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Allegations
of Abuse in Institutions |
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As a schoolboy, he
thought cadet school would be the start of something great. Go in the army,
be a man, they told him. But all this Waikato man, now 52, recalls is the
horror of being bullied, beaten and hospitalised. The scars have lasted a
lifetime, he tells Inger Vos. -------------------- "This story has
haunted me for 37 years. My father knew about
it, and so did my brother and sister and a couple of close friends, but no
one else. The story I will tell
-- but not my name -- because it is something that has changed my life. Putting it straight, I
am just a nasty bastard. I have no patience. I am not tolerant. I have a
very, very violent temper. I can be a very, very angry person. I have anxiety
attacks. I beat up my sister, once. I crashed a motorcycle and my friend was
killed. I don't have an aim in
life any more, and I blame those 11 weeks at the Royal New Zealand Regular
Force Cadet School (I spit those words out) -- all of it. Go in the army, be a
man, they said. I signed up for eight
years. I thought I would stay until I was 45 and then retire. But my dream was
shattered. I didn't go in there expecting to be a punching bag. I was at Melville High
School, in the fourth form, 15 years old, 1968. The army came and
showed us a film about the life we would have -- it was about the good tucker
we would eat, the sport we would get to play, what a good time we would have
-- we'd even learn to iron our clothes. My mother had just
died, and it would be good for me to get a trade, be an apprentice -- I
wanted to be a vehicle mechanic. Dad thought that was good because he
couldn't be a mum and a dad. I was a little fellow
(there's about four of me now). I used to race push bikes with Jack Swart.
Super fit I was. If you spoke to my brother, he would say I was a spoilt
little bastard -- I would win championships, get in the paper, go back to
school and I was a bloody hero. I had a pretty good life. I had my medical exams,
all the tests, and was accepted for the cadet school. At Frankton Station, I
as chucked on the 227, and away we went, a whole carriage of us. We arrived in Waiouru
at about 2am. By the time we got to our barracks it was about half past four
and they let us sleep until half past six. We got paid $7 a
fortnight, from which you had to buy ablutions, washing powder and shaving
stuff. That was a lot of money -- it was brilliant. My bed was against the
wall and I looked out the window over the parade ground. The room was nice,
clean and tidy. Everything was spot on for a kid who thought he had it made. We got taught lots: how
to march, salute. We went for a five-mile run every morning. One day we were
taught about explosives and I was left holding a white stick which was set on
fire. The officer told
everyone "as you can see, this young man is holding an explosive that
could blow us all to bits", and I took off, dropped it, and went through
a trip wire, which blew a helmet 200 feet into the sky. It was all in good
fun. I was actually enjoying myself, immensely. About a month into my
time, we got our rifles; that's when the trouble started. Mine was the only brand
new weapon and covered in grease, as they are. I asked the corporal how to
clean it. He said go to the ablutions block and put it under a hot shower,
and have one yourself so people don't wonder what you're doing. I got in the shit for
that -- but I wasn't hit, yet. The NCO
(non-commissioned officer) had walked in and screamed at me: "You are an
effing idiot, I should smash you." I couldn't say who told
me to do it -- that would be dobbing or narking. Instead, I was put in a
position of fear that I was going to get done. The real shit happened
about a week or two later, when we had a section inspection. I got caught
with a dirty civilian shirt. Everything was perfect except this bloody shirt.
I got told to strip
completely in front of the whole barracks, about 60-80 people, made to repeat
my name and number and say I was a "filthy gunge", then was marched
to the showers. I was made to have a
hot shower, and I mean hot. They had a scrubbing brush, the kind for floors
with a long wooden handle -- because you are such a dirty person they can't
come near you -- and forcibly scrubbed for up to 10 minutes. It didn't make
me feel too flash -- there were a lot of scratches. Imagine being in boiling
water for up to 30 seconds then thrown under icy cold water, repeatedly, and
scrubbed in between. I hadn't witnessed that
happening to anyone else. They tended to pick on the little fellows. I was
made an example of for everyone else. A couple of nights
later, I woke up by being punched in the face -- not woken first, just bang.
It was my corporal, returned from leave, who had found out what had happened.
The sergeant asked me
in the morning what had happened to my face and I said I got a hiding and
told him what for, but not by who -- that's dobbing, remember. But I'd told my dad and
he went ape-shit. A couple of days later I was ordered to the CO's office.
When I got there, there was a line of NCOs standing outside and I was told to
stand directly opposite. I had been set up so
they knew they had been put there because of me -- apparently my dad had rung
the CO (commanding officer). Dobbed. I went back to my
barracks after, everything per normal, until I was told by an NCO to go to
another barracks. There were half-a-dozen NCOs in the room when I entered.
The curtains were drawn. I knew I was in the shit. The barracks were otherwise
empty, so nobody would hear anything. The drawers of a
smallboy were pulled open and I was made to march so my knees hit against
them for about five minutes -- it bloody hurt. Then I got this shit
about being a gunge, having a dirty rifle, being a dobber . . . and then I
got hit. My first instinct was to lie on the floor and curl up, but I was
kicked in the guts and told to "get up you spineless bastard". They made me put my
thumb in my ear and punched it in. I was hit in the face, the kidneys, I
remember being strangled. Then someone was saying
"let him go -- you will kill him", and the answer: "That's
what I should do." But, I was told to
bugger off and not tell anyone. I don't remember getting back to my room. I
remember someone saying "shit, he's in trouble" and vaguely
recollect being helped to the base hospital. I was there for
1<<1/2>> weeks. I'd had the shit kicked out of me. I wasn't
allowed to look in the mirror, but I felt my injuries -- my neck was swollen
like I had the mumps. So was my face. I had trouble breathing because my
throat was damaged. I had pain in my back, and since discovered I have a
kidney like a shrivelled prune, which may or may not have been from the
beating. When I was released
from hospital, I was put in custody of the military police. A soldier was
assigned to be with me 24/7 because they knew if these guys got hold of me
they would kill me. My dad went ape-shit
again, and made the army give me an honourable discharge. I believe I wouldn't be
here to tell my story if I had stayed. The last I saw of the
army was when I was dropped off at the bus stop, and when I got my honourable
discharge in the mail. No sorry, nothing. I changed after that. I
am a totally different person. Before, I always did what I was told, always
had good school reports. Now, I am totally against authority. As soon as I
got out of that camp no one was going to tell me what to do -- ever! For years, I would walk
around the house checking every room and cupboard to make sure there was no
one there. I slept with a rifle under my bed. I wandered from job to
job: a house painter, a car painter, worked for the railways. I never
finished anything. I abused alcohol and drugs, and lived in Salvation Army
homes. I had psych reports prescribed by the courts, and took pills to calm
me down. After my dad died, I
spent 14 days in Waikeria prison for a string of traffic offences and other
undesirable behaviour. Comparing prison to the
New Zealand cadets -- it was a breeze. No problems. No hard time. I live on my own
because I can't live with other people. If this inquiry into
the abuse at that school hadn't come up, I wouldn't have said anything about
it. I have made my
statement. The people involved were just a couple of years older than me. I
don't want to drag them through the shit. They were typical teens with a
little more power than the other, smaller lads down the road. I just wanted
to say it happened. But, I am still dreaming about that time. Nightmares.
It's a thing that will never go away. Never." |
