Pitched Battle

by Larry Writer

  The Darghan Street house was targeted by National Socialists. The words ‘Red Rat’ were painted on the front path in large red letters surrounded by swastikas. Burgmann simply added an ‘F’ to ‘Red’, and the AAM headquarters was henceforth known as the House of Fred Rat. The Nazis used such auspicious occasions as Adolf Hitler’s birthday to throw bricks through the windows of the Darghan Street house and other homes and offices of AAM members. Denis Freney recalled an evening when a group gathered to listen to a talk about Bob Dylan, and a brick shattered the shopfront window and hit an American on the knee. The American had survived the Vietnam War without a scratch, yet now, in supposedly safe Sydney, he laughed, his knee was smashed by a Nazi brick. The National Socialists also used bricks to break the windows of the homes of some who wrote letters to newspapers critical of the Springboks and apartheid.

  At Johannesburg’s Jan Smuts Airport on 24 June, the Springbok team was farewelled by many thousands of well-wishers. Danie Craven retreated, if only momentarily, from the bellicosity of his earlier statements, to declare that there was little chance that the Springboks would encounter in Australia the hatred they’d been subjected to in Britain in 1969–70. This was, he explained, because of the shared ideals of South Africa and Australia, which included law and order, and respect for visitors. ‘Rugby is sport, not politics. Rugby people do not make the laws of the land, all we want to do is play rugby. I wish that people would stop meddling in matters that do not concern them.’ But when a journalist asked him what would happen if Australian anti-apartheid protesters physically attacked the Springboks, he reverted to form, grimly responding, ‘Well, I’m sure the players are not violent men, and they know they must do their country proud, but if it was me under attack, I’d trade punch for punch.’

  Before they flew out, Craven formed a huddle with his men. No doubt with eyes shining, he reminded the Springboks that they were doubly honoured: ‘You will be representing the great sport of rugby and be spokesmen for our way of life … You will be representing millions of South Africans. We will stand by you through thick and thin whatever happens and we know you will do your best. We have many friends in Australia and we have many great memories of previous tours and we look forward to another good tour even if faced with difficulties.’

  Springbok captain Hannes Marais assured reporters that he and his teammates were not regarding the tour as a nightmare but as an adventure, and they were determined to enjoy it.

  Tour manager Flappie Lochner expressed his gratitude to the Australian government for its support, with words that nevertheless implied that the task of ensuring his men were kept safe from harm in Australia was the personal responsibility of Prime Minister McMahon. ‘[He] is in favour of the tour and this helps us tremendously. I personally would like to thank the Prime Minister when we get to Australia.’

  PART TWO

  INTO THE FRAY

  CHAPTER 12

  THE WILD WEST

  After their plane had been searched for explosive devices, the Springboks’ South African Airways Boeing 707 soared into a cloudless Johannesburg sky. Soon the team was 39,000 feet above the Indian Ocean on its way to Perth to kick off the tour of Australia, where the controversy over their visit was already in full swing.

  As the footballers were reclining in their seats enjoying SAA hospitality, one of the few peaceful times they would know for a while, ACTU president Bob Hawke was stepping up his campaign to have transport and hospitality unions black ban the Boks. In return, the Australian government and much of the media were flaying the ACTU. As far as The Canberra Times was concerned, the ACTU was exercising ‘an illegitimate, tyrannical and dangerous use of industrial power’. The political action advocated by Hawke exceeded the mandate of the trade-union movement, they said. ‘There is ample evidence that the ban is being foisted upon union memberships against the wishes of many unionists and therefore it is undemocratic. Further, the unions involved are seeking to impose on the people of Australia a view that large numbers do not share: A lot of people who object to the abominable racial discrimination practised by South Africa do not believe that playing rugby with a South African team is an endorsement of South Africa’s policies. Those who believe that playing with South African teams is evil may say so and they may stay away from the games but they may not use threats to deter those who disagree with them. It is an intolerable presumption on their part to make plans to actively obstruct the tour. The trade union movement has no qualifications to set itself up as the conscience of Australia. The unions’ intolerant interference is building up into a full-scale confrontation with a large segment of the population and with the Federal Government.’

  A couple of hours before the Springboks touched down in Perth, Bishop Edward Crowther arrived in the West Australian capital from California and began delivering impassioned speeches to anti-apartheid campaigners, detailing the injustices he had witnessed and personally experienced in South Africa and why the Springbok tour must be stopped. The time for silent protest vigils was over, and nothing less than civil disobedience, starting right here in Perth and continuing in every state until the tourists fled with their tails between their legs, was essential. But there must be no violence. ‘I’m in Australia to offer an alternative to violence. The issue is that we learn to live together as brothers or we die together as fools.’

  AAM convenor Peter McGregor flew from Sydney to welcome Crowther, and found they had much in common. He later wrote in his notebook: ‘We both believe in civil disobedience. We don’t believe in violence. We’re opposing a system based on violence. We try to avoid violence, but we will defend ourselves. We’re engaged in direct action, not symbolic action. Vietnam taught us that peaceful protest does not affect change. We’ll do anything short of physical violence to disrupt matches and ensure that sport with apartheid cannot continue. We’re willing to demonstrate, run onto the field during a game and get arrested. We don’t mind damaging property and buildings if need be to make our point. This is sabotage, whereas violence to humans is terrorism which we want no part of. We’re a practical problem. Rugby and cricket are important elements in white South African society, and targeting these cherished sports can make white South Africans, and the world, aware of political repression and human rights violations in South Africa. Bishop Crowther and Peter Hain are inspirations to us, but most inspiring of all have been the seven Wallabies who stood tall and sacrificed their careers as footballers for a principle. Their bravery and decency have forced some members of the public, politicians, sporting officials and spectators to think, “Well, perhaps they have a point.” Respected sports people who were coming from a position of personal experience of apartheid in South Africa are making many more Australians than would have been the case if they’d remained silent say, “You know, the demonstrators may be right.”’

  Peter Hain arrived in Sydney fresh from facing charges in London’s Bow Street Magistrates’ Court of breaking the law to disrupt the 1970 Springbok tour of Britain, the South African cricket tour, and a South African Davis Cup tennis match. Shrugging all that off, Hain told reporters at his airport press conference that his focus now was to assist the anti-Springbok campaign in Australia. ‘I’m not here to organise demonstrations but I’m putting myself at the campaigners’ disposal, be it at media calls, union halls or campuses, as they maintain pressure on the South African players and undermine their spirit. Nobody is pretending that stopping a sports tour will stop apartheid … [Apartheid] is not crumbling. It’s getting worse. But there is a climate at last in the sports arena of not talking any more, but doing. I also know [disrupting sporting tours by racially selected teams] has been a tremendous boost to non-white South Africans.’

  In Sydney, too, the AAM had marked the Springboks’ arrival by graffitiing the red-brick walls of the hallowed Sydney Cricket Ground, where the South Africans would play Sydney on 6 July, New South Wales on 10 July, and the Wallabies in the First and Thir
d Tests on 17 July and 7 August. The slogans were spray-painted in metre-high letters: ‘Smash Apartheid!’, ‘Would Jesus Have Played With the Springboks?’, ‘This Isn’t Nice … and Neither is Apartheid!’, and the perennial ‘Paint ’em Black, and Send ’em Back!’

  With rugby union a minor sport in Perth, and the anti-apartheid forces fewer there than in other states, the Australian Rugby Union and the West Australian Rugby Union hoped that the Springboks would have a soft landing. That was wishful thinking. A week before the Springboks arrived, a group described by local media as ‘long-haired, grubby students’ had picketed the South African Airways office in Elizabeth Street, carrying ‘Go Home Springboks’, ‘Apartheid Is a Blood Sport!’, and ‘No Apartheid’ signs. ‘Fly SAA the Racist Way’ was daubed on the front window. When confronted by members of the South Africa–Australia Association, the protesters had accused them of being Nazis, screamed ‘Sieg Heil!’, and flung the straight-arm salute into their faces. Tempers flared, and violence was only narrowly averted.

  CARIS’s Perth leader, Bob French, a Liberal Party MP and the only conservative politician to speak out against the tour, had said his members would stand passive vigil and distribute the Australia–South Africa: an appeal from some Wallabies leaflets outside Perth’s Perry Lakes Stadium during the WA–Springboks match. The AAM’s West Australian chairman, 18-year-old arts student Rupert Gerritsen (who would become one of Australia’s foremost authorities on Australian Indigenous history), had refused to divulge what form of direct action his people would adopt, but, while keeping the authorities guessing, he expressed his view that Australians’ ‘elevation of sport into a sacred cow … which transcends all other issues … is pitiful’. The police were relishing the challenge of enforcing law and order, and hoped rugby fans, although their anger at their sport being threatened was understandable, would not take matters into their own hands.

  The Springboks’ plane touched down at Perth Airport at 12.22 a.m. on 26 June 1971.

  When the aircraft taxied to a stop at the international terminal, the players peering from their windows saw it was ringed by 300 Commonwealth and state police. They’d been assigned to protect the players from several hundred anti-apartheid demonstrators, led by Bishop Crowther, who was decked out in a purple gown and with a gold cross around his neck. The protesters were chanting anti-apartheid slogans and brandishing signs telling the visitors to go home.

  Suddenly, a mob of rugby union players and fans who had been lurking at the airport ambushed the demonstrators, punching them, pulling their hair, pelting them with eggs and flour bombs, and tearing signs from their hands, all the while yelling, ‘We want the Springboks!’ and ‘We want rugby!’ Police did little to stop the attacks, and despite the protesters getting much the worse of the brawl, 15 of them were arrested. No rugby supporter was apprehended. The only favour the police did for the protesters was to rescue Bishop Crowther, who, while trying to usher the demonstrators out of the airport to safety, was jostled by burly men shouting ‘Fuck off, Crowther, you bastard!’ The bishop’s car was rocked and nearly overturned as he tried to drive to safety.

  While profanities and fists flew, police and rugby officials drove the Springboks out of the airport to the Town House hotel in Hay Street. They arrived around 2.00 a.m. Barely had the footballers checked in when 200 chanting demonstrators took up position across the road, yelling, blowing whistles, and singing protest songs. Inside the hotel, as most of the jet-lagged team tried to snatch some sleep before the match against Western Australia at 3.00 that afternoon, manager Flappie Lochner, ARU chairman Charles Blunt, captain Hannes Marais, and vice-captain Tommy Bedford fronted a press conference. The South Africans looked bone-weary and shaken but claimed to be unfazed by the scenes at the airport and the din that was going on outside in the street. ‘I thought it would have been much worse,’ said Marais, unconvincingly. Says Norm Tasker, who was reporting on the tour, ‘I think some of the Boks, those who hadn’t been on the UK tour, were genuinely surprised by the animosity and by Roxburgh, McDonald, and the others refusing to play against them. Those younger blokes had lived protected lives centred on rugby and just didn’t realise how bad it was in their country and what the world thought of their government. They thought apartheid was normal because it was all they’d ever known. They’d been briefed that there’d be protests, but couldn’t understand what the anti-apartheid campaigners were on about.’

  Charles Blunt laid ground rules for media, echoing Hannes Marais. ‘This is a football tour. It is not political. If you please, we will have no political questions. These footballers came here to play football and that’s all.’ Donning his rose-coloured glasses, Blunt professed himself delighted by the welcome the tourists had received: ‘Just what I expected from Australia.’ But, interrupted one reporter, what about the demonstrations? ‘Demonstrations?’ said Blunt. ‘I didn’t see any demonstrations.’

  As Blunt spoke, a squad of police vehicles screeched to a stop outside the Town House and bundled 16 demonstrators into four paddy wagons.

  Across the continent, in the Sydney office of The Australian newspaper, foreign editor Robert Duffield was penning a thoughtful piece for tomorrow’s edition. The fading press clipping of the article was given to me by James Roxburgh, who had kept it down the decades as an example of one of the more clear-headed analyses as the Springbok tour got underway. Under the heading ‘Who Is Running the Country?’, Duffield wrote that, to him, the world that morning was a whirling kaleidoscope of colour — black, white, and grey. The government’s offer of Royal Australian Air Force planes to fly the Springboks struck Duffield as a radical intervention into civilian life, the labour movement was taking its greatest ever plunge into non-industrial politics, while ‘the so-called pro-tour forces form vigilante squads bent on assisting the police to “deal with” the protesters, whether the police want such help or not’.

  What, Duffield asked, were we arguing about? ‘Is it apartheid? Is it politics in sport, or the right of unions to interfere in non-industrial matters, or the efficacy of protests, or the good name of Australia? Does anybody know any more?’ He cited the plethora of confusing opinion polls published in the press, with their contradictory findings exploited by both sides. Duffield’s intelligence was insulted by such polls.

  Ultimately, he concluded that apartheid as practised in South Africa was a savage system, and that it was evil to select sports teams according to its policies, ‘no matter what nice chaps the team members may be’. It was the South African government that had put politics into sport, and ‘As an Australian I must therefore [non-violently] oppose such teams coming to my country. I must oppose them on lofty moral grounds but also because I do not want anyone else in the world to think me or my country as racist, nor as being tolerant of racism. I accept that this obliges me to speak out in the cause of Aboriginals and in favour of immigration reform.’ To do otherwise would have Australia branded a country of racists by the rest of the world. He accepted that some might disagree with this position, but would ‘have no truck with any Australian who refuses to take a point of view on this issue’.

  The South African team chosen for the match against Western Australia comprised six players who had played in the recent tests against France and a number of debutants. In the local team were two Maoris and a Eurasian, none of whose selection drew a response from the Springboks. Premier ‘Honest’ John Tonkin and West Australian governor Sir Douglas Kendrew, who had captained the England rugby union team in 1935, declined their invitation from the West Australian Rugby Union to be VIPs at the match. They offered no reasons.

  The Springboks, their speed and power undimmed by sleeplessness, jetlag, and lack of recent game time, thrashed the locals 44–18 in front of a crowd of 7,000. South African halfback Joggie Viljoen scored three tries. The Australians could score only a single try, by their best player, Wallaby aspirant and part-Maori Bob Thompson, who also kicked five penalty goals.

>   As would happen repeatedly over the next months, the result and the visitor’s fine form were footnotes to the bigger story: anti-apartheid protesters’ attempts to disrupt the match and the authorities’ attempts to disrupt them.

  In the hours before the match, campaign leader Rupert Gerritsen had told police and media that he was abandoning plans to invade the field during the game. Instead, he and his 400 demonstrators would join CARIS in a peaceful vigil outside the stadium gates. This was a ruse, which had the desired effect of tricking the authorities into lowering their guard. During the second half of the game, around 100 protesters dropped their leaflets and, evading the clutches of 400 police, ran en masse into the stadium. Led by Dean Anderson, a veteran of Vietnam War demonstrations, they gathered at one end of the field on the boundary fence, where they waved their banners and whistled, and yelled their slogans and ‘Sieg Heil!’ Rugby union fans, who had given the Springboks a standing ovation when they ran onto the field again, attacked the protesters. The demonstrators were expecting the leather-clad, motorcycle-helmet-wearing police to join forces with the rugby vigilantes, as they’d done at the airport, so were relieved when the police — probably under instructions from the Labor state government, which had been shaken by the violence at the airport when the visitors landed — this time protected them from the vigilantes. Ten demonstrators and rugby supporters were arrested. Meanwhile, the Springboks racked up a cricket score.