Tiberius with a Telephone

by Patrick Mullins

  A journalist who spoke with Osborne told him that it was not uncommon to have your throat cut in politics. ‘But what is unforgiveable,’ the journalist went on, ‘is to let you walk around for weeks without knowing that it’s been cut.’

  McMahon had no regrets about what he had done. According to him, he had been promised the spot. It was his, and friends and colleagues had joined with him to ensure he received what was rightfully his. ‘I had to wait some weeks,’ he said later, ‘during which time I was informed on a couple of occasions that somebody else might be appointed in my stead.’

  Then I received advice from a Cabinet Minister. I went to Ezra Norton of the Daily Mirror and sought his support. Within a couple of days I became a member of the Cabinet … I learned in those days that there always is someone able to give us guidance of a very helpful kind.33

  McMahon’s account of this episode was telling for his character and view of politics. The promotion was the due reward for his talents and abilities, he believed, and the methods to get it were simply those that were necessary. There was no shame in treachery; no embarrassment in self-promotion. Politics had to be played hard, ruthlessly, if he were to receive his reward. Loyalty, friendship, truth — all of these were secondary considerations, and dispensable, too, should circumstance demand they be dispensed with.

  Plainly, McMahon had learned much in his first term in the Parliament. He knew how to work in the House. He knew how to work in the backrooms. He knew how to work the press. Now, on the first rung on the ministerial ladder, he had proved he knew how to get ahead.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Disgust

  1984

  There were times when McMahon’s conduct simply disgusted his ghostwriter, when the past and the present came together to prompt an instinctive, deep dislike of McMahon. In March, after a day spent working on the prologue, which had been re-designed as a summary of McMahon’s political outlook and beliefs, Bowman simply could not hold himself back. When the time came to write in his diary, he was scathing.

  ‘McMahon really is a third-rate politician and that he could be PM is a damning indictment of the country,’ Bowman wrote. ‘He is, really, a rather nasty bit of work. Half-truths, lies, Commo can, cheap attacks — what an unpleasant little turd.’1

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Colours of Ambition

  1951–1956

  On the morning of 17 July 1951, McMahon made the four-kilometre trip from his flat in Elizabeth Bay to Government House. There, he watched the governor of New South Wales and his old commanding officer, Lieutenant-General Sir John Northcott, stand in for the absent William McKell and sign legislation expanding the cabinet to twenty. Then it was McMahon’s turn: the governor swore him in as minister for the navy and minister for air. The two men went outside and milled in the morning sunshine, shaking hands as the press took photographs. There was no further opportunity for McMahon to savour the moment. Within five minutes, it was all over. The new minister was off. Police escorted his car to Mascot, where he took a plane to Canberra for that afternoon’s cabinet meeting.1

  McMahon was the second-youngest man in the room and the lowest in seniority that day. Harold Holt was younger by a few months, but vastly senior to McMahon in experience and in ranking as minister for labour and national service and minister for immigration. With the exception of Paul Hasluck and Athol Townley, respectively ministers for territories and for social services, the other members of the Menzies ministry were an average of fifteen years older and comfortably ensconced around the large, polished table in the cabinet room at Parliament House. They had experience of government and of opposition. They were well versed in how everything was to work.

  Top of the agenda that day was the sombre economic outlook. Difficult economic conditions were in their infancy. Fuelled by the war in Korea, wool prices had soared, and consumer demand was rising to unsustainable heights. ‘We are grossly overstretched on investment — both public and private,’ Menzies said. The meeting, which ran for two days, was wholly concerned with addressing these problems. Menzies and his ministers canvassed ways to reduce costs, whether by reducing Commonwealth employment, freezing wages, or raising the rate of interest. Undaunted by the fact that it was his first meeting, McMahon was not shy about contributing. In what would become a regular display of his familiarity with economics, he pointed out the dangers of inflation, and stated his belief that the Commonwealth Bank had not done enough. Arthur Fadden’s response to this interloper’s criticism was sharp: ‘I think it has been well watched.’2

  Less than three weeks before, the government had passed a Bill to hold a referendum on amending the constitution to ban the Communist Party. It was to be the fourth time that communism was debated in the Parliament within an eighteen-month period, and what was said in the debate was little more than an echo of the past. ‘The whole danger to peace in the world today springs from the policies, plans, underground activities and promoted local wars of the Communists,’ Menzies told the House. He pointed towards the war in Korea as an example of the dangers that awaited any kind of tolerance or delay. ‘Having the clear instruction of the nation to deal with the Communist fifth column swiftly, vigorously and unrelentingly, we propose to perform that task if we are given power to perform it.’3

  For Evatt, it was a matter of fierce belief that Menzies should never receive this power. Upon the death of an exhausted Chifley on 13 June, Evatt had taken over the Labor Party leadership, and set about opposing the government’s case for a Yes vote. The political damage that the communist issue had inflicted on the ALP had not caused him to doubt the righteousness of his actions; nor had his unexpectedly narrow victory against a returning Nancy Wake at the election prompted any deviation from principle. ‘If I had to make the same decision again,’ Evatt said, when it seemed that he had been defeated, ‘… I would not hesitate for one moment.’4

  As winter thawed into spring, Evatt barnstormed the country, campaigning for the No vote. He lashed the government in apocalyptic tones that reached an apogee in Perth, where he told people that the Menzies government was ‘following the old totalitarian road’, and recalled Pastor Niemöller:

  It is the Hitler technique over again. First the Reds, then the Jews, then the trade unions, then the Social Democratic Parties, then the Roman Catholic Centre Party, then the Roman Catholic and Lutheran Churches.5

  The leader of the opposition’s high visibility in the campaign was in marked contrast to most members of the ALP, a fact that McMahon noted as he stumped for a Yes vote in the final weeks of the campaign. At a meeting at Strathfield Town Hall early in September, McMahon suggested that the ALP had deserted Evatt: ‘They will let Bert accept full responsibility for a crushing and ignominious defeat of the advocates of a No vote.’6

  Confidence in the result did not deter McMahon from trying to blunt Evatt’s attacks. He told people that the ‘legislation under this power could not, under any circumstances, be extended to include political parties, the trade unions, or social and religious organisations’. The Communist Party Dissolution Act could be repealed once the danger had been neutralised, he added, a point that Menzies used in the days that followed to try to stem Evatt’s campaign.7 McMahon also linked passage of the referendum with the prosecution of the war in Korea. ‘As we are fighting the Communists in Korea, so must we fight them in Australia, because they are fighting us,’ he said. ‘The sooner we get to grips with them the better.’8

  The public was not persuaded, and on 22 September voted the referendum down. For the government, the humiliating defeat caused bewilderment and carried an extra sting because of the knowledge that it had been returned to office only a few months before on the very same platform. What had gone wrong? At first, senior figures pointed the finger at treachery, misinformation, and low intelligence on the part of voters.9 Soon, more reasonably, they blamed the difficulties of prosecuting any referendum without the support o
f the opposition, the complexity of the proposal, the conservatism of the Australian electorate, and the unfavourable reception to the budget that Fadden had handed down only a few days before the referendum.10

  McMahon moved on quickly from the unsuccessful campaign. He had to become acquainted with an area he knew little about, yet whose presence in the public eye was conspicuous. HMAS Anzac was in Korean waters, part of a blockade of the North Korean port of Songjin; the light aircraft carrier HMAS Sydney was heading north to patrol the west coast of the Korean peninsula with the Americans; the No. 77 Squadron, flying Gloster Meteors that had been hastily supplied to counter-act the threat posed by the Soviet-made MiG-15, was in its eighth year of an overseas basing, and soon to battle the Soviet Union’s 176th Guards Fighter Aviation Regiment in the skies above the North Korean city of Sunchon.11 For McMahon, not involved in the details of combat operations, the weight of his responsibilities would have been keen, particularly when he had to announce the deaths of Australian military personnel.

  His portfolios had become accepted training posts for junior ministers, and were rarely the subject of intense political debate.12 But both were undergoing change. The navy was moving away from procedures and practices it had inherited from Britain, becoming receptive to new ideas in public administration and the changes wrought by technological advances, most notably in the increased utility of missiles and submarines over battleships.13 The RAAF was increasing its intake, training pilots, and updating equipment and planes, notably in its critical decision to purchase American-designed F-86 Sabres in lieu of British-designed Hawker F3s.14

  McMahon’s first months attracted derision and disapproval. A report that he had been seen on a Sydney golf course with a naval officer in tow, apparently a caddy for his game, barely six days after his appointment, prompted criticism from Labor firebrand Eddie Ward.15 McMahon’s newfound liking for being driven by uniformed RAN personnel also provoked scorn from his colleagues.16 His references to the RAN as ‘my Navy’ and senior naval officers as ‘good boys’ hardly prompted warmth from his department.17 His driver, however, liked his new minister. ‘He was very, very easy to speak to,’ said Lawrie Anderson, ‘and we often had conversations about things that were highly irrelevant to anything in the navy.’ Once, when Anderson’s mother was sick in Melbourne and the navy was refusing to allow him leave to see her, McMahon intervened and told him to go. Later, Anderson invited McMahon to his wedding, where he made an impromptu speech.18

  Even from his earliest days in the portfolio, McMahon would display behaviours that would become standard in subsequent years. First, as already seen, was McMahon’s use of the privileges of ministerial office; second was his willingness to reach beyond typical sources of advice. ‘As Minister for the Navy and Air,’ recalled Alan Wright, ‘he went down to Rushcutters Bay and ate with the able-bodied seamen. Then he went up to the Officers Club. Then he went to the Naval Board. He knew what he was doing.’19 Third was McMahon’s zealous protection of his authority as minister.

  This was most evident following the appointment of the British-born Air Marshal Donald Hardman to the position of chief of the air staff. A decorated veteran of both world wars, Hardman came with a reputation as ‘an innovative manager’.20 But there was criticism for the perceived slight of not appointing an Australian to the position. Though the decision had been made before McMahon took office, the brunt of that criticism came his way. He did not help himself when he explained that Hardman had been appointed because ‘there was no one in Australia with the experience or the necessary qualifications for the position’ — news to the RAAF officers who had been successfully fighting a war only six years earlier.21 However inept the justification, Hardman’s appointment was a response to the perceived failings of the RAAF’s area-based system of command. Put in place in 1939, the flexibility offered by that decentralised command system had been highly prized during the war. In peacetime, however, this system was an organisational tangle, with overlaps of responsibility, divided commands, and glaring limitations of co-operation and resources. Under the previous chief of the air staff, Air Vice-Marshal George Jones, the system had been maintained on grounds that it suited Australia’s divides of geography and small, sparsely located population. The government was unconvinced by this reasoning, and Jones received a summons to McMahon’s office. ‘Cabinet has decided that you are to be retired,’ McMahon told him, once greetings were out of the way.22 Hardman’s appointment came with the expectation that he would draw upon his familiarity with functional commands, from his experience with the Royal Air Force, and re-organise the RAAF into a system of commands based around the service’s main activities and functions — operations, maintenance, training, and administration.23

  McMahon was careful to aid Hardman where he could and to ensure that the change was never in doubt. During 1952, as the chief of the air staff laid the groundwork with the help of the newly appointed secretary of the Department of the Air, Edwin (Ted) Hicks, McMahon signalled that the new system would be non-negotiable. Countering opposition from members of the Air Board, who questioned the logistics and effectiveness of the new system,24 McMahon noted that an unofficial functional system had evolved from necessity in some places of Australia. He was blunt, intent on ensuring he had his way. ‘We should make up our minds one way or the other which system we wish to adopt,’ he wrote to the board.25

  MCMAHON’S work as a minister could be uneven and surreal. The structure of the air force and navy and their departments meant that McMahon regularly juggled the momentous with the small and niggling. Amid the shake-up of the RAAF and combat operations in Korea, he approved the introduction of ‘wet’ canteens on RAAF bases, negotiated a renewal of the lease on Cockatoo Island, signed off on the purchase of equipment, and persuaded the cabinet to approve the purchase of land near Glenbrook, New South Wales, in order to alleviate crowded conditions on an adjacent RAAF base.26 McMahon summed up the proposal delicately, writing that the situation in the base:

  […] seems to have been organised by P.G. Wodehouse. At present the women are accommodated in the Sergeants’ Quarters, the Sergeants are living in the Airmen’s Quarters and the Airmen are crowded into the huts. It is only going to need a Sergeant to come home late and go into his accustomed rooms by mistake and there will be a terrible scandal.27

  In this light, the £16,000 asking price was a bargain. Cabinet approved the submission without debate, yet was less willing to approve more costly measures: it took McMahon two years to convince his colleagues that a radar air-defence system should be a priority, and longer still to convince them to fund it.28

  In spite of the calm hand he usually wielded, McMahon’s naivety could be evident. In April 1952, aware of the high financial costs of the Korean war effort and the mounting strain of casualties, McMahon suggested withdrawing the No. 77 Squadron. He thought the RAAF was over-committed and that withdrawal of the squadron, which had lost some 25 per cent of its pilots to death or capture, should be considered. The Americans, he argued, would not mind. Menzies gave this proposal short shrift. The Americans would object, Menzies told him, and, furthermore, the move had the potential to damage the relationship between their two countries.29

  At other times, McMahon’s connections could cause problems. In the course of 1952, there was controversy about the government’s plan to shutter the oil-shale plant at Glen Davis, a small town in Capertree Valley, New South Wales. For McMahon’s younger brother, Sam, this was an opportunity. Now an entrepreneur who owned limestone deposits at the site, Sam developed a proposal to turn the plant into a cement-making factory. But he and the group of Sydney businessmen he gathered wanted government support. So, ahead of Glen Davis’s proposed closure in May, Sam lobbied the government. He found a favourable reception from New South Wales senator William Spooner, the minister for national development. ‘I encouraged him to proceed with his proposition,’ Spooner said.30

  But the optics were poor.
Using government funds to support a proven unsustainable venture? A venture led by the brother of a government minister? It was all too fraught, a point driven home when Eddie Ward seized on the issue and cast Glen Davis’s closure and the pending disposal of its equipment as evidence that the Menzies government was looking after its own. ‘For months past,’ Ward said in the House, ‘a brother of the Minister for the Navy has been lobbying in this building and in Sydney in an endeavour to secure advantages over other persons who are interested in the purchase of the plant.’31

  A cabinet subcommittee that did not include McMahon examined Sam’s proposal in May and knocked it on its head. The need for a tender, the disposal of equipment, the economics, and the vested interests of so many of those involved made the decision an easy one. They turned it down flat, said the minister for supply, Howard Beale, ‘and that was the end of it’.32

  But it was not. In August, a report that journalists at The Sun were directed not to mention the relationship between the minister and his brother forced McMahon to reply in the House: ‘I have had no business associations or discussions with my brother for at least ten years.’ He told the House that he had no knowledge of the offer, that he had not talked about the matter in cabinet or with colleagues, and that he had not asked any newspaper to suppress ‘the alleged relationship’ between him and Sam: ‘I could not have done so because no relationship in fact existed.’33

  For McMahon, such incidents were a distraction from the exercise of his authority as a minister. As the year went on, he worked to close the rifts between civilian and military personnel in the air and navy departments by clarifying questions of status and responsibilities. He resisted moves to alter the composition of the air and navy boards. Most notably, and again demonstrative of the way he would handle himself in later years and subsequent portfolios, McMahon involved himself in a long-running dispute about the consecration of colours, the heraldic flags of great ceremonial significance within the military services.34