The following is an excerpt from The Last Governor, by John Heffernan. The book is a revealing and candid behind-the-scenes look at life inside Australia’s largest prison system through the eyes of a former governor. For more information, check out Mr. Heffernan’s website.
A light breeze coming off the nearby ocean drifted over the walls of the Central Industrial Prison.
Rather than provide any relief from what had been quite a warm day, the accompanying faint aroma of salt air merely served as a reminder to most of those within of a lifestyle far beyond their reach. I raised my uniform cap by its peak, wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and glanced at my watch; it was about 2.30pm, Friday, August 8th, 1975. Soon my shift would be finished and, with that, my first week as a probationary prison officer would be complete. Fresh out of training, and I use the term loosely, I was patrolling the main square of Long Bay’s foremost maximum security prison, surrounded by hundreds of New South Wales’ hardest and most dangerous prisoners.
On the face of it, I was keeping the residents under observation. In reality I was more preoccupied with thoughts of the coming weekend, content to have made it through my first week on the job relatively unscathed. While on the surface, all appeared peaceful and quiet. Little did I know that I was just about to get my first lesson on how the situation inside a maximum security prison can deteriorate in a heartbeat.
Suddenly, without warning a crack echoed right around the square. It was almost as if a stop work siren had sounded. Everyone, staff members and prisoners, immediately ceased whatever they were doing. We were still trying to work out where the sound came from when, within a few seconds, a series of short sharp retorts followed. I certainly didn’t need my recent pass in weapons training to recognise the distinctive sound of gunshots.
A communal dining block situated in the middle of the square was in the process of being demolished and an Aboriginal prisoner working on the deconstruction of the roof high above me started to yell excitedly. With a one-handed salute in an attempt to shield the sun from his eyes, he was precariously balanced on what was left of a timber roof support and looking in the direction of No 2 Tower.
“Fuck me,” he shouted. "... you blokes couldn’t hit the broad side of a fuckin’ barn.”
The comment was directed at no one in particular, simply anyone within earshot. His words were lost on me as I attempted to find a position where I could get a clear sight of the unfolding drama.
From what I could see it appeared that the watchtower officer was firing at ‘something or somebody’ on the other side of the wall. He was out of the tower and leaning over the railing of the walkway, the butt of the M1 Carbine firmly locked into his shoulder. With each retort the recoil caused the rifle barrel to jump upwards, involuntarily. This particular tower was situated adjacent to the main entrance of the complex and the officer appeared to be aiming in the direction of the boom gate, the main entrance. That alone was cause for major concern.
Just as all activity within the centre had abruptly stopped, just as suddenly it recommenced, but now it appeared to move in double time. One of the first and foremost rules that you learn as a prison officer is under no circumstances do you leave your post. An incident happening elsewhere may well be a decoy; for that reason your responsibility is to remain on your rostered post.
Consequently, I, along with most other officers, remained behind while all available staff rushed to the gate to render assistance in a situation unknown. As keen as I was to get involved, with my level of experience I probably would have been more of a hindrance anyway. Shots were still being fired as a Chief Prison Officer suddenly appeared on the square and started to bark orders. “Return all prisoners to their cells now,” the Chief shouted. “Lock them down.”
The command was short and sharp and certainly conveyed the seriousness of the situation. With the smell of cordite starting to drift across the square I could feel my heart rate quicken and my mouth starting to go dry as we started returning the prisoners to the accommodation wings as quickly as possible. The mood amongst the prisoners was not good and some openly objected to their premature return. In the end, common sense prevailed and we eventually managed to lock the entire centre away, albeit reluctantly. Within a relatively short period, some of the officers that had left the centre began to return.
As they did, the story unfolded.
Three prisoners, Peter Melville Schnitzerling alias Russell Cox, Marko Motric and Alan McDougall, had commandeered a truck inside the neighbouring Metropolitan Reception Prison. As they drove towards the gaol gate, the only exit, they had stopped to overpower an officer taking him hostage.
Officer Paul Cafe was on duty in an area adjacent to the gate when they pulled him into the truck, forcing him at gunpoint to sit between them in the cabin. The trio were armed with weapons they had somehow managed to smuggle into the gaol, an automatic pistol, a starting pistol and a replica handgun.
With their hostage between them, they then drove the truck into the caged area of the gate. Like all maximum security gaols, the Metropolitan Reception Prison had an enclosed caged area with two sets of gates. Once a vehicle enters through one set of gates they are secured before the next set are opened. In this way the security of the prison is not compromised while allowing traffic in and out of the centre. The gate area also housed a visitor processing section and an armoury in which a diversity of weapons and chemical agents were stored. Aware of this, it was the intention of the three prisoners to obtain the keys and access the armoury once inside the gate.
The scene in the gate quickly turned into absolute bedlam as the prisoners, still holding Officer Cafe, began firing shots.
The Metropolitan Reception Prison entrance is not a particularly large area. Built in the 19th century it certainly was not designed to accommodate more modern vehicles, particularly trucks. With a five-ton truck taking up most of the available space and bullets rebounding in all directions, the few unarmed officers present were very much powerless.
One inmate grabbed the officer in charge, senior prison officer Sam Pavich, and held a gun to his head demanding the keys to the armoury. It was only later that I got to know and appreciate Sam Pavich, the man and the officer. Pavich took his role as a prison officer very seriously. The prisoners had no hope; as the guardian of the gate he was entrusted with the security of that section.
Even though under incredible pressure, he courageously refused to allow them an even greater arsenal and subsequently, the means to cause complete and utter mayhem.