Shortly after her accession to the throne, Queen Elizabeth II confirmed her late father’s decision to grant a colour to the RAAF. The presentation of that colour was set for 17 September, with the governor-general, William McKell, to represent the Queen. News of the pending presentation attracted the ire of the archbishop of Melbourne and Catholic chaplain-general of the army, Dr Daniel Mannix. He had long been opposed to the Anglican ‘consecration’ that was embedded within these ceremonies. For Mannix, forcing Catholic personnel to attend these ceremonies smacked of an institutionalised sectarianism.
Moreover, it was unlawful constitutionally. Section 116 of the constitution was clear: ‘The Commonwealth shall not make any law … for imposing any religious observance.’35 By its maintenance of the Anglican elements of the ceremony, was the RAAF not contravening this? Was it not trying to impose a religious observance on some members, prohibiting the free observance of their own religion? Even if there were no constitutional questions, Catholic law was unequivocal: it forbade active participation ‘in the worship of non-Catholics’.36 How could Catholic military personnel, in all good conscience, be commanded to attend these ceremonies? Catholic clergy had asked this question as far back as 1905, but a series of ad hoc compromises and exploitation of unofficial loopholes had ensured it was addressed without ever being answered.
As the time for presentation of the Colour drew near, the military hierarchy sought to silence the opposition and protests raised by Catholic personnel who had been ordered to attend. Cadets at the RAAF College at Point Cook were told that they were risking their careers. Officers were threatened with courts martial. The Catholic chaplain was accused of violating his oath of allegiance.
Ineptitude and intransigence characterised the RAAF’s handling of the matter, and McMahon backed them up. His conversion, his upbringing, and his party: all these now insulated him from the objections. He was uncompromising. In the name of tradition, he insisted that the presentation proceed without change.37 Against this refusal to engage and the possibility of repercussions to Catholic military personnel, Mannix backed off. With great reluctance, the archbishop granted a dispensation to those personnel to attend, and the parade went ahead with only one disruption to tradition: when the governor-general’s plane was delayed, McMahon was obliged to stand in for McKell and present the light blue, wattle-embroidered flag to an airman, who received it on bended knee.38
Two months later, McMahon left Australia for his first international trip as a minister. He inspected efforts to rebuild the naval base on Manus Island. He stayed overnight in Guam, somehow lost his wallet,39 and flew on to Tokyo and then to Korea, where he spent four days meeting servicemen from all three branches of the defence force. He moved among generals and diplomats; had a ‘wonderful flight’ in a Meteor aircraft; and, in a gaberdine coat and dark homburg, visited the front lines to shake hands and meet troops.40 From there, he travelled to the Philippines and then Hong Kong. On the border, he was confronted by Chinese guards who, from across the river, pointed guns at his party while taking surveillance photographs. ‘It is rather a horrifying experience to be looking down the barrel of a Sten gun,’ he said afterward. ‘Naturally we backed away rather hastily.’41 In Laos, he took part in an air strike on communist targets; then he returned to Australia via Singapore, arriving home on 14 December.
McMahon did not confine himself to his portfolio. In cabinet meetings, he was reputed to contribute regularly to discussions about economic matters, often to the chagrin of Arthur Fadden; in private, he could be sanctimonious, as when he wrote to John McEwen to tell him that the release of price estimates by the Bureau of Agricultural Economics had caused ‘unnecessary harm’ to the government because they were not adequately explained.42 After explaining the real issue, McEwen offered a sardonic rebuke: ‘How lucky you are to have only the Navy and the Air Force to worry about.’43 In the House, McMahon’s speeches were similarly directed towards economics and taxation.44 They were notably heavy on statistics. McMahon loved numbers, and delighted in figures that he could lob across the chamber. He would reel off astronomical-sounding sums, one on top of the other, as though they could bludgeon his opponents. He fancied himself a performer, an attack dog, yet was often mocked as a lightweight.45 ‘Was not the Minister selected by a newspaper as one of the best-dressed men in the Commonwealth?’ Eddie Ward sneered at him.46
The image was deceptive. McMahon was capable of deeper things. He could engage with ideas, as he demonstrated in a paper presented to the Australian Institute of Political Science in September 1953. In an address significant for its exposition of his political beliefs and notable for its peculiarity among Liberals of this period, McMahon spoke about the Liberal Party and the intersection of religion, politics, and philosophy. Beginning with the caveat that ‘in the short run, political activity undoubtedly bows to expediency’ — a key admission of the necessity of pragmatism in politics — McMahon said that four basic assumptions about nature influenced his views of political action.
The first was his explicitly Christian belief that the individual was the ‘central feature of society’. From this followed his rejection of the views of Hegel and Marx, of Plato’s ideas of the Republic, and any suggestion that the state had an inherent value that might trump the value of the individual. Second was his emphasis on the individual as the changing force in society, ahead of the ‘forms or conditions of production’ that McMahon argued communism and socialism emphasised. ‘As the individual is the driving force in society and undoubtedly responds to external stimulae — to rewards of one kind or another,’ McMahon said, ‘he must have satisfactory incentives for effort and achievement.’ Third, the Doctrine of Original Sin meant that Man was fallible and susceptible to sin. Power should therefore be distributed in order to prevent the abuse that arose from this inherent fallibility. Fourth, possession of a free will was the source of all good and evil: ‘Without free will there can be no evil.’
From these four assumptions followed his argument that parliamentary democracy, as ‘the source and custodian of our essential liberties’, was the way by which the individual could develop and liberties be safeguarded; and from them also stemmed his regard for the government and Parliament as ‘the responsible authority for keeping healthy the economic climate in which society works’. For McMahon, the political foundation of the liberal system was based upon the need to preserve the ‘essential civil freedoms’ of speech and worship, assembly and association, of choice of occupation, of management of income and property. These were the ultimate ends of liberalism, and ‘the liberal view’ held that constraints of the law and constitution were the bulwarks for the protection of these freedoms.
Liberalism was ‘not a dogma’, he said. ‘It is more an opportunity than a way.’ Comparing this favourably with the fixed theories of communism and socialism, McMahon argued that the flexibility offered by liberalism was more likely to lead to happiness. Yet he also noted that within his own party there were oddities and impracticalities: the lack of an ‘apostolic succession’ ensured that personality would predominate. ‘What one Prime Minister would attempt might be quite beyond the wish or capacity of his successor.’47
If the paper did nothing else, it confirmed that McMahon had given serious thought to the principles that girded his politics, and that they were based, in no small part, on his religious beliefs , which he practised by his weekly attendance at services at St Mark’s, Darling Point. For all the contradictions that his arguments raised — between freedom of association and assembly and the attempts to ban the Communist Party, between freedom of speech and his question of the appointment of Heinz Arndt — the address was notable for its acknowledgement of religious influence, the rarity of such discussions among Liberal Party politicians, and the concessions that McMahon made towards pragmatism and reality. One day, however, his caution about the capacities of a succeeding prime minister would seem prescient.
THE year 195
4 opened with widely felt anticipation about the Queen’s imminent visit to Australia. Amid a buoyant-seeming economy, the royal tour was widely acknowledged to precede the dissolution of the House of Representatives and the holding of an election. Behind the scenes, the parties were gearing up for the contest, but amid the preparation for the Queen’s visit they allowed some issues to slide — among them, military colours.
In the two years since the events at Point Cook, Archbishop Mannix had become resolved to ensuring that his objections to the entrenched Anglican tradition in the consecration of colours were recognised and properly answered. In mid-1953, as plans were made for the Queen to present a new colour to the Royal Military College at Duntroon during her tour, Mannix contacted the government to make it known that he would not give dispensation to Catholic cadets to attend the parade. The fair warning resolved nothing. The government procrastinated, leading to a frenzied series of negotiations in the following January and February that saw Menzies himself travelling to Melbourne to attempt to meet with the archbishop. Menzies had certainly recognised Mannix’s objections: when the archbishop cabled him on 12 February, he noted that Menzies had admitted the service at Point Cook was ‘indefencable [sic]’.48
Evidence also suggests that Menzies’ colleagues were less willing to recognise the grievance. Amid criticism in newspapers, Mannix released to the press the letters he had exchanged with the prime minister. ‘The press comments, based on leakage of information from the Federal Cabinet,’ Mannix explained to Menzies on 16 February, ‘had given the impression that the whole difficulty arose solely from an attempt on my part to embarrass Her Majesty, the Queen, at Duntroon.’49
By now they were too close to the presentation, and Menzies believed that press publicity ‘had greatly reduced the likelihood of a settlement’.50 The prime minister told Mannix that the situation would be resolved afterward — but, on this occasion, Mannix had to yield. The archbishop reluctantly complied, lifting the ban on Catholic cadets and their involvement. The Duntroon ceremonies went ahead.
It was not over. On 18 February, at HMAS Cerberus, the naval base in Victoria, while observing a dress rehearsal for the presentation of another colour by the Duke of Edinburgh on 2 March, members of the press were startled to see some 400 white hats bobbing through the rigid ranks of navy personnel assembled. It was the Catholic personnel, falling out and running from the parade ground before the dedication and consecration. As the Anglican senior chaplain recited the prayers, the Catholic personnel formed up under the shade of some trees by the Catholic chaplain, Father Lake, who said a prayer for the Queen. Then, once the eight-minute ceremony had finished, the Catholic members ran back to the main parade.51
The press was aghast. It looked like chaos. At best, it was unseemly; at worst, it was disgraceful. For the Catholic personnel, however, this ‘undignified action’ was a rehearsal for a worst-case scenario. ‘Catholics at the depot are not at all happy about having to leave the ground in the middle of the parade,’ Father Lake was quoted saying. ‘But if they turn it into an Anglican service, there is no alternative. No Catholic of conscience can participate in it.’52
These comments, and the imprimatur that the fallout apparently enjoyed from the Department of the Navy, prompted Menzies to call McMahon and demand an explanation. Cabinet had already noted that the issue was likely to linger, and had ‘invited’ Menzies to discuss it with McMahon.53 The publicity and outrageous comments from Lake led the prime minister to view the fallout as an embarrassment. According to McMahon, Menzies threatened demotion for seeming to allow it.54
But it was all a miscommunication. Lake had said no such thing to the press, McMahon told Menzies. Moreover, he had already sorted things to the satisfaction of all parties, and could defend the arranged fallout on grounds that the ad hoc compromises used before had become standard practice. He had written to Mannix and to the Catholic Archbishop of Sydney, Cardinal Norman Gilroy, to say as much.55
The next day, McMahon told the press that an agreement had been reached between the Department of the Navy and the Catholic Church. ‘Catholics will rejoin the ranks after the religious ceremony. This procedure complies with the age-long Royal Navy and Royal Australian Navy practice.’ The resentment and grievance could be easily healed, said the man who not two years before had insisted tradition was more important. ‘There is no good reason why there should not be a mutually satisfactory arrangement and I am sure a solution will be found in a more congenial atmosphere.’56
The ceremony went off as rehearsed. The Duke of Edinburgh presented the new colour. The Catholic personnel fell out in well-rehearsed order and rejoined the parade once the consecration had been made. Following the ceremony, the Duke met with dignitaries and shook hands. He met men he had served with during World War II: ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘this is a pleasure.’ He had a beer with them before leaving. The pageantry, the medals, and the shows of bonhomie were enough to crowd out any embarrassment from the break with tradition.57
WHEN the Queen and the Duke left Australia on 31 March, attention turned to the election. The twenty-ninth of May was to be the day of reckoning.58 Communism was hardly to be an issue: the government’s loss of the 1951 referendum and the political scars borne by the ALP seemed to have deterred both parties from raising it.
But on 13 April, the day before Parliament was to be prorogued, Menzies stood in the House just after the dinner adjournment and announced the defection of Vladimir Petrov, the third secretary at the Soviet Embassy: ‘Mr Petrov, who has been carrying out in Australia the functions of the Russian Ministry of State Security — the MVD — has disclosed a complete willingness and capacity to convey to our own security people a great number of documents and what may turn out to be much oral information and explanation.’ Asylum for this stocky, big-jowled man had been granted on 3 April, and he had brought with him a trove of documents that Menzies declared showed ‘there are matters affecting Australia’s security which call for judicial investigation’. The matter was too important to wait until the election was over, Menzies said. A Bill would be introduced the next day to make some requisite amendments to the royal commission legislation.59
The Labor Party greeted the news with silence. Evatt was in Sydney with no knowledge of what was happening, and in his absence the party made no reply to Menzies’ speech. As debate in the House moved to the Superannuation Bill, Evatt’s press secretary hurried to phone his leader. A short statement was issued within the hour; the next morning in the House, Evatt declared his support for the establishment of the royal commission.
However fiercely he did so, Evatt must have been aware that Petrov’s defection was a blow to his party and his chances of becoming prime minister — a blow that continued to reverberate throughout the subsequent election campaign. Evdokia Petrov, distraught in the firm grip of two hulking Soviet officials, was dragged through a roaring crowd to a plane to return to Russia, and then rescued in dramatic fashion at Darwin airport and reunited with her husband. The first formal hearings of the Royal Commission into Espionage, held in the Albert Hall, Canberra, were conducted against a backdrop of velvet curtains, with a cast of leading barristers and an audience of baying press. And while Menzies refrained from mentioning Petrov, others on the government side were not quite so decorous. In whose hands, Arthur Fadden asked voters, would you place the results of the royal commission — ‘R.G. Menzies with his splendid record, or H.V. Evatt with his?’60
Evatt tried to shift the terms of debate: in his policy speech on 6 May, he announced a programme of lower taxes, higher pensions, increased finance for housing, and the abolition of the means test on pensions within the next parliamentary term. He called it a ‘fighting programme’, but he was the one being fought.61 The papers dismissed it as a ‘gimme’ gimmick; the Coalition sneered that it was uncosted and expensive; William Bourke, a hardliner in the Victorian ALP, publicly criticised it.62
With no serious threat
in his own seat, McMahon was free to campaign in aid of other Coalition candidates.63 He told audiences that Labor was set on gerrymandering electoral boundaries, that abolishing the means test so quickly was impracticable, that the ALP was changing its tune on arbitration, and that it had no credentials on housing.64 Without mentioning Petrov directly, McMahon pointed his audiences that way: ‘Communism is an issue in this election; make no mistake about that.’65
When the ballots were counted, it became evident that the Coalition’s success in Queensland, where it won thirteen of the state’s eighteen seats, would keep it in office. The ALP attracted 50.1 per cent of the vote, but it was not able to spread those votes throughout the country. The government lost five seats, but gained one, resulting in a seven-seat majority.66
Almost immediately after the election, the press began to speculate about whether there would be a reshuffle of the ministry.67 The Liberal Party backbench, largely composed of idealistic and zealous ‘forty-niners’, had been grumbling at the government’s direction and the apparently immovable layer of ageing, sick men in the ministry. Menzies was disinclined to promote younger men, Alexander Downer thought, with the result that the front bench ‘was clouded by others of lesser magnitude who contrasted unfavourably with many of the men who sat behind them’.68 Although he, too, was a forty-niner, McMahon was the most junior minister, and goodwill towards him was scant, given the manner in which he had been promoted and conducted himself since 1951. There were suggestions that he, Howard Beale, and Paul Hasluck were all in the frame for demotion. The press wrote of whispered rebellions and of proposals for the backbench to elect a portion of the ministry.69 Journalist Harold Cox, who thought McMahon a hard worker and man of quick understanding, recalled that it was common wisdom that McMahon was to be dropped from the cabinet that year. Surprised, he raised it with John McEwen, who confirmed that the reports were true. Cox told McEwen that he thought it a shame: ‘He’s made blunders, but, after all, he’s a new minister.’ McEwen said that he agreed, and volunteered that he had often thought of who could take over his portfolio. ‘Obviously the next best man, or another man who could do it and do it superbly well, would be Menzies himself.’ Menzies, obviously, was not available to take the portfolio, McEwen went on, so it was a matter of the next best choice. ‘Now, the third man on my list for the job would be McMahon. That’s what I think of McMahon.’70
Tiberius with a Telephone Page 12
