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

by Glenn Wood

  None of this footage had been shown to the public as the powers that be thought it would be a sign of weakness to admit officers were being hurt. Personally, I think they should have released it as the videos showed why the police were hitting first and asking questions later. The effect they had on me, as a young cop, was to harden my attitude against the protest movement. The films also made me determined to take every measure possible to protect myself. I guess that was the point of the lecture.

  It was hard to get a handle on the top brass’s attitude. On one hand they genuinely seemed to care about our safety and on the other they were the first to stab you in the back if things went wrong.

  After the screening the officer in charge told us the assignment was optional and if we felt unable to handle the task then we would be released from the squad with no repercussions. Yeah, right. Our fellow officers were sure to understand and support anyone who opted out, being the emotionally mature, sympathetic bunch of guys they were. Needless to say no-one took him up on this offer.

  The team from Palmerston North was staying at the Hotel Intercontinental and sadly, the level of accommodation didn’t live up to the grandeur of the name. The only intercontinental things about the hotel were the two Spanish exchange students it employed as chamber maids. The rest was decidedly ordinary. This didn’t put me off. I come from a working class family and my parents didn’t have the money for fancy hotels. We still had great holidays, but stayed in caravans or motor-camps. Having now stayed in some of the world’s finest hotels (thanks to my advertising career), I can honestly say the motor camps were more fun. But those heady days of advertising excesses were yet to come and I took to the Intercontinental with relish. I wasted no time savaging the hotel’s limited room service menu. If I were to be beaten to a bloody pulp during the tour at least I’d have a full stomach when it happened. Sort of a last supper deal. That’s how I justified it to the police accountants when they queried my expenses upon my return.

  I wasn’t the only out of town policeman preparing to take Auckland by storm. Several other cops from our section (the single ones) wanted to get to know the locals better. They came up with the ingenious idea of calling a radio station for help. The plan was to have the DJ make a plea over the airwaves asking if any female listeners would like to show some out-of-town cops the city. The response was astounding. An hour after the phone call one of the young guys from our section burst into Rob’s and my room with a long list of names for us to choose our potential dates from. Rob and I had girlfriends so we turned the offer down. The young cop then waved the list under our noses and read out names in the manner of a beauty pageant host.

  'Cindy is an 18-year-old flight attendant, who is also a contortionist and has a passion for tight fitting tops. Also accompanying you on your dream date will be Sherry who works as an exotic dancer at a downtown club. Cindy and Sherry are special friends.'

  To his credit Rob held firm whereas I folded like a pack of cards. I’d always wanted a Cindy and Carey wouldn’t let me have one. I succumbed to peer-group pressure and picked a girl off the list.

  Cindy was taken so I chose Melanie, a nineteen-year-old blonde receptionist who wanted to go dancing with me on Thursday night. I agreed; suppressing my pangs of guilt by telling myself I wasn’t cheating on Carey because I didn’t want to do anything other than enjoy a sociable night out. Things had cooled down with Carey, mainly due to our respective work pressures but also because we were over that initial infatuation stage of our relationship. We were up to the difficult, true-test-of-character stage and if I wasn’t careful I was going to fail.

  There was hope though. Thursday was still two rugby games away and if I was seriously maimed in the line of duty, I could get out of the date without losing face. Drastic measures I’ll admit, but I was sure anything the protesters did to me would be mild compared to the damage Carey would inflict if she found out about Melanie.

  To combat the increased level of public disorder anticipated for the Auckland games the police extended their specialist riot squads to six. Red Squad, White Squad, Gold Squad, Blue Squad, Green Squad and the scarily named Black Squad. I added a seventh - The Tartan with Green Spots Squad. I even created epaulette badges so we could wear our colours with pride. I made four, one for me, one for Rob and one each for two other members of our section who had good senses of humour. We wore them on the day of the Auckland game and as we formed up outside our hotel that morning I was singled out by a stern looking senior officer.

  'What’s that on your jacket Constable?' he asked.

  'That is the insignia of the Tartan with Green Spots Squad, sir.' I replied, indicating the other members.

  The officer inspected my epaulette and seemed unsure what to do. I could almost see his mind working as he tried to figure it out. He knew no-one in their right mind would form a Tartan with Green Spots Squad, but this was The New Zealand Police and stranger things have happened.

  Besides, nowhere in his daily orders was there a command specifically deeming the wearing of unusually coloured epaulettes illegal. It was a dilemma. He satisfied himself by glaring at us and telling us to move on. Yes! The Tartan and Green Spots Squad had made it to the streets.

  Actually we were on the railway lines. We’d been posted to the western end of New North Road on the railway embankment. We were spread out around the perimeter of Eden Park like little blue pawns in this gigantic game of chess. The pattern had been well established by now. The protesters would split into several, well-armed and padded groups and would try to breach police lines to make it into the ground. There were seven thousand of them and just over two thousand of us. We were outnumbered by more than three to one. Despite this, the protesters' chances of success were negligible. The police had government backing and carte blanche to do whatever was necessary to ensure the tour was completed. This allowed us full access to all kinds of barrier materials and blockades and we turned the area surrounding Eden Park into a fortress. The scene was reminiscent of a war zone with long coils of barbed wire forming impassable barriers and huge steel shipping containers helping flesh out the barricades. I found it amazing how quickly New Zealand had become used to such sights. Most of the rugby supporters who filed through the gates hardly blinked at the fortifications, whereas just two months earlier such scenes would have been unthinkable. Things would never be the same after the tour. New Zealand had lost its innocence.

  As the day dragged on I was lost in a curious mixture of anxiety and boredom. We were taken to our posts early and had long hours to kill before protests started. I was also sulking at being so close to Eden Park but unable to watch the match. It was worse during the last test when you could hear the roar of the crowd but had no idea what was going on. A few die-hard rugby fans in the police tried listening to the games via ear phones and portable radios but this practice ceased when it was realised that a blow to the ear could shatter the speakers and cause permanent hearing damage. Everyone posted outside the grounds was destined to go rugby free for the duration of the tour.

  My squad had been spread out along the railway tracks. We were spaced about three metres apart so even conversation was difficult. We spent our time staring at the coils of barbed wire and bracing against the chill wind. Our greatcoats helped with the cold and doubled as defence against whatever might be thrown at us during the course of the afternoon.

  I was apprehensive about what was to come, unable to keep the images of the burning policeman out of my mind. I could feel my stomach knotting up as we counted down the hours before kick-off. My experiences in Nelson had also taken their toll. Physically, I sustained no lasting damage but the intensity of the confrontations affected me mentally. As the noise levels from the streets began to build, so did my apprehension. I wasn’t scared. I was tense and psyched up, the waiting almost worse than the confrontations. To relieve some of the tension, I began throwing stones at a nearby ten gallon drum which was filled with sand. When I finally hit it, the clatter of the rock
against the metal echoed along the railway lines causing a nearby officer to jump with surprise. He glared at me and waved his arms, ordering me to stop mucking about and act like a policeman. I muttered something uncharitable under my breath and went back to watching my stretch of wire.

  We could hear the protests long before we caught sight of anyone. Chanting, angry voices, running footsteps, bangs, thumps, yells. The odd explosion as a Tuna bomb - or something worse - went off. Then suddenly we saw them. A wave of protesters flooding down the embankment, racing toward us then coming to a sudden stop as they reached the barbed wire barriers. They were prepared for this and several homemade grappling hooks snaked out from the group, smashing into the wire and snagging.

  'Holy shit, I thought as the wire began to move. We’re for it now.

  Several of us ran to the length of wire which looked most likely to be breached. Our officers were way ahead of us. A squad of riot police (the Blue Squad I think) armed with their own grappling hooks jogged up to the wire and threw the hooks over the protesters’ ones, locking them down. The wire was secured in seconds and the threat instantly negated. I was impressed, the protesters weren’t. There was much oinking, jeering and name calling followed by some missile throwing. We ordinary cops hadn’t been issued shields but did have riot helmets and long batons. When the missiles started, the riot squad moved in, held up their shields and blocked most of the projectiles. By now the riot squad members were well prepared for the bombardments and there was not an inch of uncovered skin on their bodies. Most wore gloves and heavy coats but it was the shields which took most of the battering. Occasionally a rock would get through and one of our guys would fall back, injured and in pain. This was greeted by a huge cheer from the protesters, who seemed to have forgotten they were protesting against violence in South Africa and not supposed to be encouraging it in New Zealand.

  It amazed me that protesters complained about being hit by police. Of course we hit them; they’d been pelting us with rocks. A few brave but incredibly stupid protesters tried to climb over the barbed wire. They were immediately pulled into the police ranks, biffed around and then thrown back. One protester, who had been heavily involved in the rock throwing, lived to regret it when he found himself on the wrong side of the police lines. I saw him receive two swift baton blows to the head followed by several hits to the chest. He folded over and fell to the ground, received a couple of kicks in the ribs and was rolled down a bank where he lay unconscious at the bottom.

  The violence had been sudden, undeniably excessive and extremely effective. Following that incident, the crowd pulled back from the wire and there were no more attempts to break through it. Not until the riot squad left anyway. When the protesters backed off, the Blue Squad stuck around for a few minutes, got bored and went off to find a more volatile bunch. Once they were gone the protesters surged forward again. We ordinary cops were a lot less scary than the battle-hardened riot police. For the next half hour we engaged in verbal tennis with the coiled wire acting as a net. The conversations differed little from those we’d heard throughout the tour. We were accused of racism. We’d reply that we were just doing our jobs. We’d be told that was what Hitler’s troops said. We’d point out the subtle difference between standing around on railway lines arguing with protesters and invading Poland. After that a few smart-asses in the group would ask for our numbers. Every police officer in New Zealand has an identification disk on which is written his or her unique number. These disks sit on the collar of the tunic or shirt and are worn at all times. There were widespread accusations during the tour that the police were either not wearing their disks or covering them up so they could not be identified. While this may have been true in some instances, the main reason our disks were hidden was because we covered our tunics with greatcoats, which we wore so we wouldn’t freeze to death.

  I’d been waiting all afternoon for someone to ask for my number and I happily shouted back: 'Constable Wood, 7389, assigned to the Tartan with Green Spots Squad.'

  I moved closer to the wire to show off my new epaulette badge. This was greeted with the same confused reaction that the officer had displayed that morning. Did no-one have a sense of humour?

  The protesters soon realised they couldn’t get through our defences and they moved off, leaving us deflated. The confrontation had been stressful but much less physical than normal. We’d been keyed up for a clash and when it didn’t eventuate we were left with a mass of nervous energy and no way to get rid of it. I know that sounds as if we were spoiling for a fight and it’s hard to explain the feeling without placing us in a bad light. The best comparison is a sports team preparing for a big game. Imagine hyping yourself up for the match, then arriving at the venue to find that the opposition hadn’t turned up.

  We ended the day forcing back some half-hearted attempts to get through our lines further down the embankment but again the protest was more toe-to-toe abuse than physical action. I was both disappointed and relieved.

  When the protest was over we went back to the hotel for a hot bath and a beer. As well as enjoying the luxury of room service I had quickly discovered the joys of the mini bar. I cracked open a Steinlager for Rob and myself. I had just finished the first bottle and was starting on a second when I felt ill. My stomach was queasy and I felt like I had drunk too much. Shortly afterwards I vomited, bringing up nothing but beer. I couldn’t believe it - I had only drunk one bottle. Rob was concerned. He thought I may have picked up a bug. I didn’t think it was likely because aside from my churning stomach I felt fine.

  I didn’t know it at the time but I had developed a stomach ulcer. My bad diet, the stress of my job and the added pressure of the tour had resulted in a deadly acid combo that my stomach lining just couldn’t take. It was several months before I actually discovered the ulcer, as I took a typically Gonzo approach to the problem. I muddled along, sick as a dog, blaming my stomach problems on everything else and put off going to the doctor until it became absolutely necessary.

  While in Auckland I put my illness down to mild food poisoning and spent the next day in bed feeling ill. Luckily I turned down Rob’s offer of joining him on a wine trail.

  I felt much better by the time Rob got home. He was feeling better too, much, better. In fact he was feeling surprisingly good, although he did wonder why the room was moving so much. Rob was as drunk as a very drunk thing that had lost a series of drinking games. ‘They give you free samples on the wine trail,’ said Rob before tripping over a table lamp. He ordered three hamburgers and a plate of chips from room service, and then fell asleep before the food arrived.

  We had the next day (Monday) off which was fortunate for Rob as he was a little delicate. He also lost some of his generally cheerful demeanour and didn’t find it amusing when I offered him last night’s hamburgers for breakfast.

  Tuesday was a free day as well, but I spent most of it trying to suppress the queasy feelings in my stomach as I contemplated the upcoming North Auckland match and my impending date with Melanie. It was a toss-up which was causing me the most anguish. I spoke to Carey on the phone most days (the police were paying) and I suffered pangs of guilt with every conversation. And I hadn’t even done anything wrong. Imagine what it would be like if I misbehaved. My stomach flipped over just thinking about it. My intestines were becoming my conscience!

  The North Auckland match turned out to be a quiet affair. The protesters were vocal but didn’t cause any trouble. This was probably because there were more police in Whangerei that day then there have ever been before or since. Crime in the city hit an all-time low and one local criminal was heard to complain that there were more pigs in town than there were in the local bacon factory.

  The Tartan and Green Spots Squad was out in force and we got through the day unscathed. Obviously the protesters had heard of our fearsome reputation and decided to stay away.

  Thursday dawned, with evening quickly following and I found myself at a local nightclub meeting up with Melanie.
I would know her because she would be a blonde wearing a white top and jeans. The night club was full of blondes wearing white tops and jeans and after my third attempt to find her I gave up and sat in a corner. Ten minutes later she found me and wouldn’t you know it, she was extremely attractive. What accursed luck.

  She was five feet six, had honey blonde shoulder length hair, blue eyes and a 36, 24, 36 body. Not that I noticed of course. The most disconcerting thing was the top she was wearing. It was a white blouse that had a square see-through window smack in the middle of her left breast. A bit like a peep hole. She was wearing a low cut lace bra and that damn window distracted me all night.

  We went to three clubs in the first hour and the only time Melanie showed any interest in me was when we first walked in. As we entered a new club she would thread her arm through mine, lean close to me and laugh loudly at everything I said. Even things that weren’t funny. She’d then look searchingly around the club, give a sigh, let go of my arm and get a drink. I found out what was going on at the fifth club we went to. By this stage I was heartily fed up and wanted to go back to the hotel. One of her friends could see I was bored and confused so she let me in on the secret. Melanie had recently been dumped by her boyfriend and I was being used as ‘the new policeman date’ in the hope it would make her old boyfriend jealous. That was it for me. I went back to my hotel and left her trawling the clubs on her own. I was actually quite relieved. The opportunity for infidelity hadn’t arisen and I wasn’t disappointed. I was annoyed at being used but, looking on the bright side, I had liked her window blouse. I thought briefly about getting one for Carey and then dismissed the idea as tasteless. See, I can be sensitive.