Apr 2001 Volume 82 Number 4 "serving the protectors"
Back in the Job
by Brett Williams

Constable Mark Bowels, 34
Joined SAPOL: 1986
Resigned: 1990
Rejoined: 1992
Current post: Adelaide Traffic Section

Constable Mark Bowels quit the job he loved with the SA police force after only four years’ service. The young traffic cop had decided to join his father’s lucrative plant nursery business in 1990.

Bowels considered his new job might one day earn him as much as $100,000 per year. As well, he would become the fourth-generation proprietor of a successful business.

The job’s benefits would have been irresistible to most. His police colleagues had even exclaimed: “If only I could get into a family business, I’d leave.” But Bowels had acted out of a pure sense of obligation – and with sentimentality – to “keep the family business going”.

“I believed it would be the right thing to do,” he says. “It was more an emotional obligation. Whether it was a moral obligation (as well), I don’t know.

“I don’t think it was overly hard to decide, because I thought I was going to a better place – a place where I should be.”

Quitting the police force to join the business had been entirely Bowels’ own idea. And his decision-making was free from any outside influence. His parents had never applied any pressure, but were naturally proud their son would follow in his father’s footsteps.

So the former St Peters College boy and now ex-cop began his new job as a general nurseryman. The plan was never to walk straight into a management position. He would first have to reacquaint himself with the role in which he had worked between his college days and short-lived police career.

Bowels regarded his father as “a great boss” but rarely saw him. He instead took his orders from supervisors – over whom he would one day have total authority.

Meanwhile, he faced the drudgery of endless, back-breaking labour. He potted and weeded plants, watered glasshouses and generally maintained the nursery.

“You were on your feet all day,” he says, “and you might be bending over for four hours a day weeding. There was no such thing as smoko. You had a half-hour or an hour meal break, and that would determine what time you left at the end of the day.”

Bowels’ hard work brought him some welcome benefits: great fitness, health and a feeling of invigoration. But the new job came with plenty of downsides.

As the boss’s “returned” son, Bowels sensed that long-time employees were intensely cautious of him. “I think they felt threatened that I’d come in,” he says. “I suppose when I’d gone into the police force, no one was going to come in over them.”

“It was almost like the call of the wild.”

And, with his outgoing nature, Bowels was uninspired by the nursery’s “sterile environment”. He found it no match for the “personality-rich” police workplace. His new colleagues, he thought, went about their work in near robot-like fashion; and he was soon to find nursery life monotonous.

Only months into his new job, Bowels began to question his decision to leave the police force. He realized he was simply not enjoying life in the family business. He missed all he had enjoyed as a cop: the flexibility of shiftwork, the variety of daily tasks and contact with the public.

Bowels felt great emotion when he heard the wailing sirens of police cars leaving a patrol base close to the nursery. “It was almost like the call of the wild,” he remembers, “and I thought: 'Oh, I’d love to be doing that again’. It used to send a tingle down my spine.”

Even without prompting from police car sirens, Bowels often thought of his previous career. Such thoughts would sometimes emerge in 40-degree heat as he dug up beds of dolomite.

Says Bowels: “You’d be thinking: 'I could be doing some paperwork in an air-conditioned office, or driving around in a car talking to a partner’.”

By mid-1991, Bowels had decided to attempt a return to the police force. He understood that leaving the business meant he could “never get back into it”. He believed a return to the nursery – if he left the police force a second time – would destroy his credibility.

After an approach to police recruiting, Bowels went through fitness tests and re-entry interviews. “They 'grilled’ me with the interview,” he says. “They obviously wanted to find out whether I was going to break, and leave (again).”

To Bowels delight, SAPOL accepted him for re-entry. But, to his parents, he would now have to break the news that he was leaving the family business.

Subtlety, he felt, was the poorest option. He figured an up-front explanation was best, and so “blurted out” his news over a dinner in the family home. Bowels remembers the experience as “the toughest thing” he has ever confronted.

Of his parents’ “not-great” reaction, he says: “My father just rolled his eyes and said: 'You won’t be able to come back’. He was very good: very much business-like, even though he was still a father.

“Mum was a bit sad, and I explained my reasons to them. It was the hardest thing I’ve had to say to someone.”

By January 1992, Bowels was back in the police force. He faced some expected but also “pointed” questions from his colleagues about what had happened, but felt no discomfort. Nor did he feel a failure. Bowels’ greatest psychological burden was feeling he had let down his family.

Today, he is back in traffic policing, working in the Adelaide LSA. He works with a renewed appreciation for his job after his stint away from law enforcement. And Bowels has simple advice for other cops thinking of alternative careers. He says they should endlessly consult with those who have taken the plunge before them.

But could anything tempt Bowels away from policing a second time' “It would have to be double the money with a company car,” he says. “It would have to be a very well established business and I’d have to be involved with people.

“Shiftwork, and meeting different people all the time, are the things that keep me in this job.”

Senior Constable Glen Sickerdick, 46
Joined SAPOL: 1971
Resigned: 1985
Rejoined: 1994

Current post: Hills Murray LSA

Senior Constable Glen “Gus” Sickerdick’s hands shook as he typed out his resignation form in 1985. He knew that, after 15 years as a cop, he was about to lose the job’s security and treasured camaraderie.

But he had agonized over the consequences of quitting long before he sat struck with nerves in front of the typewriter. The then 31-year-old motorcycle cop, husband and father had made his decision, and so handed in his form.

So what had driven him to that emotion-charged moment' He felt great unease, as did many others, about the radical mid-’80s plan to decentralize the police force.

That plan would take effect only a month after his resignation. But Sickerdick believed it left much “up in the air”, and many with uncertainty.

“It was as if you didn’t have any idea on where your future direction was going,” he says. “I was very disgruntled, and feeling disillusioned with the job. I wasn’t enjoying being a copper anymore.”

Just before he resigned, Sickerdick applied for two- and three-man country posts. Police management told him such a move was out of the question. It also warned him he had no chance of winning a sergeant position for 15 years.

But Sickerdick and his wife had, for some years, thought about the hotel business as an alternative to police work. Naturally, it seemed the perfect time then to try that option.

“We wanted something different in our lives,” says Sickerdick, “something we could do ourselves and together – with the kids.”

So, with only “a few dreams and visions” – and no training – Sickerdick took out the lease on a small-town hotel in SA’s mid-north. Then (in January 1986) the hotel was “doing really poorly”. Sickerdick concedes he questioned the wisdom of his actions.

“I was thinking: 'What are we getting ourselves into?’ “ he remembers. “I had nothing to back me up, and no trade. The only trade I had was either as a student or a police officer.”

But Sickerdick was committed to the challenge, and took it on despite his inexperience. He worked hard but earned less than he had as a police officer. And as an ex-cop hotelier, he sometimes had to face character types more common to his past.

Outlaw bikie gangs – some aware of his previous job – would occasionally “roll up at the doorstep”. But their presence brought “excitement” rather than trouble, and Sickerdick emerged unscathed.

As he immersed himself in his new business, Sickerdick often thought of his police life. Incidents – such as those involving the bikies – would jog his memory. Other times, he would read newspaper police stories that featured officers he had known.

Some of his former colleagues even visited him at the hotel. In conversation with them, he sometimes thought of a return to the force as “really nice”. On a later second thought, however, he would consider himself better placed in the hotel.

But, ever honest with himself, he realized he was missing the job. “I did miss the mates, the camaraderie and the closeness,” he says. “I missed the excitement. It was like part of the adrenaline rush was missing.”

Undeterred, however, he carried on in the hotel, and quadrupled its beer output. But the effort he had put into turning the hotel’s fortunes around had taken a toll.

“We found we were working too hard,” he says. “One of the reasons for leaving the job was to be a family together. We built the business up so much that, on weekends, we had no time for the kids. We weren’t achieving our family life.”

In 1988, Sickerkick sold the hotel and bought a general store across the street. As his wife ran that business, Sickerdick took other work in a range of fields through the next two years. He first worked as a shearer, then a truck driver, and, in 1990, a council labourer.

By 1991, financial trouble had struck the store. Sickerdick sold the business, and life was no longer that for which he and his wife had hoped. Money was now a concern for them; and they felt isolated from their families.

So Sickerdick decided to attempt to resurrect his career with the police force. He applied and spoke with police recruiting, and seemed a certainty for re-entry. Helpful recruiting staff suggested he would soon have a starting date. Instead, he received a letter of rejection from a SAPOL manager.

“We thought we had some direction in our lives,” he says, “and all of a sudden it was chopped off.”

Sickerdick then moved to the Riverland. There, he found work with a major citrus fruit-packing operation. He quickly won promotions, and settled contently in the local area.

But in late 1993, he received another letter from SAPOL. This one contained an invitation to reapply, as the police force was actively seeking recruits. He spoke with his wife about the proposal every night for a week, and finally opted to try again.

This time he succeeded, and was back in the force by 1994. “When I came back,” he says, “it was as if I’d never left. It was so good. It felt like I was home again, and, from then, we just haven’t looked back.”

But did his return to police work make him feel a failure from the world outside law enforcement? “No,” he says, “we may have failed in a couple of things, but that’s my fault – we didn’t have the training.

“I don’t regret one bit what I’ve done. I see it as a great learning experience. It totally changed my outlook and made me a 100 per cent better person. I relate better to people and, in high-stress situations – like sieges – I’ve got more calmness. I’m thoroughly enjoying the job.”

Today, he sees police work as an imperfect job, but also a worthy career. Its assets, he believes, are its broad range of job options, interaction with the public and “not knowing what’s going to happen” each work day.

He now hopes to work in a training area and expects to remain in the job for “the long haul”.

Sickerdick says officers quitting their jobs must have strong passion for the fields into which they venture. “If they’ve done the background,” he says, “and they’re absolutely pissed off with the department, I’d say: 'Go for it’.

“If they’re disgruntled now, there’s no way they’re going to change that. They’re only going to make themselves feel worse by staying.”

Senior Constable Bill Devlin, 47
Joined SAPOL: 1971
Resigned: 1986
Rejoined: 1999
Current post: Holden Hill Criminal Justice

Quitting the police force probably saved Bill Devlin from divorce and alcoholism. He was once a “player” and heavy drinker disposed to taking the job home with him. His tone with his children was often that of the authority-figure policeman, and he was no “nice person”. Devlin knows now that his wife would never have endured such an existence.

His destructive mix of work and home lives, however, was not the reason for his 1986 resignation. He wanted to secure “a bit of the Australian dream” and figured the economic boom of the mid-’80s was the time to strike. When a job opportunity with a young electronics company emerged, he made his move.

But as a “speed cop” he had loved his work, and so agonized for two years over his decision to resign. Finally, he quit not from job dissatisfaction, but a desire simply to “make a lot of money”.

So after 15 years as a police officer, Devlin was now in sales. But his income had shrunk; he had no “real” friends; and his tasks were menial. Within only one day, his new job had completely crushed his spirit.

Says Devlin: “I came home and my wife said: 'How was your first day?’ I started crying, and I’ll never forget it. I said: 'I’m not a salesman, I’m a policeman’.

“The next day was the same thing. I came home and started bawling again. I said: 'I’m going to see if (Personnel) can reverse my resignation and get me back in the police’.”

Devlin’s wife pledged her support for him, but suggested a return to SAPOL would be “a backward step”. He pushed on in the job, and today says she was right.

Devlin stayed with the company for nearly two years and, in that time, his fortunes changed. He travelled the world, setting up networks and negotiating deals with foreign governments. His tasks were no longer menial, and his working day stretched to 18 hours.

But not even changed fortunes were powerful enough to stop him thinking about his police career. He missed the job’s camaraderie, humour and experiences; and sunny days made him think of cruising the streets on his police motorcycle.

Meanwhile, his workload remained burdensome. And, for that, he could see neither compensation nor advancement. He eventually tired of his role and quit to work for an insurance company in 1987.

“I was very good at it (selling insurance),” he says, “because I believed in the products that insurance companies offer. A lot of policemen became clients, because I advertised in the Police Journal. I graduated to associate manager, and they were paying me a good salary.”

By 1990, however, Devlin had tired of that role as well. So, for the third time in four-and-quarter years, he quit. He next found a job as a wool-classer and roustabout, and worked in country SA, NSW and Victoria.

“I did that for a couple of years and got my ticket (in wool-classing),” he says. “It was the best fun I ever had, but you’re away from home a lot – and it didn’t do anything for my marriage. It got very strained at that point.”

So, during those “couple of years”, Devlin attempted to rejoin the police force. He applied formally and went through an interview in which he felt he had “done a pretty good job”. But, soon after – while he was away working – his wife received a shock visit from detectives. They had received an anonymous letter that seemed to accuse Devlin of corruption.

The letter writer questioned his capacity to live in an affluent suburb, take overseas trips and furnish his home so well. “(My wife) Lynn was obviously upset about it,” he says. “She didn’t know whether I’d been 'on the take’ when I was a cop.

“I went and saw the copper and sorted things out. I said: 'Look, you can check my background. I’ve done nothing wrong – ever’.”

To his great disappointment, SAPOL did not accept Devlin for re-entry. And, with his marriage under strain, he realized he could not remain in the wool business. So, in a return to the field in which he had already excelled, he took a job with another insurance company.

He stayed with that company for four-and-a-half years, and again performed well. Toward the end of his stint, however, the practices of the industry had disillusioned him. “It just drove me crazy,” he says. “I couldn’t face going back to work.”

Then, in a move that lengthened his list of resignations, he quit the insurance company in 1997. After some time off – through which he helped his wife with a business she ran from home – Devlin applied for work as a bus driver.

He scored a job with TransAdelaide and found the bus-driving culture strikingly close to that of policing. “I had a ball,” he says, “but, equally, I realized it wasn’t going anywhere. After about 18 months, I knew I had to move on.

“My wife and I had split up (in 1998); she realized I was just marking time and had more potential. I was distraught, and realized I had to do something with my life.”

But the Devlins reunited after four months, and the pair discussed another bid to rejoin the force. While Devlin did not rate his chances highly, his wife encouraged him to try. He wisely followed her advice, applied in 1999 and won a position on a new course in August that year.

Back in the job he felt awkward among his former peers and sensed that some thought him a failure. He never saw himself that way, and others’ views did not disturb him.

Now a senior constable with Holden Hill Prosecution, he is “over the moon” about life back in the force.

“This is the best job in the world,” he exclaims. “It has the diversity of jobs, country stations – (for) a whole different set of experiences – and the excitement of patrol work.”

Today, Devlin says cops who want to leave the force must explore their options thoroughly. He warns against “knee-jerk reactions to opportunities”.

Says Devlin: “I’d say: 'If you’ve got the opportunity to do something completely different, give it a go’.

I couldn’t think of anything worse than waking up every morning and thinking: 'F---, I’ve got to go to work again’.”

Of his own time away from policing, Devlin regrets nothing. He calls it a great 13-year journey that made him a better person. So would he quit the force a second time?

“At 47”, he says, “I can’t see there being any possibility that I’m ever going to resign again.”

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