d fancied at school. Now I was expected to hit her with my baton. I sighed, gave her a final wan grin, lowered my helmet visor and moved forward, chanting the word ‘Move!’ and thrusting my baton before me as we’d been taught. It was a half-hearted charge as the group scattered with no hint of a fight. All they did was chant ‘Shame!’ at us a bit louder. As I saw my school friend withdraw with a disappointed look on her face I found myself agreeing with them once more. It was a shame, in so many ways.

  Things calmed down for me for the next few weeks. I wasn’t required for any of the following games -Wanganui, quiet from both sides; Invercargill, protests, some arrests fairly low key; Dunedin, high student population so rowdy protests, police Blue Squad in action and clashes more fierce with a lot of arrests.

  Then came the first test in Christchurch. I was on standby with one of my section mates called Rob. He was one of the younger guys in the section and had a similar style of policing to me. Not as klutzy obviously, but a guy who preferred peaceful rather than violent solutions. He was a hell of a nice bloke who could always be relied upon for a laugh. I found the lack of a sense of humour in my section to be extremely frustrating. If you looked hard enough there were a lot of laughs to be had in the police but most of the amusement on my section came from basic and coarse things. Perhaps it was the male dominated atmosphere bred into the New Zealand Police but there was a dearth of wit. Not that I was doing much to improve the intellectual status of the station, quite the opposite given my antics to date. But I did appreciate a good joke and was hugely relieved to find a soul mate in Rob.

  Back to the tour. Rob and I had become tour buddies and, as I said, were waiting for a call up. Almost every police officer in the country was on standby. We were all aware that we could be sent anywhere at any time and be thrown into the front lines. The likelihood this would occur increased if you were single, like Rob and me. It was police policy to kill off the unattached guy
s first.

  We fully expected to be called up for Christchurch as the first test was going to be a biggy. As it turned out our services were not required and I was relieved. The clashes between police and protesters in Christchurch were intense and brutal. Once again the country watched in horror as police smashed their PR24 (the long baton of choice) into the helmets, faces and bodies of middle New Zealand. Mind you this was not the middle New Zealand of old; this middle New Zealand was dressed and armed for battle. A couple of days earlier a young policewoman had been smashed in the face with an iron bar wielded by a protester (her nose was broken) and several other cops had been injured by lengths of wood, stones and bottles.

  Another more serious and frightening aspect of the protest movement had also come to light. Bombs were being planted around protest target sites. The extent and usage of explosives by the protester movement was withheld from the public for fear the situation might escalate. I found it ironic that a group claiming the moral high ground, as the protesters always did, would readily break the law and encourage others to do so, on their behalf.

  Sadly, during the Christchurch test and for the remainder of the tour, the protesters and the rugby hoodlums weren’t the only ones breaking the law. Under normal circumstances many police officers (especially those assigned to the specialist riot groups) would have been charged with assault because of their conduct during the tour. But these weren’t normal circumstances and complaints against the police largely fell on deaf ears. In many of these cases the police were to claim they acted in self-preservation rather than self-defence. Rob and I soon experienced how powerful a motivator the will to survive could be. On Thursday, 20 August 1981, our call-up finally came and we were flown to Nelson.