Before I Sleep (15 page)

Mavis and I were befriended by a Fellow of Johns, the Reverend Dr Alan Welford whom I had met previously at the Psychology Department of the Australian National University. Alan and his wife, Ruth, were most kind, inviting us to private dinners in his quarters at the college, and explaining the nuances of Cambridge University life. Ian Barsby and I were dined also by our psychiatric lecturer, Donald West. He was a small, well-dressed, very intelligent lecturer on “deviant” behaviour, and he was an acknowledged authority on homosexuality. He was about my own age. I thought his lectures were very objective and well balanced; the man intrigued me. Ian and I went to his cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge and were introduced to his male partner. It seems extraordinarily naive now, but it had not occurred to either Ian or me that West himself might have been homosexual. This was my first experience of being involved socially with practising homosexuals. I think having got to know Donald West before learning about his sexual preference made it easier to then accept him for what he was. Up until then I had just had the normal copper's view of homosexuals: I thought they were a limp-wristed blot on the landscape. The shock of learning about West caused me to revise my own attitudes. I began to realise that, for some people, homosexuality was more normal than heterosexuality. To that extent, my acquaintance with West was very good for me — it rubbed off one of my bad patches. Ian and I had a very pleasant evening in a thoroughly civilised Cambridge household. Donald West also introduced us to some fellow authors whose books were set as texts to be studied on the course. I had never expected to meet these giants, and was surprised to find that they were interested in hearing of my work and reflections on Australian criminology. They invited my comments on their publications. They may have been kidding a colonial, of course, but my ego got a boost. I was delighted on one occasion to be dining with Robert Thouless, whose book
Straight and Crooked Thinking
had given me pleasure and knowledge when I had read it back in Australia some years earlier. He treated me as an equal, and ever since my “academic cringe” has almost vanished.

I had promised Mavis that, directly after my exams, we would have some weeks' holiday in Scotland, a country which she had always wanted to visit. We could afford this because I had arranged for the two of us to travel back to Australia for nothing by working our passage as English teachers on a migrant ship. Suddenly I received a telegram from Canberra saying that my deputy had suffered a heart attack and I was to return home immediately despite having four weeks' unused leave. I replied with the arrival date of the migrant ship and was told that this was not acceptable: we would have to fly home — at our own expense. I also lost the leave. At any other time I would have argued against this ruling, but I was keen to get back to campaign for the establishment of a similar Institute of Criminology in Australia, so I didn't want to rock the boat. Mavis has never chided me to this day about the cancellation of a visit to Scotland that she had yearned for, and earned.

We returned to a childless house that required far less housework than it once had. We both got back into scouting and guiding, I resumed study for my Master's degree and Mavis began a four-year part-time Diploma course in Horticulture. I was preoccupied with proposals at work, scouting and studies. I had returned to Australia strongly convinced that one way to upgrade not only the Commonwealth Police Force, but all Australian police forces, was to provide opportunities for selected officers to emulate my Cambridge experience. Since, unlike me, few police officers — if any — would be prepared to pay for this education, perhaps the solution was to establish an Australian Institute of Criminology. If my memory is correct, Sydney and Melbourne Law Schools already provided some criminology teaching, but from what I had been told by their students, these were very much home-grown courses and lacked the sophistication and practicality of the Cambridge version.

I was aware that some opposition to establishing an institute could be expected from those who hadn't experienced the Cambridge approach and, of course, also from those who opposed any expansion of Commonwealth activity and from the Negative Neils who would have to fund it. I didn't know anyone of significance who could share my task of securing both federal and state agreement.

In 1966 I put together the outline of a campaign to obtain this approval. One idea was to have a trial run, a residential seminar, with federal and state participants. This would identify the deficiencies in the preparation of senior officials in the Australian criminal justice system, and would demonstrate how a national institute of criminology could overcome these deficiencies at a reasonable cost. For the police, supplementary courses at the Staff College should take care of any matters not covered in the seminar. All my spare time in 1967 was devoted to selling this “trial run” idea to a number of doubtful senior executives — “doubtful” since they had never found any need for this type of knowledge themselves and each one believed he was competent in his job. I was forced to do a lot of lobbying but eventually, with blood, sweat and tears, the Seminar on the Control of Deviant Behaviour in Australia began in residence at Bruce Hall, Australian National University, on 30 January 1968.

This was the tide I had selected because it did not preempt what I hoped would be the outcome — a unanimous recommendation by state and federal participants for the establishment of an institute. The seminar was a major coup which has not been repeated. Each state and territory, as well as New Zealand, was represented by directors or senior executives of police, courts, welfare, prisons and the probation services. There were a total of twenty-three participants, including two from the Provost and Legal office of the RAAF, with myself as director. The seminar finished on 23 February with a Parliamentary dinner for all participants given by the Attorney-General of the Commonwealth, the Hon. Nigel Bowen. He asked what conclusions had been reached, and was told by his guests that there were two principal recommendations: an “institute” should be established, which could possibly be a joint governmental venture, but would preferably be part of the Commonwealth Attorney-General's Department; and there was a need to develop statistical facilities to handle criminal data. The attorney-general said he was attracted to the joint government approach and asked the state representatives to make such a proposal to their own governments when they returned home. Each state representative said that he would, and the attorney-general said that he would arrange the Commenwealth's participation right away. I subsequently furnished him with a full report on the seminar which set out the recommended functions of the proposed institute and nominated the types and numbers of staff required. By and large, these recommendations were followed when the institute began operations.

Later on, when we were refining the implementation of the seminar's conclusions, it became apparent to me and to my federal and state colleagues that the research responsibility we had envisaged would be better met by separating the practical aspects from the theoretical, especially for the police aspects. So we then pushed for the establishment of a National Police Research Unit, and in time, as I have already mentioned, this appeared, under joint federal and state control, in Adelaide. The unit concerns itself with the nuts and bolts of policing: telephone intercept technology, speedometers, the best cloth for winter uniforms.

Some time later, when I went to say goodbye to the Commonwealth attorney-general on the eve of my departure for Papua New Guinea, Nigel Bowen said to me: “What will I do now that I am losing my ideas man?”

The first time in Australian history that a prime minister had gone to a war zone was Harold Holt's visit to Vietnam in 1966.1 decided to go to Saigon a week ahead of the prime minister to check our security arrangements in person, flying into Saigon from Singapore. The plane arrived over Tan Son Nhut airport at about 20 000 feet and began circling down in a tight spiral. I asked the steward what was going on. He said any other form of approach would expose us to ack ack fire. As it was, there was still the possibility of rocket fire. The airport was absolute chaos: men and machines everywhere, choppers taking off and landing incessantly, ammunition being carted about.

I already had a Commonwealth policeman stationed in Saigon, Ray McCabe. He was in charge of security at our embassy and was one of the few men I had who could speak French. I'd sent him a signal giving my time of arrival and asking him to book accommodation for me. He met me at the airport and drove me into town, explaining that he'd had a bit of trouble finding somewhere for me to stay as the city was full. He'd been in contact with the manager of the Intercontinental who was a friend of his and the manager had his eye on a room currently occupied by a French foreign correspondent who was due to spend a week in the field. The room, Ray McCabe explained, should be free the next day, but the first night of my stay was going to be difficult. I told him I didn't really mind where I stayed for a single night; I was used to dossing down under wartime conditions. Ray McCabe said that was good, because he'd managed to organise a small room over a bar. But first he suggested we had a drink at a cafe that had been a favourite of the French Foreign Legion during the colonial days. It was a simple place with long wooden trestle tables. We ordered two beers, and then another two — the night being hot and steamy. The beer came in intriguing leather tankards. Ray McCabe said they dated from the time of the Foreign Legion. I said I'd like to purchase a pair of them as souvenirs, if this were possible. Ray said he'd call at the place in the morning when things had quietened down and make the manager an offer.

We then drove to the place where Ray had secured a bed for me. We entered a small bar attended by a bright-eyed girl. Ray pointed upstairs and she indicated that we should go up. Ray took me to a small, simple room with bare boards on the floor, a shower in one corner and a bed with a copy of
Playboy
lying on it. There were a few hooks on the wall, but no other furniture. I told Ray the place would be fine for one night and he left. I had a shower and retired to bed. But my sleep was fitful; all night long there were sounds of people coming and going, laughter, giggles and heavy traffic on the stairs. At about seven in the morning I went down to the bar where the girl gave me a knowing smile. Two or three other young women also smiled sweetly. Ray McCabe turned up ready to drive me to the Intercontinental. As we were leaving the bar I said, “What was that place?”

“Actually,” he said, “it's one of the Yanks' favourite brothels. But even there, I had great difficulty getting you a room.”

I went to the Embassy and met the Ambassador. He said, “I'm glad you've come, Ray. We've got a little problem. It's nothing to do with your work, but we've got no one else who could handle it.” The Ambassador said that a recently arrived diplomat had been driving quite slowly through the crowded streets of Saigon when he had knocked a small boy off a cycle, injuring him. It appeared to be a genuine accident, not anybody's fault, the sort of thing that happened quite often in the city's chaotic traffic. But the diplomat had obeyed the standing instructions for incidents such as this one: he hadn't stopped for fear of an ambush. The Ambassador said that Ray McCabe had made some inquiries and discovered that the boy was in a hospital in a fairly rough part of Saigon. The Embassy was keen that someone should visit the boy and make contact with his parents to assure them that all medical expenses would be taken care of. Ray McCabe and I drove to the hospital. It consisted of two long rooms with beds in them and not much else. The place was dirty and the overall impression was one of extreme poverty. The nurses looked poor, the families of the sick and injured looked poor. We located the boy and Ray spoke to him in French, reassuring him that he would be looked after. I checked with Ray some time later and he reported that this had been done and a small amount of compensation had been paid.

I returned to the air conditioning of the Intercontinental. The place was indeed full. It was pretty clear that most of the long-term guests of the hotel — Americans and other foreigners — had Vietnamese mistresses in place. I checked over the rest house by the river where Harold Holt would be staying and met the local security people. The place looked about as safe as it was possible to get in Saigon. There was still the possibility of a stray shell hitting it, but there was nothing I could do about that. Shells could land anywhere, as I found out when I got back to the Embassy. Ray McCabe said: “I've got some bad news for you. You won't be getting those leather tankards.”

“Why not?” I said, thinking they might be too expensive.

“The place got hit by a shell last night. The cafe's gone.”

I returned to Singapore, met up with Harold Holt and accompanied him and his team back to Saigon. We flew by helicopter to a number of places where Australian troops were stationed and we visited another hospital — this time in the country. At that time, the roads in the area were reasonably safe in daylight if you were in a military convoy, but the countryside itself— where the hospital was — could roughly be described as no man's land. The hospital was for civilians, but it was run by Australian staff, about five doctors and ten nurses working on a six-month rotation. It was little more than a couple of large huts. All the catering and much of the dressing of wounds and general nursing was being done by the patients' families. The prime minister thanked the Australian medical team for the job they were doing — and indeed, they were doing a wonderful job under horrible circumstances. I asked one of the sisters if a patient with a leg amputated below the knee was the victim of a land mine and she said that he was.

“Is he one of ours or one of theirs?” I said.

“Who cares?” she said