Man behind N.Z.’s new chief spy

Press, 14 June 1983, Page 21

Man behind N.Z.’s new chief spy

On a memorable Tuesday morning the telephone rang on John Smith’s desk at British Petroleum’s head office in Wellington. The caller said he was instructed to inquire if Mr Smith wished to head the S.I.S.

“I can’t really say I was expecting a request of that nature. People don’t do they? It wasn’t an easy decision to make and I knew it would be a high-profile, demanding post

“I talked to my family and made up my mind that day. The fact that I was asked to do it took me more than halfway towards a positive decision.

“If they thought I could be of service then, I should offer that service. I suppose this type of thinking is part of my background.”

John Smith looks rather like someone whose name might be John Smith. He’s a small, cheerful man full of tightly controlled nervous energy. The brows beetle down over alert eyes which are inclined to dart in every direction except that of the visitor.

Neat, regular facial features, unobtrusive dark grey suit, unemphatic tie. “I am,” he has already told reporters, “a pretty conventional sort of chap.”

His office at BP matches the Smith presence — tidy, functional, and without any personal decoration that might give an ■ obvious clue to personality. In fact, John Smith bears little resemblance to the stereotype of a distinguished career soldier. Brigadier Smith retired as Deputy Chief of General Staff in 1981 and some special features of that outstanding Army background caused BP to hire him as a “Government adviser.”

The same set of qualifications undoubtedly influenced his selection as S.I.S. director.

Bom in 1926, he grew up in a Christchurch working-class family, worked as an uncertificated teacher in the tiny West Coast town of Haupiri, and in 1945 attended teachers college. He later gained a BA degree at Canterbury University.

“People were just beginning to come back from the war and, in a boyish way, I was frustrated that I hadn’t been part of it. “It’s hard to explain and I hope I don’t sound pompous. But it seemed as if I didn’t have a place in life. I felt as if I had missed a lot.

“It had been much the same at secondary school. The nation was distracted by war and people like me seemed incidental. So I was very keen when the opportunity came to volunteer for the J Force.”

Three student friends wanted to join Mr Smith as part of the occupation force in Japan. One mate, Bill Rowling, used John’s birthdate in his Army application. But the future Prime Minister’s

TONY REID interviews the new chief of the 5.1.5.; republished from the New Zealand “Herald.”

deception was spotted and Education Department intervention meant that only Smith managed to get to Japan. He fitted in “very quickly.” And, when he returned to Christchurch, John Smith already felt more at home in the Army than the classroom. He joined the Territorials, got a commission, formed his deepest friendships with other J Force veterans, went to Korea with K Force and joined the regular Army. The Army has been Brigadier Smith’s life and he talks of its detail with affection, respect and great pride. Waiouru, Korea, Borneo, Vietnam, top administrative days — they have become the measure of his personal honour and he bristles slightly at any hint of outside criticism.

He accepts that those who don’t know the Army might feel some aspects of the life were not an ideal preparation for running the 5.1.5.; that Mr Smith had been part of a subculture tending to discipline difference, narrow political opinion, and create rigidities of character and outlook.

Yes, he agrees, those would be the cliches. They are judgments

which obviously frustrate and embarrass him. It seems almost the equivalent to analysing his family life. Indeed, that feeling of supportive community most attracted him to the Army. “Look . . .” He pauses and wonders how to convey the merits of a whole separate existence. The post-war Army, Mr Smith insists, doesn’t narrow anyone. It now contains “internationalists” who might serve on base, exercises or exchange in many different countries. There were tremendous opportunities to learn about other cultures.

Negative cliches about Army life tended to centre on basic training for regular soldiers. Well, those people needed indoctrination to learn basic standards and basic

survival skills. “Some guys have to learn how to live in any community. Even how to shower. Oh, believe me . . . “But once you are through all that you join a real community. I can remember a lady coming to Waiouru and being very alarmed by what she viewed as a rigid class structure — an officers’ mess that allowed certain privileges, a sergeants’ mess and so on. “Well, I was able to show her that almost everyone in the sergeants’ mess had been a soldier and so had half the officers. I told her to go to the Ministry of Works camp at Turangi and see what chances they offered for social mobility through the hierarchy.

“She was convinced — and so was Norman Kirk when he visited Waiouru. Mr Kirk came with a lot of reservations. By the end of the day he was saying that places like Porirua needed some of the Waiouru spirit. And he was right. It is a tremendous community.”

Mr Smith courteously brushes aside questions that change the subject. He would like to explain, to “digress for a minute,” please? A determined smile indicates that the professional pride of his life must be defended and conveyed. Now, take this business of moving through the ranks. People were rightly concerned about the integration of the Maori into New Zealand society. The Army provided a structure for Maori success that was a lesson for the rest of the country. Throughout much of his career, Mr Smith had served as Brian Poananga’s second-in-command — in Borneo, Vietnam and, later, as deputy to Brian Poananga’s administrative leadership of the New Zealand Army. “There’s an example for you. For all of us. And look at the place Maoris have achieved in the officer corps and as senior NCOs. It really is a credit to them as New Zealanders.”

If the Army was more democratic than many people supposed then we could expect a wide range of political opinion within its ranks?

“I should think so,” he chuckles. "Someone should look at the voting patterns of Waiouru, I bet that would be interesting. Oh yes.” He gauged that spread of political opinion from conversations at Waiouru?

“Well ... no. Not that. You see, soldiers tend not to talk about politics. You don’t talk about politics, religion or women in the mess. It’s a convention that is well suited to close-knit communities. “You know, there is a lot of sense in the Army way of doing things. How wise it is to have a system of visible ranks. That allows for precise planning and interaction without threat to status.

“Now, BP is like any large company in that the status lines

are not so clearly established. That means people are sometimes reluctant to engage in dialogue with their superiors. They don’t know quite where they stand. .“Because everyone is secure in their place. Army life means a brigade major won’t bat an eyelid when he gently tells a colonel what he should do.”

At BP, Mr Smith has advised senior management on “how Government works — its agencies, how they mesh in, ways of bringing BP in contact with them.”

He has far more qualifications in this area than most retired Army administrators. In 1962, Mr Smith was seconded to the Defence Secretariat of the Prime Minister’s Department. He joined a small Sof officers assisting the of staff committee during “the beginning of the Army’s internationalist phase.” When the Government established a separate Ministry of Defence, Mr Smith became the minister’s military assistant — the “link man” between the minister and his new department. Indeed, he still looks like one of the middle-grade specialist advisers.

It was a phase of his life that gave him “great insight into the Cabinet’s workings.” And, when he fulfils the S.I.S. director’s task of attending the diplomatic-political cocktail circuit, the faces and conversational topics will not be unfamiliar.

Despite knowledge and enjoyment of that world, John Smith insists he remains apolitical. Yet an outsider might think the components of his career would be more likely to create a hawk than a dove?

“They might. But the Army is not like that. Soldiers don’t feel along those lines. “Vietnam? Well, I was a gunner with Brian Poananga in Borneo. I was his second-in-command. While we were there Brian was asked to go to Vietnam and he wanted me to go with him.

“So I ended up with a Vietnam campaign ribbon. Actually I went back several times. I was very interested in helicopters and their role in the operation.” But did he ever ask himself questions about the military role in

that most contentious of wars? “I’d have thought the soldiers at our level had no reason to question the justification for their deployment. Actually, the justification for what we were doing seemed perfectly clear. On the ground there was ample evidence that the Vietcong had committed atrocities and put pressure on local communities.

“Looking back at Vietnam? In my new position I need to be a bit careful about this sort of thing. But soldiers don’t decide which war they will go to. The politicians make those judgments. “Decisions were made about our involvement in Vietnam and, subsequently, interpretations have been placed on those decisions. That’s a privilege allowed to those who survived the war.”

However, if soldiers do not question their political masters, they do make definite judgments about the ideology of the enemy. Much of the most important S.I.S. work concerns Soviet espionage and Mr Smith is candid about his strong dislike of the various communist systems he has encountered while serving abroad. He is convinced that the security of SEATO and Western military activity in Asia “held a ring of influence until China achieved modern maturity.” Now China had sufficient stability to constrain the “destabilising” force of North Vietnam.

“I’m quite happy about telling you that I believe the Soviet Union is intent on destruction of the democracies. It is their avowed intention and there’s no evidence that they are deviating from it.”

And the liberal belief that communism might be an inevitable, even desirable, phase of nationalism for underdeveloped countries? Mr Smith’s eyes dart away and he strokes his chin in contemplation. “Yes, I’ve heard that said.” And his opinion? “I haven’t got one. I don’t think about it. “What I would say is that there is a fundamental enduring strength in democracy. It allows self-regula-tion and shifts in policy as the nation perceives them. “So, if a democracy doesn’t get things right then the people must blame themselves. That’s the big difference between democracy and communism.”