Time Bomb: A Policeman's True Story

1

A BAR FIGHT

Before

I

knew it, a mighty blow came from somewhere to my left and struck me on the jaw. I went down.

As I was lying on the ground, semi-conscious, someone kicked me in the face. I heard my nose crack and nearly lost consciousness again. From where I was lying, I watched a full-blown barfight develop, with everyone punching everyone else.

Here we go again, I thought. The same old bloody story.

It was a balmy Saturday evening and I’d been enjoying a cold beer (or six) in one of Nigel’s watering holes. We’d been watching a Currie Cup fixture on TV and everyone was in high spirits. In small pubs like this one, everyone knows everyone else and the entire community is familiar with one another’s disasters and achievements. I knew the place well. Nigel was my home town.

I couldn’t help noticing a woman with whom I’d been at odds on previous occasions and whom I avoided for that very reason. She kept looking in my direction, and I realised she was discussing me with her friend. It bothered me. After a few more beers I strolled over for a friendly greeting. She told me in no uncertain terms to fuck off and make sure that I kept my distance. I was happy to oblige. I did, however, mention the lady’s behaviour to the owner, who dismissed my complaint as unimportant, telling me to relax. It’s just the way she is, he said, always looking for trouble.

After a while I decided it was time to go. On my way out, the lady headed me off and launched into a tirade. I’d had enough by then. If you want to behave like a man, I’ll treat you like a man, I warned her. When she continued to swear at me, I snapped. I slapped her, sending her flying. She landed on her behind in a corner.

It was at that point that I was knocked flat. As I got to my feet, half dazed, I threw a punch at a sturdy young lad to my left. He went down, but his father, who’d been close at hand, stepped in and I joined his son on the floor.

There was a slight lull, which gave me the opportunity to ask who had kicked me in the face seconds before. When the fellow was pointed out to me, he began to curse vociferously. I aimed a blow at him but in my inebriated, punch-drunk state, I missed. He, on the other hand, found his mark.

Blood was pouring from my nose and mouth, spoiling my brand-new Pringle shirt. I realigned my nose and ascertained that, besides a broken tooth from the first blow and a sore lip, I was in reasonably good shape. At that point some blokes stepped in to restrain me, putting an end to the fight.

I drove home, knocked back a few painkillers and sank into a merciful sleep. The next morning I ached all over as I got into the shower. As the water poured over me, I had a moment of sanity. What had I been thinking the previous evening? I was fifty, after all. What was I trying to prove by carrying on like that?

I stood in the shower for a long time, trying to wash away the unsavoury events of the night before. Where had things gone wrong for me?

I remembered all the previous occasions before this last one. If there was trouble, I was there. I did not always go looking for it, but it always found me. I had no idea what had happened to my life, but I knew that I didn’t want to live like that any longer.

2

A CHILD IN A GROWN-UP WORLD

How did

I

get to this point? I had lost all sense of humanity and could no longer endure my own life. Where did this falling apart begin? If I had to think about it, it probably already started in childhood.

After all, I was hardly more than a child when I joined the police force at the age of sixteen. My brother Len[1] had left school that year and decided to give the police a go. I fell in step with him and, having completed standard nine, I left school as well.

Late in 1975 I joined the police force, working as a student constable at the Springs police station. The next year I was part of the January intake at the Police College in Pretoria. There I completed my police training, as well as my matric, studying legal subjects such as Criminal Law, Statute Law, Criminology and International Law.

During the first three months we were not allowed to walk anywhere. We had to move at the double, except when we were returning from the mess. We got no leave during this time either. At the end of three months, we were given our first weekend pass. After that, the pace slowed slightly and the training became more bearable. The discipline remained strict, however, and we jumped to attention at just about everything that moved.

We were made thoroughly aware of the Swart Gevaar (black threat). We were young and susceptible, and it was impressed upon us daily that black people were potential terrorists who stood for evil and the Antichrist. We were brainwashed about political issues and saw the average black person as the enemy.

My first acquaintance with violence in the black townships was during the 1976 riots in Soweto. As student constables, we were temporarily deployed at Tembisa on the East Rand to help control the riots and defend key positions.

Dozens of corpses were brought in every day, but especially over weekends, and laid out in the police garage because the government morgues were filled to overflowing. They had been shot, stabbed or had their heads bashed in, and some were badly mutilated. Whether the deaths were related to the riots or merely the result of crime, I couldn’t say. A black person’s life seemed worth very little, and the newspapers did not report on these deaths or publish the names of the dead.

I was seventeen when I completed my training, and early in 1977 I was posted to Springs police station as a constable. Because I was not yet eighteen, I was not permitted to carry a firearm, so I served as a court orderly. I found it interesting and soon became familiar with the procedures of a criminal court. After a few months, I was put in charge of the holding cells, and I came into daily contact with hardened criminals waiting to appear before the court.

In those years, corporal punishment was still administered for minor crimes by youthful offenders. The person in charge of the cells was supposed to have the rank of warrant-officer, and it was his job to mete out corporal punishment. Because there was no one else available, the task fell on me. Strictly speaking it was inadmissible, of course, but I ended up carrying out the court’s sentence.

The offender was strapped to a bench, and a cane was selected from a bunch soaking in water in a milk can. The offender’s behind was covered with a cloth, after which the whipping commenced, usually continuing until he wet himself, or worse. The sentence made provision for anything from six to ten strokes, but that number was hardly ever reached. By the third stroke, the offender would often shit himself. With each stroke, the person administering the punishment would aim for the same spot on the cloth, until the flesh was torn. The offender would scream, but he was strapped down, of course, and could not move.

It was a powerful feeling, having been assigned by the court to assault another person.

During that time, I became acquainted with strong liquor. Police coffee was the name the senior members used for brandy and Coke, and you were not one of the in-crowd if you didn’t join in the drinking and fighting in the local hotels on weekends.

After I turned eighteen, I was transferred from the court and assigned to investigate dockets at the Enquiries branch. I lived in the single quarters at Springs, paying for my board and lodging from my meagre policeman’s salary.

One day in the mess I struck up a conversation with the guy responsible for the finances of the mess. He explained the system regarding prisoners’ meals to me. The cost of every meal supplied to a prisoner could be claimed back from the state, resulting in a slight discount in the monthly fees of those who ate at the mess. This meant that the more prisoners we could lock up in the local cells, the bigger our discount. At the time, blacks had to carry the hated pass books, and it was easy to take a truck, raid the nearest farm and lock up all the workers without pass books. I was quite shocked to see policemen throwing legal pass books away so that the evening’s quota of prisoners could be reached and a suitable number of meals claimed.

As a young policeman recently out of college, I found it hard to find my feet. Senior members shouted at me. I was nothing. At tea time I had to wait until everyone had helped themselves and, if there was tea left, I had to ask permission before being allowed to have any.

Nevertheless I had an opportunity to get my own back. One day the station commander at Springs sent me to fetch a new sneeze machine from the Driver Training Centre in Benoni. The machine was mounted on the back of a Land Rover, and I was to undergo a quick course in operating it.

The machine was a new design and was meant to be used for crowd control in case of rioting. It was a reasonably simple appliance that was operated from the cab of the vehicle. On the back of the vehicle a square, box-like structure was mounted; on top of the box was what looked like a large megaphone, which could rotate three hundred and sixty degrees. When the contraption was switched on, a white powdery substance was sprayed from the mouth of the funnel and diffused by means of a fan. This substance was the sneezing powder, which affected the eyes, noses and armpits of bystanders – in fact, any moist spot on the body. It made the victim sneeze and caused an irritating, burning sensation. Strangely, neither this powder nor tear gas had any effect on horses and dogs, which was why these animals could safely be used during riots.

On my way back with the machine, the devil whispered in my ear. I stopped and carefully filled a plastic bag with powder from the machine. Two weeks later I stood on the top storey of the police station and scattered a cupful of the powder onto the quadrangle where everyone was having tea. Complete chaos ensued. The doors of the administrative offices all led onto the quad where I had sprinkled the powder. For three days no one could work or even enter their offices. If an attempt was made to dust the powder off the shelves and surfaces, a renewed bout of sneezing would erupt.

The station commander vowed to lock up the guilty party personally. For a long time I was the chief suspect, but no one had caught me in the act. It was my revenge on the senior members who kept us juniors away from the teapot.

Later, other members got hold of the powder too, and when a fight broke out in a hotel, they would put some in the air-conditioning vents. Within seconds the fight would be over and the hotel closed. The places where vagrants were known to sleep and hang out were also dusted with powder, and that would be the end of the vagrancy.

Discipline in the police force was strict, though certain people doubtlessly took it too far. Still, if I had to choose between then and now, I would choose those years of discipline again.

The barracks themselves were a place of extremes. The senior members thought nothing of firing a few rounds in the passages with their government-issued firearms when they returned drunk after a night out. Women were regularly smuggled in, and group sex, known as pulling a train, was par for the course. While one guy was having sex with a girl, others lined up in threes or fours, waiting their turn.

The women involved were often young girls who had been reported missing. It wasn’t difficult to find them at the usual hotels and seedy joints. When a policeman told the runaway that he was going to lock her up, the poor girl just about jumped out of her clothes. He would take her to the barracks and keep her there for a few days, feeding her from the mess and using her for sex. This took place with the girl’s consent, for these girls were mostly past caring. Being in the barracks was preferable to being sent back home. A few days before an officer was due to inspect the barracks, the girl would be sent on her way. As rookies, we were expected to turn a blind eye and lock our doors.

During this time, I befriended a gay man who lived near my parents. He was good company and didn’t flaunt his sexual orientation. I made it clear right from the start that I was not gay myself and he accepted it.

We became good friends and I introduced him to some of my colleagues. Immediately I became aware of a stigma surrounding me. My friends were conservative and it was a question of my way or the highway. I took no notice of them, and my gay friend and I remained good buddies until he eventually moved to another town.

During that time there were two strapping student constables in my platoon who always had money when the rest of us had long been broke. Later I learned from one of them where they’d get their money. On Saturday evenings they would hang out at the art gallery