The soldier whose heroism the NZ Defence Force strangely refuses to recognise

I wrote this post for my blog last week, then decided it was an issue of public importance that deserved a wider audience. I shared it with the NZ Herald, which published its own story by David Fisher today.

A New Zealand Army hero has been denied proper posthumous recognition for reasons that are bafflingly unclear. The most plausible explanation is that the NZ Defence Force wanted to be spared further embarrassment over a shameful episode from its past.

Private David Edward Whawhai Stewart, 23, was killed in a ferocious blizzard on Mt Ruapehu in 1990 while trying to save his comrades on an ill-planned winter training exercise. He was one of six who died from hypothermia in the army’s greatest loss of life in a single incident since the Second World War.

Stewart (pictured above) could have saved himself by hunkering down in his sleeping bag but instead risked his life exposing himself to the elements, moving around in 180 kmh winds and near-zero visibility in an attempt to help his comrades and keep up morale. Seven in the party of 13 survived, but Stewart died after the wind ripped away the sleeping bag he had volunteered to share with two others. Evidence suggested he was the last of the six to die.

An army court of inquiry led by Colonel Bernard Isherwood found that Stewart exhausted himself helping his companions. “It is the Court’s belief that his efforts to assist others were largely instrumental in causing his own death.” Stewart and Private Sonny Te Rure, the court said, had displayed “leadership and self-sacrifice of the highest order”.

It recommended decorations for both soldiers and for Private Brendon Burchell, who descended the mountain with one of the two instructors in the party to get help. Burchell and Te Rure (now known as Sonny Tavake) both survived.

Extraordinarily, it took nine years for the army to formally acknowledge the men’s heroism. And when recognition finally came, it was in the form of the New Zealand Bravery Medal – the lowest of four civilian awards for bravery. The Bravery Medal is awarded for “acts of bravery”, with no reference to the context in which the act occurred. (Military honours for gallantry, such as the Victoria Cross, are not awarded in peacetime.)

For several years, Isherwood, a former commanding officer of the NZSAS, and retired Warrant Officer Bob Davies have led a patient but determined campaign to get Stewart’s honour upgraded. They submitted that a more appropriate honour would be the New Zealand Cross, which is given for “acts of outstanding bravery in situations of extreme danger” – an apt description of the circumstances in which Stewart put his own life at risk.

At times it seemed they were almost across the line. Former Defence Minister Peeni Henare was supportive. So was Sir Jerry Mateparae, former Governor-General and chief of the NZ Defence Force. But this month Isherwood and Davies learned via a letter from current Defence Minister Andrew Little that the request had gone right to the top, to prime minister Chris Hipkins, who turned it down.

The reason given was that “the prime minister was of the view that it was important to uphold the long-established principle that decisions about awards of this kind were best made while all the relevant information was readily available, recall of the events was clear, and the actions concerned could be considered against the standards and values of the time and other contemporary examples.”

It seems an elaborately contrived excuse. The “relevant information” was all there in the 24-page report of the court of inquiry led by Isherwood only days after the tragedy, when recall of the event could not have been clearer. Statements were taken under oath from men who had personally witnessed Stewart’s valour.

The court of inquiry’s citation for Stewart – not made public at the time – noted that he “would have been fully aware that his actions in continually moving out of shelter and the warmth of his sleeping bag to assist those with hypothermia meant he had an increased chance of also becoming a casualty. He was also aware that he was becoming increasingly exhausted by the continual battling of the elements.”

What further information could have been needed? And in what way have “standards and values” altered since 1990? Has heroism been redefined in the intervening 33 years?

It was a fob-off that left the ex-army men scratching their heads. They believe their efforts were stymied by the hierarchy of the NZDF. But why, when it would appear to be in the interests of the NZDF to honour its own?

One possible explanation is stubborn institutional reluctance to revisit decisions made decades ago. But what seems more likely is that the NZDF doesn’t want to admit, even after all this time, that the army got it badly wrong not once but twice: the first time by sending 10 soldiers and a naval rating up on the mountain with inexperienced instructors, and again by not promptly recognising the acts of heroism that almost certainly prevented further loss of life. 

Isherwood, who now finds himself at odds with the army that he devoted 32 years of his life to, describes it as a can of worms that the military hierarchy doesn’t want to reopen.

The excuse given for the nine-year delay in awarding medals to Stewart, Te Rure and Burchell was that the bravery awards were in transition at the time from a British system to a New Zealand one. But Isherwood says there was resistance “from day one” within the NZDF.

It may be an indication of the army’s discomfort over the Ruapehu tragedy that it took more than 30 years for the report of the court of inquiry to be released. I obtained it last year after requesting it under the Official Information Act. Even Isherwood, who left the army in 1999, had to make an OIA request before he was given a redacted version of his own report so he could write an account for the history of the Royal NZ Infantry Regiment to which Stewart belonged.

Certainly the army had reason to be embarrassed by the inquiry, which found there was inadequate instruction and preparation prior to the training exercise. It concluded, damningly, that the inadequate skill levels of the instructors – both of whom survived – were a major contributory factor in the deaths of the six servicemen.

The inquiry found that the instructor who remained on the mountain absolved himself of leadership responsibility when it was most required. Isherwood thinks the fact that Stewart stepped into the leadership vacuum made his actions even more commendable.

The inquiry also noted that the party had no communications equipment – on the face of it, an extraordinary omission.

The army went some way toward atoning for its treatment of Stewart and his fellow servicemen last year, 32 years after the event, when a plaque was unveiled in Stewart’s memory at Linton army camp. His mother, Kathleen Kotiro Stewart of Whakatane, jointly unveiled the plaque with the head of the army, Major General John Boswell.

Among those pushing for Stewart’s heroism to be properly recognised, it was welcomed as a belated step in the right direction. But it wasn’t enough, and this month’s brush-off from Hipkins is unlikely to be the last word on the affair.

 

It's taken 32 years, but David Stewart's heroism has finally been properly recognised

On Saturday I was privileged to attend a ceremony at Linton army camp in honour of Private David Edward Whawhai Stewart.

Exactly 32 years previously, on August 13 1990, Private Stewart died in a blizzard on Mt Ruapehu in an army training exercise that went hideously wrong. He was 23. 

Stewart would almost certainly have survived had it not been for his selfless efforts to save the lives of his fellow soldiers. He could have saved himself by hunkering down in his sleeping bag, his only protection against the raging snowstorm. 

Instead he repeatedly exposed himself to the elements, moving around in 180 kmh winds and near-zero visibility in an attempt to help others in the party and keep up morale. He ended up dying of exposure after his sleeping bag blew away as he attempted to share it with two comrades.

Stewart was one of six young men – five soldiers and one naval rating – who died that night. It was the worst loss of life experienced by the New Zealand Defence Force in a single event since the Second World War.

Only now is his heroism being properly recognised. At Saturday’s event, a plaque in Stewart’s honour was unveiled at the Linton headquarters of the Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment’s 1st Battalion, of which he was a member.

It was jointly unveiled by his mother, Kathleen Kotiro Stewart, of Whakatane, and the head of the army, Major General John Boswell. Future generations of soldiers passing through the doors of the David Stewart Memorial Theatrette will see the plaque and be reminded of Stewart’s act of self-sacrifice.

The ceremony marked the completion of the first step in a patient and long-running campaign by former army officers to ensure that Stewart’s actions are belatedly recognised. In the second phase, they will try to persuade the government that he should posthumously be awarded the New Zealand Cross, New Zealand’s highest honour for acts of bravery in peacetime. It’s hard to see what argument could be made against their case.

Stewart’s heroism has been recognised previously – but inexcusably, not until nine years after the event. Even then he was awarded only the New Zealand Bravery Medal, the lowest possible honour. The Bravery Medal is awarded simply for unqualified “acts of bravery” as opposed to the New Zealand Cross, which is given for “acts of great bravery in extreme danger” – a more appropriate honour for a man who knowingly risked (and ultimately sacrificed) his life for others.

Stewart wasn’t the only hero on Ruapehu that night. Fellow soldiers Sonny Te Rure (now known as Sonny Tavake) and Brendon Burchell were similarly honoured in 1999. Both survived the 1990 ordeal and attended Saturday’s dedication ceremony.

Tavake’s actions on the mountain were no less courageous and selfless than Stewart’s. The two men ended up sharing a sleeping bag which blew away when they invited a third soldier, whose own sleeping bag had been lost (and who died), to join them.

Burchell, meanwhile, set out with one of the group’s two instructors to get help. But by the time the alarm was raised, it was too late; six young men lay dead in the snow from hypothermia.

Why no push for an upgrade to Tavake’s medal as well as Stewart’s? A pragmatic explanation is that two upgrades might have been too much for the honours system to cope with, and the case for Stewart was considered emotionally more compelling because his heroism resulted in his death.

A pertinent background factor is that for a long time, army chiefs gave the impression of not wanting to draw public attention to the tragedy on Ruapehu, even to the extent of being reluctant to acknowledge the heroism of their own men. 

The army would justifiably have been embarrassed by the results of a military court of inquiry headed by Colonel Bernard Isherwood, which found the principal cause of the tragedy was that the two instructors were insufficiently skilled and inexperienced in extreme weather conditions. The inquiry also criticised the extraordinary failure to carry a radio that could have been used to summon help.

It’s perhaps a measure of the army’s discomfort that the full report of the inquiry was released only last year. Even Isherwood had to make an OIA request for his own report so he could write an account for the regimental history and was initially refused on the ground that he was no longer serving. 

Isherwood, who left the army in 1999, and former Warrant Officer Bob Davies have led the charge for Stewart to be appropriately honoured. Isherwood spoke at Saturday’s ceremony and was blunt about the army’s failings: “I feel a responsibility for what happened that day. Not because I had any role in the event itself, but because of what I heard at the inquiry and the subsequent management of it by the army.

“I would also like to think that after 32 years we should have the maturity to acknowledge that as an organisation, we don’t always get it right; and we certainly didn’t on this occasion. In essence, we failed in our duty of care to our soldiers, the most important responsibility vested in us as commissioned officers.

“We allowed 11 totally inexperienced young men to be exposed to a lethal environment without the appropriate risk management resources in place. They were led by personnel who, through no fault of their own, lacked the training, experience and, in one case, the leadership skills. The conditions the group was exposed to were little different to a high-intensity combat environment on active service.”

Isherwood called the army’s treatment of Stewart, Tavake and Burchell a travesty. Among the families of some victims and survivors there’s still a degree of bitterness and resentment at the way the Ruapehu affair was handled – a feeling that the deaths were swept under the carpet in order to minimise discomfort to the defence hierarchy. But clearly, enough time has now elapsed for a new generation of senior officers to acknowledge the failings of the past. Saturday's event wouldn't have happened without the army's support. 

I was invited to attend  because of an article I had written for The Listener about the 1990 tragedy. It was a moving ceremony that was well covered by both TVNZ and Stuff. (Newshub also had a story about the unfathomable – and insulting – refusal to correct a memorial plaque on the mountain which misspells of one of the dead soldiers’ names.)

For me, as a non-military person, the Linton ceremony was an insight into the esprit de corps that binds soldiers and can motivate ordinary men to do extraordinary things, as in Stewart’s case (and frequently in wartime). Most of the 150-odd attendees were former soldiers and the majority were Maori. Many had been Stewart’s comrades and had driven long distances to pay their respects.

Watching them greet each other as they gathered beforehand, it was impossible not to be struck by the obvious affection and rapport between them. There was a lot of good-natured piss-taking but underneath, there was an unmistakeable sense of loyalty, mutual respect and solidarity. This applied to Pakeha as well as Maori soldiers, and there was an easy familiarity in the way they all exchanged hongi.

The commanding officer of Stewart’s battalion, Lt Col Logan Vaughan, gave a speech in which he observed that while most soldiers join the army knowing they might be sent to war zones, death and danger would not have been on the minds of the men who went up Mt Ruapehu in 1990. Yet in what quickly became a life-and-death situation, Stewart’s soldierly attributes asserted themselves and he put his mates first. “I couldn’t think of a better example of comradeship,” Vaughan said. It’s easy for urban sophisticates to be cynical about such old-fashioned concepts as comradeship but in the context of Saturday’s event, it struck an authentic note.

Stewart’s mother, surrounded by whanau, also spoke. Her speech was quiet, dignified and free of any hint of reproach for what had happened to her son. The waiata that the crowd spontaneously launched into after she had spoken would have left only the most hard-hearted attendee dry-eyed.

A Maori dimension – call it tikanga Maori – was central throughout the proceedings, but this was no display of ostentatious virtue-signalling such as you might see in the Wellington bureaucracy. It seemed the most natural thing in the world in an army unit that has absorbed Maori values. Being a soldier calls for a collectivist ethos that comes naturally to most Maori, and their Pakeha comrades seem to have absorbed it as if by osmosis. 

Bob Davies (a Pakeha), in a speech in 2000, talked about the loyalty and solidarity exhibited by Maori soldiers, saying it encapsulated “what it means to exist for something other than oneself”. Davies tells me he was thinking of David Stewart when he said that.