Rescue helicopter staff upset over 'kick in the guts'

By CATHERINE MASTERS

All Simon Barton wants sometimes is a quiet beer.

It can be a demanding and emotional job managing operations at the Auckland Rescue Helicopter Trust, better known to the public as the Westpac Rescue Helicopter.

Late-night missions in pitch-black darkness to rescue injured yachties in high seas, sick premature babies, mangled road accident victims - he has seen some horrible sights.

But lately, the 44-year-old has had to change pubs because of the flak from the public.

The 20-year veteran air rescue worker gets a grilling about what has been going on within the trust - all its staff do. They say no one has been untouched by the fall-out from a Serious Fraud Office investigation and the subsequent arrest of four former top executives now facing fraud charges.

Even though none of the four has been to trial, the rest of the staff find themselves being accused by strangers of being crooks and they find it hard to handle.

"It's got to the point where I go to a different pub where people don't know me so I can have a quiet beer," says Mr Barton. "If somebody asks me what I do I say I'm a bloody truck driver."

He says he was the first person employed by the organisation, that he has grown up with it, it is all he knows.

"It's my life. All this stuff going on? It upsets me a lot. I just can't believe it."

He admits he has shed tears over what has happened. They all have. There is a new phrase down at the soon-to-be-empty Mechanics Bay base: "I'm going for a coffee and howl."

It has been 16 months since the Serious Fraud Office first started asking questions and staff walked into work to see officers turning files inside out.

Mr Barton says enough is enough. The people of Auckland need to know that the staff who risk their lives to save others are as dedicated now as they have ever been.

"It's pretty tough. We've been here for 33 years now, always been here for the people of Auckland, and for the last 16 months it feels like we've been kicked in the guts by the people of Auckland."

At Mechanics Bay, the little rooms with single beds for the 24-hour, seven-day, on-call doctors, paramedics, pilots and crew will soon be no more.

The beds and the bright red and blue overalls hanging on pegs are moving, with the rescue helicopter, to Auckland Airport to share the facilities of the sister organisation, the ChildFlight Trust, as part of a cost-cutting exercise because of a $2 million dive in funds, a consequence they say of the negative publicity surrounding the investigation.

Greg Brownson, the bushy-moustached helicopter manager, reckons he could write a book about the number of rescues. Some of the worst are taking people off pitching, rolling yachts.

But there are rewarding moments, such as when the victim is safely taken on board. Or like when they landed on a Kaukapakapa farm and were handed a premature baby wrapped in tinfoil, so small the child fitted in his hand.

That is why it hurts when, as happened the previous week, he was in the company car at a Northcote takeaways and was accosted by a man he says was drunk.

"He said, 'You guys are squandering money and you shouldn't be driving around in flash cars'."

The car, he says, is fully sponsored and the incident really upset him.

Amidst the investigation, the service has continued. For the first six months of this year, 956 missions have been carried out - that includes the helicopter and ChildFlight aeroplanes, as well as ground assistance and other medical assistance.

The ChildFlight operation is more out of sight to the public in its hangar at the airport, but it is equally affected by the funding crisis.

A walk through the Starship children's hospital intensive care unit makes its job obvious.

A critically ill toddler lies on his back with tubes in his nose and a ventilator helping him to breathe.

Because of patient confidentiality, Dr Liz Segedin, a trustee of both the helicopter trust and ChildFlight, will not say what is wrong with him.

Just that he was collected by ChildFlight - its motto is Intensive Care By Air - the night before, from a small rural community that could not manage his critical condition.



She goes into a nearby room stocked with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of mobile intensive-care equipment for the aeroplanes, paid for by the proceeds of slot machines.

She says it is crazy and tacky that ChildFlight and the helicopter trust must rely so heavily on gaming proceeds and that they get no direct Government help.

This is another problem the trusts face - a second court case involving the gaming licences. They are owned by a subsidiary of the trust, and the Department of Internal Affairs wants to withdraw them. If that happens, staff fear the whole service will crash.

Medical director John Orton, with his background in aviation medicine, aeromedical evacuation, anaesthesia and critical care, says it would be a disaster for the country if that happened.

"The reality is, if you can't move these kids around, they are going to die. How would you like that as a parent?"