Sniper Elite (2 page)

The court found Jim guilty and ordered him to pay $10,000 in damages, but he was an absolute champion. He died while he was out hunting. He was in his late 70s. He just keeled over and died out in the bush; active to the end–he wouldn't have had it any other way.

After John was sacked the atmosphere in the small workshop steadily got worse. I approached Bob's competitor, Frank Malia, who had a similar workshop down the road. He was keen to take me on and tried to transfer my apprenticeship to him. Bob was far from impressed by this and slowed the process down so that I actually finished my apprenticeship with him.

During this time I had made some good friends through the Manakau Technical Institute, which we had to attend every Thursday night as part of the apprenticeship. We all shared something in common: an enjoyment of alcohol. We smoked a bit of pot on the odd occasion but never really got into it; beer was the drug of the day and we loved it! It did have its side effects like any other drug and turned me into an obnoxious slob. But every weekend was a big one. We'd all get together after work on the Friday whether it was at a party, pub or at someone's house, then proceed to get as drunk as possible.

We would talk a lot of shit and spent hours crapping on about which chicks we fancied, and how other blokes we knew were fuckwits, and the way we would bash them if we ever saw them again. Of course it was all talk and just for show, but in reality, I had become that ‘fuckwit' we were all talking about!

We would do stupid things like spend all afternoon in the Thoroughbred Tavern in Takanini, and then, heavily pissed, drive somewhere else for a beer. One Saturday afternoon at the tavern we found out that Billy Idol was playing at Mount Smart stadium. ‘Let's go!' one of the lads said. ‘We don't have any tickets,' replied another. ‘Fuck it, we'll jump the fence!'

We were all in our work clothes. I was wearing a blue and white chequered work shirt, jeans covered in grime and black oil, and dirty steel-toe-capped boots. Paddy drove there in his old Holden ute. Jase, Gaz and myself were topping up with DB draught, a local beer, while getting buffeted by the cold wind in the open tray. Those days we used to drink from the 745 ml bottle and it was not uncommon to easily polish off a dozen by yourself. It was also cheaper than the cans and stubbies; you got more beer for your buck.

As soon as we parked the car at Mount Smart, and after a welcome piss against the side of the ute, we conducted a quick reconnaissance of how to get in. The perimeter fence was wire mesh and of poor design; it stood 2 metres tall and ran straight past a large row of bushes. ‘Perfect!' We then watched the security guards to quickly identify their habits and routines. Once happy we'd figured out their patrol route, the plan was to scale the fence from the bushes and run straight into the crowd inside the big tent.

Next thing I knew, two of the lads were on top of the wire and just about to drop onto the other side. I didn't waste any time and started to scale the fence. John Martin dropped onto the opposite side right in front of me. It was then I knew I had a problem; my boot was caught. I knew the security guards would arrive any second and started to panic. ‘John! John!' I screamed. He stopped and turned. ‘My fuckin' boot's stuck. Push it out!'

Part of the wire had wedged itself under the steel cap as my boot parted the mesh and pushed through. John ran back and to my relief freed my foot after a brief struggle. In a flash I was hot on his heels heading for the tent opening. Inside we found ourselves under the steel frame of the terraced seating and began to work our way to the front of the concert. Unbeknown to us we'd been seen and the security guards were in pursuit. We did get to watch some of the concert before being thrown out though.

About then I started to realise what an idiot I was becoming and decided to start changing the lifestyle I'd slipped into. I thought about it long and hard and came to the conclusion that although you personally have a good time, and don't see anything wrong with it, you don't see what effect it has on your character and performance and on the people close to you. I reckoned I was probably on the verge of alcoholism. I enjoyed it but wasn't dependent on it. I still enjoy a beer to this day, and sometimes do drink to excess, but I don't let it ‘consume' me!

Anyway, it was time to make a change.

Some of my mates–John Martin, Willie and Clive–were planning to go to the UK. Their idea was to base themselves in or around London then find temporary work and when they'd saved a few bob travel to Europe. This sounded like a good opportunity for me to get away from Auckland and start fresh. The thought of travel also excited me.

So I spoke to the lads and we agreed that I'd meet them in England after visiting relatives in Cheshire. I also needed to shed some unwanted kilos that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. ‘How did I get that bad?' I thought. Suddenly it was just like I'd woken from a bad dream, and I decided to clean up my act.

I sold my two-door MK1 Cortina and started riding my bicycle to work. I bought a punching bag and started a routine of press-ups and sit-ups. I'd previously been a member of a martial arts club before I became pisspot, so I incorporated that into my fitness routine in the garage of my parents' house.

The fitness program took a while to get up to speed and by the time I was in full swing my apprenticeship had finished and I was a free man staring at the tarmac through a window of an Air New Zealand 747 awaiting its departure from Auckland airport.

I sat next to a couple of German blokes who were keen to tell me all about their adventures in New Zealand. I was 21 by now but they had seen more of the country than I had. I was quietly jealous and listened intently. All their stories intrigued me and I wanted to get out there and experience it all for myself. We got absolutely blind drunk on Steinlager and their English deteriorated into a gibbering mash. At Singapore we shook hands and parted to find the gates of our respective flights. I think I slept the rest of the way to Heathrow.

It was good to meet all my relatives in Cheshire and experience their way of life–and their pubs. I stayed with my grandmother, ‘Nan' Maylor. The pubs in the UK are the centre of their social lives and you end up spending a lot of time in them while physical exercise takes a back seat. All my good intentions fell by the wayside. I quickly put on a bit of weight–a winter coat–without realising it.

Soon after Christmas I met up with the Kiwi lads in Banbury, Oxfordshire. They were renting a tiny, damp, two-bedroom flat above a hairdresser's shop. I slept on the floor. The boys were in and out of poorly paid jobs and working all sorts of silly hours, so it wasn't long before we decided to head off to the Continent. I had a little bit of cash I had saved up but was rapidly drinking through it. The others were in the same boat. John Martin and I decided we had to get ourselves back into a bit of shape and started doing exercises and running before we went away.

We had paid for a train ticket valid for a couple of months, anywhere in Europe. After a bout of bad weather John, Willie and I decided to head south leaving Clive behind. We initially travelled from Banbury to London then across on the underground to another station that would take us to Dover, where we would catch the ferry across the English Channel. But first we had to exit this station and take a short walk to the underground.

Out of the train station the air was cold and it was raining again. The roads were incredibly busy, and also quite narrow for a major city. The footpaths were also busy so we had to watch where we were walking as it was easy to catch someone with your pack as they zoomed past. I was starting to get annoyed at their lack of manners. This was the first time I had been on foot in London and I had a lot to learn. We finally entered the staircase that led down into the underground. Fortunately Willie had been in London before because he was the only one who could understand the coloured diagrams of the different train lines.

Once on the right platform I looked around and wondered just how the hell everyone was going to fit on the one train. I knew it was near as there was a cool rush of air caused by the train as it charged through the tunnel system. When it arrived it was everyone for themselves and there was a mad rush to the open doors, which created lot of pushing and shoving to secure a place, but we all managed to squeeze on.

There was a lot of tutting and shaking of heads as we took up valuable space with our packs. I wasn't used to all this city madness and felt well out of my depth. I was starting to get very angry and anxious to get as far away from the place as possible. We passed through several stops before getting to ours and it was a relief to get off that bloody train. So, wearing my woollen black and red checked Swandri bush shirt that I brought over from New Zealand and carrying the cheap and nasty backpack I'd bought from a camping shop in Chester, I stepped onto the wooden escalator to take us to another platform.

We had been on it just a matter of seconds when this bloke wearing a dark suit started shouting and swearing at me. That was it, I cracked. I swung around and said quite nastily, ‘What's your fuckin' problem!' He quickly ducked into the gap I had created when I turned around muttering something I couldn't understand, and then ran up the rest of the staircase. If I hadn't been tilted off balance by my pack I would've grabbed this bloke and asked him why he was being such a wanker.

John realised what was going on and said to me, ‘You need to stay to one side mate, so people can get past.' I quickly looked around and realised I was the only one standing on the right side of the escalator. It would have been handy if the boys had given me a heads up on the unwritten rules of the underground, and even London for that matter, as I was now quite pissed off, but also embarrassed as I was the centre of a bit of a scene. The steep learning curve had begun.

The train ride to Dover didn't take too long and before we knew it we were boarding the ferry bound for Calais in Northern France. When we arrived we decided to push on while the travel bug was still fresh and active inside us. From Calais we took a two-hour train ride to Lille and got there at dusk. One of the boys had a Lonely Planet travel book that suggested certain backpacking hostels to stay in so we played safe and followed the prompts from the book. Right now, being able to speak French would've been a huge help. I shouldn't have been such a dickhead at school and actually taken the opportunity to learn while I could. But we quickly picked up some of the essentials like
pommes frites
and
bière
(French fries and beer).

Shortly after we settled into the backpackers' hostel we all went for a bit of a look around the town for something to eat. Funnily enough we found ourselves in a little bar sampling the local beers. Conscious of our lack of funds, we downed several each and then turned in for the night ready for the four-hour journey to Paris.

The train ride was very picturesque but we had to change to a city line on the outskirts. When we got off we were met by some ‘street people' who make their living by fleecing strangers any way they can. They prey on the young and unsuspecting and we stood out like dog's balls. Fortunately we were forewarned. We had heard stories of tourists having the bottom of their packs slashed causing most of their possessions to fall to the ground. The thieves then had a brief chance to sort through the gear and take what they could before you'd realised what was happening. So we kept a close eye on them and got through unscathed. But this was the way it was going to be until we returned to England.

Our first stop in Paris was McDonald's, which wasn't too far from the Arc de Triomphe and on the perimeter of a large roundabout called Place de la Concorde. There wasn't much concord happening. I can't remember how many accidents we saw but it seemed like just as the two parties from one prang stopped arguing with each other, there was another.

We found a hostel and dropped off our packs then headed for the Eiffel Tower and a truly amazing view of the city. After that we walked to Trocadero, which is to the north-west and is a large museum-type building where we admired the sights in awe. We noticed several black North African fellas selling trinkets on a small blanket, when all of a sudden they all hurriedly wrapped up their wares and ran off with the police hot on their heels. I'm guessing they were either illegal immigrants or selling their gear without a licence, or both. But they must have had someone out to act as early warning.

The darkness quickly descended upon us and Paris was transformed into the city of lights. As we walked the streets we were approached numerous times by street peddlers trying to sell us hashish, cocaine and marijuana. One even covertly produced a small sample. We weren't interested but every time we said ‘No!' the bloke dramatically reduced his prices. In the end he was practically giving it away.

We decided to check out the sights in one of the red-light districts close to our hostel. There was no way I was prepared for the bombardment from pimps and bar owners trying to get our business, in some cases pleading with us! The novelty wore thin very quickly so we headed out of the area and found a bar for a few beers.

A day later we caught what we thought was an overnight train to Andorra, but the trip took two days. There were a few unexpected stops that weren't on the timetable and one train terminated in the middle of nowhere. We couldn't get through the language barrier at all at the station, and shortly after we had arrived it closed. We ended up staying the night there on the freezing tiled floor. We must have gained some altitude during the journey because it was really cold and the air was a lot thinner.

Our connecting train rolled in at 6 a.m. and, feeling like a camel's armpit and looking like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, I double-checked I hadn't left anything behind and climbed aboard. After another epic journey we came to a stop in the snow-covered mountainous region of Andorra, a small tax-free country on the border between France and Spain, almost totally reliant on international finance and tourism.

This suited us down to the ground as our finance wasn't that great. We were after a cheap skiing holiday, and this was definitely the place. We found some inexpensive accommodation, ditched the packs and headed for the high street to check out what was on offer.

We ran into several backpackers from New Zealand and Australia, who pointed us in the right direction for ski hire, bars and nightclubs–all the essentials. We found the little side street they described and got fitted up for a set of skis and boots each. As soon as they waxed the skis we took them back to where we were staying ready for the following day on the slopes. And after a good feed of paella we went off in search of the bars.

It wasn't long before we stumbled upon one and took a look inside. It was pretty quiet but the alcohol was cheap and flowed freely. They also provided bar snacks, which we quickly devoured. After a few beers we started on the spirits as we found they were cheaper. And no measures–they'd just pour it in. ‘Is that enough? Nup! Okay, here's more.' We came up with a few cunning plans on how to save money and one was to take full advantage of the free bar snacks. Typical tightarse Kiwis you might be saying, but we were on a shoestring budget and had to make the most of our limited funds. We ate very little throughout the whole trip. In fact we sometimes sacrificed food for alcohol. ‘Eating is cheating!' became the catchcry.

We met a few locals along with several backpackers who all pointed us towards the best nightclub on the mountain so, half cut, we decided to make our way up the steep road in the freezing conditions to check it out. As we got closer we could hear the music pumping and the dull roar from what sounded like hundreds of people inside trying to talk to each other over the volume of the music. This place was going off!

John stopped for a leak and Willie and I went in and parked ourselves at the bar a few metres from the door. The DJ was doing a great job of working his magic and keeping the patrons fired up. As John approached the club the DJ focused everyone's attention on the glass door he was just about to enter. John didn't see the smooth patch of wet ice right on the doorstep, and as he stepped on it his feet shot out from underneath him and he became horizontal about a metre in the air. Bang! John landed flat on his arse.

There was an instant cheer and roar of laughter, us included. John arrived at the bar with a dented ego and a sore arse and looked slightly embarrassed as he hobbled over and ordered a beer. I was falling about all over the place with laughter and unable to talk. The club quickly returned to normal and people began to dance on the tables and even the bar.

The barmen lined up a load of shot glasses along the bar and topped them all up with vodka; the DJ started a countdown and everyone at the bar helped themselves to a shot or two. We knocked back several each before they all disappeared. This went on several times throughout the evening. We were absolutely baggaged by the end of the night, and same as always, went home empty handed. Trying to chat up women while absolutely blind drunk has never worked for me. Funny that. Even my wife Georgina knocked me back when we first met some years later!

It was a bit of a struggle to get up next morning to head up to the ski lift, but after a bit of breakfast things started to look a bit clearer. I'd learned to ski in New Zealand and these slopes were fantastic. There were several different routes to select and they varied in difficulty. By the end of the day we were cruising the toughest of them.

We took it a little easier on the alcohol that night–we were also knackered from a full day on the slopes–but the next night we over-indulged as we were leaving the following day for Barcelona. This journey took us through thousands of acres of cork trees and as we got closer to the coast we started to see olive groves. On reaching Barcelona we slipped into a similar routine as before and found a cheap backpacker hostel, ditched the packs and headed out to see the sights.

It was now mid-afternoon and everything was closed. We'd forgotten that the Spanish love an early arvo siesta, but we managed to find a bar that was open and ordered a few Bacardis; then did our Andorra trick and got stuck into the bar snacks. The following day we made our way south with a couple of Australian blokes and Anna, a Swedish girl, stopping off at a small coastal village. The backpacker hostel we found was closed, but the woman inside said we could leave our packs there until we came back that evening before we had to get the overnight train to Grenada.