by Glenn Wood
I’d never been to Nelson before and was looking forward to the trip. So was Rob. His parents lived there and he arranged for us to stay with them. I was worried about facing the protesters but Nelson was off the main track and a big turnout wasn’t anticipated. The only reason we were there was because the police wanted to rest their more experienced officers after the Christchurch debacle.
Upon arrival we were delivered to Rob’s folks' place where I was made to feel very much at home. The rest of the squad stayed in the same hotel as the Springbok, the Rutherford. They told me later it was like living in a fort under siege. Barriers were erected around the outside and the place was ringed by fire engines. We visited the hotel the next day and the tension that followed the tour like a faithful hound eked out of every inch of the building.
When our troops arrived on Friday night the protesters were already in town. Pre-match rallies (mainly peaceful) were held in the city centre that night but as the evening went on the atmosphere turned more sinister. Rob and I were woken several times by the sound of explosives being detonated not far from town. We didn’t know what the hell was going on; it sounded like the Second World War out there. We found out the following morning that a protest group from Christchurch had been letting off Tuna bombs. These tiny but powerful explosives were normally used to stun fish but this time they might be engaged to blow bits off policemen. As a veteran of the Kwan Lung Bunger, these ‘Johnny come latelys’ did not cause me much distress but they did disturb my sleep, which was probably the main aim of the exercise. Smart move, protesters. Their cunning plan meant that the next morning they’d be facing a police force that was tired, grumpy and expecting to be bombed. The chance of getting a baton in the face just increased ten-fold.
The day of the match was bright and clear but cold, and quite a few of our numbers were wearing greatcoats. These heavy woollen jackets were incredibly warm and offered additional protection but they were also very bulky and could restrict your movement. Rob and I were not included in the main protection unit whose job was to keep the core group of protesters out of the rugby grounds. We were deployed to protect the entrance to the car park of the Rutherford Hotel. This wasn’t seen as a very likely point of entry so there was only a thin line of police.
We spent the better part of the morning standing around, renewing old acquaintances and chatting to the local cops. The good thing about the tour was you would often end up in the same location as your mates from training. This was the case in Nelson and a couple of guys from my cadet wing were on the ground with us. One of them was a huge guy whose nickname was Bead. We chatted for a while then he moved down the line to re-join his section. There were ten to fifteen cops in our area and we milled around waiting for something to happen.
Elsewhere in town the Red Squad was in action and they managed to turn back about a thousand protesters from Trafalgar Park, where the game was being held. Forced to turn away, the protesters decided to split up and try to infiltrate several other targets, one being the Rutherford Hotel. The primary goal was the hotel foyer but there was a large police contingent there and the protesters were repelled. At this point they decided to storm the car park. We didn’t know this of course but we soon figured out something was amiss. We could hear the protesters chanting and the sound of yelling and running feet was all around us. It was nerve wracking and we were all very keyed up. Suddenly there was a loud krump in front of us and a wall of grey smoke drifted toward our ranks. Someone had let off a smoke bomb. This was getting serious. The footsteps and chanting were closer now and we all linked arms to form a barrier in front of the car park. I was bloody terrified. I could hear a large angry crowd approaching but I couldn’t see anything and the smoke was burning my eyes.
The first wave of protesters appeared from the fog. All I could see was a mass of padded jackets, faces covered with scarves and a lot of heads encased in crash helmets. As soon as they saw us they let out a collective roar and charged forward. None of the police in our line had riot gear - all we had for protection were our greatcoats, our small batons and beat helmets. We knew it wasn’t enough and we braced against one another waiting for the impact. I was in the middle of the line with Rob beside me. A couple of cops were behind us pushing into our backs. All of a sudden the protesters hit us. I felt a sharp pain in my leg as someone kicked me and a crash helmeted head caught me under the jaw, jerking my head back and throwing my helmet off. I had no way to protect myself as my arms were linked with the other officers. It was only the strength of the link that stopped the protesters from knocking us to the ground. Amazingly we held the crowd back and their front ranks were pushed hard against us getting slowly flattened. In that moment everything was sharp and clear. I could feel the hands of the cops behind me holding me upright while the helmeted figure in front of me (a woman) was crushed into my chest. Steam was rising from the crowd and I could smell a mix of sweat, breath and wool. I heard myself yelling 'Move back! Move! Move!' in unison with the other cops but the crowd wasn’t budging. I turned my head to the side to see if Rob was okay and as I was turning back I locked eyes with a young woman in the crowd.
'Fucking racist, fascist pig,' she screamed at me and spat in my face. I was too shocked to reply. I was neither a fascist nor a racist, but that didn’t seem to matter. I just had to take it. I couldn’t even lift my hand to wipe the spit from my eyes as the protesters chose that moment to push forward again and we had to stay with our arms linked. I felt incredibly vulnerable.
The woman in front of me was screaming for the crowd to pull back. She was being crushed but her cries were drowned out by the people in the rear yelling ‘Push! Push!’ Easy for them to say - they weren’t the ones getting the breath forced out of their lungs. I’d had well enough of people kicking my shins and standing on my feet so when they pushed into me once more I swung my elbow out and caught the woman in front of me with a glancing blow to the helmet. She cried out: 'Don’t hit me, I’m pregnant.'
I don’t know whether she was or not but I was astounded to think that a pregnant woman would be so irresponsible as to be in the front line of violent march. 'You shouldn’t bloody well be here then, should you?' I snarled.
'Nor should you,’ she replied softly.
With bruised ankles, crushed toes, an aching jaw and someone else’s spit dribbling down my face I was inclined to agree with her.
Just then our reinforcements arrived. Word also finally got through to the rear ranks of the protest march that they were crushing their own troops, so thankfully they eased back. There was a tense stand-off for a several minutes while the protest leaders weighed up whether or not it was worth trying to push through us again and then they began moving away.
The woman who’d abused me looked hard into my eyes before turning back. I think she was trying to find something that wasn’t there. The only things she saw were fear and confusion. I guess she was annoyed she hadn’t found a more worthwhile enemy.
My uniform was dirty and torn, my helmet was dented and my body was bruised but I was in one piece and relatively unscathed, or at least that was the way it seemed. The real damage the springbok tour did to me hadn’t yet made itself obvious.
Rob and I remained on duty for several hours after our clash, making sure the protesters didn’t return to the hotel. Several weeks later I saw a picture of the protests in Nelson taken by journalists from the local paper. The photograph showed Bead (my cadet mate) on his own holding back about fifty protesters, just metres from where we had been doing the same. I was pleased to note they took the photo from his good side.
The Tartan with Green Spots Squad
While the Springbok tour proceeded everything else stopped. I can’t remember attending a single incident that wasn’t tour related during those months. I’m sure I did but New Zealand was thrown into such turmoil that it became all-consuming. It was all we did, all we remembered and all we talked about. Or agreed not to talk about. The Womyn’s Collective wanted to have a chat with m
e about the Springbok Tour. I declined. To have accepted would have been akin to walking into a lions' den wearing Eau de Wildebeest cologne. Quentin and I agreed to differ on the subject of the tour. This was unusual for us - not the differing, but the agreement not to discuss. Normally we could talk about anything and this was symptomatic of the deep divisions the tour caused.
Next on the agenda for the Palmerston North crew was the second test in Wellington. If the Christchurch test and the fracas in Molesworth Street were anything to go by it was going to be a nasty one. Some of the officers from our station had been in Christchurch and they told us they had been pelted by coal which the protesters had picked up at one of the mines. They also reported that the protesters misinterpreted a lot of the police’s actions. The example was given of an old man in the crowd who had been hit in the face by a baton during a clash. He was bleeding profusely from the mouth and the decision was made to recover him from the midst of the protesters so he could receive medical attention. The squad involved formed a wedge and split the protesters ranks then grabbed the old boy and dumped him behind police lines so he could be attended to. The protesters thought he’d been arrested and fought with the squad with renewed vigour. It was a simple case of misunderstanding but neither side made any attempt to communicate. They just kept bashing one another, obstinacy and hate blinding them to what was actually happening.
I was told I was part of the squad being sent to Wellington. This brought on a curious mixture of excitement and trepidation. It was good to feel part of the team but the confrontations with the protesters unnerved me. I knew of my forthcoming involvement for several days before the match and Michelle (who was making a rare appearance at the flat) couldn’t believe how wound up I was. According to her I spent my time pacing up and down the hallway in our flat practicing baton moves I secretly hoped I wouldn’t have to use.
The day of the second test arrived: 29 August. A van full of the Palmerston North contingent set off early. It was a two hour drive to Wellington, but in the clunky uncomfortable police van it seemed much longer. During the trip I checked out the troops from my station. There was a large CIB turn out. The plain clothes boys had dusted off their uniforms determined not to miss out on the fun. They were a tight knit group and kept to themselves. I think they felt superior to the uniform branch. Due to my recent experiences I’d gone off undercover work so I wasn’t concerned by their unenthusiastic response to my presence in the van. I did feel isolated though as Rob wasn't with me. On arrival my section was placed on reserve duty at Wellington Central police station and spent most of the day processing prisoners. It was a horrible, boring job in which we were endlessly preached to by pissed-off demonstrators who had been unlucky enough to be arrested. The only moment of relief came when we were called to remove some protesters from a Wellington highway where they were blocking traffic. Here I experienced the latest, most frustrating tactic of the protest movement. The passive protest.
Upon arrival we saw about fifty protesters sitting in the middle of what had been a busy highway. They made no attempt to attack us but refused to move, even after we asked them nicely. The sergeant in charge even said please, which isn’t a word that gets much use in the New Zealand Police. After ten minutes of pointless debate it became clear that the only way we could re-open the road was by physically removing the protesters. The sergeant sighed and told us to move them on as peacefully as possible. We went up to the line and asked them one final time to get out of the way. They stared fixedly ahead ignoring us. I gave the guy sitting nearest to me a nudge with my foot and told him if he didn’t move under his own steam then I would be forced to help him on his way. His response was to start singing John Lennon's song ‘Give Peace A Chance’ and once he’d started they all joined in. The cop next to me leaned in close and muttered: 'If they start singing anything by The New Seekers I’m getting out my baton.
I nodded in agreement. It was very melodramatic. We weren’t trying to force them to enlist for the Vietnam War, we just wanted them to get off the road so innocent motorists could get home for dinner.
After a short Beatles medley the sergeant had had enough.
'Right,' he yelled, 'Bin the lot of them.'
That was our signal to start arresting people. I decided to begin with the guy who initiated the singing as he was slightly flat and deserved it. I grabbed him by the arm, gave it a firm tug and told him to come with me. He went floppy and I can’t swear to it but I’m sure he said: 'Shan’t.’
It’s bloody difficult moving someone who has the structural integrity of a soggy tea bag, so I gave him the option of accompanying me to the paddy wagon with some dignity or alternatively I would drag him there. He opted for the latter and I wrapped both my arms around his chest and under his armpits then hauled him along the road to a waiting police van. Another officer grabbed his feet and he was slung unceremoniously in the back. All those years of lugging the Papodopolis brothers’ potatoes had prepared me for this moment and after half a dozen protesters had been dragged down the road and biffed in the van the rest decided either to run for it or walk to the vehicle.
Fifteen minutes later we had a van full of protesters (they started singing again) and a clear road. It was a depressing drive back to the station as we knew that the rest of the day would be spent processing the rowdy lot in the back.
It was interesting to note the change of demeanour this type of prisoner undergoes when they arrive at the station. Most of the peaceful protesters were normal middle-class New Zealanders who wouldn’t have much to do with the police. So it came as a real shock to find themselves on the receiving end of an arrest procedure, especially once separated from their support group. Arrest of is designed to be a demoralizing process. This is the moment when the consequences of your actions become real. No matter how good your intentions were, it must have been hard to feel you were striking a blow for the freedom when standing alone in a piss-stinking cell with fingerprint ink still wet on your hands. There were no cries of ‘Amandla’ in the station, there were no marshals nearby with a megaphone to stir you forward and there was no adrenaline to feed on. By all accounts many protesters felt flat and dirty. They found it hard to shake the feeling that they had been naughty children who had defied their father. This was the way the authorities wanted you to feel. It is the way we want all prisoners to feel. Judging by the sombre, contrite protesters I processed that afternoon it was working very well.
How dull my day had been was evident on the bus ride back to Palmerston North. Our CIB group had been separated from us and had found their way to Rintoul Street where the protester/police clashes had been at their fiercest. The CIB squad was buoyed by their confrontations. There was excited chatter about who had hit who and how many times they’d used their batons. The big incident of the afternoon was a baton charge which ended with a number of protesters pushed through a plate-glass window. Listening to them talk I got the feeling they thought they may have gone too far but no-one would admit it. I was reminded of the aftermath of a school playground fight. Supposedly senior policemen were acting like children who’d eaten too much sugar. I understand the adrenaline high that stays with you after a confrontation but couldn’t condone the callous disregard that was shown for the public’s safety.
The police are supposed to act within the bounds of reasonable force. Throwing someone through a shop front seemed to be stretching that. The incident drew serious complaints from the media and the public. The Police Complaints Authority was forced to act and many of the officers involved in the Rintoul Street riot faced an internal enquiry. However, no formal charges were laid by the police and no officer ended up in court.
The next game was scheduled for Rotorua. Thankfully no-one from the Palmerston North station was required. They were saving us for the trifecta. The big finale, three matches all set in the Auckland area.
The first game was against Auckland on 5 September, then North Auckland in Whangarei on 8 September and finally the third test
, back in Auckland on
12 September. As our presence was required for all three matches a decision was made to send us to the big city for ten days. We were to leave on Friday 4th and return on Sunday 13th.
This was exciting stuff. Not only were we going to Auckland and staying in a hotel, but we had heaps of days off between clashes.
I don’t know what thrilled me more, staying in a flash hotel or an unexpected holiday. The police were keen to dampen our enthusiasm and the day after the squads were announced we were called together for a briefing. I caught up with Rob before the meeting and was delighted to find he was in my squad. We decided to be room buddies and attended the meeting looking forward to the assignment. It took the officer in charge of the briefing about ten seconds to bring us back to earth. His lecture began with dire warnings about the form the protest movement had now taken. No longer were the marches filled with liberal thinking New Zealand citizens. The criminal element had taken over and he said we would clash with hard core offenders and opportunists who were only there to fight with police (Darth Vader was rumoured to be heading up the protesters' Patu squad).
There was an element of truth in what our lecturer was saying but it was a simplistic view. The protesters had certainly become hardened and more ready to use violence, but there was still a large contingent of mums and dads participating. Mind you, a great number of non-violent protesters had dropped out by this time. Many genuine demonstrators were disturbed by the escalating violence shown by both their colleagues and the police. This violence was expected to intensify for the final three games and we were left in no doubt as to what we would be facing.
We were shown a horrifying collection of videos taken by police photographers during the thick of the fighting. They showed cops being pelted with everything from bottles and rocks to lengths of wood and metal rubbish bins. Almost every scene was filled with bleeding policemen being bashed or pelted by angry crowds. In the emergency tents young cops nursed broken bones or sat stoically on wooden benches as St John's Ambulance volunteers mopped blood from their faces. The scene that had the most impact on me was a cop in a greatcoat being hit in the chest with a flare. The rocket-propelled explosive sent him reeling backwards before bursting into flames. For a second the constable was engulfed in an orange fireball as his greatcoat caught fire. He was then thrown to the ground by his mates as they tried desperately to beat out the flames. His clothing protected him from the worst of the heat but he received second-degree burns on his hands and face, losing his eyebrows and some of his hair.
