Things are clearly not well with our boys in blue. Their recent extended stay in sunny Port Moresby along with the PM and his entourage hit the airwaves for all the wrong reasons.
Seasoned observers of our nation’s fine Air Force will note that their breaking down is nothing new.
Although it gets more media time when the prime minister is aboard, no trip that is dependent on Defence equipment can ever be considered a sure thing. Much like the Interislander and its maritime misadventures, wringing the last ounce of life from old gear is just a reality of life in New Zealand’s Defence Force, as frustrating as it may be. It’s hard to soar with the eagles when you’re riding a donkey.
New Zealand has always had old military gear. Decades ago on an armoured personnel carrier drivers course we had to re-appropriate rusty old steel track holding down the scrum machine at the Waiouru Rugby Club because we had no spares in the country. If that didn’t work our next stop was the museum just down the road.
The Air Force suffered the same equipment issues. I was once part of a training exercise where we had seven Iroquois helicopters in support. Lots of photos were taken before we started because we all knew it would be the first and last time we would ever see that many choppers airworthy at the same time. And we were right.
But while things were bad then, this time it’s worse. You see, while the Air Force could never be fully relied upon to turn up when you needed it, it could always be relied upon to turn up to a cocktail party, of which the recent prime ministers’ trip undoubtedly had many.
Equally, if the Air Force were to break down, it would unerringly be in the same location as a well-reviewed beach resort, with quality accommodation and those little umbrellas that you can put in your drinks.
A breakdown in Port Moresby on the way to a cocktail circuit is therefore the Air Force’s equivalent of a desperate cry for help.
While my feet still hurt from the memory of the numerous Air Force no-shows for a pickup, and the small person inside me enjoys watching both our politicians and well-groomed air crew suffer the same fate, I think in fairness we badly need a couple of new jets.
And yes, these jets should belong to the Air Force because contrary to a few opinions out there, they don’t exist purely to fly over sports stadiums and cart the prime minister around. The ability to rapidly and reliably transport soldiers and equipment to locations that commercial air carriers cannot fly to is an essential component of any semi credible defence force.
Aside from the Defence piece, there is another critical reason the PM needs a new set of wings: trade. It’s fantastic to see our new government following through on its commitment to grow the value and size of our exports, but we need to provide those who represent us with the tools to get the job done.
In some ways it’s pleasing to see the PM and his delegation turn up on the national airline. As a Kiwi it seems to showcase our natural humility and willingness to get on the job without a bunch of unnecessary pomp and fluff. But the reality is that many of our trading partners value pomp and fluff. It demonstrates to them that we are a serious player, and that we in turn see them as deserving of such respect.
It’s true that no government in its right mind would want to spend money on new jets when so many of its people are doing it tough. It’s much easier to spend money on health and welfare, nice safe vote buyers that they are. But without strong trading relationships and the income that it provides, there will be no money to buy votes.
Investing in the core drivers of our economy is always a hard sell, but it is critical that we do so if we want a country worth living in. Investing in the means of getting our trade representatives out into the world and doing business is a key part of this.
As I write this article I’m looking out the window at the rain and mud, with the next job being shifting breaks. To be honest, it’s a little galling making the case for new planes for our fearless aviators while I slide around in a wet paddock.
Who knows, maybe we’ll all get invited to the next cocktail party?
