IX. We Have No Dole Queues
IX. We Have No Dole Queues
You’ve been dying since the day you were born
You know it’s all been planned
The quartet of deliverance rides!
A sinner once; a sinner twice;
No need for confession now
‘Cause now you’ve got the fight of your life!
“We [Party General Secretary, President, and Minister for Trade and Industry] were picked up from the airport, and driven up to Ohakea see the Emergency Cabinet. And we hadn’t been in Jim McLay’s office thirty seconds when…well, Muldoon came in. Pissed as a fiddler’s cat. And we thought ‘Oh, God, no…what the hell – what are we going to do now?’”
- Barrie Leay, National Party General Secretary.
Time! Has taken its toll on you
The lines that crack your face
The lines that crack your face
With the grim news from Blenheim slowly making itself known in Christchurch and Dunedin, the Southern Interim Government was thrown into panic. It was quickly realised that there was little capacity to care for 300 individuals suffering radiation poisoning, let alone 30,000. While the rugged terrain of the Marlborough and prevailing wind patterns led Government observers to surmise that fallout would only be an issue along the Wairau Valley, leaving Picton untouched and the two ferryloads of refugees it held safe, the utility of the port was severely undermined by confirmation from Ohakea that Wellington’s port facilities had been swept clean into the sea or otherwise rendered unusable by heavy radiation (a downpour of black rain was reported in the eastern suburbs shielded by Mount Victoria, which only alluded to what was going on closer to Ground Zero), thereby effectively cutting off North-South commerce until some sense could be made of the situation in New Plymouth or, preferably, Napier.
The news broadcast made in Australia on the evening of the Exchange was of little comfort either, as the terse report from an audibly overworked Prime Minister Hawke made it glaringly obvious no help would be forthcoming from across the ditch. As Mayor Hay put it, “after years of complaining about everything we had to send up North to keep Auckland fed and lit, we were on our own. And it terrified us.”
Southern Interim Administration
Christchurch City Hall
February 26, 1984
The City Council building was a monolithic concrete slab which erupted from Hereford Street and loomed over the block. If the ‘Interim Administration’ the MPs and councillors from across the South Island had set up were anything near as secure, Mayor Hay would have been a lot less stressed than he was now. Right now a debate was raging on how to proceed with things: while everyone recognised the importance of sending aid across Cook Strait to prevent untold thousands of their brothers and sisters dying, the argument was getting hung up on how to administer such an effort. From one side came the claim that it was better to engage in a simple majoritarian game while trying to get the entire island to cooperate behind their local governments, coordinating activities through Christchurch as the largest surviving city in the country and, according to the smarmy young Member for St Kilda down in Dunedin, “ensuring continuity of elected representative government with the people’s backing.” That this approach favoured the Labour members who had largely remained in their home constituencies while National Cabinet members were stranded up north was nowhere near coincidental; Hay could see the deck being stacked, though that side was correct in claiming that any Labour-led government would enjoy a majority of the votes from ’81. In Christchurch alone 7 of the 10 electorates in the wider area were firmly red, with two of the National ones in Selwyn and Rangiora being mainly rural districts centred out in the wop-wops.
Which led to the counter-argument; that the Government of day was still, Emergency Regulations or not, the legitimate and elected Government of all of New Zealand, and the members therefore had a duty to all of New Zealand to hold the line and follow the example of the Ohakea-based Emergency Cabinet which showed Labour members following the Prime Minister’s continued leadership as the head of government. Labour members countered this counter (with some credibility, as Hay thought about it) that it was Muldoon’s drunken blundering which had led to his declaration of full support for the Americans and thus incurred the disaster which had befallen the country, a bold statement which had ruffled some feathers on the other side of the room.
“So does the Honourable Member for Sydenham suggest treason?” spat the MP for Rangiora, “or simply secession from the rest of New Zealand?”
Said Member, an independent who’d broken with Labour but was caucusing with them in this microcosm of democracy (and who happened to be Big Norm’s son), snorted and retorted to the effect of declining to dignify the comment with a response.
Cue Labour’s big chief coming down from his war-throne to slam the National backbencher (who was roundly despised by the PM in any case), much argument, and a circuitous route of wasting another five minutes. Eventually, enough was enough.
When Hay stood up and threw a mug to the floor the sound of shattered ceramics finally drew the room to a hush, the twenty-odd politicians and ten local government representatives finally silenced by the sudden outburst from the genteel, white-haired Mayor.
“For God’s sakes!” he said in an exasperated near-shout, “Can’t you mob see what’s going on more than two inches past the ends of your noses? We have here a million people or so on this island, all scared half to death by the fact that the Russians have up and bombed us, nobody’s sure how to organise things besides lining the nest for whatever party they support, and we’re sitting here arguing about a Parliament that’s been blown to Kingdom Come? You all appal me!” he barked at the MPs, noticing one or two of them suddenly avoiding his gaze. “The lives of our countrymen are not, not chess pieces to play your damn games with; what we should be doing here is making plans for food distribution, keeping law and order, maintaining contact with the bloody Government, and getting the Army in to help with all of that, not kicking up a stink about who should be in charge of what non-existent body they want to establish to do that!” He surveyed the room once more, noticing for the first time the stunned silence which his outburst left in its wake, before clearing his throat and saying in a calmer tone of voice “So, let’s start focussing on the real problems, shall we?” he asked finally, sitting down once more.
Almost immediately, a woman at the back of the room stood up and spoke.
“I agree with the Mayor – miracles do happen, I suppose – and we need to hang together or be hung separately. As a Labour member, I say we need to work past this bipartisan crap and get to work.”
While Hay could have been less bothered by the incorrect conjugation of the verb “to hang,” he was amazed by his young rival’s enthusiasm in supporting him. The next few minutes followed the example, then: the politicians agreed to work together in a cooperative, nonpartisan framework under which they would help enforce Christchurch’s decisions in their home electorates, while ensuring they weren’t thrown to the wolves by trying to hold themselves separate to the Interim Administration and by extension the rest of the South Island. As they began to discuss the possibilities for guarding freezing works in the Deep South and looking towards equitable distribution and rationing of the wheat, fruit, and vegetable harvests, Hay felt a smile creep almost imperceptibly about the corners of his mouth.
That’s it, Hamish, he thought, keep them honest, keep them from arguing too much, and we might just get through this in one piece.
Famine! Your body it has torn through
Withered in every place…
Withered in every place…
Far to the north, Auckland lay in a state which could be optimistically described as hell on earth. Everyone who prior to the Exchange had seriously believed the Soviets would attack had written the city off as a dead loss, presenting as it did an impossibly tempting target for the Ivans. This hard core of pessimists made up the initial wave of evacuees from the cities along the Auckland isthmus, as from Helensville to Hunua people packed and fled for safe havens or family homes if they had them, or otherwise drove north or south and waited.
These people had been the lucky ones, then: from the 21st onwards the roads were almost impassable, with the fabric of society coming asunder wherever petrol station attendants tried to fend off crowds of scared and angry motorists or worse still where those motorists competed for finite fuel supplies. The police reported no fewer than ninety-seven incidents of aggravated assault on the 21st of February, and the increased rate of absenteeism combined with the reticence of local commanders to send out their men into a maelstrom of chaos (and the orders from Wellington to hold officers at dispatch points to maintain order following a Civil Defence emergency) stretched resources to breaking point.
So, when news of the strikes upon Australia broke the next morning and television went off the air, central Auckland was be abandoned by the police for fear of an uncontrollable riot. The bulk of regional police available were thus spared the immediate effects of the blast, which devastated the civilian population of the area. Third-degree burns occurred as far away as Castor Bay and Penrose, with many residential structures closer to the blast blown down or otherwise severely damaged. Roofs were stripped from houses as far as Ellerslie, and windows shattered in Hobsonville and Mangere.
All of which was fairly unfortunate for those stuck on the motorways, to say nothing of those in the area who had stayed at home and hoped for the best. With fires south of the harbour raging in a semicircle from Grey Lynn through Mount Eden and thence to Remuera (where the air blast had collapsed most non-concrete or –reinforced buildings, providing a ready source of fuel), the humanitarian situation was growing bleaker by the minute, and the tide of people trying to outrun the encroaching disaster was in the thick of it. Many were injured by flying glass or burns, some quite severely. At the two main bottlenecks at either end of the Auckland isthmus (New Lynn in the west, Onehunga to Mt Wellington in the south) anarchy reigned as thousands fled, some succumbing to their injuries after long hours of shambling from where they had stood when the bomb fell.
To the north, nothing was visible through the pall of choking black smoke.
Officially, the burning cars on Mangere Bridge were the result of a careless driver ploughing into a petrol tanker, never mind that petroleum shipments had been redirected when allowed to government fuel depots. Regardless of the cause, traffic was unable to cross the bridge for two days, and the mad press of bodies in the walkway beneath the road saw several deaths by trampling thanks to another burnt-out vehicle at the end causing a bottleneck.
In any event, surprisingly few people made it across Mangere Bridge that day.
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“For fuck’s sakes, Ted, just get the kids in the car and quit going on about your record player!”
“Alright, but you can forget about your bloody records then,” replied the man as he turned to a terrified-looking girl who had returned from the hospital only three days earlier. The reasons for her visit were bundled up in her arms, wailing their heads off. “Come on, Slutty-Pants, get your sprogs and let’s go.”
If the term was some sort of inside joke, the look on her face didn’t say so. As she picked up the two babies and made her way to the Holden waiting outside, the younger man of the two turned to Ted, scrutinising his craggy face with cold eyes.
“You really want to leave the place? I remember you saying if the pigs couldn’t get you out of here, the fucking Ivans wouldn’t.”
Ted sniffed. “I said if Piggy couldn’t get me out, the Russians wouldn’t. Hope the fat bastard fried in Wellington. And it’s just a house. Rita and I were going to give the bloody place to you and Slutty-Pants anyway.”
“What?” A brief look of bewilderment in those shark eyes. “…look, Dad – ”
“Save it, we’d best get going. There’ll be a pile of bloody refugees coming, so no point locking the place,” he mused as he headed for the door. “When we come back it’ll have been stripped bare anyway; this just saves the windows. Not that they’ll get into that safe without a bomb.” He turned to look at his son as he stood at the door. “Well, what’re you waiting for?”
The young man shook his head and followed his father outside, the sound of traffic audible on the motorway in the distance and the smell of smoke in the air. Could what was waiting for them in Whangarei be any worse than what was going on to the east?
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Pestilence! For what you’ve had to endure
And what you have put others through…
Pestilence! For what you’ve had to endure
And what you have put others through…
RNZAF Base Ohakea
February 25, 1984
David Lange was not afraid of speaking his mind. Indeed, it had been his defining factor since entering Parliament, and his opposition to nuclear weapons and the admittance of American ships with nuclear weapons aboard had pitted him against the Government from day one.
When the war broke out, Lange had sworn loudly and been escorted out of the chamber for his trouble, which didn’t stop him bellowing at his caucus to oppose the madness. Later, when Muldoon announced the formation of a War Cabinet and excluded Labour from all proceedings, Lange had done even more shouting, staying in Wellington to fight the good fight. And when TVNZ had broadcasted news of the outbreak of total nuclear war in Europe, Lange had called his wife and apologised for not heading back to Mangere to see her before advising her to leave Auckland a week earlier, promising to see her and the kids “before too long.” It had been the first time he’d cried since the war began.
It had by no means been the last.
So after he was airlifted out of Wellington a few hours ahead of the Emergency Cabinet (managing to quip to the pilot “you’re going to need a bigger helicopter for me, Mac”) and landed in Waiouru where he was informed that the majority of Members who had been in Wellington during the Exchange were gathering at Ohakea and would he like to take his spot there as leader of Opposition, his first instinct was to go down to the airbase and punch the Prime Minister in his great thick head for being such a stubborn Goddamned idiot.
So now here he was, sitting across a desk from a man who looked to be barely functioning, sunken, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes staring wetly at him from a face off which the jowly skin seemed to be hanging like forgotten laundry from a clothesline. Upon seeing that mournful visage, Lange’s killing urge faded. If Muldoon wasn’t dead, he was dying inside.
“So, you made it, then?” drawled the PM in a disturbing croak which took Lange aback for a moment. His first thought was that the Prime Minister was dying. He usually sounded like a bulldog with a frog down its throat, especially when he had drink in him (and yes, that was a bottle of gin on the corner table), but his voice here sounded especially sickly. Yes, this man was dying inside, alright. After half a second, Lange nodded. The motion felt unnatural; he was suddenly intensely aware of everything going on, from the breath he took to speak to the distant drone of an engine.
“Yeah. Yes, I made it. As did you.” The words were dull and heavy, the banality of the occasion not lost on Lange. Two scared middle-aged men, sitting in a shed as the world goes to hell.
From the response he got, it was lost on Muldoon.
“Well, are your lot going to get behind us and actually help fix this mess?” It wasn’t a question. All of a sudden, that urge to punch the PM returned with a vengeance. Instead, David cleared his throat and nodded again.
“It’s why we’re all here, isn’t it, Rob? I think we can leave politics at the door here: today we’re all just New Zealanders who want to help however we can.”
“Good,” said Muldoon curtly, or at least as curtly as one could manage whilst sounding like a toad in a cement mixer. “So, your lot won’t mind making sure they do what they’re told.” Again, not a question. Again, Lange nodded.
“I’m sure nobody minds pitching in, Rob–”
“Cut the ‘Rob’ nonsense,” snapped Muldoon, sitting up straight for the first time. “I’m the Prime Minister, and don’t you or anyone else forget about it. This country’s been attacked by a pack of Red cowards, and I don’t want any of the pinko subversives in your mob making things difficult. If – when – the Emergency Cabinet makes its decisions on what to do about the refugees and treatment centres, I expect everyone here to do their duty without arguing about it.”
“Now hold on a minute Prime Minister, what you’re saying is that only your Cabinet will get any say in how to help everyone in New Zealand get by, and nobody outside those twelve men will get to discuss it, or be privy to the discussion. How is that government?”
“We need to be led, Mister Lange, and last time I checked we were still the elected government of New Zealand.”
By whose arithmetic? Lange resisted the urge to point out the fact Muldoon had received fewer votes than Rowling in ’78 and ’81. Rowling, for God’s sake! The man couldn’t inspire a bowl of porridge!
“So what d’you need us around for then, if your plan is to rule by decree? Why not just shove the Labour caucus in a dole queue and get them to clear rubble in Auckland?”
That did a better job of shutting up the Prime Minister than Lange had anticipated, until he realised the PM was probably thinking about his electorate. He would have felt worse if the old maniac hadn’t brought it upon himself: one old man’s feelings didn’t make up for however many lay dead or dying in the ruins of what had been two of New Zealand’s greatest cities. Muldoon’s eyes took on a steel which was terrifyingly out of place with his otherwise worn-out demeanour though, the croak disappearing from his voice as it rose.
“Look, do you lot want to help your country or not? I have the support of my Cabinet and caucus and have the authority to lead this country through this crisis: you don’t have the authority, any authority, and I suggest you do as you’re damned well told before people start wondering about treason!”
Lange was gobsmacked. Muldoon had more or less just conflated disagreeing with him to treason. He’s going over the deep end, he thought to himself he’s really going to go mad with power. Those beady eyes were still fixed malevolently upon him. Lange sighed.
“Labour members will continue to attend sessions of the Emergency Government,” he said, “and you can rely upon our support for measures proposed to help get New Zealand through the dark times ahead.” Lange stood and nodded, his array of chins wobbling as he did so. “Good day, Prime Minister.”
As he exited, he realised his fists were clenched and sweaty, and felt lightheaded as he made his way back to the converted mess hall where Government was conducting its business these days. He'd clashed with the PM before, but never like this...what the hell was New Zealand in for?
In his office, Muldoon poured himself another hearty glass and sat quietly for a while, sipping and staring at nothing in particular. It wasn’t his fault the Communists had gone mad. All this after Labour had been pushing for increased détente with the Ivans, it went to show you what you got for trusting Reds, and what you got for thinking that fat blowhard had any sense whatsoever. He was still the Prime Minister, and he was still as right as ever. They didn’t want to say it because they wanted to take power away from his side while the people of New Zealand couldn’t do anything to keep the government they wanted and needed. Well, he’d show those pinkos that Rob Muldoon still had some fight left in him, by God!
Death! Deliverance for you for sure
Now there’s nothing you can do…
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Now there’s nothing you can do…
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Pukekawa, Waikato
Between Huntly and Pukekohe
February 27, 1984
The cars had stopped going past a day or two ago. Apparently the Army had a roadblock on SH1 up near Tuakau, though it would’ve surprised him to hear of anyone who hadn’t managed to find a way around. Still, the main roads had been all but cleared for military traffic, which was a moot point as the Army was the only lot who could get their hands on petrol any more (nasty business down in Huntly with that station attendant; it was turning into Mad Max these days).
Arthur was a man of God, so when a few refugees had stopped by, begging for food and shelter, he wasn’t likely to turn them away. It never hurt to have some extra hands about in the middle of milking, so why pass up a dozen or so people perfectly willing to earn their keep? Plus it gave him some use for the milk; the dairy factory in town had been closed since Auckland went up in smoke (he’d seen the cloud after he heard the news, having gone for a walk out the back paddocks to think about things) and better the refugee mob drink some of the blessed stuff than he dump it in the river.
When the cars came up the driveway, Arthur was busy changing the back tyre on the quad bike which had burst while getting the cows in, the crunch of tyres on the driveway catching his notice. A ute, a van, and a car. Well, he thought as he straightened his back and wiped his hands on his trousers, if they want me to take refugees in I’ve got about twelve good reasons not to in the house and camping in the yard.
The car stopped with a swoosh of gravel, a dust cloud briefly obscuring it as the van and ute came to a halt as well. When the policeman opened the door and stood to hail the occupants of the farmhouse, Arthur stopped dead, the sunshine of the warm summer’s day suddenly doing nothing to stop the chill in his bones. There was no mistaking that big nose and leathery face, and he found his fists clenching as the cop said something along the lines of “Anyone home?”
“Morning, Inspector,” Arthur called out as he stood his ground where he’d stopped. “What brings you lot out here? If you’re dropping off refugees I’ve already got a dozen, so tell ‘em the farm’s full up.”
The Inspector smiled faintly and walked towards Arthur.
“Morning yourself. I’ve got a load of people on the move who I’m escorting to their families down in the Waikato, so they’re looking for some food and supplies. I’m here to see if farmers can give comfort to some of these people. Most of them have lost their homes, you know,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Arthur looked past the Inspector, at the occupants of the van and ute. From the amount of their chattels stuffed into the back of the van or loaded onto the ute, they’d lost their homes but damn all inside it. And what had he said – ‘give comfort to them?’ None of them looked particularly uncomfortable, but then who would, loaded down with enough furniture to set up a department store? He sighed and turned to look at the Inspector.
“I don’t know why the hell you thought you could walk up to me here after what you did, but I know you’re gonna leave before I get the Army down here to ask why you’re away from your post. I thought you lot were meant to be keeping the peace up in Auckland?”
The day got a few degrees colder as the Inspector’s faux-affable smile frosted over, eyes turning steely. “Now, now, Mister Thomas,” he chided in an innocently menacing tone. “Wouldn’t want to give me another reason to get you investigated, would we?”
“Be the first bloody reason I ever gave you,” retorted Arthur as his brother came out of the house to see what was going on. The Inspector turned to look at him.
“Good morning there, I’m just asking your brother if you could spare some supplies for these refu-”
“Fuck off.” Des was blunt, you could say that for him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, poking your – ”
“Calm down, Des, I’ll deal with this,” said Arthur placatingly. “God said we have to love each other, and I won’t let the starving man go hungry.” He turned to the Inspector, who stood expressionless. “This lot have any clean containers?” A curt nod. “Right. Des, go fill them a gallon or two of milk from the shed. A gallon more or less is no difference to us, and don’t go using sour milk because I’ll know.”
Bewildered but finding his protests stifled by Arthur, Des went and filled a jerry can (which had the smell of something either freshly-bought or –looted about it) with milk, as Arthur went into the house to get something else for the refugees and the Inspector told the travellers what he’d managed to procure for them. He was standing at the door of the van laughing at some unknown joke when Arthur placed the jerry can beside him, and placed a small ice cream container on top of it.
“Seeds. Thought you might want to plant some things if you wound up on a farm somewhere,” said Arthur easily. “Now get off my land.”
The Inspector gave another genial smirk and nodded to the occupants of the vehicles, who started their engines as he went to shake Arthur’s hand.
“You’ve done us a service today, Mr Thomas,” he said. Arthur stared at the hand and back at the Inspector.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, hands staying right at his sides. “And you did more than enough for me. Nine bloody years of it. God have mercy on you, Inspector, because next time we see each other I might not.”
The Inspector’s hand fell back, and the smile began to slip again. With a quiet goodbye, he got in the car and started off.
Arthur found Des in the kitchen with the rest of the family, who fell silent as he walked in. He looked at the assembled faces before sighing.
“Let justice be done,” he murmured, before simply saying “Right, I’m off to fix that tyre; let that Maori chap know I want to be out for the cows in an hour.”
After the three vehicles made it past Hamilton, the Inspector breathed a little more easily. He was meant to be in Auckland, and if the hellacious noise had been anything to go by there wasn’t much of it left to be in. He smiled as he thought about what had just happened. He’d had that yokel pegged as a dimwit from the start, and it didn’t look like a lot had changed since 1970. He’d even given them seeds, for Christ’s sakes! There was hardly a garden centre left in the country which hadn’t been ransacked since the Exchange, and he was throwing the things about like rice at a wedding! He was still smiling as he idly opened the box to see what was inside, and the ute had to brake abruptly to avoid hitting the car as it swerved when the Inspector’s hand jerked with shock on the wheel.
In the container, amidst two packets’ worth of seeds, lay a shell casing.
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Now’s the death of doers of wrong
Swing judgment’s hammer down...
…
On through the dead of night
With the Four Horsemen ride,
Or choose your fate and die!
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