The student firebombers who hit US outpost
On August 15, 1973, two university students broke into the United States consulate in Christchurch, doused the floor with fuel and set it alight. The resulting explosion gutted part of the building and triggered a high-speed chase across the city, as Stev
Glass showered onto Kilmore St as the sound of an explosion rang out in central Christchurch. Margaret Matheson and Neil Riethmuller scampered across the road, desperate to get to their stolen car nearby. As she ran, 19-year-old Matheson felt like the world was in slow motion.
Glass rained on the road around her while shredded paper filled the air. She could hear loud whooshing explosions as the flames licked up more of the fuel. The dark morning sky filled with a tinge of pink.
Dennis Phillips, a private security guard, was driving down Kilmore St after a night shift when he noticed smoke billowing from the first floor of the United States consulate building. It was an unremarkable two-storey office building, home to an accounting firm that doubled as the city’s American outpost.
As Phillips arrived, a 1959 baby Austin
A35 tore away from the scene, revving loudly. Phillips reported the fire and the fleeing car on his radio and gave chase. The police soon joined him.
Over the next 45 minutes, an epic highspeed pursuit played out across Christchurch. The Austin, driven by
27-year-old Riethmuller, ran red lights, went the wrong way down one-way streets, ran a roadblock, and at times neared
100kmh. He was desperate to shake the police tail, at one point, he banged wheels with a cop car, almost pushing it off the road.
The chase went through Sydenham and Spreydon, down Blenheim Rd to Hornby, and all the way out to Templeton – more than 10km from the city centre. ‘‘They followed us for miles and miles and miles,’’ Riethmuller recalls.
For Matheson, who was in the passenger seat, the pursuit was both exciting and terrifying. Riethmuller was risking their lives – even driving into a head-on traffic on the Sockburn overbridge at one point, which Matheson said was a ‘‘horrible moment of not knowing whether you’re going to come crashing into anyone on the other side’’.
She knew they were going to get caught – and her thoughts turned to death. Riethmuller should crash the car into the side of the overbridge, she thought.
Matheson did not want to face the consequences of what she had just done.
The database
Their crime may have disappeared into the history books had it not been listed as one of four incidents to occur in Christchurch by American researchers compiling the Global Terrorism Database. The substantial research project details events from around the world since 1970, with more than 200,000 incidents documented. It is co-ordinated by the National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism (START) – a research and education centre founded by the US Department of Homeland Security.
Terrorism, according to the researchers, is defined by ‘‘the threatened or actual use of illegal force and violence by a non-state actor to attain a political, economic, religious, or social goal through fear, coercion, or intimidation’’.
Matheson and Riethmuller’s action related to the anti-Vietnam War protest movement.
Two incidents that occurred in the lead-up to the Christchurch test match during the 1981 Springbok rugby tour and a 1991 nail bombing that blew up part of the Sydenham police station are also listed on the database. The March 15
shooting at two mosques is not included because the list only goes to the end of 2018.
Matheson and Riethmuller were never charged with terrorism – laws defining this came into force in 2002. They stress they chose to attack at night, when no-one was in the building.
Riethmuller says having grown up on a farm, fire was used as a tool and not equated to violence. ‘‘When you put it in the context of setting fire to a building as a protest, it’s in a different context of course . . . but as far as considering it to be like acquiring a weapon like [the Christchurch terrorist], we didn’t do that.’’
The US, the war, and the PYM
Bill Quirk was reading the paper when the police called.
He was the honorary consular agent in Christchurch. The title is much less impressive than it sounds – he wasn’t even American. He was a local businessman and the consulate was the office of the accountancy firm he was a partner at.
About 30 minutes after the consulate was firebombed, Quirk stood in front of what was left of it. The first-floor was gutted. Carpets and doors were scorched while the walls and ceiling were blackened. Quirk’s first-floor office was the worst hit. Clocks were stopped at 4.45am. A plastic briefcase had melted and a book-keeping machine was destroyed.
Plastic fuel containers were still on the floor and the recognisable petrol stench filled the air. Still hanging on the wall was a blackened and cracked portrait of President Richard Nixon. The building was structurally sound, but the repair bill was $10,000. Well over $100,000 today.
This wasn’t the first time the consulate or Quirk had been targeted. He was appointed to the post in 1956, shortly after the Vietnam War began, and the consulate had become a beacon for antiAmerican sentiment in Christchurch.
Protesters had smashed windows and painted derogatory remarks across the consulate before: ‘‘You raped Vietnam’’, ‘‘fascists’’, ‘‘murderers’’, and a swastika were all included at one point. Quirk’s home in the upmarket Fendalton suburb was targeted too. The words: ‘‘master of war’’ were written in paint on his fence once.
This was an era when worldwide protests were held against the brutal war in Vietnam, which was later estimated to have killed two million civilians. The US supported South Vietnam for many years in their struggle against the communistcontrolled north.
As an ally of the US, New Zealand, along with South Korea, Thailand, and Australia, were dragged into the war. Thirty-seven Kiwis lost their lives.
In Christchurch, the anti-war movement was spearheaded by the city’s branch of the Progressive Youth Movement (PYM), founded in 1969. The local leftist group was spontaneous and vague, but demonstrations were regular. They cut down goalposts at Lancaster Park, disrupted Anzac Day services, burnt US flags, and protested outside military recruiting offices.
The group never had a stated manifesto, but the PYM tended to oppose the Vietnam War, American imperialism, and apartheid in South Africa. It had mostly faded away by 1972, but the city still had a resistance bookshop, which became a meeting place for those aligned with the PYM’s rough goals.
. . . running through roadblocks and red lights, the couple never stood a chance of getting away in the underpowered Austin.
In 1972, Matheson and Riethmuller, both students at the University of Canterbury, began moving in the same circles as former PYM members and the bookshop crowd.
Matheson, from Lincoln just outside Christchurch, had been introduced to the group after Murray Horton, a prominent PYM member, spoke to her high school liberal studies class. ‘‘He didn’t really talk about the PYM much, it was more about the Springbok tour which was going to happen in 1973,’’ Matheson says.
At the university, the student magazine was run by former PYM members – and she got to know them through attending anti-apartheid mobilisations.
Riethmuller, who was born in Australia, opposed his country’s policy of selective conscription for Vietnam, but coming to Christchurch was not a matter of choice for him. When he enrolled for university here, being a foreign student, he did not get to choose where.
The firebombing
Some time in early 1973, the blossoming couple, who had only met in April that year, got involved in a group that wanted to restart the PYM. This group felt no progress against American involvement in New Zealand was being made.
The consulate was still there, the Vietnam War was ongoing, and there was
a small US navy base out near the airport supporting operations to Antarctica.
Riethmuller felt peaceful demonstrations were not working. He had a growing sense police were cracking down on protesters, both in New Zealand and across the world. During a July picket at the consulate, a month before the firebombing, he got into a scuffle with police and was nearly arrested.
For Matheson, the Cold War left her on edge. ‘‘We all grew up with that feeling of being only seconds away from obliteration, so that actually was a huge thing, [an] overarching issue.’’ To her, America was a war-mongering country, and she thought New Zealand’s close alliances could make it a target.
The couple wanted to strike a blow against US imperialism and capitalism with the firebombing. Both claimed they acted alone at the time, while police believed others were involved. And perhaps with good reason – Riethmuller now says about eight people took part in planning meetings.
But things didn’t go as they wished. The couple wanted to hit the building in the dead of night, at about 2am, to ensure no-one would be there. They did not want to harm people.
But a crasher at Riethmuller’s flat, about 150 metres from the consulate, wouldn’t go to sleep. ‘‘Because it was a big seven-bedroom house, there was always crashers,’’ Matheson recalls.
It was another couple of hours, probably about 4am on August 15, 1973, when they finally headed out into the dark frosty cityscape, stole a car, and then parked outside the consulate. Clad in hoods and gloves, Matheson and Riethmuller approached on foot.
The building did not have an alarm. Around the back, Riethmuller taped up a small kitchen window, to avoid the sound of glass hitting the floor, and broke it. He wasn’t small enough to fit through, so Matheson went inside while Riethmuller handed her several small containers of petrol and diesel.
She went into six first floor rooms and splashed it over equipment, trying to get it as close to the windows as possible.
It’s not clear how the blaze actually began. Riethmuller and Matheson had planned to set it off with a fuse, but they may have used a Molotov cocktail. One student magazine wrote they simply threw a match in, while another described a ‘‘makeshift fuse’’.
Either way, the fuel was ignited, and several explosions woke nearby neighbours. One resident thought it was an earthquake.
As the couple dashed back to their stolen car, one of Riethmuller’s gloves caught fire, burning his hand. They got in and, with Riethmuller at the wheel, sped off. They were pursued by the security officer who saw them, and later by police. ‘‘There were about seven police cars following us,’’ Matheson says.
The pair headed south first, before making a beeline west, at times reaching 100kmh. They made it out to the Sockburn overbridge, which is split by a small barrier into two lanes.
Riethmuller, in a moment of desperation, chose to drive in the wrong lane. ‘‘Yeah, it was pretty suicidal. If there was a car coming in the other direction, it would’ve been a head-on,’’ Riethmuller recalls.
Despite this, and running through roadblocks and red lights, the couple never stood a chance of getting away in the underpowered Austin.
They decided to end the chase, which probably covered about 30km, back at Riethmuller’s flat, just 150m from the consulate. He crashed the stolen car into the house and both were promptly arrested after a short violent struggle between the police and Riethmuller.
‘‘Neil was fighting like a tiger,’’ Matheson says. Both were taken to the police station, where they didn’t deny
their role in the firebombing, but also wouldn’t answer questions. A plastic petrol container was found in the stolen car, Matheson had a pocket knife, and both stunk of petrol.
The seriousness of what they had done hit Matheson at her court appearance later that morning. Her brother looked at her from the public gallery as she stood charged with burglary, arson and getting into the stolen car.
Riethmuller also faced burglary and arson charges, plus two more for stealing the car and driving dangerously. When they appeared in court a few weeks later, police said both were known for their dissident political views and demonstrations against American establishments.
Both pleaded guilty and were given jail time as a deterrent sentence. Matheson got three years, Riethmuller got four.
The consequences
Today, Riethmuller and Matheson are regular members of society. Neither has reoffended.
Riethmuller is a part-time school teacher and Matheson works for an organisation assisting people with disabilities. Riethmuller was deported to Australia after his release and Matheson went with him. They had two children, but are no longer together.
Matheson has moved back to Christchurch. She swore off all violence when her first son was born in 1977. ‘‘I suddenly realised that everyone has a mother and I know that seems stupid, but when you have a child of your own you realise that in a deeper, more fundamental way.’’
Looking back on the firebombing, she says it was a silly thing to do and it was never going to achieve change in a good way. ‘‘I’ve actually been involved in organisations where I’ve done really hard work writing things, stuffing envelopes, and that’s the type of stuff that actually works.’’
The work she does now is more likely to change lives, she says. ‘‘I would always say that it’s not a good idea to get a blot
on your record.’’
Riethmuller lives in Toowoomba, in Queensland, where he was born. He has been back to New Zealand twice, with permission from our High Commission.
On one of those trips, for his son’s wedding, he went to the building that used to house the consulate. ‘‘It was turned into a security, burglar alarm firm . . . I just thought gee, they’ve beefed up security somewhat. It’s a pleasant experience to know that you’ve survived that and that you’re able to come back.’’
Riethmuller went back to university in the 1990s, got a Bachelor or Arts in Literature and became an educator. He is involved with organising his town’s yearly environment day. He seriously regrets the firebombing.
‘‘You don’t retrieve much out of a prison sentence. It’s punitive and if you come out of it with your values intact, you’ve pretty well won over it. It’s the fire that put me in prison, and, if I had my time again, I wouldn’t have done it.’’