The Cruel Legacy

The HMAS Voyager Tragedy

Tom Frame

First published in 2005

Copyright © Tom Frame, 2005

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10% of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that adminsters it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Frame, Tom.
The cruel legacy: the HMAS Voyager tragedy.
Includes index.

ISBN 1 74114 421 3

1. Voyager (Destroyer: 1952–1964). 2. Marine
accidents—Australian Capital Territory—Jervis Bay.
3. Navies—Australia. 4. Destroyers (Warships)—Australia—History.

I. Title.

359.32540994

Diagrams by Ian Faulkner
Index compiled by Helen Frame
Typeset in 11/13.5pt Janson by Midland Typesetters, Maryborough
Printed by Griffin Press, South Australia

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

1 Death and valour

2 The truth sinks in

3 An inquiry or an intrusion?

4 ‘Just tell the truth’

5 Confident uncertainty

6 Balancing blame

7 Scapegoats and martyrs

8 Where to now?

9 Political leadership and public advocacy

10 ‘A ghastly campaign’

11 Relevance and reticence

12 A volatile cocktail

13 How did fate call?

14 The Navy moves on

15 In the wake

Notes

Bibliography

Tactical plot, 1929–2056

1

DEATH AND VALOUR

The huge superstructure of the aircraft carrier HMAS Melbourne loomed overhead in the dark, minutes before it crashed through the destroyer HMAS Voyager. Sparks, flames and a deafening roar accompanied the impact at the after end of the destroyer’s bridge. Nineteen-year old Ordinary Seaman John Jersovs, standing watch amidships, remembers that ‘The deck bent up in front of me, the bridge seemed to collapse, rigging, pipes, the funnel and all sorts of gear seemed to be falling around me’. The pipe from the Bridge, ‘Hands to collision stations’, had given little warning of the disaster. Below decks in Voyager, tables, lockers, furniture and personal items were thrown across passageways and mess decks. Bedding and clothing went everywhere. Men were thrown from their bunks onto the cold, hard, steel deck. Some were crushed against bulkheads as a direct result of Melbourne’s almost clinical incision; others were pinned under fittings or equipment and drowned when the cold water surged in. In some compartments the emergency lighting failed to operate, the darkness adding to the disorientation and terror of those not killed outright. The smell and slickness of fuel oil on ladders and passageways made the task of escaping even more difficult. Everywhere was chaos and confusion as men struggled to find out what had happened and what they had to do to remain alive. As bulkheads began to crumple under the weight of water it appeared the bow section was going to sink, and many said prayers in anticipation of imminent death.

The impact had pushed Voyager over on her starboard side for a few seconds, before she broke in half. Her forward boiler exploded, with the high-pressure steam, black smoke and flames emitted from the funnel marking Melbourne’s bow before they were extinguished by seawater. A pair of binoculars and the revolution table from Voyager’s bridge would later be found on Melbourne’s flight deck. Those in the carrier looked on in horror as the forward section of the destroyer passed down the carrier’s port side and the after section slid down the starboard side, collecting some of Melbourne’s extended antenna on the way. Melbourne slowed and then stopped dead in the water as the two sections of the severed destroyer could just be seen in the darkness half a mile away. It was just after 2100 hours. Some of the destroyer’s men saw the carrier’s stern lights and thought for a moment that Melbourne was not going to stop; that they were being left to their fate. As they scanned the horizon for other vessels and some explanation as to why they were in the water, some of the survivors began to realise that the 19 930-ton Melbourne had collided amidships with the 3550-ton Voyager and cut her in two.

Although the sea was calm with a long slow swell, Voyager’s bow section was de-stabilised by the weight of her two forward 4.5-inch gun turrets. As it passed down Melbourne’s side, the bow rolled over as the turrets slid from their mounting and sank. Then the bow started to lift slowly towards the sky to expose the anchor cable and other forecastle rigging. It floated for a further five minutes, hovering above the surface like a coffin waiting to be lowered into its grave. A few of the survivors got out through holes in the ship’s side created by the collision or from compartments ripped open near the point of impact. Most headed for the escape hatches on the port side but found that some could not be easily opened, so quickly sought other means of escape. As the bow section began to ease itself below the surface under the weight of the incoming water, there were remarkable displays of courage and bravery.

Chief Petty Officer Coxswain Jonathan ‘Buck’ Rogers was the most senior sailor in Voyager. He was also a large man, who realised there was little chance he could squeeze through an escape hatch. Radar Plotter Peter Low was part of a group of some 60 men in the forward cafeteria where Rogers was attempting to open an escape hatch. Low recalls that Rogers ‘was telling everyone not to panic and we would all get out if they came through one at a time. He seemed very calm. I think he was more intent on getting the younger chaps out first before going out himself. I think perhaps he might have known that he would never have got out’. Able Seaman ‘Blue’ Matthews recounted how he ‘could hear the coxswain Chief Petty Officer Rogers, in the forward cafe, organising the escape of all the young fellows on the ship. I could hear him telling them not to panic, and he led them in a prayer and a hymn.

Later on I heard him say to Leading Seaman ‘Pedro’ Rich, “I can’t get out. You get all the young fellows out of the hatch”’. Leading Mechanical Engineer Patrick Ryan recalled, ‘the last thing that I can remember Coxswain Rogers saying was “Well, the water’s beaten us”’. Rogers demonstrated calm courage and self-sacrifice as he and those with him prepared to die. They did so with great dignity.

Leading Radio Electrical Mechanic John Milliner was in the forward half of Voyager.

I was totally disoriented. It was pitch black and the strange thing is that I cannot recall any noises. It was as though I was alone in absolute silence. The thoughts that ran through my mind at that moment, apart from praying, were ‘I wonder what it is like to die’ and very clearly thinking ‘my son and unborn baby will have no father’. I was a smoker at the time and reached into my shorts for my lighter. Without thinking of the consequences, I flicked it and saw that it gave just enough light to see some sailors opening a hatch which turned out to be in Number 1 Seamen Mess just forward of the cafe. I made my way towards the hatch and was so disoriented that I was not sure where it was leading. While waiting my turn as a queue had formed, some were screaming in panic and the others stood back and let them through.

When it came to my turn. I poked my head through the opened hatch and experienced the most wonderful sensations—the clean smell of the ocean and the sky above. I was ecstatic to be out of that dark tomb and slid thankfully down the hull into the water. I swam away but when I turned round to look back the bow, which was protruding out of the water, started rolling towards me as it filled with water. I swam away from it in a panic and when exhausted, I looked again and saw the bow sink beneath the waves. This was the most horrific sight that I have ever witnessed.

As those who had escaped from the ship tried to stay afloat in the oil-covered water that made it difficult to see and hard to breathe, Leading Seaman Rich, the ship’s Physical Training Instructor, gathered a number of survivors around him in a circle before helping them into life-rafts. A strong swimmer and a capable leader, he saved the lives of at least three men who were not strong swimmers or were nearly overcome by swallowing seawater and oil. Rich had earlier helped a number of men trapped in the upturned ship to reach safety. One hundred and twenty-eight men managed to escape from the forward half of Voyager, from a ship’s company of 314. Some were clad in torn and bloody uniforms and overalls; others were in their pyjamas. A few were naked. They were all covered in oil.

The after half of Voyager remained defiantly afloat as salvage efforts were started. After thirty minutes the watertight bulkhead immediately forward of the after boiler room collapsed and the stern started to rise out of the water. Only then was it decided to abandon all that remained of Voyager. The injured were lowered into liferafts; others jumped into the water as the order to ‘Abandon ship’ was given. A Navy Wessex helicopter had by then arrived on the scene and lowered a strop to lift men from the sea, but the rotor’s down-draft made the surface so turbulent that those in the water were blinded by the oily sea-spray. Only a handful of men, none of whom had received ‘wet-winch’ training, were recovered by helicopter.

Midshipman Kerry Marien, one of Voyager’s most junior officers, was in the after section of the ship at the time of the collision. After jumping into the water and reaching the safety of an inflated liferaft, he decided to return to the water and help his shipmates in the forward half. Mechanical Engineer Graham Davis later said that ‘someone came swimming up to me and said “Do you need any help?” and I noticed it was Midshipman Marien. I said no, that I did not need any help, and he said, “I think there is someone up forward in the water. I will go up there and see if they need a hand”.’ Marien, who would have survived the collision had he remained with the liferaft, was not seen again. It is assumed that he entered the stricken forward half of the ship and went down with it.

The survivors in the after section’s liferafts were later transferred to Melbourne’s boats or towed to scrambling nets rigged on the carrier’s side. A young sailor in one raft stood up and pointed before yelling ‘Shark, shark’. Those who were in the water and clinging to the side of the liferaft frantically tried to clamber on board as the sinister object followed ten metres behind. Calm only returned when another sailor noticed that the trailing object was nothing more dangerous than a canvas shroud from the liferaft. With most of the survivors safely on board Melbourne and receiving medical care, Voyager’s after section, still visible in the distance, steadily took on more water.

Melbourne’s ship’s company had made desperate efforts to recover those in the water over the three hours since the collision. Within a minute of the impact, the order ‘Away all boats’ had been given. The duty motor cutter approached to within 20 yards of the forward section and rescued those with little or no support in the water. Within only fifteen minutes, the first survivors were safely embarked in Melbourne’s boats.

The survivors were battered and bleeding with a vast array of injuries; nearly all were vomiting oily seawater. The carrier’s Wardroom and ‘C’ Hangar were quickly prepared to receive them.

By 0130, all of the survivors had been received in Melbourne, with fourteen men considered to have sustained serious injuries. The average age was 25, and many of the survivors were young, raw recruits who were serving at sea for the first time. Their excitement on joining Voyager had quickly turned to horror. When the survivor list was finalised, 232 officers and men were listed. The extent of the tragedy now became clear: 82 men had been killed. The death toll comprised 14 officers, 67 sailors and 1 civilian dockyard employee. Only three bodies were recovered from the sea, those of the commanding officer Captain Duncan Stevens, the navigator Lieutenant Harry Cook and Able Seaman Bob Parker. Both Stevens and Cook had been on the destroyer’s bridge and were badly disfigured. Stevens’ rank insignia made him easy to identify but Harry Cook was initially identified as Lieutenant Jim Dowling until a notebook in his pocket disclosed his real name. Contrary to later claims, no decapitated heads, dismembered body parts or other remains were recovered. The three bodies were conveyed to the RAN College at Jervis Bay for forensic examination and autopsy.

Immediately after the collision, Melbourne’s commanding officer, Captain John Robertson, had sent an emergency signal to the Flag Officer In Charge—East Australia, Rear Admiral Galfrey Gatacre, in Sydney. It read: ‘Have been in collision with Voyager in position 120 Point Perpendicular 19’. The collision had occurred nineteen nautical miles off Point Perpendicular, the northern headland of Jervis Bay, at a bearing of 120 degrees. At 2114, the Damage Control Officer in Melbourne, Lieutenant Commander George Halley, informed Robertson that the carrier’s bow and forward compartments had suffered major damage but the ship was in no danger of sinking. Fourteen minutes later, Robertson sent a second signal: ‘Voyager has lost her bows but is still floating. Am rescuing survivors. Sea Calm’. Robertson’s first two communications gave the staff at Fleet Headquarters in Sydney no inkling of the extent of the disaster. In fact, his third signal, sent nearly three quarters of an hour after the collision, read: ‘Voyager has settled by the bows. Waterline at forward end of torpedo tubes. She still has lights onboard. Further information will be signalled when available’. Robertson thought Voyager had lost only part of her bows and not the forward half of the vessel.

The first signal from shore was sent at 2158, informing Melbourne that:

1. Snipe and Teal proceeding maximum speed to render assistance

2. Hawk, Ibis and Curlew being despatched

3. SAR and helicopter despatched by Naval Air Station Nowra

4. Stuart being sailed as early as practicable.

At the nearby Naval College, news was received that some sort of accident had occurred in the exercise area. There were five recently graduated members of the 1960 Term in the destroyer. Those sent to Voyager had been selected by alphabet: Midshipmen Lindsey, Marien, Maunder, Morgan and Perry. Only Midshipman Kingsley Perry survived. As survivors from the collision were being rescued from the water, first year cadets at the College were being put through their initiation ceremonies. They were being pelted with grease, tomato juice, marmalade, Brasso and sump oil; made to slide down greasy steps and to push a telegraph pole along the quarterdeck (parade ground) on their hands and knees. The final indignity was to be painted with waterproof paint and ordered to dive from the diving board above the swimming pool. It was during their frantic efforts to scrape off the paint that alarms sounded and the rescue craft left the boat harbour. The initiation ceremonies added to the unreality of the night as Search and Rescue (SAR) Craft No. 257 brought survivors from Voyager to the College. The 34 men onboard were wearing either wet underpants or pyjama trousers, or wrapped in blankets provided by the rescue craft. Those able to eat were given soup, toast and hot drinks, and supplied with towels and overalls from the Loan Clothing Store and soap and other personal items from the canteen stocks. A second SAR Craft, No. 256, arrived at 0120 with a further 36 survivors.

At 2210, the Fleet Operations Officer, Commander Peter Doyle, contacted the duty engineering officer in HMAS Sydney, Lieutenant Peter Hugonnet. Sydney was then refitting in Captain Cook Graving Dock at Garden Island. Doyle instructed Hugonnet to prepare Sydney for immediate undocking as Voyager would be arriving in the morning for urgent repairs. Four minutes later, HMAS Kimbla was instructed to ‘Proceed at best available speed to position 120 Point Perpendicular Light 19 miles and prepare to tow Voyager’. Realising he had yet to report on the state of his ship, Robertson sent a signal to the Naval Board in Canberra with an information copy to Fleet Headquarters: ‘Number One and Two trimming tanks flooded to five deck. 4A ships company heads damaged and holed forward port and starboard. Cable locker may be holed. Ship watertight aft of 16 bulkhead. No personnel casualties’. The enormity of what had happened was beginning to become more apparent. At 2300, Robertson was informed that the Fleet Commander, Rear Admiral Humphrey Becher, had departed Canberra for the Naval Air Station and expected to arrive there at 0430. A helicopter would convey him to the carrier which had already commenced a slow passage back to Sydney.

Just before midnight, Robertson again reported on the state of Voyager: ‘Voyager is floating stern in the air waterline at the after end of the torpedo tubes. Forward bulkhead of ‘B’ boiler room has held. ‘B’ boiler room has some water in it and is probably flooding further. Forward portion of ship has probably sunk’. Just after midnight, a pipe from Melbourne’s bridge announced that those who wished to see Voyager sink should make their way to the flight deck. A few survivors stood in the cool night air and bid a final farewell to what had been their home. The ship’s silhouette was visible in the starlight before she quietly slipped away. By 0017 it was all over.

Robertson sent another signal. It was short and to the point: ‘Voyager has sunk’. Signal traffic stopped for the next 30 minutes as the immensity of Robertson’s signal set in. Nothing like this had ever happened to the RAN. At Garden Island, preparations for undocking Sydney came to a halt. Voyager was not coming back—ever. The awful finality of the disaster was yet to hit the Navy. Not only had the nation just sustained the worst peacetime naval disaster in its history, but the tragedy was to become one of Australia’s longest-running political controversies and legal battles. Voyager’s motto was ‘Where Fate Calls’. It was a destiny many others would share.

2

THE TRUTH SINKS IN

Monday, 10 February 1964, had been a long day for Melbourne’s captain, John Robertson. It had started before dawn as the carrier, in company with Voyager, commanded by Captain Duncan Stevens, sailed from Jervis Bay after a weekend of sport and recreation ashore. Both ships had recently emerged from extensive refits and were preparing for deployments to South East Asia. Throughout the day, Voyager had circled Melbourne and conducted a series of trials and exercises designed to refresh everyone in both ships with sea-going routines. The two ships had the opportunity for some problems discovered in the dockyard to be corrected. Melbourne had practised anti-aircraft (AA) tracking, conducted radio sea trials and exercised emergency stations. Voyager took part in the same AA exercise, as well as an anti-submarine (A/S) exercise with the British submarine Tabard and a shore bombardment.

At 1800, Voyager had closed Melbourne for the first time that day for the transfer of mail by heaving line. With the transfer completed and the sun beginning to set, Voyager was stationed five miles ahead of the carrier as both ships waited for darkness to fall. There were busy hours of night flying exercises ahead of them. Melbourne would be working with Squadrons 816 and 805 from the Carrier Air Group (CAG), which was then at the Naval Air Station (NAS) at Nowra. The aircraft had been detached for the duration of Melbourne’s refit but were due to return permanently in a few days, after practising deck landings and take-offs. Three Gannet aircraft were expected between 2000 and 2030 and two Sea Venoms between 2030 and 2100. Voyager’s task was simply to remain out of the carrier’s way and keep to her assigned station. This was the first time either ship had been engaged in close quarters manoeuvring for nearly six months.

At 1830, they were 20 miles to the south-east of Jervis Bay in water over 600 fathoms deep. There was a low easterly swell, smooth seas and light variable winds. Although there was no moon, the night was clear

HMAS Melbourne—Operational and navigational lighting

with visibility estimated at 20 miles. Melbourne and Voyager were ‘darkened’ for the exercise with only operational lighting visible in either ship. This consisted of the green starboard and red port side navigation lights, a white stern or overtaking light, masthead lights and, in the case of Melbourne, experimental flight-deck floodlighting which was intended to be visible only from the port side, to avoid being mistaken as indicating the carrier’s port side. A check had been made while at anchor the previous weekend to ensure that none of this red lighting was visible from the carrier’s starboard side. The experimental lighting consisted of one light near the base of the bridge ‘island’ superstructure and a directional red floodlight on the Gun Direction Platform which gave a downward beam from near the top of the island. This light was being trained onto the angled flight deck until the senior Gannet pilot, Lieutenant

HMAS Voyager—Operational and navigational lighting

Commander Toz Dadswell, who had been making ‘touch and go’ runs across the carrier’s deck, informed Flying Control in Melbourne by radio that the glare from the light was blinding him during approach. The light was then trained onto the carrier’s forward aircraft lift. The two navigational sidelights in the carrier were dimmed so that their visibility was around one nautical mile with the unassisted eye—without binoculars. Neither Voyager nor the aircraft operating in the vicinity had complained that Melbourne’s lights were too dim or in any way confusing. Voyager’s lights were burning at full brilliance.

For just over an hour, Voyager maintained her station, five miles ahead of the carrier, while the two ships conducted radar calibration trials. Sunset was at 1945. Voyager was then ordered to rejoin Melbourne in preparation for night flying exercises. The destroyer altered course to the south and took up a position ahead of the carrier when Captain Robertson, as Officer in Tactical Command (OTC), signalled Voyager that the flying course (the course on which the carrier would proceed while operating with aircraft) was 180 degrees at a speed of 20 knots. On execution of the flying course signal, Voyager was to take ‘Planeguard Station No. 1’—a position 20 degrees on the port quarter of the carrier at a distance of between 1500 and 2000 yards. Voyager’s function as planeguard was to recover any aircraft that happened to ditch into the sea. The fundamental principle governing this sort of exercise is that the planeguard destroyer keeps well clear of the carrier while she operates aircraft. With Melbourne steaming to the north and the flying course being to the south, Voyager would be roughly in the correct position when the ships turned together to 180 degrees on the execution of the signal.

At 1950 the ships turned together to the flying course and Voyager assumed her station. As the winds remained light and variable, Robertson would need to alter course and speed to get the maximum amount of headwind across the carrier’s flight-deck. He would do this by signalling small variations in course. At 1957 he ordered the course changed to 175 degrees and eight minutes later increased speed to 22 knots. The Sea Venoms arrived on time at 2030 to conduct the first ‘Touch and go’ exercises. Robertson again altered the flying course, this time to 190 degrees. Voyager maintained her correct station throughout these simple manoeuvres. With insufficient wind available for the exercise on a southerly course, Robertson signalled Voyager at 2040 that ‘flight operations will be delayed for about ten minutes’. At 2041, Robertson ordered a ‘turn together to course 020 degrees, ships turning to starboard’; a manoeuvre which placed Voyager ahead of the carrier. After steadying on the new course, at 2047 Robertson decided to compare the wind across the deck on the more easterly course of 060 degrees. On the new course of 060 degrees, Voyager should have been 30 degrees on Melbourne’s port bow.

During the few minutes that the ships held this course, Robertson noticed that Voyager was ‘ahead’ of station, being to starboard of her correct position, although at a correct range of 2000 yards from the carrier. This was not excessive, however, given the turns that had been carried out. Darkness had now fallen and ship silhouettes were almost invisible although the navigational lights were clearly visible. At 2052, finding that the wind was better on the previous course, Robertson ordered a turn back to 020 degrees with ships ‘turning together to port’. This was done by voice circuit radio. Before Melbourne steadied on the new course and while the turn was still in progress, Robertson signalled to Voyager the immediate execution of a signal ordering ‘Flying course 020 speed 22 knots’. The destroyer acknowledged the signal.

Voyager was to resume ‘Planeguard Station No. 1’ and position herself 20 degrees on Melbourne’s port quarter at a distance of 1500–2000 yards. The destroyer would then proceed with the carrier on the flying course of 020 degrees. The required manoeuvre was a familiar one: the destroyer would normally allow Melbourne to pass ahead before falling in astern. Robertson would have expected Voyager, now on the carrier’s starboard bow, to turn in a large circle away from the carrier until she was on the new course and roughly on the carrier’s beam. She would then turn towards the carrier and fall in astern to assume her correct station. Voyager initially turned to starboard and away from the carrier but then she unexpectedly steadied and turned to port. The situation rapidly began to

The usual method of taking planeguard, from forward of a carrier’s bow

change. When Melbourne had gained her new course of 020 degrees, Voyager continued her port turn until she was 1100 yards from the carrier. Robertson maintained a constant watch on Voyager, believing she was conducting a ‘fishtail’—losing speed through a series of tight turns while Melbourne passed ahead. Although not the best manoeuvre, it presented no danger as Robertson expected the destroyer to alter course to starboard and away from the carrier at any time.

While Voyager was turning to port and towards the carrier, Captain Stevens and his navigator, Lieutenant Harry Cook, were conferring with Communications Yeoman Kevin Cullen at the chart table covered by a canvas flap, situated in an alcove forward and below the bridge. It is most probable that they were discussing the Melbourne’s signals using ATP 1A Volume 1—Allied Naval Manoeuvring Instructions (ANMI) or ATP 1A Volume 2—Allied Naval Signal Book (ANSB) as the authoritative publications. Voyager’s Officer of the Watch (OOW), Lieutenant David Price RN, was responsible for keeping a close watch on Melbourne throughout the exercise. At 2055, Voyager was still altering course to port. She was broad on Melbourne’s starboard bow but the range was now 1000 yards. Over the next fifteen seconds the ships closed very quickly as Voyager persisted with her port turn. When they were 800 yards from each other, a collision was inevitable. Thirty seconds after 2055, with Voyager still turning to port, Melbourne’s navigator, Jim Kelly, looked up from the anemometer (which told him the wind speed) and exclaimed ‘What the hell is Voyager doing?’ He moved to the compass and took a bearing of the destroyer to assess her movement relative to the carrier. Voyager maintained her turn as Kelly ordered ‘half astern both engines’. This order was countermanded several seconds later by Robertson, who ordered ‘full astern both engines’ after coming onto the carrier’s bridge from the bridge-wing.

The lookout on Voyager’s port bridge-wing, the side of the ship nearest to Melbourne, was Ordinary Seaman Brian Sumpter. Although at sea for the first time it was apparent even to him that something was very wrong. He shouted ‘Bridge!’ and turned around to see Lieutenant Price already looking through his binoculars. Price dropped the binoculars and stared at the approaching carrier, as if mesmerised. The lookout’s shout brought Captain Stevens back to the bridge. Stevens needed a few moments to regain his night vision. Thirty seconds after 2055 he ordered ‘Full ahead both engines. Hard a-starboard’. He then turned and said, ‘Quartermaster, this is an emergency. Pipe Collision Stations’. Price had the bridge microphone in his hand and relayed his

Melbourne’s bridge. 1. Captain Robertson watching Voyager. 2. Captain
Robertson orders ‘Full speed astern’. 3. Captain Robertson at broadcast. 4.
Commander Kelly at anemometer, ‘looking for wind’. 5. Commander Kelly
orders ‘Stop both, half speed astern’. 6. OOW. 7. Chief Yeoman.
8. Lookouts.

captain’s orders to the wheelhouse on the deck below while the quartermaster took the main broadcast microphone and said ‘Hands to Collision Stations. Hands to Collision Stations’. Stevens hoped that by applying hard starboard wheel Voyager would either pass ahead of Melbourne or turn inside her path. But it was all far too late. The ships were now only 300 yards apart.

The possibility that Voyager was not aware of her position relative to Melbourne did not occur to Robertson. Thus, no sound signals or urgent messages were sent to warn Voyager that she was standing into danger. Melbourne had little chance of altering either her course or speed in the distance available. It would take at least six minutes for her to decrease her speed sufficiently and nearly two minutes to effect an appreciable change of course. When Voyager was just 80 yards away, Tactical

Plan of Voyager’s bridge, showing the visual blind areas caused by the gun
director, mast, funnel and other fittings

Operator Bob Everett, on the carrier’s bridge, voiced what was in everyone’s mind, ‘We are going to hit her.’ The collision occurred at 2056. Other than those on watchkeeping duties or stationed on the flight deck, most of the carrier’s 906 personnel thought that Melbourne had hit a whale but they were soon made aware that Melbourne’s slight rise in the water and steady stop was caused by her cutting Voyager in two. A long day was about to become much longer.

It wasn’t long before rumours started to circulate among the press. At 2200, the head of the Canberra bureau of Australian United Press (AUP), John Farquharson, was the first to hear that an accident of some kind involving naval ships had occurred at sea. He was contacted by AUP’s Sydney office and asked to check with the Navy whether

Possible avoiding action at 2055

there had been a collision. He rang the home number of the Coordinator of Navy Public Relations (CNPR), Tony Eggleton. Earlier in the evening Eggleton had been informed by the duty staff officer in language that reflected the lack of clarity in Robertson’s signals that ‘Voyager’s bow had been detached from her stern’. It was obvious to Eggleton that something serious had happened. At 2330, he issued a brief statement in an effort to give the press some information:

‘Melbourne and Voyager have been in collision twenty miles off Jervis Bay. Voyager is badly damaged. Melbourne has sustained some damage to her bows. Further details are awaited’. As the correspondents of The Age and the Canberra Times were the only ones aware of the tragedy before midnight, they were the only two newspapers to carry the story in the next day’s editions.

After midnight, and with Voyager gone, Robertson sent the Naval Board a brief outline of the events leading to the collision.

1. Melbourne had been flying course 190 speed 22, Voyager plane-guard station 1. Flying suspended due to lack of winds and ships turned together to starboard to 020 to search for wind. Further turn made together to 060 then back to 020. At this time Voyager bearing 040 degrees 1500 yards. Flying course was then altered by signal to 020. Voyager turned about 30 degrees to starboard and appeared to slow down then to port across Melbourne bows. At time of collision she was at approximately right angles to Melbourne who hit her abreast the after end of the bridge. Voyager did not appear to be doing more than about 15 knots. Melbourne had ordered full astern.
2. Voyager then passed stern first slowly down starboard side of Melbourne and came to rest just abaft the stern.

With Voyager’s survivors on board, and her badly damaged bow secured for sea, Robertson signalled Fleet Headquarters at 0100 that Melbourne was 30 miles off Jervis Bay. She was making 6.5 knots through the water with revolutions set for 8 knots. An estimated southerly set of 3 knots would slow her progress even further. Her arrival in Sydney was estimated at Wednesday morning; one and a half days after the collision. The Fleet Commander, Rear Admiral Becher, arrived by helicopter, earlier than expected at 0300. He met with Robertson, inspected the damage to Melbourne and spoke with survivors from Voyager. Becher sent a signal marked ‘Exclusive Confidential’ to the Chief of Naval Staff, Vice Admiral Sir Hastings Harrington.

I hope to despatch to you personally by air through Nowra a copy of Robertson’s report to me. You might find this useful in preparing any preliminary statement by the Minister. Without prejudice, I believe Robertson’s report gives the true picture. Enclosed also in the envelope will be several copies of photos of Melbourne’s bow damage. I hope to get this before noon. Weather fine and Melbourne progressing nicely but I have instructed Robertson to play it cool.

A private letter to Harrington was more revealing and provided an insight into how the Navy’s senior officers viewed the disaster.

As soon as possible I will convene a Board of Inquiry and I am thinking of asking FOICEA if he will lend me [Captain] Mesley—an ex-carrier captain—to preside. I will also try to get at least one recent destroyer captain on it. Melbourne is a mess up forward as you can see from the photos. We are making 8 knots through the water and making good about 4.5. Everything holding very firm and of course the collision bulkhead (No. 13 I think) is completely intact. We will attempt nothing more. This is not the happiest day in my life and heart is sad for a lot of wives and families. [Original emphasis]

By sunrise the next morning hope had all but faded of finding any more survivors. At 0650 Stuart had found no further survivors or bodies. She reported to Rear Admiral Gatacre (FOICEA) again at 0950:

Three air searches by average sortie of four Gannets and four Wessex of area within 15 mile of Melbourne’s dan[buoy] have shown great deal of debris within 1 mile of dan. No bodies or survivors. Ships have searched through area round dan and back to geographical position of wreck about 15 miles to north but with no results.

Consider probability area has received high coverage and possibility of recovery of survivors now slight.

By 1440, Stuart had reported that most of the debris had been recovered. At 1800, Stuart ended her search and, as dusk fell, RAAF Neptune aircraft ceased their searches as well. A final sweep through the area was conducted during daylight on Wednesday by naval aircraft. On Thursday and Friday a Gannet aircraft flew across the area to check that no bodies had risen to the surface. An oil slick was the only marker of Voyager’s watery grave. Four weeks later, part of Voyager’s main notice board would be found off the New South Wales coastal town of Kiama.

On Wednesday 12 February, the Naval Board announced that ‘as a mark of respect for those who lost their lives in HMAS Voyager, colours are to be half-masted from 1200 to sunset’. On the same day, the Minister for the Navy, Dr Jim Forbes, and the Minister-Designate, Fred Chaney, along with Harrington and Eggleton, departed Canberra in a Dakota aircraft bound for Nowra. They then embarked in a Navy helicopter for the passage to Melbourne, slowly making her way up the New South Wales coast.

By this time, Robertson had already completed his first formal report to the Naval Board on the circumstances leading to the collision. He had dictated it in the early hours of Wednesday morning and passed it to Becher, who provided copies to the Ministers and Harrington. It was a brief document limited to outlining ships’ movements and the associated signals. After speaking with Harrington and over 160 survivors who had been questioned systematically by interview teams made up of Melbourne’s officers, Robertson attached a two-page clarification to his first report. The second paragraph read:

Although I was not aware of it at the time, Voyager was cut in two by Melbourne’s stem. The stern half behaved as stated, the bow half passed down the port side of Melbourne, turned over on its side and came to rest off the port quarter.

Voyager’s missing were to be presumed dead on 17 February, one week after the collision. Their dependants would receive full pay and allowances until that date. The funerals of the three men whose bodies were recovered were held on 14 February. After some difficulties with the Australian Capital Territory Coroner over the release of Captain Stevens’ body, a private funeral for Voyager’s commanding officer was held at the Northside Crematorium in Sydney. Those naval officers invited to attend were asked by the Stevens family to wear plain clothes. Able Seaman Bob Parker’s widow requested that her husband’s body be buried at sea. The wife of the single civilian lost in the ship, H.S. Parker, a dockyard technician, asked if she could visit the place where Voyager had gone down and lay a wreath. The Navy met both requests.

A full naval funeral was held for Harry Cook who was buried at Rookwood cemetery after a service at HMAS Watson. His parents seemed to be almost the only ones with a consoling word for the Navy by the end of that dreadful week. They wrote to Becher that:

This has been a grievous blow to us, making the first gap in a united family. At the same time, we feel proud that our son has given all for his country: from the time he entered [the RAN College] he was a dedicated man, and never once did he utter a single regret for the career he had adopted. So far as we are concerned, his passing was tantamount to falling in battle, and while it has left us sad and lonely we have no feeling of recrimination whatsoever.

A national day of mourning was scheduled for 21 February, with memorial services to be held throughout Australia. Attempts to ennoble the deaths of 82 men by acclamations of service for the country’s defence and security were hollow and forced. The dead were victims of a tragic accident caused by human error or negligence—a waste, not a sacrifice.

The media were, as expected, very keen to talk with the survivors. By mid-morning on the day after the collision, Voyager’s ship’s company was scattered among a number of locations. Some had been flown to Balmoral Naval Hospital (HMAS Penguin), others were at the Naval Hospital at NAS Nowra, or at the Naval College. The Navy tried to accommodate media requests for access to survivors but there was an early element of caution, as the Navy’s proposed policy was for ‘uninjured survivors to be available to the press on arrival Sydney and the press to be told to confine questions to those concerning personal experiences’. Many were unwilling or unable to talk. Most of the survivors had cuts, bruises, lacerations and broken limbs. Those with the worst injuries were transferred from Melbourne to Balmoral although none was in a life-threatening condition. They had multiple abrasions and lacerations, amputated fingers, renal injuries and inhalation and ingestion of fuel oil with pneumonitis.

Despite the criticisms that later would be directed at the Navy by the press and some of the survivors, the Navy’s treatment of the survivors was generous. Each man was immediately given seven days’ leave and duty travel warrants to allow him to spend time with next-of-kin at Commonwealth expense by ‘the quickest and most comfortable method of transport’. This was despite the lack of a laid-down regulation on survivors’ leave in peacetime. It was also unusual in that the Board did not grant survivors’ leave to any RAN aircrew which were involved in accidents.

Each survivor was visited by a representative of the Navy on his arrival home. He was given replacement uniforms, pay in advance and advice on claiming compensation for personal items lost in the collision.

The families of those lost in Voyager were not forgotten. Naval social workers visited all Voyager widows living in naval married quarters and informed them that they could continue to occupy their homes for three months, with the possibility of a further extension. Despite good intentions, it was a big undertaking and there were, not unexpectedly, some deficiencies and shortcomings in the arrangements made for the care of so many victims and their families in the weeks following the tragedy.

The collision had left the Navy with two pressing problems. The first was repairing the damaged Melbourne and the disruption this would cause to the Australian Fleet’s commitments in the region. The second was finding a suitable replacement for Voyager. Both problems would be solved remarkably quickly and efficiently. The problem of what to do with the damaged Melbourne was given priority. The carrier was programmed to sail in company with HMAS Supply for Manus Island and South East Asia on 10 April and take part in the SEATO Maritime Exercise LIGTAS between 25 May and 10 June. Early estimates suggested the carrier would be out of action for three months with repairs to cost £100 000. If Melbourne could sail from Sydney by 4 May, however, the Naval Staff believed she could return to Jervis Bay for embarkation of the CAG and trials on the aircraft steam catapult before sailing to Subic Bay in the Philippines and participating in the second half of the exercise.

After being alongside for four days at Garden Island, Melbourne was towed to Cockatoo Island for docking. But work could not begin right away. As Melbourne was an important source of evidence for the inquiry, the Attorney General’s approval was needed before work on fitting the new bow could begin. Melbourne’s repairs were slightly more costly than the Naval Board had estimated but she was able to sail in May as hoped. Melbourne’s deployment would provide an effective and versatile Australian presence in South East Asia as Indonesia continued to threaten a ‘confrontation’ with Malaysia. She was not programmed to return to Sydney until 1 September 1964.

Progress was also made on the second problem—finding a suitable replacement for Voyager. On 18 February, the British Admiralty offered the destroyer Duchess to the Australian Government as a short-term replacement. The US Navy offered the near obsolete destroyers The Sullivans and Twining shortly afterwards. After making detailed comparisons, on 22 February 1964 the Naval Board advised Federal Cabinet that ‘from logistic, manpower and financial aspects, the choice . . . clearly points to the RN Daring Class destroyer HMS Duchess’. The Board recommended that Duchess serve on for a maximum of four years from June 1964 and be replaced by ‘modern construction escorts’. The cost of refitting Duchess (which was much older than Voyager and in need of a refit) and converting her for immediate RAN service was estimated at £295–305000. The British offer was accepted on 24 February. The RAN had acquired a replacement for Voyager within two weeks of the collision. Harrington sent a short personal signal to the First Sea Lord at the Admiralty: ‘I am very happy that the Government has accepted your kind offer of Duchess. Thank you’.

Despite the Board’s insistence that Duchess should be only an interim replacement for Voyager, she was eventually purchased and converted for duties as a training ship. She was finally decommissioned in 1977. A Navy press release dated 23 June 1964 announced that two frigates would be built as permanent replacements for HMAS Voyager. The new ships were to be of the River Class design—an improvement on the four Type 12 frigates already in service. HMAS Swan was commissioned in 1970, and her sistership, HMAS Torrens, the following year. In terms of operational capacity, the RAN actually did very well out of the loss of Voyager. A tired and ageing destroyer was replaced with three ships— another Daring and two River Class frigates. Repairing the damaged Melbourne and replacing the lost Voyager was one thing. Restoring public confidence in the Navy was quite another.

3

AN INQUIRY OR AN
INTRUSION?

Few organisations are ever prepared for tragic accidents, and the Navy was no exception. Just before 2300 on the night of the collision Fred Chaney, the Minister-designate for the Navy, asked Sir John Bunting, the Secretary of the Prime Minister’s department, to inform the Prime Minister of the tragedy. Bunting was one of the few people to have the Prime Minister’s private telephone number at The Lodge and said he would inform Sir Robert Menzies immediately. After this initial call, Menzies received briefs directly from Harrington. A legend later developed that Menzies was not told of the collision. It was, in reality, a half-truth and seems to have originated with the press. In a leading story on Captain Robertson published on 26 August 1964, the Daily Mirror claimed Sir Robert Menzies, ‘it is reliably reported, first heard of the tragedy in a radio news broadcast’. This story had become well-established ‘fact’ by the time Sir James Killen’s autobiography appeared in 1985. Killen recounts the legend as a plausible explanation for Menzies’ subsequent decision to hold a Royal Commission.

[T]he Prime Minister was not told of the collision and first heard of the news in an ABC broadcast . . . Menzies was rightly indignant. It is at times a neat point when a Minister should be told by his advisers as to a particular happening. And that is the case with advice being passed on to a Prime Minister. Clearly in the case of the Voyager tragedy the Prime Minister should have been told immediately.

Menzies was told immediately and was kept informed as news was available. But Sir Garfield Barwick recalled that early the next morning, Menzies was distressed to learn that the collision had been far worse than he had been led to believe, evidently by Harrington, who had been his only source of information. Menzies outlined the sequence of the previous night’s events to Barwick and expressed a fear that the Navy might close ranks and attempt a cover-up. To avoid this, Menzies wanted naval officers to be involved in the inquiry process. He and Barwick discussed possible courses of action, including placing a judge at the head of what he termed a Naval Court of Inquiry. Barwick was Minister for External Affairs, and Attorney-General (until 4 March 1964). Menzies discussed possible courses of action with several other callers that morning.

The Naval Board, apparently unchastened by the recent public mauling it had received over its handling of the November 1963 disappearance of five junior officers from HMAS Sydney in a whaler off the Whitsundays, naturally assumed it would be investigating the matter. Becher, as Fleet Commander, believed the conduct of an investigation would be left to him and that a normal Naval Board of Inquiry would be the most effective means of determining what happened. Rear Admiral Victor Smith suggested that the Navy should use the time-honoured method of court-martialling the senior survivor from Voyager as a mechanism of inquiry. To agree on a course of action, a meeting of the Naval Board was convened at 0800 the morning after the collision. The minutes of this meeting record that:

The First Naval Member outlined the circumstances as far as they were known . . . The regulations provided that a Board of Inquiry be held in such circumstances. It was a matter for consideration whether the Press should be admitted to the Inquiry and, in this regard, it was noted that they were permitted to attend the ‘whaler tragedy’ inquiry . . . The Secretary [Mr Sam Landau] pointed out that the loss of the ship could be considered a national calamity and, in the circumstances, the exclusion of the press from the Board of Inquiry would not be realistic. He considered, in addition, that in view of the nature of the mishap, consideration might also need to be given to the appointment by the Government of some outside authority to conduct the investigation, such as a judge, assisted by naval officers as expert professional advisers.

Voyager