Plimsoll biographer Hearder points to Whitlam-Fraser errors

This biography shows what can be achieved if a government puts the talents of a gifted diplomat to good use.

James Plimsoll in 1983, when he was serving as governor of Tasmania.

According to the proverb, no man is a hero to his valet. Certainly not every ambassador is a hero to the most junior diplomat in the embassy, the third secretary.

The Australian ambassador in Brussels in the 1970s, James Plimsoll, was a notable exception. Alexander Downer, then his third secretary and later Australia’s longest-serving foreign minister, describes Plimsoll in a foreword to Jeremy Hearder’s biography as not only a mentor but a hero. There was never, he says, a greater Australian diplomat.

One incident during the Korean War illustrates the basis for this claim. Plimsoll was serving on the UN commission monitoring the Korean crisis when the communists forced the US-led UN force into a chaotic retreat. In the middle of the night, South Korean president Syngman Rhee went to the airport intending to flee his country. When Plimsoll heard of this, he rushed to the airport, clad in pyjamas, and persuaded Rhee to stay. The autocratic Rhee, who threw political opponents into jail and often disregarded Washington’s opinion, accepted the advice of a young Australian diplomat.

Similar stories recur in this account of Plimsoll’s career in a succession of Australia’s most important diplomatic missions. When he was in Moscow, for example, the Russians sought his advice on handling a crisis in their relations with India, where Plimsoll had previously served. It was an extraordinary mark of the value placed on his expertise even by the West’s arch enemy in the Cold War.

Hearder rightly states that the high point of Plimsoll’s career was as ambassador to the UN. Having cut his diplomatic teeth working for UN agencies in Korea, he was unusually gifted in multilateral diplomacy. It was a skill that could and should have been used to Australia’s advantage at the UN and in other centres of international diplomacy. Regrettably, this was not always the case.

In recent months, with the deaths of Gough Whitlam and Malcolm Fraser, many have commented on the shared foreign policy achievements of these two great opponents in the crisis of 1975. Hearder reminds us they shared a less commendable trait.

Both prime ministers treated Plimsoll harshly, shifting him abruptly from positions for dubious political reasons and pushing him aside when his skills and contacts would have been most useful. Diplomats know such treatment often goes with the job, but in these cases it amounted to serious misuse of a national asset.

Fraser, for example, decided to confront the European Commission’s agricultural policy by sending a young and inexperienced minister named John Howard and a small team of advisers on a special mission. Howard’s team, presumably on instructions, kept Plimsoll, the ambassador at the EC’s headquarters, out of the loop. The mission had little success. Hearder’s account confirms the view that the Fraser government would have been wiser to make use of Plimsoll’s extensive contacts and outstanding negotiating skills. Similarly, Whitlam would have been wise to make better use of Plimsoll’s advice and abilities during the 1970s crisis that threatened the ANZUS treaty.

Plimsoll, who was born on Anzac Day 1917, grew up in the uninspiring years of the 20s and 30s, when Australia lagged behind other British dominions in establishing a diplomatic service. He owed his start to two unusual organisations, forerunners of today’s think tanks. One was ‘‘Davidson’s kindergarten’’, the group of young economists gathered by Alfred Davidson, the head of the Bank of New South Wales (today’s Westpac). The other was the Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs created by Alf Conlon to advise Australia’s military chief, General Thomas Blamey, on political affairs. The number of leading Australians of the 50s, 60s and 70s whose careers began in these two unorthodox bodies is quite remarkable.

One of Plimsoll’s colleagues in the Conlon group, John Kerr, remained a lifelong friend. There is a striking contrast in the end of their two careers, in vice-regal positions. Plimsoll died in office as governor of Tasmania, highly respected across the community; Kerr became Australia’s most controversial governor-general, forced to end his days in virtual exile.

While Plimsoll was a superlative diplomat, he was a poor manager. His term as secretary of the external affairs department was the least distinguished part of his career. After his departure, numerous tales circulated of the missing files and unbanked pay cheques found in his office safe. His lack of concern for his appearance — he insisted on wearing the same shabby suit and tie day after day — was legendary.

Hearder’s biography illustrates what can be achieved if a government knows how to use the talents of an exceptionally gifted diplomat. It also casts illuminating sidelights on Australian and world politics from the 40s to the 70s.

Peter Edwards is the author of several books on Australia’s foreign policy, including a biography of Arthur Tange.

Jim Plim, Ambassador Extraordinary: A Biography of Sir James Plimsoll

By Jeremy Herder

Connor Court Publishing, 404pp, $34.95