Bahgee Channel claims the unwary

Press, 20 February 1980, Page 23

Bahgee Channel claims the unwary

Random recollections of 30 years as a subeditor on the staff of “The Press,” including 20 years as chief sub-editor and Press Association agent.

By

S. V. GLASGOW

One of the great leaps forward made by the New Zealand Press Association in its first 100 years was the decision to lease wires from the Post Office. This meant that press messages, instead of taking their place in the queue with commercial traffic, were sent at once, eliminating what were sometimes long delays.

Apart from the obvious saving in transmission time the new system had several fringe benefits, especially for the Press Association agent who sent the message, and the sub-editor at the receiving end who prepared it for publication. When press messages were sent over the normal Post Office wires, the receiving newspapers were charged for them at the current press rate, so much per hundred words. The number of words sent over the leased wire makes no difference to the annual rent. But when words meant money -The sending agent had to careful:

Messages were sent in. a -‘Condensed form, that is, "with no punctuation, with- ? out articles, and often without what were considered obvious small words, frequently verbs and prepositions. Counting the words in the telegraph office before the messages were delivered meant further delay. If a message exceeded a round hundred . words by two or three it was’ charged at the lower ..‘.figure, but four or more iVp.ver the hundred meant a step up the scale.''• ~ If a newspaper received a message which it considered too long, or of 'A

little news value, it could reject it, and the sending agent would be liable for the telegraphic charge. This right of rejection was seldom if ever used, partly because dog does not eat dog, but chiefly because the rejecting office would also have its own Press Association agent, and retaliatory action would be easy.

Newspapers kept a close eve on costs in the early 19305. An agent who put the word “stop” into a message in two places, to avoid confusion at the receiving end, was rebuked for prolixity. The addition of those two words made the message five over the round hundred. Internal messages were condensed and unpunctuated. Overseas messages were not only condensed and unpunctuated but written in what . was known as cablese, designed to save wordage. All this demanded unusual skills, often of divination, from the sub-editors handling . the messages. An added hazard .was mutilation. A great many of the telegrams were still sent by morse key. Mistakes did occur, though not very often. The telegraphist's handwriting was always perfect, so there was never any difficulty in reading the words. The trouble was to know what they meant.

I recall a night some 45 years ago when I was relieving pri the cable desk. At that time the Press Association office in. Wellington received the cables as they- arrived from overseas and distributed them to newspapers according

to their indivual requirements. After midnight, when the Press Association office closed, those papers requiring it received “dropped” cable from Auckland. It had been “dropped” there on its way across the Pacific to Australia. In those days “The Press” went to press soon after 1 a.m., when we received the all clear from the telegraph office, no more dropped cables. The time was approaching 1 a.m. and the printer was hovering near my desk, as printers are wont to do. The Post Office messenger dropped a message on my desk and left, with a cheerful “That’s the lot.” The message, beautifully written on a Post Office flimsy, was datelined London. It said: “Cambridge outwarding London sank Bahgee Channel two drowned.” I was an inexperienced sub-editor in 1935, but my suspicions were aroused. Where was the” Bahgee Channel? What was the S.S.‘ Cambridge doing there on the way from London to New Zealand? Why just “sank.”? Surely they would say there was a fog, or that she had hit a reef or run aground.

The printer’s hovering' had now developed into a haka as I dithered. I looked up the Cambridge in Lloyd’s Register and took a note of her- vital statistics. At this stage the chief s u b-editor intervened. “What’s -the hold-up?” I proffered the message, saying I did not know, what to do. He glanced at it and said: “Put it in. She is a New Zealand ship.” It

was said in a voice which brooked no argument, though I am bound to say that I donVJ think he read anything after “sank.” So the loss of the Cambridge was duly recorded. Some half hour later, as I was cycling home along Papanui Road, the real meaning came to me in a

kind of blinding flash. The Cambridge had sunk a barge in the (English) Channel. It was too la-te to kill the story, the press was running. The chairman of the New Zealand Shipping Company, owner of the Cambridge, was also chairman of the Christchurch, Press Company. He was not amused. Sub-editors became fairly skilled at spotting and interpreting mutilations, but they did not see all errors, and sometimes were fooled by the cablese. Thus pando liners (for P. and O.) sometimes appeared, and during the Spanish war we had a strange warship named the Minne Layer.

Foreign statesmen and politicians were mentioned in the cables by surname only. The Statesman’s Year Book had to be constantly consulted to ascertain their initials and the - office they’ held. In a Christchurch morning newspaper, not “The

Press,” Senator Carter Glass, then a prominent American politician, , appeared as Senator Barnett Glass, a popular brand of car tyre of that time. The first cable from Australia to New Zealand came ashore at Cable Bay, some 15 miles north-east from Nelson in. Tasman Bay.. It was said to have

been selected because there were no obstructions of any kind between the beach at Cable Bay and Sydney Heads. The Press Association had a man stationed at Cable Bay. His duties were to receive the cables as they came in their raw state from the telegraphists, process them, and telegraph them to the Press Associatitwi in Wellington, whence they were distributed to subscribing newspapers. “Dateline N.Z.P.A.,” the story of the Press Association’s first 100 years, mentions that the association once faced an action for defamation, brought by Burns, Philp and Company; a Pacific shipping and trading company, but does not elaborate. The circumstances were rather curious. In the early 1900 s Japan was beginning to open the door to foreigners, so when an Australian senator returned from this strange country his obser-

vations were considered newsworthy. In an interview with a Sydney newspaper he gave some startling statistics, saying that one girl in four in Japan was a prostitute, and that thousands of young girls were in training for this profession. (The worthy senator was undoubtedly confusing geisha girls and prostitutes.) ■

The interview was cabled to New Zealand, and some wag in the cable office made an unauthorised addition:' “Burns Philp arranging half-rate excursions to Japan.” The Press Association’s man at Cable Bay did not recognise this addendum as a joke, nor did the man on dutv in the Wellington office, nor did several subeditors. Burns Philp was affronted at the suggestion that it would have any part in such sordid, felonious and infamous traffic, and sued the Press Association.

Before the introduction of leased wires and teleprinters in newspaper offices telegrams were delivered from telegraph offices by Post Office messengers. Similarly, messages sent by Press Association agents had to be delivered to the telegraph counter or to the operating room. This was often the cause of delays, sometimes long delays. Message boys developed an uncanny skill at being absent or invisible when they were wanted. Post Office, messengers, return-, ing after delivering a' telegram; were .always willing to take outward telegrams

back with them, but Often had other calls to make before returning.

One message boy, finding the telegraph counter closed and not knowing the .way to the operating room, posted a bundle of telegrams and sent them to the operating room. But he did telephone, and with some asperity, report the incident.

One of the boys who once carried messages to the Post- Office is now high' in the New Zealand diplomatic service. Another, Mr Paul Molyneux, became well known as a magistrate in Christchurch, and is' now head of ' the Security. Intelligence service. Two Post Office messengers regularly shared the late shift, and would bring the last telegrams over about half an hour after midnight, or sometimes a bit later. One of these men was Shorty. No-one knew if he had another name. Shorty was no respecter of persons or institutions, his language was strangely obscene, but he was a reliable and conscientious messenger.

Shorty had been a jockey, but- his career was cut short by an unfortunate incident at Oamaru. He had ridden a winner early in the day. but when hoisted into the saddle for a race later in the programme showed a strange inability to remain upright, or to remain on the horse at all.' His sub-. sequent encounter with the ' stipendiary steward led to- the loss of His licence.

Shorty was the. messenger on duty of the night of December-10, 1936. The country editions had been printed and were on their way. We were waiting for official news of the abdication of King Edward VIII. We were sure it was coming, but did not know when. It was nearing ■ 5 o’clock on a summer morning. The sun was up. Half an hour before a woman had telephoned, one of many, to ask where the paper was. It was her habit, she said, to rise at 4 a.m., make tea, and go back to' bed with the paper. I said we were waiting for important news. “Is it to do with the King?” she asked. “Yes,” I Said. “God save us all,” she replied. Time dragged on. We heard footsteps coming up the back stairs, tne route used by telegraph messengers.

Shorty appeared. He was clearly upset. He had been kept out of his bed for four hours. His Only thought was home and bed. He cared not a whit for princes, kings or bishops. He flung the envelope down on my desk with some bizarre suggestions as to what the king and Mrs Simpson could do, and where and how they could do it. He stumped off. ;

The telegram said simply: “Official. King abdicated.” I wrote the first banner headline ‘of my career. I remember it still. “King Edward gives up his Throne.”