Tiberius with a Telephone

by Patrick Mullins

  McMahon announced on 1 August that Bury had resigned for reasons to do with his health. Bury would have none of this pretence: McMahon had sacked him and, furthermore, cabinet had ‘leaked like a ruddy sieve’, he told press and colleagues alike. The former foreign minister was angry. As he had told Hasluck when McMahon told him that he was to go, his departure had been inevitable: ‘Of course,’ said Bury, ‘it was obvious he had it in for me since he lowered the seniority of Alan Hulme and myself when forming his cabinet and that he would try to get rid of me when he could.’88 Nigel Bowen would be Bury’s replacement, and would offer vital support for McMahon. But, simultaneously, Bury’s sacking did not help McMahon. It simply created one more enemy on the government backbench. ‘I have an intense antipathy towards McMahon and I don’t like anything about him,’ Bury said later. ‘That’s the truth of the matter.’89

  The favourable press that Nixon received from his move to engage with China did, however, encourage McMahon to continue trying to resolve the China problem. On 28 July, he told the Liberal Party Council in Victoria that dialogue with the PRC was continuing, still aimed towards an eventual diplomatic recognition. He was trying to find another way forward by introducing distinctions in Australia’s relationship.90 Cultural exchanges should be the first steps towards a diplomatic relationship. Recognition could not be ‘the first result of the first dialogue’. The ALP’s position, of an immediate recognition along the lines of the Canadian formula, was reckless and tantamount to abandoning ‘old friends’ like Taiwan.91

  It was a position that would find McMahon no allies, no friends. The Chinese did not see diplomatic recognition as a mere formality. For them, it was necessary. It was a prerequisite for China’s involvement in the international community. It was a first step for normalisation. Anything short of that was worthless.

  More troubling, for McMahon, was the criticism of Vince Gair. Nixon’s move to engage with China had not been to the DLP leader’s liking, and now, to McMahon’s proposal, he was scathing. ‘A new pattern of foreign policy now seems to be taking shape,’ Gair said on 30 July, ‘not based on the objective merits of the question under discussion, but as part of a popularity contest between Mr McMahon and Mr Whitlam as to who is more “ahead” on the China issue.’92

  It made McMahon supremely cautious, unwilling to entertain any radical new approach on the scale of Whitlam’s. The point was most evident when Andrew Peacock, as minister for the army, received a private invitation in October for him and his wife to visit Beijing. The invitation had come via Melbourne businessman James Kibel, a frequent visitor to China who had been sounded out by Chinese officials in Hong Kong about whether he knew any Australian ministers. Though it would not be an official trip, it was intimated that Peacock would have talks with premier Zhou and other senior officials.93 When McMahon first heard the idea, he reacted cautiously, and suggested instead it be a trade delegation that included businessmen alongside government officials.94 The Chinese renewed their offer to Peacock, but McMahon vetoed it completely: a visit had to be official, and certainly it should be at a senior ministerial level. That left the prospect of a trade mission, which gained some traction when Doug Anthony — discovering the proposal after a Labor member questioned him about it in the House — angrily insisted that he, not Peacock, should lead it.95

  But amid the fallout from China’s entry to the UN General Assembly and its assumption of a seat on the Security Council on 25 October — displacing the ROC, over the objections of the US and Australia — the proposal went cold. It would go no further. The government judged that the Chinese government was responsible. As Australia’s representative in Hong Kong wrote, the Chinese were probably influenced by the belief that Australia ‘did not accept the political implications’ of the canvassed visit by Peacock, and that victory at the UN had strengthened China’s hand. ‘We would thus appear to be back in much the same position we were after the breakdown of the ambassadorial talks in Paris earlier in the year.’96

  The government tried to suggest further dialogue with the PRC. China saw no point. Nothing had changed, and McMahon was left to make a lonely, sad admission in December that he had thought the government was on its way to some sort of success. ‘But the Chinese acted in their own inscrutable ways and suddenly they cut off [talks], without rhyme, without reason, and we do not know when they are likely to resume again.’97

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Crumbling Pillars (III)

  1971

  The confrontation with Gorton finally came in August. McMahon had been agonising for weeks over what to do about his deputy and the pockets of support he still enjoyed in the party. After meeting with the Victorian division of the Liberal Party, McMahon was heard to say that Robert Southey was a Gorton man: ‘I don’t trust Southey.’ McMahon was, Alan Reid believed, ‘obsessed with Gorton’.1 Bede Hartcher, the Liberal Party’s federal director, told McMahon to have a face-to-face confrontation with his deputy and to bury the hatchet, but McMahon would have none of it.

  The catalyst for Gorton’s removal came, inevitably it seems, from the Packer Press, with the publication of Reid’s new book.2 The Gorton Experiment had been completed and sent to its publisher a short time before Gorton’s fall in March, but had been supplemented by a fifty-four-page postscript following Gorton’s fall. It was, again, punchy and dramatic, and its narrative stressed — as though to contrast with the image that McMahon was trying to create — the turmoil rife throughout Gorton’s prime ministership. It told of Gorton defenestrating his government’s best talents, of Gorton promoting his cronies, of Gorton endangering the whole of the government by his wilful recklessness. As with The Power Struggle, Reid was no impartial observer, and, while he mentioned his own part in several of the events, there was no acknowledgement of the role of the Packer press. Nor was there an acknowledgement of his own involvement in destabilising Gorton’s leadership. Moreover, Reid’s reportage was occasionally overly personal, as when he described Gorton on the opening page: ‘A bastard by birth, gregarious by habit, distrustful by nature, wilful by temperament, Gorton was Prime Minister by accident.’3

  Understandably, Gorton felt compelled to reply to Reid’s account, not least because of the errors it contained. Speed, too, was a consideration. Thus Gorton negotiated an agreement to write a series of autobiographical articles for Rupert Murdoch’s Sunday Australian, to be published under a song title that This Day Tonight had suggested encapsulated Gorton’s style: ‘I Did It My Way’.

  Gorton’s style was as punchy as Reid’s. In the first article, Gorton defended his government and gave his own pen portrait of the journalist known to colleagues as the Red Fox:

  He is a slightly-built, balding man with little darting eyes and an expression of perpetual cynicism. When talking to one he tends to stand slightly turned away, peeping under a drooping eyelid from the corner of one eye. There is a knowing, downward twist to his lips as he speaks from the corner of his mouth. One expects momentarily to be nudged in the ribs with a confidential elbow and given a hot tip for the 3.30 at Randwick.

  Moreover, Gorton continued, with a barbed flourish, while he was a bastard by the actions of his parents, Reid had achieved that status himself by following the riding instructions of Sir Frank Packer. In sum, Gorton argued that Reid’s book was no good: reliant on backstairs gossip, leaks, partial and misleading accounts, and almost totally inaccurate. His articles, Gorton said, would show ‘what really happened’. In doing so, Gorton could not resist slighting his colleagues. As he wrote, ‘From time to time cabinet ministers have shown themselves so uncertain of their own opinions that they have chosen to canvass the value of impending legislation far beyond the cabinet room, indeed beyond the confines of the Parliament altogether. Others are afflicted with a compulsion to try out ideas on their wives.’ The BHP-Esso matter, for example, ‘had to be treated very circumspectly’.4

  In writing this, Gorton set the scene
for his final fall. By suggesting that his cabinet had leaked, Gorton had also leaked — and, furthermore, cast aspersions on his colleagues. It was ironic to a large degree that the man most notorious for leaking from cabinet would engineer the removal of his deputy for the same act.

  McMahon heard of Gorton’s article two days before it was published, while holidaying at Eric Robinson’s home at the Isle of Capri, in Queensland. The holiday had come at Howson’s urging, but McMahon was hardly upset that it was interrupted.5 He recognised almost immediately that the articles provided him with cause to seek Gorton’s resignation from the ministry and, hopefully, the deputy leadership as well. Predictably, given McMahon’s angst and prevarication, he was both afraid of and delighted by the news.6 The next day, having travelled to Adelaide to watch a game of Aussie Rules, he grew so impatient and anxious that he left at half-time to return to his hotel and pore over extracts that had been sent via teleprinter. Sonia, according to Reid’s information, told her husband that Gorton had to go, but McMahon was uncertain. He returned to Queensland and began the rounds on the phone, canvassing opinion from colleagues, the public service, and the press alike.7

  John Bunting provided advice on 9 August. It was circumspect and hesitant. There was no precedent for a minister writing while holding office, he argued, and Gorton’s article did not breach any rule against disclosure of formal cabinet or government papers. ‘But there is an atmosphere about the article which might be said to be in breach of standards,’ Bunting went on. ‘Also, the article could seem to offend against “collective responsibility” conventions.’ Bunting suggested that subsequent articles might provoke other colleagues to reply, which would undermine unity and responsibility. Whether there was a fee involved (as there was), ‘would be another factor at a judgment on propriety,’ Bunting wrote.8 Peter Bailey, the first assistant secretary, had also been asked to provide advice. He saw no legal offence or overt breach of cabinet secrecy, he wrote, but suggested that the real questions were whether Reid’s book ‘represents a sufficiently specific attack to permit a riposte on a series of fronts’ and whether Gorton’s articles were a ‘reasonable defence against attack’. But his advice was similarly equivocal: the prime minister would be wise to discuss [the matter] with at least one or two of his colleagues.9

  McMahon did exactly that. He spoke, at least, with Eric Robinson, Nigel Bowen, senator Kenneth Anderson, Neil Brown, Billy Snedden, Robert Southey, Peter Howson, Jim Carlton (general secretary of the New South Wales Liberal Party), Alan Hulme, and Alan Jarman.10 Opinion within the party coalesced. So, too, did opinion in the press. Sir Frank Packer, accepting an invitation from the ABC to appear on its PM radio programme, made a conspicuous contribution to the discussion about Gorton. Asked about Reid and his motives for publishing The Gorton Experiment, Packer said that Reid probably wished to make some money, and denied that the book — which had been published by a Packer-owned company — had been published under anything other than a standard publishing contract. Then Packer went on: even if the book were only 50 per cent true, it was ‘a very strong indictment of Mr Gorton’, who was a ‘great embarrassment’ to his successor, who was himself already ‘an infinitely better’ prime minister.

  Packer: I have no doubt there is squabbling in the cabinet, and in my view Mr McMahon ought to get rid of Mr Gorton out of the cabinet — not because of his ability but because of their inability to get along.

  Interviewer: What do you think he should do with him?

  Packer: Oh, well — retire him to the backbenches.11

  But even this was not enough for the matter to be certain. Bert Kelly was so well aware of McMahon’s tendency to back down that he sent him a telegram expressing support for sacking Gorton. ‘You can’t help feeling that Billy is a bit like the churchmouse who didn’t want to get out into the middle of the room because he was a bit timid,’ he wrote in his diary. ‘So just in case he is like this I thought I’d send him a telegram.’12 It was wise. When McMahon travelled back to Sydney on 11 August, he heard that Gorton might be at the Commonwealth Parliamentary Offices in Martin Place — so, instead, he went to his home to continue calling colleagues.

  It was on Wednesday 12 August that McMahon finally sought to confront Gorton, asking him to call at his office at around three o’clock. Scuttling about to find all the details he could, Reid heard that McMahon had been ‘whitefaced, tense’ and that his staff were ‘afraid of him fall[ing] to pieces’ if there was a fullscale row.13 But Gorton was not particularly interested in a fight. Like Killen, he was amused to see McMahon sweating and shifting in his seat, his resolve seemingly draining away as the meeting went on. McMahon told Gorton that he had given consideration to the articles he was writing. He had concluded that the first article infringed the conventions of cabinet solidarity and unity, largely because Gorton had reflected on other ministers who would not be able to reply. In another vein, McMahon suggested that there was a problem of incompatibility.

  When Gorton replied that he believed he had a right to defend himself, and that he was surprised McMahon would suggest otherwise, McMahon told him that a public argument would be damaging. Cabinet solidarity was the overriding principle. Gorton did not question anything else. He would resign. The two agreed to exchange letters. Gorton asked about his entitlements as a former prime minister, and McMahon told him they would be the same as those enjoyed by Menzies and McEwen.14 Then, no doubt hoping to be rid of Gorton altogether, McMahon asked whether he wanted a diplomatic appointment. As Gorton remembered it:

  He said, ‘Would you like to go to London as the High Commissioner or something like that?’ And I said, ‘No. I want to stay here,’ and he said, ‘You’ll have to be sacked,’ and I said, ‘All right, but you write to me and tell me that you’re sacking me,’ and so he did that and I had that in writing and I was happy to get out.15

  That evening, McMahon — with the help of his colleagues and staff — drafted a letter to Gorton setting out his reasoning for seeking his resignation. Gorton’s reply reached McMahon that night, and, by mutual agreement, both letters were released the next day.16

  McMahon could have been forgiven, now, for breathing a sigh of relief. The confrontation was over. His antagonist was vanquished. There were some who saw it as proof of his resolve and as an opportunity for the government to make another clean start. Others were more withering. Maxwell Newton’s sarcasm was barely disguised:

  It must have taken a tremendous personal effort for Billy to screw himself up to sack Gorton. In the past Billy has always got other people — myself, Alan Reid, Sir Frank Packer, Warwick Fairfax, and many others — to stab his enemies for him while Billy waited in the background until the crisis which others had precipitated came to a solution.17

  But what about the deputy leadership? At a press conference the next day, Gorton made no mention of resigning; instead, he held it over to the next instalment of his series in The Sunday Australian. Writing that it would be ‘absurd’ for him to remain deputy without also being in the cabinet, he said he would resign so as not to create division in the party.18

  Thus, the race began for the deputy leadership. McMahon, according to Peter Howson, supported Reg Swartz, the leader of the House and minister for national development.19 But it was a race for all comers. David Fairbairn was lobbying for votes, Billy Snedden had put his hand up again, Jim Killen’s hat was in the ring, Don Chipp was putting himself out there, Billy Wentworth was on the phone, and Malcolm Fraser, too, was attempting to overcome the venom of Gorton’s supporters by putting himself forward. It took a few ballots, but, with a considerable bloc of support from the Senate, Snedden won the post. It was, in many respects, his proper due as treasurer. A loss would have been an unprecedented rebuke. But it was hard not to see the result as a rebuke for McMahon. Quite plainly, the Liberal Party was not about to heed his preferences.

  Amid this, watching with equal parts of disbelief and disgust, was the Labor Party. W
hitlam gave notice that he would move a motion of censure: ‘That, in the opinion of this House, the Prime Minister’s methods and motives in removing his Ministers and his subservience to outside influence have destroyed trust in his government at home and abroad.’

  It was the day of the budget, 17 August. Aware that the motion was coming, McMahon sought a meeting with Gorton to ensure that he would not embarrass the government during the debate. According to Gorton, McMahon told him that Packer had no influence on him at all and that he had an independent mind that ensured he was in and out of favour with the press. Most importantly, he wanted Whitlam’s motion gone, dealt with before the dinner break, so that it would not impede or interrupt his government’s first budget. Therefore, while agreeing to a suspension of standing orders in the House, he wanted only two people to reply: himself and Anthony. If the opposition criticised Gorton, then, yes, he ‘might come in’ to the debate. It was clear that McMahon was nervous, worried that Gorton might cross the floor or divulge details and information about the travails of recent years.20 After Gorton left, McMahon set to work on Killen to find out what he would do during the debate.21

  But it was neither Gorton nor Killen that McMahon should have been worried about. The real threat was Whitlam, whose ascendancy over McMahon in the House of Representatives was established and the object of entertainment for both sides. Whitlam’s preparation was thorough. His argument was crisp. His lines were sharp.

  McMahon, he told the House, had been duplicitous about the circumstances in which he had sacked Les Bury. McMahon, he told the House, had held Australia up to ridicule by his actions as prime minister. McMahon, he said, was now again under censure. ‘No Prime Minister in the history of Federation has had this experience.’ And both motions, he said, had one point in common: ‘They spring directly from the conduct of the Prime Minister.’ McMahon had lied about Bury’s health; he had worked in tandem with the Packer press to ensure Gorton’s downfall. The devastating and memorable point of the speech came as Whitlam canvassed how McMahon had reacted to news of Gorton’s article in The Sunday Australian. ‘He did nothing on the whole of the late afternoon and the night before the article appeared in the newspaper,’ Whitlam said: