QF32 Read online

  I served during the terms of Sir Zelman Cowen and Sir Ninian Stephen, two remarkable yet very different people who had reached the pinnacle of their careers. It was an honour to work with two such distinguished governors-general.

  The three ADCs lived with the governor-general’s family at Government House overlooking the serene Lake Burley-Griffin in Canberra. The ADCs had breakfast by ourselves but attended nearly all lunches and dinners with Their Excellencies. At the age of 25, it was the opportunity of a lifetime to be involved in the extraordinary conversations that took place over lunch and dinner. After a private game of tennis with Sir Zelman one Sunday, I remember asking him how he had reached such a prominent position. I was reassured by his response. ‘It was all hard work and dedication,’ Sir Zelman said. ‘I never aimed for greatness and I certainly never thought Anna and I would end up living here at Yarralumla.’ Sir Ninian gave a very similar reply. Although they probably never realised it, I considered Sirs Zelman and Ninian mentors.

  The ADC’s job had its perks. We wanted for nothing. We had cooks, footmen, housemaids and secretaries to assist us. We could order anything to eat or drink, which is how I ended up one night enjoying lasagne and thinking, ‘What a rather excellent wine.’ I’d asked for a glass of red and they brought up a bottle of Grange Hermitage.

  It was a busy and strange life with a frantic schedule, and the three ADCs were required to cope with the unrelenting workload. We often worked sixteen-hour days, were on call 24 hours a day and only averaged one day off each month. The daily dress for the duty ADC was military ‘number ones’, and we had to be immaculate, from trim haircuts right down to our spit-polished shoes. Sir Zelman averaged two public events per day in any one of Australia’s six states and two territories; so many events that his nickname was ‘Can-O-Mat’, after an innovative kitchen device that would ‘open anything’. The ADCs organised all the functions, liaising with the organisers, special service security and transport. We ensured the hosts understood and complied with vice-regal protocols. We produced an ‘order’ for every event comprising timings to the nearest minute, greeting lines, seating plans and summaries of all attending guests. It was our job to check the list of attendees for sensitive people and groups, and to ensure the required protocol was being attended to and the office of the governor-general was protected.

  I met the most extraordinary people during my time as an ADC: prime ministers, politicians, diplomats and business leaders. The Queen, Prince Philip, Prince Charles and Princess Diana all toured during my shift.

  There were many memorable functions. I remember a Yugoslavian function where we discovered that 1500 Serbs and Croatians would be meeting together under one roof. Over the previous two years the Serbs and Croats had been conducting private wars in Melbourne, bombing offices in South Yarra and shooting each other on motorbikes. We were very concerned at the possibility of violence at the event, but the organisers promised that all guests would be well behaved for Sir Ninian. Indeed, both sides had agreed that no knives would be brought to the event! Security was set to an all-time high and over 100 plain-clothed federal policemen were in attendance, just in case.

  Working with the governor-general gave me insights into politics and personalities. For instance, one of my specified jobs was to organise the governor-general’s travel, which meant scheduling the Air Force VIP jets. This was an interesting task because in Commonwealth protocol the governor-general has first dibs on the VIP jets over the prime minister. It wasn’t that there was only one plane – there were two – but, of course, the first choice for any person of importance was the larger BAC 1-11, rather than the smaller executive jet-sized Mystere. On the BAC 1-11 (about the size of a Boeing 737), the VIP could travel with a large retinue and stretch out with a lot of space. The Mystere was cramped and you had to duck to enter it.

  This discrepancy in VIP jets was made more interesting by the fact that Malcolm Fraser, the prime minister of the day, was a very tall man who hated the Mystere because he had to move around it like Quasimodo. Fraser was not a tolerant man and made it very clear through his staff’s dealings with Government House that life would be much better for everyone if Sir Zelman simply accepted the Mystere – which Sir Zelman rarely did, because Sir Zelman also liked the BAC 1-11.

  Sir Zelman was a much-loved public figure. He had become Australia’s nineteenth governor-general after the famous 1975 dismissal by the previous governor-general, Sir John Kerr, of the serving prime minister, Gough Whitlam. A great proportion of Australians disagreed with Kerr’s actions. The reputation of the governor-general, and even the need for a monarch, was questioned. When Sir Zelman became governor-general, he was acutely aware of the tenuous state of the vice-regal office he had just inherited. He knew he had a tough battle in front of him but he worked tirelessly, healing the wounds of the past and earning the Australian people’s respect and loyalty.

  Sir Ninian Stephen was also a remarkable governor-general. At work or around the house, Sir Ninian and Lady Stephen were the most capable, compassionate, caring, friendly and relaxed couple you would ever want to meet. They had the rare ability to engage with a king or a cleaner and make them both feel equally important and at ease.

  The 3rd of February 1983 was a fascinating day at Government House. Sir Ninian Stephen was home at Yarralumla, Bill Hayden was the leader of the opposition Labor Party, and Malcolm Fraser was prime minister. The press had speculated that Fraser was going to call an early election to capitalise on Hayden and the Labor Party’s weakness at the polls.

  On this morning, Malcolm Fraser had apparently got wind of a meeting in Queensland between Hayden and Labor shadow minister Bob Hawke, and that a press conference was to be held by them later that morning. Fraser’s intelligence was correct: Hayden would announce he would relinquish his leadership of the Labor Party and pass it on to Hawke. Fraser had other plans. If he could dissolve both houses of parliament before Hawke took over the opposition leadership, the opposition leadership would effectively be frozen with Hayden at the helm. Fraser’s head of the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet rang the official secretary to the governor-general at 9.00 am to enquire about the governor-general’s engagements that day. He was told Sir Ninian would be spending most of the day at his desk and that his only official engagement was a farewell meeting at 12.45 pm with the departing Polish ambassador and his wife, who would stay for lunch.

  The first that we in the ADC office knew about any of this was when two bells went off in The House at about 12.30 pm. One bell going off meant you had to go to the official portico entrance because there was a visitor who had to be greeted. When three bells went off, the governor-general was arriving at the private entrance and had to be greeted. When two bells sounded, it signalled the prime minister had passed the gatehouse and was on his way to the private entrance – a courtesy extended to the prime minister.

  Two bells! The other two aides and I looked at one another in the office. I was the duty ADC, so I was in my uniform and I had to greet the prime minister. We hurriedly looked through the daily schedule we produced for the governor-general and the 70 Government House staff, but could see nothing special. The secretary had also heard the bells and, in disbelief, thumbed through his diary and schedule. There were no entries for a meeting between the prime minister and the governor-general, and unannounced meetings between these two constitutional pivots of the Australian system have never occurred in living memory.

  As we were looking at each other, wondering who among us had missed the prime minister’s appointment, we saw the prime ministerial white car flashing past outside our window, screaming down the narrow drive towards the private entrance.

  Any chance of my gracefully receiving the prime minister at the side door vanished as the white car disappeared out of view, now very close to the private entrance. I grabbed my jacket and ran for the private entrance, wondering how I was going to handle this. No one was expecting the prime minister and there was no time for me to
warn the governor-general, so I turned back and asked the other ADCs to warn the staff. Sir Ninian was in his office, reading and relaxing with a cup of tea. He wasn’t ready for a meeting with the prime minister, so it was my job to protect the governor-general and ensure the prime minister adhered to protocol.

  The race was on. By the time I got near, Fraser had beaten me to the private entrance. He hadn’t even knocked and waited. As I rounded the corner into the private entrance foyer, his towering form had charged though the patio door and he had advanced inside Government House. I moved to greet him but he walked around me, not even bothering to acknowledge me, and charged straight for the governor-general’s study.

  I ran around Fraser, stood in front of him and blocked his entrance to Sir Ninian’s study. I’m almost the same height as Fraser and I probably looked young and fit, but it didn’t faze him. He looked me in the eye and simply said, ‘I’m here to see the governor-general.’

  I told him I’d announce him to Sir Ninian. He eye-balled me. I asked him to take a seat in the morning room. He sized me up and down slowly, and then turned reluctantly for the morning room. It was most unpleasant.

  I ducked into Sir Ninian’s study. He was reclined in his chair reading with a pipe in his mouth and his feet up, shoes off, on his immaculate leather-covered desk. I told him the prime minister was here and demanding to see him.

  Sir Ninian looked confused. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But he’s awfully determined and in a hurry.’

  Sir Ninian thought about this and then said, ‘Okay – give me 30 seconds and then show him in.’

  When I showed Malcolm Fraser into Sir Ninian’s study, he almost ran into the office.

  After meeting with Fraser, Sir Ninian and Lady Stephen hosted a lunch to farewell the departing Polish ambassador and his wife. I was attending the lunch and it was an awkward time. We could all see Sir Ninian’s mind was distracted and he apologised for only staying at the lunch for 45 minutes before retiring to his study. He did at least say that ‘something unusual’ had arisen and that we’d all know about it from the press within a few hours. We subsequently learned that the prime minister had handed the governor-general a 39-page document.

  The gossip around Yarralumla was that Fraser had turned up at Government House that morning to demand an immediate double dissolution. Indeed Fraser had supposedly organised a press conference for 1.00 pm Canberra time to announce the double dissolution, expecting it to lead the news of Hawke’s ascendency. But Sir Ninian had told Fraser that he couldn’t dissolve both houses of parliament without first studying the 39 pages that Fraser had just delivered. Sir Ninian promised to call Fraser at 3.30 that afternoon.

  Fraser’s plan had come unstuck. He’d left Yarralumla empty-handed and furious. The 1.00 pm press conference (noon Queensland time) would be cancelled. Not only had he not got his way, Fraser’s dash to Government House had also been detected by the media and rumours were now rife of an imminent double dissolution and an early election.

  Sir Ninian was back in his office by about 2.00 pm. True to his word, he called Fraser at 3.30 pm and asked for additional information to be provided. A letter containing that information was delivered to Sir Ninian at 4.45 pm. After reading this additional information Sir Ninian advised Fraser there were sufficient reasons to dissolve both houses of parliament. At 5.00 pm, Fraser announced at a press conference that both the House of Representatives and the Senate would be dissolved by the governor-general, and the government would be put into caretaker mode.

  Fraser’s timing was unfortunate. Having found out the governor-general’s schedule was free for the entire morning, had he taken this opportunity to visit him earlier, perhaps the governor-general would have had sufficient time to read the 39-page document and grant the request for a double dissolution, all before Hayden’s press conference, and Fraser would have achieved his ambition to go to an early election against Hayden.

  But Hayden’s press conference was delivered on time at about 1 pm Canberra time. Hawke was announced as the new leader of the Labor Party and Fraser was ensnared by his own trap. Fraser could have declined to give the governor-general any additional information, in which case the government would probably have continued through its normal term with an election much later. But such a reversal by Fraser would have probably exposed and weakened his reputation.

  The double dissolution was actioned and an election ran in which Australians voted for Hawke in a decisive victory against Fraser. Fraser’s mistake was to take too long to approach Government House that morning and expect the governor-general to immediately rubberstamp his request for a double dissolution. Sir Ninian’s brilliance at managing a constitutional crisis was proven.

  My experiences at Government House would serve to change my plans for my military career. When I joined the RAAF, my long-term aspiration was to ascend the ranks and end up at ‘the top’ as chief of the Air Force. But as my term as ADC progressed I began to question these plans. I had a privileged view of the lives, skills and personalities of Australia’s political leaders, and I didn’t like all I saw, and I wasn’t alone.

  Some of the politicians were at best appalling and many had scant knowledge of the industry or their responsibilities. I had an epiphany: if I remained in the military and became the chief of the Air Force I would have to serve and answer to incompetent politicians. I was not going to waste my career getting to the top of the RAAF only to end up answering to people I didn’t respect. I saw no future for me in the RAAF – I had to find an alternate career.

  After fifteen months of being ADC to two governors-general, I had two more years of payback owing to the RAAF until I was free to move on to newer challenges. In the Air Force the compensation for being an ADC is that you get your choice of posting. Here again was my chance to go to F-111s. This time it should work.

  I had become close friends with Stuart McAllister, my old commanding officer for the Caribous at 38 Squadron in Richmond. He had watched my career progress and was now conveniently in charge of all RAAF officer postings. I could not have been more fortunate. I told Stu I wanted the F-111s again – I really wanted to fly the fastest and the best, and nothing in Australian aviation went faster or was more challenging than the F-111. Stuart said F-111s was possible but, acting as my mentor, he made a very good suggestion.

  The problem with the F-111 was that it had never been used in operational conflict. The F-111 was Australia’s most significant deterrent, but a deterrent like the F-111 is best protected if it is never actually deployed. Stuart explained if I went straight to F-111s I would finish that posting as a suc­cessful middle-ranked RAAF officer, but unfortunately an officer who has never experienced real operations at conflicts such as Vietnam or Korea. Stuart’s suggestion was simple. I should take an operational posting overseas, then transfer to the F-111s. Such an opportunity existed.

  The Iroquois helicopters were being deployed to Egypt as part of Australia’s contribution to the Multinational Force and Observers (MFO). Here was an operational posting overseas where every pilot learns invaluable operational experiences. But I was worried.

  ‘Stu, every pilot who transfers to helicopters gets stuck there,’ I said. ‘They never escape from the rotary world. I can’t afford to be stuck on choppers for the rest of my career. I want F-111s!’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ said Stuart. ‘I’ll look after you.’

  Here was a gamble and an opportunity. With Stuart McAllister’s help, I’d be posted to Iroquois helicopters, get my operational command, then get posted to the Sinai to gain essential operational experience (a real leg-up in the Austra­lian military), then finally be posted to F-111s. But there was the risk I’d be stuck in choppers for the rest of my career if Stu McAlister left the postings division or fell under a truck. All my friends thought I was crazy, but with risk comes reward and the opportunity was too extraordinary to pass up. So I went for it.

  CHAPTER 6

  T
he Road to Cairo

  In the early 1980s, Australia contributed to the Multinational Force and Observers (MFO) in the Sinai Peninsula, an effort designed to keep the peace between Israel and Egypt.

  I was posted to number 5 Squadron in Canberra to fly Iroquois. This would be my first experience in rotary-wing aircraft.

  In a fixed-wing aircraft, such as a Caribou, the airframe is bolted firmly to the rigid wing set. When the pilot sets a flight path (we call it the ‘attitude’), the inherent stability of the fixed-wing design keeps the attitude constant – you can even take your hands off the controls for a short time. Many flight control surfaces are used to change the attitude and control flight: the ailerons at the end of the wings provide a differential lift laterally, causing the aircraft to bank left or right; the slats and flaps along the forward and aft edge of the wings are used to alter the wing size and enable aircraft to take off and land on shorter runways; and the horizontal stabiliser and elevators provide a torque to rotate the aircraft into a nose high/low attitude.

  Helicopters are different.

  Helicopters are naturally unstable machines and they don’t naturally want to fly. We look up and see helicopters looking smooth, elegant and controlled when they’re flown by pro­fessionals, but this is an illusion. It all comes down to their complicated design. In a nutshell, helicopter pilots fly the rotor disc through the sky, expecting that the fuselage will follow after a short delay. You can never take your hands off the helicopter’s controls – constant input is needed to maintain a steady attitude.

  My helicopter conversion was eye-opening, a case of learning ‘101 ways to kill yourself without trying’. We trained for possibilities like engine and tail rotor failures. We couldn’t train for the worst – a mast bump followed by a main rotor failure – because we would have died. The mast bump was particularly nasty, occurring when the machine’s centre of gravity moves out of limits, or the pilot pushes too aggressively on the stick or pushes negative G. (Negative G force is the force you feel during a roller-coaster ride when your body hangs upside down, restrained only by the shoulder straps.) The results of a mast bump typically follow the same sequence: the main rotor blades fracture the hinge that connects them to the mast, the rotor disc wobbles, the left side slightly down, then a rotor blade penetrates the windscreen and slices the co-pilot in half at chest level. It was cheerfully related lessons such as this that made my 100 hours of basic instruction pass rather quickly.