A PRISON SAGA

Grey River Argus, 11 October 1948, Page 7

A PRISON SAGA

(BY G. Y. BIRCH)

It was 1916. The place, a house in Greymouth. The Principals, a mother and her young son. “You must hate war all your life, and you must never carry arms, or don a uniform, or fight. This war has taken your brother, and wai’ must never claim you.” These words, from a mother’s lips, etched themselves on the boy’s mind, and, through his formative years, and later, he was never to forget them. But what he and his mother did not forsee was that, by an ironic twist, she was condemning her son to prison for four years. The days of peace gave way again to war, and this young boy, now a man, was to realise how indelibly his mother’s training had marked the pattern of his future. He eschewed war. He told his frieneds that he would never fight—it was not cowardice, and it was not because of any religious beliefs. But how could anyone, even himself, perhaps, understand how deeply the bitter words of a bereaved mother had burned into this boy’s mind, and grown to become part of his life and outlook? The call came in 1941, and this man true to his convictions, and his teachings, refused to enlist. No argument prevailed; nothing could shake his decision, and he was arrested at his job in Greymouth and sent to Burnham military camp as a defaulter, and spent five weeks there, while the authorities sought to change his mind. They did not succeed. Then he appeared before a Magistrate in Christchurch. The latter addressed this young man, and urged him to change his mind. He was adamant, and no fear of prison was stronger than his convictions. There was no alternative. He was sentenced to detention for the duration —his mother’s training had rebounded in a way neither she nor he had ever expected. Now began the prison career of this man—his only crime, that of refusing to fight and take human life. Whatever our own ideas, and those of us who did light, no one can gainsay that this man had the courage of his convictions, and as his story unfolds, one must admire, rather than accuse him.

After being sentenced, he was taken to Whenuroa Detention Camp,, near Rotorua, and in turn, he was incarcerated in Hautu, Mt. Eden, Paparoa, Waikune, and Mt. Crawford. He was detained a month at Whenuroa, and was then transferred to the Hautu Detention Camp, three miles from the prison. Later he was sent back to Whenuroa. All this time he was being urged to join the Army but he refused. He found himself again before the Court. This time, he, and three others, were sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in Mt. Eden. The authorities, believing that he had learned his lesson, sent him back to Whenuroa at the expiry of his sentence, but when he still refused to don the uniform, he was sentenced to imprisonment for _ the duration, and taken to Hautu prison. 'Trouble, which was not far away from him in the weary months that followed, caught up with him at Hautu. Here, he told me, the men were treated like slaves, and forced to work all hours, and even at night, in the hayfields. The men rebelled and he was one of 20 who organised the prisoners to refuse to work more than 40 hours a week. For this attack on authority, most of the men were sentenced to solitary confinement. Later, because of trouble in the bakehouse, my informant was sentenced to five days’ bread and water and fined 10s. He was taken to Wanganui almost immediately and served his sentence in that prison. This was an old men’s home, he told me and he was free of trouble of any kind. Six weeks later he was on the move again and this time ended up in Mt. Crawford prison. He spent two months there and was removed to Waikune, in the King Country, and a prison he described as the worst in New Zealand.

HE ESCAPES “It was known as a prison camp,” he said, “but actually there were three quarries. The prisoners worked in them, and also did all road repairs and metalling. In my day the Superintendent was known as the ‘Uncrowned King of the King Country’.” It was from this prison that my informant escaped, and enjoyed nine months’ liberty, before being recaptured. While working in the quarry he and his cobber hit upon a plan. His cobber, using a . certain fluid, wrote a letter to his brother between the lines of an ordinary letter. When subjected to heat, the hidden message was disclosed. The brother arrived with a car and parked it some distance from the prison. Two days in succession an attempt was foiled, and a note, with certain instructions was left, at night, on the handle of a tractor in the quarry. At midnight the brother managed to gain entry to the prison. He unscrewed the bolts from his brother’s cell and then did the same at my informant’s cell. Ihe bolts were replaced, and the three men left the prison, without any but the remainder of the prisoners being aware of their escape.

“At 5.30 a.m. that morning we were eating eggs and bacon, 150 miles from the prison,” my informant told me. He then made for Auckland, where he stayed three days, and then stowed away on the Kaimiro, and came to Greymouth. After getting clothes and money, he went to Christchurch and worked for a man he knew. His friend was distilling illicit whisky and one day the police raided the property. “I thought the police were sure to pick me as an escapee, although I had changed my name, but they did not recognise me,” said my informant. “Both my friend and myself were held at the police station for hours, but when he told them that I knew nothing about his _ activities, 1 was released. My friend was later lined £100.” A month later he came back to Greymouth, and here someone told the police who he was, and he made for Stillwater, en route to Canterbury. That night, however, as he reached Oiira, two car loads of police intercepted him, and he was arrested and brought back to Greymouth. He was later sentenced to six months’ imprisonment. He was sent to Paparoa, and worked out his sentence in the gravel pits. When finally released, he was able to reenter civilian life. He is again working in Greymouth.

PRISON EXPERIENCES Speaking of his experiences in prison, it is perhaps easy to understand that this man is, more or less, anti-social. But, at least the lessons he learned, and could have learned from the criminals among whom he was forced to associate, have left nothing more than a memory. He told me of the system of trial by Justices in the prisons—and all his experiences are recounted as he gave them to me, without comment, because they speak for themselves. It was the general belief of Justices, he told me, that, because a man was in prison, he was a liar and an outcast anyhow, and the whole system, in his opinion, was a travesty ot Justice. In one prison, a Maori had escaped. My informant, and others, were paraded before Justices and charged with aiding and abetting the escape, despite the fact that the Maori had worked alone, and had taken no one into his confidence, ine evidence of the men was totally disregarded, and all received varying sentences. . . , My informant also criticised tne method of forcing men, sentenced for minor offences, such as mainten-

ance, first offenders, and others, to mix with habitual criminals. No discrimination was shown, he told me. Even men on reformatory detention worked in the quarries with criminals and only at the weex-ends were they segregated. He told me of the times the old “lags,” safebreakers, and others, had offered to teach him their “trade.” The offer was always accompanied by the suggestion that he join with them when they regained their liberty. “There was another occasion,” he told me, “when a well-known, abortionist, who was serving a long term, offered to teach me his ‘trade’ if I would go in with him. I was to perform the operations, and he, under cover, would send along the ‘patients’.” My informant was assured that the business was most lucrative, and, despite his heavy sentence, this man intended to continue, when he was released, but with a ‘dummy’ acting for him.

These were some of the incidents which occurred behind the grim walls of the prisons. ■ My informant was also critical oi the fact that no man who entered prison was encouraged to reform. The future welfare of the men did not concern the superintendents or the warders. In his long experience of prisons, no official had talked to him, or to others, and tried to encourage them to forget crime, and become decent citizens.

“So long as the prisons are conducted as they are now, you can take it from me that meh who go in, whether first offenders, or criminals, will come out more determined than ever to flout the law. As for youths, I say that the present system is making them into criminals. Youths and first offenders should be segregated and treated like human beings and encouraged and helped to wipe out the past. As it is they are forced to believe that they are beyond all help,” my informant told me. He added that he had met some men, in prison, who had made • a minor slip, cease to hope and become anti-social and bitter enemies of the law, because of the treatement meted out by the officials. They had in fact, been treated like beasts and would emerge with the thoughts and instincts of beasts, he said. The -young men were susceptible and easy prey for the hardened criminal, and the latter, already damned, did not worry whom they dragged down with them. The Authorities knew this, but they did nothing and everybody wondered why crime had flourished. t “A few men with the milk or human kindness and understanding m their make-up, among the superintendents and warders, would . make all the difference to the men in prisons, he said. Instead, they found corruption rife among the ‘screws , as he called them. The extent of this was only understandable by one who had been in prison. He doubted if there were very many honest ‘screws' in any prison in New Zealand. In one of the bigger prisons, he told me, betting on the races was conducted in cash. I risoners seemed possession. He knew of one man who to have unlimited monev in the l !’ won £3OO on the races, and hid the money in a broom handle. inc ‘screws’ searched until they found it. Another practice, which was highly lucrative for the ‘screw? was that adopted when men were being released. Most of the prisoners’ had large sums of money in their possession. They would hand it over to a ‘screw’ the day before they were released. The ‘screw’ would meet the prisoner at a chosen rendezvous, pass over the money, and receive anything from £lO to £2O for the favour. In another prison, he told me, a ‘Screw’ used to do the buying for the prisoners—that is goods and luxuries not on the prison menu—but for every £5 worth of goods he

bought, he would demand, and be given, £2. <My informant dealt with many other phases of prison life—the shocking quality and lack of good food, the lights among the prisoners, and the many methods by which the prisoners cheat authority. It was illuminating, but nevertheless, a sad commentary on a prison system, and the men who run it.

My informant concluded by saying that, despite the fact that he dreads the thought of another term in prison he would adopt the same attitude, should there be another war.