Remembering Cyclone Tracy, our most ‘iconic’ natural disaster

THE real value of Sophie Cunningham’s book about Cyclone Tracy is the author’s detailing of the survivors’ accounts.

Gough Whitlam with the co-ordinator of relief operations, Alan Stretton, in 1974.

WITH the sounds of exploding louvres and shattering glass filling St Mary’s Cathedral, Bishop John O’Loughlin abruptly ended the midnight mass. “Go home,” he told the congregation, “and look after yourselves.” The disaster that was Cyclone Tracy was about to unfold that Christmas Day in 1974, resulting in the deaths of 71 people and the destruction of 70 per cent of Darwin’s homes.

As the 40th anniversary of that event approaches, author Sophie Cunningham reflects on what she describes as Australia’s “most iconic catastrophe”.

Her interest in Tracy, beginning with the melancholy thoughts of a then 11-year-old about Darwin’s children and their lost Christmas presents, developed into an intense yearning to learn more about the disaster and its aftermath. But her most compelling motivation in writing Warning is her belief that humans are transforming land, sea and weather to the planet’s detriment.

READ: An edited extract from Sophie Cunningham’s book

This book does not pretend to be an authority on climate change, and its relatively few examples of that phenomenon are often anecdotal. As such, Cunningham’s conclusion that Tracy was a harbinger of an environmental apocalypse is a non sequitur. The real value of this book is the author’s detailing of the survivors’ accounts gleaned from extensive research and interviews, and her dispassionate analysis of the authorities’ response.

One thing the survivors never forgot was the noise of the cyclone, variously described as “the scream of a banshee”, “a jet plane in your garden”, an “express train going through a tunnel” — a sound “that went on for hours and hours”. Surreal distractions appear in the form of airborne caravans passing over Stuart Highway; one survivor recalls “shards of broken glass (that) swirled around rooms as if in a giant blender”; another, his ride on a “magic carpet” as the winds sucked him from his home.

Terror gives way to tragedy as the winds abate. A mother and father appeal for help to a wandering adolescent, who is rendered mute with horror on discovering the legs of their child have been amputated. A sailor, having spent his morning fishing bodies from the harbour, returns home to discover the bodies of his wife, stepson and baby daughter. A policeman, his first month on the job, is put in charge of the temporary morgue at Casuarina post office. He still remembers the name and the face of the deceased girl who closely resembled his own daughter. “I thought I was over that,” he said when interviewed many years later and finding himself succumbing to the memories, “but I’m not.” With the benefit but without the arrogance of hindsight, Cunningham analyses the relief operation that followed. Heroism, conflict, resilience and controversy all feature as officials converge on Darwin. The bemusement of locals turns to resentment as federal influx becomes interference, perhaps no better illustrated than the front page photograph of the co-ordinator of relief operations, Major-­General Alan Stretton, running up the steps of Darwin’s courthouse to confront a local magistrate over his decision to impose a lengthy custodial sentence.

Those marginalised and disempowered in the controversial decision to evacuate Darwin, particularly women, children and the indigenous, find a sympathetic ear in Cunningham. About 34,000 of Darwin’s 47,500 residents were evacuated; about 15,000 never returned. A government report later recommended against mass evacuation except in the most extreme cases, also citing the importance of moving families as a group to ensure cohesion.

Conversely, Ray McHenry, Darwin’s dir­ector of emergency services at the time of Tracy, offers blunt and no-nonsense advice: “Beware of academics and the grandstand critics who want to ram the planning jargon down your throat and criticise the decisions such as evacuation.”

For Cunningham, Tracy is almost an allegory of the Whitlam era: heady, vibrant, fearless and determined to eradicate that which refuses to evolve. Her research led her to interview Malcolm Fraser, who became prime minister less than a year after the disaster. Struck by her host’s presence, she asks a question that has long been on her mind: was Tracy “a catalyst for political events during the tumultuous mid-seventies?” Fraser advises her that she “should resist ascribing too much political power to those massive winds”. This author is not above a little self-effacement.

The accounts featured are a sobering and emotional reminder of one of Australia’s worst natural disasters. Whether or not you accept Tracy was a sign of what is to come, the deadly danger posed by human folly and insouciance is made all too apparent with the revelation about one-third of Darwin’s residents who heard the cyclone warnings did not heed them. The sheer terror and pitiful frailty of the survivors detailed in this book are stark reminders of our true place in the planetary hierarchy. “Everyone started making deals with God,” Cunningham writes as she reflects on the survivors’ accounts, “even the atheists.”

Martin Leonard is a Canberra-based reviewer.

Warning: The Story of Cyclone Tracy

By Sophie Cunningham

Text Publishing, 284pp, $32.99