Under New Management: Holden in the Thirties

I wasn't planning to get bogged down in the politics, but this was too interesting to leave out, and it sort of follows on from mentioning the Sydney Harbour Bridge in my previous post. It occurred to me that the Great Depression was taken as an invitation on an embossed card by both the far-Left and far-Right all around the world, so what about Australia? Did we get in on that action while all the cool kids were doing it? This being Australia, the answer turned out to be, "Yes, but..."

Friendlyjordies called him, "The Greatest Australian of All Time". Statistically, the greatest Australian of all time probably lived and died long before white settlement... but he was pretty neat.

The usual course of events was that, with laissez-faire capitalism down for the count, and the pre-Stalin Soviet Union seemingly going from strength to strength, communists around the world started getting stroppy. This in turn triggered a far-Right backlash¹ from Great War veterans and middle-class professionals who feared their country was going Red. While there was a Communist Party of Australia, founded in 1920 and featuring members like Adela Pankhurst (daughter of famed British suffragist Emmeline Pankhurst), they never really gained a foothold in this country, so party membership and vote share remained tiny. No, the Right's real boogyman in this country was NSW Premier Jack Lang, who was then a member of the Labor Party and regarded as a major threat. What kind of policies could the Big Fella have espoused to elicit such vitriol? From his Wikipedia page:

During his first term as Premier, Lang carried out many social programmes, including state pensions for widowed mothers with dependent children under fourteen, a universal and mandatory system of workers' compensation for death, illness and injury incurred on the job, funded by premiums levied on employers, the abolition of student fees in state-run high schools and improvements to various welfare schemes such as child endowment (which Lang's government had introduced). Various laws were introduced providing for improvements in the accommodation of rural workers, changes in the industrial arbitration system, and a 44-hour workweek. ...

Lang established universal suffrage in local government elections – previously only those who owned real estate in a city, municipality or shire could vote in that area's local council elections. His government also passed legislation to allow women to sit in the upper house of the New South Wales Parliament in 1926. This was the first government to do so in the British Empire and three years before ... London would grant the same privilege to women throughout the Empire.

Which is not to say he was a saint – he was an avid supporter of the White Australia Policy, for example – but for most people he crossed the Rubicon when he tried to dismiss the Upper House of NSW, the Legislative Council. He attempted such a thing because he claimed it was un-democratic – which at the time it was, functioning less like the Senate in Canberra and more like the House of Lords in London, with lifetime Peerage for those selected by the Premier. Taking advantage, Lang packed the Council with 25 members of his own choosing so the body could vote to dissolve itself: The motion failed by a single vote and, deciding this man was a bit too radical for their tastes, the voters kicked him out of office soon after.

Come the Great Depression, however, the newly-impoverished knew what was good for them and Lang was brought back in a landslide. Soon NSW was running bigger deficits than the rest of the country combined and, fearing they were witnessing the rise of the tyrant, a group calling themselves the New Guard rose up to oppose him – the first and largest fascist organisation in Australia, founded by Great War veteran Eric Campbell. The group claimed a whopping 50,000 members at its peak – a terrifying number when there were fewer than 4,000 police in the state – and featured celebrity members like former North Sydney mayor Hubert Primrose, and aviation pioneer Charles Kingsford Smith. Most New Guard members however were returned servicemen like Campbell, and under his leadership they broke strikes, disrupted "communist" meetings and, yes, attacked members of the Labor Party – standard Brownshirt stuff. But then, at the opening ceremony for the new Sydney Harbour Bridge, the group made its real mark on history...

Before Lang could cut the ribbon, a certain Francis de Groot, formerly a captain of the 15th Hussars² but lately a New Guardsman, spurred his horse forward and slashed the ribbon with his sword, declaring the bridge open in Lang's despite³. De Groot wasn't supposed to be there, but by borrowing a horse and putting on his old uniform, he'd blended in with the troop of NSW Lancers well enough that no-one asked questions. He was swiftly arrested and the ceremony carried on anyway, but the headlines had been made.

I've heard about this incident about a dozen times over my life, but only in the most recent retellings is it mentioned that de Groot was a member of a fascist paramilitary – if you didn't know better you could mistake him for a common protester, or even some sort of loveable larrikin. Thankfully, the New Guard rapidly broke up once Jack Lang was dismissed from office and, taking the hint, Eric Campbell went on to found a political party instead. He called it the Centre Party which, given he'd first consulted with Nazi diplomat Joachim von Ribbentrop and Sir Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists (and father of Max – there's your motorsport connection), is kind of a misnomer.⁴ Australians being Australians, however, in the subsequent 1935 election the Communist Party got just 1.5 percent of the vote; the Centre Party didn't even manage half of that, with 0.6 percent.

TVtropes once pointed out that Australians solve problems slowly and with a minimum of physical violence. There are times when I am profoundly grateful for that.

Trouble in Paradise
Things were similarly divided within the headquarters of GM-H. No matter how management might promise otherwise, a corporate merger always results in two people competing for each job, and the pressure is on when there's a mortgage on the line. Within the offices of 169 City Road, Melbourne – formerly home of General Motors Australia Ltd, now base of operations for General Motors-Holden's Ltd – the backstabbing was exacerbated by a clash of cultures between Australian and American ways of doing business.

Case in point, they'd tried to stretch the top crown across two heads, making Augustin N. "Gus" Lawrence (the former head of GM Australia) and Edward Holden (his opposite number at Holden's) joint managing directors, with Edward also serving as chairman. That was never going to work. As far back as 1929, then-GM Australia head Innes Randolph had famously complained: "Amazing people these Australians. They just won't do as they're told." Holden's had always developed the vehicle to suit the local market, which was why they'd risen to the top of the local industry, but it took a bit more time and, crucially, a bit more money than just assembling whatever shovelware GM had shipped over. The Americans by contrast were all trained in the Chicago school of business, and would insist on a carbon copy of the original. Even in good times, deviating from Plan and Budget is viewed as a personal betrayal by upper management: In the midst of the Great Depression, it was probably something to settle with pistols at dawn.

When the infighting got too much, Edward Holden appealed to our old friend James D. Mooney, head of the General Motors Export Corporation, to swing an axe. The alterations to the personnel roster were sharp and dramatic: Gus Lawrence was kicked upstairs, given a regional directorship of Australian and South African operations, and most of the former GMA technical men went with him. Edward Holden fared only a touch better, Mooney deciding he should be chairman only, and bringing in someone new to take on the role of managing director, someone who'd already displayed adaptability in the face of colonial conditions – one Laurence J. Hartnett.

Here caught in a rare moment behind his desk. (Source: ABC.net.au)

Hartnett was fond of telling this story and, to put it gently, he wasn't shy about making himself the main character. Nevertheless, no-one could dispute that he had an enormous effect on the direction the company would take in the coming decades. He'd been born in 1898, to a middle-class family in Woking, and had initially attended Epsom College with the aim of becoming a doctor. He left at age 16 to pursue a mechanical direction instead, joining Vickers Ltd as an apprentice – the same Vickers whose heavy machine gun would soon become the terror of the Western Front. In March 1918 he finally enlisted, joining the Royal Naval College in Greenwich to become a pilot, only for the war to end before he could fly a single mission.

With the fighting over, in 1919 he embarked on his first business venture, purchasing a small South London concern that specialised in identifying war widows whose husbands had left motor cars up on blocks before going off to France, buying up said motor cars and then refurbishing them for sale. It worked for a while, but in 1921 the bubble burst and the company folded. Undaunted, Hartnett instead accepted a position as an automotive engineer with Guthrie & Co., an outfit busy administering a number of rubber plantations in south-east Asia, while also taking responsibility for importing tea, alcohol and motor vehicles into the region. The catch was the job meant relocating to Singapore, but that wasn't so bad given the region was booming, as worldwide demand for rubber made certain people in the right places very rich. 

Rubber tapping in Malaya. Twenty years later, the effects of British rule would see the region become Australia's dry run for Vietnam... (Source: Economic History Malaya)

Upon disembarking on the island fortress, Hartnett was immediately put in charge of Guthrie & Co's automotive division on Grange Road, which put him in touch with General Motors for the first time. Guthrie had obtained the local franchise for Buick the previous February, and Hartnett was now employed assembling and distributing their cars to dealers throughout the region (with Hartnett himself handling the Singapore dealership, and speculating in rubber futures as a sideline).

Such was Hartnett's success that, after three years at Guthrie, Mooney offered him a position as head of the General Motors Export Company's operations in south-east Asia – a position in which he excelled. Hartnett was now on the ladder, and the only way was up: By 1927 he'd been appointed to General Motors Nørdiska in Stockholm, and then in 1929 he returned to Blighty as export director of Vauxhall. In 1930 he was sent on an extensive tour of South Africa, New Zealand and Australia to gather intel on what would make for a successful export model, with Vauxhall's subsequent VX and VY Cadets tricked out according to what Hartnett had learned. Now he'd been summoned to put his talents and experience to work turning the Australian outpost around.

Thankfully, just the fact that he was British and not American made him more acceptable to the locals, and in 1934 he became managing director of GM-H, with a mandate to, "Make it profitable or close it down" – not the last time we'd hear those words. Fortunately, Hartnett understood the resourceful nature of the Australian operation and had a certain respect for it, saying: "The economies achieved by Holden's at Woodville put them, in many ways, years ahead of the rest of the world in manufacturing techniques. The resourcefulness and initiative of the Australians in this industry is beyond praise."

Hartnett began an overhaul of GM-H, sacking executives as needed and placing the dealers on a more stable footing. Agreements between the dealer network and the company, previously renewed annually, were rewritten so that they remained in perpetuity provided certain sales numbers were met. He also put his personal charm to work schmoozing in the halls of power, making friends with Labor Prime Minister Joseph Lyons to ensure the tariffs that kept Holden competitive remained in place (even then, it was known that if either party scrapped the tariffs, Holden was doomed).

Hartnett (far right), Lyons (centre) and someone with a real job, Nov 1936. (Source: Port Places)

 

The Sloper
The victory of the Australian faction within GM-H created space for innovation, and the rewards for that came in 1935 with the debut of a unique new body style. Holden's called it the "All-Enclosed Coupe", but it's known to most petrolheads by a much more descriptive name – the Sloper.

Press image of the "Sloper"-bodied 1935 Chevrolet Standard coupé.

Aimed at the travelling businessman, the Sloper was the forerunner of the modern three-door hatchback. The process began when GM shipped over the chassis and mechanicals for one of their Chevrolet, Pontiac or Oldsmobile "coops", ready to be dressed in a Holden's body. As we know, however, Holden's had a habit of modifying the design to suit local conditions, so rather than go with the classic bootlegger-chic three-box design (with or without rumble seats – remember those?), Holden's brought the roofline down to meet the rear bumper in a single long, clean curve – a "slope", if you will. By thus enclosing the boot and cabin together as a single space, and fitting a folding rear seat, they created a lot more weather-proof volume for kids or cargo, and the front and rear windows could also be cracked open for instant flow-through ventilation. There was also the cost-cutting benefit of needing to stamp out just one steel panel instead of two – albeit an unusually large one, but more on that in a moment... 

Compare the pair: The outline of the previous year's Oldsmobile shows what a difference the Sloper body style really made. (Both images via Five Starr Photos on Flickr).

If it all sounds suspiciously like GM's "Albanita" experimental – itself a response to Chrysler's "Airflow" – you're not all that wrong. Holden's were the Leibniz to Chrysler's Newton, that's all. The tyranny of distance left the Australians entirely unaware of the experimental new models in the U.S., so Holden's had simply forged ahead with what they thought was a really good idea. And crucially, unlike the Americans, the Australian version worked: By employing their deep institutional savvy with wood, Holden's were able to construct a body strong enough to take all the punishment Albanita could not, while avoiding the expensive tooling that ultimately sank the Airflow. Production is estimated to've run to around 7,300 all-up, but compared to just 212 for the Airflow – especially given the vast resources available to Chrysler – that was a bonanza. In fact, that year GM-H employed some 7,000 people drawing £1.25 million in wages, to produce 23,129 motor bodies for a net profit of £650,000 (about $77 million in 2023) – all in all, not a bad referendum on Hartnett's leadership.

The Bend
But the gears were always turning. The industry was putting less and less wood in its vehicles every year, but so far none had dared make an all-metal car. The reason was simply that no-one had a steel press big enough to manufacture the "turret" (i.e. the roof panel) – none, that is, except Woodville. With their Sloper experience, they were the obvious choice when, in 1937, Plymouth became the first brand in Australia to cross the threshold and put an all-steel car up for sale. They were able to do so because Holden's had geared up for the new model by installing a giant new steel press at Woodville, a piece of machinery so vast it had been inaugurated by PM Lyons. Rather than laboriously fashioning some two hundred individual pieces of timber, the new Plymouth merely required Holden's to stamp out the four major panels, then spot-weld them together. The savings in time and effort were more than enough to pay for the new steel press.⁵

(Source: Shannons Club)

It was another feather in GM-H's cap, but the Plymouth highlighted a looming problem – the car industry was moving away from fitting separate bodies to chassis in favour of integrated mass-production that saw a complete vehicle roll off the production line, ready for sale. Once the industry made the transition, Holden's would cease to be a true manufacturer and would become just another assembler of Chevrolets built for the streets of Manhattan. If Hartnett really wanted to push for, "A wholly Australian car," it might be now or never.

Hartnett often spun the story as if the idea of GM-H building a uniquely Australian model was his alone. In fact, he was pushing against an open door. Under the leadership of company chairman and president Alfred P. Sloan Jr, General Motors was busy building up its subsidiaries and encouraging them to develop vehicles suited to their various local markets. Opel was the go-to example: Mooney had long been explaining to the board that the Chevrolet cost 75 percent more in Europe, where the buyer only had 60 percent as much money with which to buy the car! Instead, they'd forged ahead with their own Kadett, Olympia and Admiral models, plus the Blitz lorry, with only the Blitz bearing serious resemblance to the prior Bedford.

Thus Hartnett asked for, and got, permission to build GM-H its own manufacturing plant in Australia – specifically in Melbourne, where GM had already set up shop. Doing nothing by halves, Hartnett chartered a plane to fly over the city and identify a nice empty plot suitable for a brand-new factory. After inspecting fifteen possible sites, his attention focused on a tract of sandy, swampy land on the south bank of the Yarra River called Fishermans Bend⁶, a name coined in 1879 by harbour engineer Sir John Coode, after a solitary fisherman who lived on a bend in the Yarra, near what was is now called Coode Island. 

Naturally, that means it's now a peninsula. The bikini-clad girl in the corner hints this map is post-war. (Source: Reddit)

Although located only two kilometres from the city centre, directly across the Yarra from Coode's main wharf facilities, hitherto the city's industry had all but ignored the area. They used it mainly as a chemical dump, with the Ingles Street area home to tallow-rendering for nearby glue and soap factories, plus a manure depot. The only other development had been the Victoria Golf Course and a privately-owned aerodrome, which also served as a race circuit (another motorsport connection!). The view from the air revealed numerous holes where sand miners had dug to feed the city's concrete industry – holes they were supposed to have filled back in, but hadn't. Nevertheless, it was an attractive site for an industrialist – flat and wide-open, with a high-voltage transmission line nearby and a brand-new wharf that had recently been completed by the Harbour Trust opposite. It was perfect.

Although this photo was taken after completion, it still shows off the "sandy wasteland" aspect of the site nicely. (Source: The Race Torque)

Although the traditional owners were the Boonwurrung nation, by 1936 the the site was considered Crown land, and for some time the government was reluctant to sell it. The sale of fifty acres ("or thereabouts") was finally negotiated for £400,000, nearly $47 million in 2023. GM-H was obliged to spend at least another £200,000 on buildings and infrastructure within two years as well, among a laundry list of other stipulations by the Victorian government (my favourite being that all machinery and materials had to be sourced within Victoria, with the rest of Australia to be sought only if Victoria couldn't meet needs, and the rest of the British Empire following only after that. Nothing American, in other words). As Crown land, the sale required its own Act of Parliament and, since the act was signed on the eve of King Edward VIII's abdication to marry Wallis Simpson, it bore the signatures of both Edward VIII and George VI. Victorian Premier Albert Dunstan turned the first sod of earth on 23 February 1936, on what had been a green of the golf course, and the work began.

Since City Road was in poor condition, crowded and rat-infested, Hartnett knew the site would also have to serve as the company's new head office⁷. The initial design thus incorporated an office building, an assembly plant and a warehouse to service Victorian and Tasmanian operations. The assembly plant itself was a large, utilitarian building of a type common to industry around the world, notable only for its sheer size – with a floor area of 30,600 square metres, or more than 7½ acres, it was the largest single-storey building in Australia. When it was finished, the plant was capable of producing a hundred cars a day, travelling along the line on a chain nearly 140 metres long.

The front that GM-H chose to present to the world, however, was the Administration Block, a rather attractive two-storey office building occupying 251-259 Salmon Street. The Art Deco influence on the facade was restrained, but unmistakeable.

Today the building appears to be the head office of Boral concrete. Fortunately, it's also heritage listed.

Remarkably, the whole thing was completed in just seven months. On 5th November 1936, in the presence of 1,500 guests, Joseph Lyons opened the new factory, saying proudly: "There is nothing that Australians cannot attempt and nothing that they will fail to do once they have made up their minds." On the same day, the first car assembled at Fishermans Bend (an Oldsmobile) was driven off the line by the plant's architect, John Storey, with a beaming Larry Hartnett in the passenger seat.

"In fact, nowhere else in the world will there be any [GM] plant containing all of the modern units and processes which will be operating at Fisherman's Bend," reported The Mercury on 11 January 1936. "A place of particular interest will be the special air-conditioned paint processes department, which has been designed to ensure the best possible working conditions, and the total absence of dust, which is so essential to constant high quality in paint finish." Which might come as news to those who remember the quality of Holden paint at some points in their history, but in 1936 all that was still well in the future.

The total cost of the Fishermans Bend plant was estimated at the time as £433,085 ($50.6 million), which was divided between £278,940 for the buildings themselves and £102,653 for the equipment within them. It was a colossal addition to local industry for a country still staggering out of the Depression, but it was nevertheless built with one eye firmly on the future – Hartnett always intended the plant be able to commence full local production as soon as he could extract permission from the masters in New York. And given the company posted a net profit of £1 million ($117 million) by the end of the financial year, that permission couldn't have been too far off.

Pig-Iron Bob
If it was all coming together a bit too easily, don't worry, it wouldn't last. Australia had emerged from the Depression a year earlier than the U.S., but we also took a bigger hit when the so-called "Roosevelt Recession" arrived in 1937. Living in the shadow of its bigger brother, this downturn is all but forgotten today, but it came when Washington started cutting welfare programmes a bit too early, resulting in a downturn in corporate cash and a brief dip in the Dow.

In Australia, however, the recession had less to do with the U.S. than it did with Japan.

(Source)

The Imperial Japanese Army (notably, not necessarily the Imperial Japanese state) had been fighting in Manchuria since 1931. In July 1937, events kicked into overdrive with a full-on invasion of China proper. Seeking help from the wider world, in August the Chinese deliberately expanded the war to Shanghai, where the carnage would be fully visible thanks to all the Western businesses and journalists based there. The news pouring out of Shanghai shocked the world alright, but it resulted in little real help, and it was nothing compared to what happened in December, when the Emperor's troops reached Nanjing...

Our problem was that this was being done (partly, at least) with Australian steel. In the 1920s we'd started realising Australia possessed iron ore of unusual purity, which BHP immediately started exporting – initially to the Americans, but before long the Empire of the Rising Sun took over as our best customer. A Prime Ministerial note from the day outlined that:

...substantial tonnages of iron ore have been exported for several years from Iron Knob in South Australia to Japan. In 1934/35 out of a total export of iron ore from Australia of 400,000 tons 250,000 went to Japan. In 1935/36 out of 430,000 tons 290,000 went to Japan. In 1936/37 out of 270,000 tons 194,000 went to Japan. Balance largely to America in each of these years.

Local enthusiasm for iron-ore exports chilled, however, as fears grew that Japan was in the early phases of a wider war of conquest. We'd been primed to believe this thanks to the notorious Tanaka Memorandum, a document supposedly outlining Japan's strategy for conquering the Pacific in the not-too-distant future. Today this document is generally regarded as a forgery, as it only appeared in 1934 (after fighting in Manchuria had already begun): It seems no-one has ever sighted the original which, given we have the meeting minutes from the conference where the Nazis decided to have a Final Solution, isn't too much to ask. But a thing doesn't have to be true to be influential, and the outbreak of war in China gave the Memorandum a huge injection of credibility.

On 18 April 1938, therefore, the Lyons government in Canberra passed a total ban on the export of iron ore – a ban that would stay in place until 1960. Their stated reason was that Australia had only so much ore to go around and most of it would be needed for domestic use, which is incredibly funny given the shape of the economy today: In reality, they were probably just squashing a rival for BHP. But there were no restrictions placed on exports of lesser scrap or pig iron, which led to the infamous Dalfram Dispute of 1938.

On 15 November that year, the British cargo steamer SS Dalfram docked at Port Kembla, NSW. The wharfies enquired as to the nature of the cargo and its destination, and when told it was indeed pig iron for Japan, they downed tools and walked away. The wharfies were on strike, and would remain so for the next ten weeks.

Making his way through the protesters. (Source: Robert Menzies Institute)

This was one strike that didn't have the support of the Labor party, however, so they called in then-Attorney General (and future Prime Minister) Robert Menzies to massage the situation. Despite solidarity strikes across the country (and immense support from Australia's Chinese immigrant community, who provided food to striking workers' families so they didn't go hungry), Menzies ultimately broke the strike and the workers loaded the iron "under protest". The whole affair had achieved little beyond giving an unknown number of Chinese people ten more weeks of life, and Menzies suffered the epithet "Pig Iron Bob" for the rest of his life.

And in the end, as feared, we got it all back a few years later when the Kates and Zeroes hit Darwin and Broome, and the mini-subs popped up in Sydney Harbour to torpedo the ferries. The War to End All Wars, Part 2, was only months away.

¹ There's a reason such politics are called "reactionary"...

² 15th Hussars are probably best known for serving at Waterloo, but also for carrying out the Peterloo massacre not long after. In-keeping with fascism being a middle-class phenomenon, however, in civilian life he had the whitest, most salmon-mousse job imaginable: He was an antiques dealer.

³ Although it's generally reported that he cut the ribbon, at least one witness claimed he failed to do so with his sword, and the ribbon only parted when the hooves of his rearing horse broke it. Given the Pattern 1908 cavalry sword was basically a pointed crowbar, designed for skewering not slashing, it's quite likely this is true.

⁴ You know how when a country's name starts with, "People's Democratic Republic of", you know it's going to be none of those things...?

⁵ The car was probably the 1937 Plymouth Deluxe P4 – which, believe it or not, is the car that underpins the hedgehog car in Mad Max: Fury Road.

⁶ Fishermens Bend, Fisherman's Bend... being from the 19th Century, the spelling varied from person to person and somehow, by osmosis, we ended up settling on the most annoying version. The lack of an apostrophe will never not irk me.

⁷ GM Australia might've only moved in a decade earlier, but the building itself dated back to the 1870s.

The Depths of Despair: Holden in the Depression

It cannot be overstated just how devastating the Great Depression was for Australia. By some metrics, we had it worse than any other country on Earth – a big call when Weimar Germany is also a contender, but I think the point can be made. For one thing, for the last half-a-century Australia had been a virtual workers' paradise¹, with high wages, strong unions and conditions (like the eight-hour workday) that were the stuff of dreams in other countries: We'd simply achieved a greater height from which to fall. For another, here the hardships started earlier, with the trouble beginning not in 1929, but in 1925...

The corner of Hay and Sussex Streets, Sydney, c. 1930. The Hotel Burlington building is seemingly still there, but next to it now is a gold statue marking the entry to Chinatown. (Source: englishhimki Livejournal).

Living Beyond Our Means
Australia had no "Roaring Twenties" of the kind seen in the U.S., but that doesn't mean there was no post-war splurge. Once the Great War ground to its bloody, uncertain conclusion (accompanied by the Spanish Flu, which brought mass death of a kind even the war hadn't managed), the Australian government came out with big plans for rebuilding. One such plan was the Soldier Settlement Act of 1916, which saw some 23,000 demobilised soldiers (British as well as Australian) brought out and settled on small farms, usually of around 1,000 to 1,500 acres (There are a lot of these around my home district, with one of them named Passchendaele. I don't think that requires further explanation). That's 23,000 soldiers together with their families, by the way, so it probably tops 100,000 people total – quite a migration, all told.

At the same time, both Federal and State governments were investing heavily in public infrastructure projects. Two such projects, just to give you the flavour of the era, were under the management of one J.J.C. Bradfield, an engineer at the NSW Department of Public Works. His first big project was the electrification of Sydney's rail network, which ran its first electric trains in 1926, with spurs running as far as Cronulla, Bankstown and Lithgow (gotta bring the city its coal). The heart of the city was linked to the North Shore via another colossal piece of infrastructure, this one a landmark even today and the reason Bradfield's name sounded familiar: the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

When we did Bridgeclimb in 2001, the guide asked us to imagine how it must've dominated the skyline in 1932. To an extent, it still does today. (Source: Daily Telegraph).

Projects like this were far from cheap, however, and the only way mere State governments could afford them was lots and lots of borrowing, mostly from London. This went double as tax revenues began to fall in the latter half of the decade, as the economic turbulence of the 1920s began in earnest.

See, the Great War had been a hugely expensive exercise for Mother England, not just in lives but in capital as well. I wish I could remember where I first heard it so I could cite it properly, but one source pointed that out that the fuse on a fragmentation shell was a high-tech item in 1914, one that took a highly-skilled lathe operator to make. From that perspective, the fortune expended on something like the week-long barrage that opened the Battle of the Somme can scarcely be imagined. Small wonder Britain ended the war owing staggering debts to the United States, and with scant hope of calling in her own debts from the other Entente powers, all of whom were either equally shattered by the war (France) or no longer even existed (the Russian Empire).

No attribution on this one, I consider it part of the redistribution of wealth.

The strain on the economy left Britain trying to balance inflation against labour relations for the first half of the 1920s, but the critical moment came in 1925. Chancellor of the Exchequer that year was none other than Winston Churchill², the most 19th Century of a cohort of very 19th Century men, and he thought the best way to return the British banking system to its former preeminence was to return the pound to the gold standard, at the level it had been in 1913 – in effect, turning a £1 note into a voucher for 8 grammes of gold.

The problem was, the pound had been trading substantially below that since the end of the war, so Churchill had just arbitrarily made the British pound more expensive. That in turn made British goods artificially expensive, correspondingly reducing demand in the rest of the world. Why pay extra for a British doodad, said the world, when you could buy an American doodad that was just as good at market rate? The result was a collapse in British exports, which in turn collapsed their demand for raw materials from Australia – there was no reason to import Australian wool if the looms in Norfolk and Yorkshire were standing idle.

An array of roughly-contemporary Australian coins. Being slightly more recent, the florin, sixpence and shilling feature the face of George VI rather than V. I'm still bracing myself for the first Australian dollar to feature Charles' ugly mug. (Own work).

Even worse, Australia couldn't really export to anyone else, either. Since 1910 we'd had our own currency – the Australian pound – but it had been pegged to the British pound at a ratio of 1:1. At the time that probably made sense, minimising the disruption of the changeover, but now it meant the Australian pound was just as overpriced as the British, hurting our exports. High grain prices during the war had encouraged farmers all over the world (but especially in the U.S.) to invest in machinery to expand production and meet demand. With the war over, however, and millions of soldiers returning to the plough, the world suddenly had grain to spare and prices collapsed. Wheat and wool remained in freefall through 1927 and '28, and to cover the shortfall in tax, the government had to fall back on even more borrowing. Australia was the largest single borrower from the City of London during the 1920s, but as commodity prices fell, the loans from London started drying up. The unemployment rate hovered between 6 and 11 percent for the rest of the decade – mild compared to what was coming, but profoundly shocking for a country that had enjoyed near-zero unemployment for the last few decades.

About All Those Resettled Soldiers...
A quick digression: Nothing provable, just me reading between the lines. I think there was a fair bit of *sniff* ideology going on with the Soldier Resettlement Act. In this era, anyone who was capital-e Educated was, by default, a Classics nerd, someone who knew their Thucydides, Virgil and Plutarch. I think the reason they were so bewitched by the idea of smallholding citizen-farmers is because that's what Rome had in the Republic's heyday. Like America's Founding Fathers a century and a half earlier, there was probably a strong, unspoken, but very genuine belief not just in the economic, but in the moral benefits of basing a society upon these people. I think if you cracked open the skull of a policy-maker circa 1928, you'd find they truly believed Rome rose to greatness on the moral gumption of good, honest, salt-of-the-earth soldier-farmers, and it was the loss of these people and the Marian switch to a professional army that led to the "decadence", decay and decline of Rome. That said, Resettlement was probably a major help in re-integrating our veterans back into society, and you only have to look at what was happening in Italy around this time to realise they got that much right, even if accidentally.

That said, the reality of the programme is that it took several million acres of arable land and placed it in the hands of people who didn't necessarily know anything about farming, especially in a harsh country where the principles of growing can be quite different. The page linked above mentions that out of 5,000 soldiers settled in WA, only 3,500 were still on the land by 1929 – the rest going bust and selling up even before the Great Depression. Some of that was the impossibility of making any money now the price of grain had crashed, but some of it was poor soil management bringing salt to the surface and making a Carthage of the land they'd been given.

Settled soldiers' cottage in Kentucky, NSW (Source: Wikipedia)

As for all that infrastructure investment, well, these were the final glory days of post-millennial optimism. You don't need a theology degree to get the gist of it: This was the same urge that led American progressives to ban slavery, but then overreach themselves by banning alcohol as well, leading to the evils of Prohibition. Basically, those living in the late 19th Century had seen science advance at breakneck pace, bringing steam trains and electricity (electricity must've seemed like actual witchcraft when it was new), antiseptic surgery that might not kill the patient and, yes, even the motor car. They were reading the signs and imagining where things might go in the future, and now they'd just suffered through the greatest war (and plague!) in human history, a Great Tribulation such was not since the beginning of the world, no, nor ever shall be. So was it such a stretch to believe maybe the Earthly Paradise started here, and we should get to work already? If so, that only made what happened next even more scarring.

The Crash of '29
The traditional starting gun for the Great Depression is September 1929. On the 20th of that month, famed British investor Clarence Hatry was gaoled for fraud along with several of his colleagues, leading to the suspension of his companies and the crash of the London Stock Exchange. Since London was the centre of world banking, investors in the U.S. got the jitters and the Dow began to tumble. October saw the first and sharpest declines, including the notorious Black Monday and Black Tuesday plummets, when the Dow lost nearly a quarter of its value in just 48 hours. A consortium of wealthy industrialists and bankers tried to stem the bleeding by putting together a quick slush fund and buying blue chip shares at well above market price: The crash paused for barely a day, then swallowed the slush fund whole as share prices continued to collapse. By the time the market bottomed out it was July 1932, and from a peak of 381.2, the Dow had dropped to just 41.2 – almost ninety percent of its value had been wiped out. With it had gone the life savings of millions, including even the most battle-hardened denizens of Wall Street, as ever-more-cynical traders had stepped in to "buy the dip" and got caught up in the ensuing ruin.

A common feature of all [previous crashes] was that having happened they were over. The worst was reasonably recognizable as such. The singular feature of the great crash of 1929 was that the worst continued to worsen. What looked one day like the end proved on the next day to have been only the beginning. Nothing could have been more ingeniously designed to maximize the suffering, and also to insure that as few people as possible escape the common misfortune. The fortunate speculator who had funds to answer the first margin call presently got another and equally urgent one, and if he met that there would still be another. In the end all the money he had was extracted from him and lost. The man with the smart money, who was safely out of the market when the first crash came, naturally went back in to pick up bargains. The bargains then suffered a ruinous fall. Even the man who waited for volume of trading to return to normal and saw Wall Street become as placid as a produce market, and who then bought common stocks would see their value drop to a third or a fourth of the purchase price in the next 24 months. The Coolidge bull market was a remarkable phenomenon. The ruthlessness of its liquidation was, in its own way, equally remarkable. – John Kenneth Galbraith, The Great Crash 1929

A fascinating graph comparing the Crash of '29 with the 1973 Oil Crisis, the NASDAQ Crash of 2000 and what was then the ongoing Credit Crunch of 2008. If I have any Gen Z readers, feel free to file this one under, "How Millennials Got Like That".

The effects here in Australia were no gentler, even if we were, on paper at least, in a better position overall. Our share market bubble wasn't quite as inflated, one source told me – which is true – but then they cheerfully add, "We had no banking crisis", which is an odd thing to say when we'd simply outsourced our banking crisis. The hardships of the late 1920s had already brought down the Nationalist government and returned Labor to power – in a masterpiece of poor timing, just days before the start of the crash – leaving Australia in serious danger of defaulting on all those massive loans. In August 1930, the Prime Minister invited Sir Otto Niemeyer of the Bank of England out to Australia to advise on economic policy, a fact that left me muttering, "Oh no..." as I read it. I'd just finished listening to Behind The Bastards' three-part episode on the Irish Potato Blight³, so I knew exactly what the advice would be: Australia should pay back all debts in full, and if a lot of people died in the meantime, what of it?

So it was that Australia embarked upon the Great Depression in debt up to the ears and with absolutely no money available to help the enomous crowds of people who were now losing their jobs. At its worst, the unemployment rate reached 20 percent (among unionised workers, it got as high as 32 percent), and unlike the U.S., there was no FDR riding in on a white horse to offer us a New Deal: The only welfare was the so-called Sustenance Payment (inevitably, the "Susso"), which was only available if you were long-term unemployed, and only if you had no other assets, and even then was a pittance. The Susso varied from state to state (in South Australia it took the form of a voucher system), but in Queensland it was a cash payment, from which we can get some hard numbers. By 1932, the average weekly wage was £2 11s 8d, or roughly $302 in 2023: The Susso handed out between 3s to 4s/6d per child – by the same inflation factor, between $17 and $26 per week. Just imagine trying to feed yourself for $26 a week, never mind replacing worn-out clothes (or even just washing them), or supporting a family as well: There was no way in Heaven, Hell or other dimensions you were going to afford any kind of rent, which is why so many ended up living in shanty towns on the outskirts of more fortunate neighbourhoods.

The notorious "Happy Valley" at Brighton-le-Sands, Sydney, 1934. (Source: Wikipedia).

One of my grandmothers was 10 when the Depression came, and although she never really spoke about it, the few anecdotes she did leave us with paint a bleak picture. They were living in Newtown, Sydney, where her father had once been a cabinet-maker, but was now out of work with a stroke. Her mother, who'd worked as a scullery maid back in Britain, now had a job laundering lab coats for the doctors of RPA – a job that required labouring in brutal heat, so she usually came home with sweat rashes. She was paid per coat starched, which too often made only enough to feed her husband and three children, not herself: "I'm not hungry tonight, dear," was the usual excuse.

The laundry at Northampton General Hospital, Cliftonville, U.K., c. 1930. Since most of our equipment was British-sourced in this period, RPA was probably very similar (Source: Northampton General website).

Meanwhile, the job forced her to leave three little girls at home with a man now prone to rages: My grandmother told how she and her sister would hide in the cupboard, desperately trying to hold the door closed so he couldn't get at them. And, she never failed to remind us, you had either jam or dripping on your bread, never both.

No wonder people turned to Phar Lap and the Don.

And the Share Price Kept Falling...
Holden's Motor Body Builders Ltd. suffered through their own share of the collective misery – indeed, they could hardly avoid it. The Woodville plant, whose steel presses had stamped out 36,000 car bodies in 1928, saw deliveries drop to just 4,786 – again, before the Depression even began – and a pitiable  1,651 by 1931. Edward Holden searched frantically for ways to keep his factory open, even if it wasn't making motor cars, and found refuge of sorts in the food industry – always one of the last industries to enter a recession. Production lines that had so recently seen thousands of Chevrolets marching to completion were now reduced to the manufacture of fruit crates instead. Other diversifications included making steel golf club heads⁴ and filing cabinets, but even so the red ink remained and the share price dropped alarmingly low. There were layoffs and labour unrest: Holden's was pushed to the brink.

Paddy's Fruit and Vegetable Markets, Quay Street Haymarket, Sydney, c. 1930. Statistically, somewhere in this photo is a Holden's made fruit crate riding in a Holden's-made Chevrolet or Bedford (Source: City of Sydney Archives)

As fate would have it however, while Holden's was struggling with not enough money, their partners at General Motors Australia had the opposite problem. Tough government restrictions to keep money from leaving the country meant there'd been no way to repatriate their profits back to New York, leaving them with a Scrooge McDuck-style money bin and nothing to spend it on. The solution was obvious, even if it did make the Australians nervous – memories of GM's less-than-chummy 1925 takeover of Vauxhall were still fresh.

But Holden's and their 1,500-odd shareholders could hardly afford to be picky. Edward Holden flew to the U.S. to negotiate the acquisition of Holden's by General Motors Australia Ltd, submitting to a deal whereby GM's head office would hand over £1,111,600 for the company, including £550,000 in cash for Holden's £1 preference shares and the issue of 561,000 preference shares in exchange for Holden's ordinary shares. It was a bargain when the company's assets, which included Woodville, further assembly plants in Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide and Perth, and various service depots, were together valued at more than £1.4 million ($135 million in 2023), but such was life sometimes. Thus was born, in March 1931, the firm of General Motors-Holden's Ltd, or GM-H, and the company that would one day proclaim itself "Australia's Own" became a wholly-owned American subsidiary years before Arnott's, Tooheys and Speedos made it cool. And, it must be said, years before they'd ever manufactured a complete car...

¹ As long as you were white, anyway. Recent digging into Australian movies has brought The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith to my attention, the inspiration for which was the tragic true story of Jimmy Governor, which happened all around me as I write this. Post-invasion Australia was no paradise for its traditional owners, that's for sure.

² As an aside, I've heard the Chancellor of the Exchequer is the only member of the British parliament allowed to drink on the job, and only while delivering the budget. You just know Churchill abused the hell out of that.

³ Don't call it a Potato Famine. There was a potato blight, to be sure, but the famine was the result of deliberate consciously-chosen British government policy.

⁴ Of course golf survived just fine...

Before Holdens, Holden's: The 19th Century Roots of GM-H

Even in the 1950s cars in Australia were still transport for the rich – everyone else used their 'awse or walked! – Harry Firth, Australian Muscle Car: Ford and I

One of my favourite podcasts is Well There's Your Problem, a podcast about engineering disasters, which also has slides¹. My favourite era to hear about is Gilded Age America, roughly spanning from the end of the Civil War to the start of the Great Depression, an era of laissez-faire capitalism, grifters in straw hats, DC electrical grids and urban freight rail. It fascinates me because it's an era that we in Australia pretty much missed out on: For Australians, the 19th Century lasted until 1945. In the course of researching this blog – in which I just wanted to provide the context in which the early Holden company was trying to do business – I think I found out why.

The Man, The Myth, The Legend?
James Alexander Holden was born in 1835 in Walsall, in what was then Staffordshire, just to north of Birmingham. His father, a leathergoods purveyor and sometime Member of Parliament, died when James was only 16, leaving him with £130 of inheritance² and a stepmother he hated, prompting him to explore his options overseas. He tried his luck in Canada and New York before returning to the U.K. where, in 1854, aged just 19, he decided to follow his cousin Edwin Smith to what was then called the Province of South Australia – a colony that was barely older than James himself, having only been established in 1834. He arrived safely in the city of Adelaide (built on land stolen from the Kaurna nation) after a pleasant 102-day voyage.

James comes across as an ambitious, press-ever-onward type, full of big ideas but with a low threshold for boredom – I get the feeling if he were around today he'd probably be a crypto bro. Upon arriving in South Australia he bounced through a succession of white-collar jobs (basically out of boredom), but this kind of job-hopping was actually a very good idea at the time. Half the working-age population of Adelaide had just decamped to the gold fields of Ballarat, so in this sort of environment, someone willing to work and blessed with plenty of self-esteem could build up a nest-egg fairly quickly. And indeed, by 1856 a 21-year-old James had embarked on his first business venture as J.A. Holden & Co., selling saddles, whips and harnesses of both local and British make.

The business did well, and by the following year James had married his landlord's daughter, one Mary Phillips, and together they bought a house and started a family. Initially J.A. Holden & Co operated out of a small warehouse at the corner of King William Street and Rundle Mall, but in September 1859 they moved to a larger premises at 34 King William Street, a collection of 1840s buildings divided into small shops, known as Beehive Corner after the iconic tailor's shop.

Beehive Corner in 1866. The whole complex was demolished and replaced with the current gothic revival building in 1895. (Source: State Library of South Australia)

By 1864, J.A. Holden had 21 employees and more space was needed, so he rented another shopfront at 106 Gawler Place, a narrow single-lane thoroughfare through the centre of Adelaide. The price was £350 per annum³, paid quarterly, which he could afford thanks to winning a contract to supply carts and other equipment for the 165 horses and 210 bullocks of the Overland Telegraph Line. This ambitious project meant stringing 3,200km of copper wire (and building a chain of repeater stations) clear across the Red Centre, from Adelaide to Darwin, but once it was finished it was only a matter of months until Darwin linked up with Java via submarine cable, reducing communication delay with Europe from months to hours. Australia was no longer isolated, and with the proceeds of such a major project, J.A. Holden & Co were able to purchase the site outright in 1873, for the covenanted price of £3,850⁴.

Gawler Place during Holden's tenure. (Source: State Library of South Australia).

By 1871 they'd outgrown their home base yet again, and expanded around the corner to 59 Rundle Street. Gawler Place remained the wholesale business, while Rundle Street became Holden & Birks, a subsidiary retail business operated in partnership with one Alfred James Birks, formerly of the Bank of South Australia. Sadly, this arrangement lasted only until 1874 when Birks unexpectedly died, aged just 33.

Holden & Birks in Rundle Street. (Source: Wikipedia)

For what it's worth, James' personal residences had followed a similar pattern. As newlyweds, James and Mary had started with a four-room cottage adjacent to Clayton Congregational Church in Beulah Park. To that they'd added a larger home in Magill, but then only a year later they sold both properties to buy a fifteen-acre estate at Kensington Park, where in 1871 the original cottage was replaced by a proper seven-room residence (which was expanded even further in 1875).

Finally, in May 1879, the company upgraded to its ultimate home, a bespoke two-storey office and retail building located at 100 Grenfell Street.

Source: Wikipedia

But the good times were already coming to an end. For one thing, the economy had started to cool – the best of the Victorian gold rush was over, meaning immigration had slowed, and drought was squeezing the crops on which everyone depended. Banks were failing, and even the surviving ones were forced to start calling in loans, including on some of Holden's customers – and, no doubt, on Holden himself. If you thought his meteoric rise and splurging on property sounded like a man living on too much credit, very good, I too have read financial stories since 2008. As the business situation deteriorated he sought solace in the bottle⁵, and started looking for bail outs.

H.J. Holden.

In 1879, for example, he took his 21-year-old son Henry James Holden (second of his and Mary's ten children, but the first to survive to adulthood) and made him a partner, accordingly changing the company name to J.A. Holden & Son. October 1880 then saw James subdivide and sell off some of the estate at Kensington Park, raising £2,368 12s⁶. By 1884, however, they were under enough financial stress to need another partner, which they found in one Heinrich Friedrich Adolphe Frost, though he came to prefer Adolph. Originally from Hamburg but more recently of Port Wakefield and Yorketown, where he'd been a respected businessman in his own right (and even served as mayor), it was a risk for Frost to buy into such a troubled concern, but one he considered worth taking. The synergy of merging his carriage-building and trimming business with one of the best leathergoods producers in the colony was simply too good to ignore.

Even so, James' situation remained desperate and he proved not to be above making shady decisions. As a senior member of the community he'd been made both a Magistrate and a Justice of the Peace, with the latter office sometimes requiring him to rule on bankruptcy cases. One such case was that of John Wake Fox, one of whose creditors happened to be... J.A. Holden & Son! Despite the obvious conflict of interest, James was given the case, which had the obvious outcome: The Insolvency court was less than impressed when they found James had seen his own £42 debt paid out in full, leaving just 5 shillings in the pound for Fox's other creditors!

He was fortunate in fact that none of the other creditors had the money to pursue the case, but either way James was now a very sick man and incapable of further damage. In September 1885, a virtually-bankrupt James sold his share of the retail business to his son Henry and partner Frost, and went into voluntary liquidation in March 1886. A meeting of his creditors had revealed debts totalling £31,195, albeit with assets totalling £39,454⁷ – he was in the black, but only if he amortised all debts now, before accruing any more interest. He was forced to sell off everything, including the estate at Kensington Park, a slew of other properties, a stock of fifty buggies and various other pieces of machinery and bits 'n' bobs. The dream was over, and he subsequently died in Semaphore Hospital in June 1887, aged just 52, of tuberculosis and complications arising from alcohol abuse.

So what are we to make of James Alexander Holden? It seems a more ignominious end than he probably deserved, but inevitable given the way he'd lived his life. He'd pursued with reckless abandon what would become, a century later, the Peter Brock philosophy: "Bite off more than you can chew, then chew like buggery." But he proved ahead of his time in a basic yet very important way: He believed in the value of Australian manufacturing. He was a founding member of the Adelaide Chamber of Manufacturers, a body aimed at doing for local production what the Chamber of Commerce had done for merchants, and at its grand opening he'd said:

We have artisans equal to any kind but they labour under the disadvantage of having the result of their labours condemned before trial as being 'colonial rubbish'.

Holden & Frost
But the true measure of a man is what survives after his death. J.A. Holden & Son might have been wound up, but the retail business – the one that had started as Holden & Birks – lived on in the hands of Henry James Holden and Adolph Frost, trading as the partnership of Holden & Frost Ltd.

Tough economic headwinds remained throughout the 1880s, but the company scraped by from their sole remaining address at 100 Grenfell Street. What turned their situation around was the outbreak of the Boer War in 1899, which was kind of the Ukraine War of its day. It was motivated by naked British greed (South Africa was rich in gold and diamonds), and it made Britain very unpopular internationally, especially once the effects on Boer civilians became widely known. Nevertheless, for Holden & Frost it was a godsend, as the South Australian government awarded them a contract to fit out the new units of mounted infantry being raised for the war effort. An opening contingent of 10,000 soldiers had been promised to the mother country, and the units being raised had names like the 1st South Australian Mounted Rifles, so the demand for saddles, bridles, Sam Browne belts and alike was acute. Holden & Frost landed an immediate contract for 10 percent of the total.

Men of the 2nd South Australian Mounted Rifles c. 1900. Third from the left is Trooper Harry Morant, aka. "The Breaker" (Source: Australian War Memorial)

It was a golden opportunity, and Holden & Frost jumped on it, setting up a separate workshop with additional staff to complete the job in the shortest time possible. Their 1,000 sets of equipment were ready and delivered long before those of Sydney or Melbourne-based contractors, which of course led to an order for a further 1,000. By 1901, Holden & Frost was the largest supplier of harness to a new entity, the Commonwealth Military Forces, precursor to the Australian Defence Force. Over the course of the war, the colonies had federated to become the new Commonwealth of Australia: A province no longer, South Australia was now officially a state of the world's newest country. That meant demand for Holden & Frost's products remained relatively high, as the new Federal Government had decided the only way to defend such a huge, sparsely-populated continent was with the kind of mounted infantry that had proved so effective in South Africa. The company thus survived the Federation Drought in better shape than it otherwise might have done.

But of course, we were now into the 1900s, and the times were once again changing. In 1888, a mechanical engineer from Mannheim named Karl Benz had registered the paperwork for what he called the Benz Patent Motorwagen – the motor car – and so changed the world forever. One who had an interest in these new contraptions was Edward Wheewall Holden, son of Henry and grandson of James, who'd graduated from Adelaide University with a degree in Science and Engineering and joined the company in 1905. In 1909 Adolph Frost died and the Holdens bought his share, taking full control of the company, and giving Edward the headroom to pursue his interests.

In this era, when the motor car was basically a toy for One Percenters, there were all sorts of draconian laws in place to suppress the "maniacal" urges of this fringe hobby. Horse owners were forever complaining that these noisy, smelly contraptions frightened their steeds, and speed limits were set so low it wasn't unusual for a "speeding" motor car to be overtaken and booked by a policeman on a bicycle. Nevertheless, Edward slowly convinced his father these machines just might have a future, and when Henry sailed overseas in 1908 to see for himself how the motor industry was developing, Edward set up a tiny workshop at the rear of the Grenfell Street premises to begin working on motor cars. 

At this stage, the process when buying a car was to import a chassis and engine from the U.K., U.S. or Europe, and then have a custom body coachbuilt upon it. The customer would spend considerable time discussing various choices of wood, fabric and other pieces of trim with the coachbuilder to ensure they got exactly the vehicle they wanted. It was a long and expensive process, taking up to three months to complete a single car, but one at which Holden & Frost excelled. By 1914, they'd built their first original body on the chassis of an imported Lancia⁸.

Staff outside Holden & Frost saddlery in Grenfell Street, 1914. (Source: The Townsville Bulletin).

The outbreak of the Great War in 1914 saw another windfall, as demand for military tack once again went through the roof, but the war also stimulated interest in motor cars. Danger to shipping forced the Nationalist government under Billy Hughes to introduce the Luxuries Restrictions bill of 1917, which restricted the import of non-critical items like perfumes, furs, eggs, beer and ale... and bodies for motor vehicles. The intention was to save space aboard ships for wartime supplies, which a motor car most definitely wasn't, but there was concern what would happen to this fledgling industry if their bread and butter was cut off completely. As a compromise, no limit was placed on the number of automotive chassis that could be imported into Australia, leaving Holden & Frost in prime position to manufacture the bodies to clothe them.

At this time the most popular model of car in Australia was easily the Ford Model T, with other brands like Dodge Brothers (which would be bought up by Chrysler in 1928) following well behind. In Adelaide the principal Dodge Brothers dealer was the Cheney Motor Company: A phone call from company head S.A. "Bert" Cheney to Edward Holden resulted in a meeting, also attended by Henry, where Cheney proposed that the Holdens establish a dedicated plant to manufacture bodies exclusively for Dodge Brothers chassis. The volumes Cheney was talking about were breathtaking, but the numbers finally turned Henry around, and the morning after the government brought in the Luxuries bill, Henry Holden went to the Bank of Adelaide and secured a £50,000⁹ loan to finance the new factory.

The Holdens had made a massive commitment to an industry they had hitherto only dabbled in, but it proved a wise move. In a meeting with the NSW distributors, Dalgety & Company, the Holdens and Cheney were able to ask just £57 10s¹⁰ for a body – far less than a comparable Ford – so when they mentioned production numbers like 5,000 a year, they seemed quite achievable. When the company was divided again in the aftermath of the Great War, the leathergoods side carried on as Holden & Frost, located in Grenfell Street. The coachbuilding side, which had now eclipsed it, became Holden's Motor Body Builders Ltd, operating out of a sizeable new factory at 400 King William Street, Adelaide.

King William Street, c. 1920 (Source: State Library of South Australia)

By the end of 1917, two open-top tourers had been produced, and the following year 99 bodies were built. The trappings of heavy industry began to appear, such as modern metal-stamping machines, and kilns for drying the wood used in construction, so for 1920 output rose to 317 bodies. The factory in King William Street had to be doubled in size to cope with the increasing demand, resulting in 876 bodies produced in 1922. It was now clear a single factory wasn't going to be enough, so Edward's younger brother William Holden was dispatched on a scouting mission to find a suitable location to build another. Given so much of their output went to the eastern states by ship, a site close to Port Adelaide was desirable, especially one with good rail links. William's gaze fell upon a sleepy hollow almost halfway between Adelaide and the Port, bounded on two sides by railway lines and adjoining the Woodville railway station. This was of course the storied Woodville Plant, and once it opened in 1923, production skyrocketed to 12,771 units, seven thousand of which were produced in the first half of the year alone.

Motor bodies under construction at Woodville. (Source: Facebook page "Help save South Australia's history from demolition.")

 

General Motors Comes Calling
Success got Holden's noticed, and in 1923 the American giant General Motors came knocking. Founded by William C. Durant in 1908, GM had been conceived not as a car manufacturer but as a holding company which would acquire other companies. Durant’s first takeover just happened to be the Olds Motor Works, founded by Ransom Olds and makers of the Oldsmobile (1908), which set the trend – Durant soon acquired David Buick’s Buick Motor Company (also 1908); the Cadillac Motor Company (1909); the Chevrolet Motor Car Company founded by Swiss brothers Louis and Gaston (1911); and soon, Alexander Wilson’s Vauxhall Motors in Britain (1925); Adam Opel’s Opel AG in Weimar Germany (1929); various other small operators like Champion Ignition; and, ironically, very nearly the Ford Motor Company itself. Henry Ford’s demands were just a little too steep for Durant, something he must have regretted later...

So by 1923 GM was on track to become the world’s largest car maker, and was looking to expand its business worldwide, including in Australia. By serendipity, Edward Holden had gone overseas to open negotiations with the GM brass in New York just as one J.D. Mooney made the opposite journey, landing on our shores with the same mission. Mooney was president of General Motors Export Corporation, and with Woodville now up and running, Holden's was all too willing to strike a deal: GM was offering a long-term contract with the kind of volumes that would make even Dodge Brothers blanch. Very quickly, Holden's had signed on the dotted line to become the sole assembler of GM products in Australia, on a cost-plus basis.

1926 Chevrolet Superior V with Holden's body, photographed on the Dobbyn railway bridge, Cloncurry, Qld. (Source: QldPics)

Mooney's plan for the Australian market centred around the Chevrolet, a modestly-priced car felt to have great potential here. Unfortunately, earlier Chevrolet models had been poorly-built and gained a local reputation for unreliability. All the same, GM pushed forward with this plan and secured dealers in each state, including the same Bert Cheney who'd been so instrumental in Holden's move into full-scale production in the first place. Cheney sold his Adelaide dealership (which became Waymouth Motors) and moved to Melbourne instead, setting up showrooms along Little Colllins Street.

As Woodville came online, Holden's output totals reached numbers that would have seemed fantastical only a decade earlier: 22,150 bodies left their factories in 1924, almost double their total for 1923, and they broke their own record again the following year, with 32,292. 1925 was also the year they finally divested themselves of Holden & Frost, now a rather boutique business which had long since become vestigial: The whole thing was sold to the retail merchants Harris Scarfe Ltd.

In 1926, Henry James Holden died, aged 67. In stark contrast to his infamous father, his funeral was attended by hundreds of mourners, including high-society business associates and politicians. This time there was little doubt the business would carry on, however, as Edward inherited his father's role as company head and William became Managing Director.

That same year, General Motors Export Corporation decided to establish a direct presence in Australia and constituted General Motors Australia Ltd, with a head office at City Road, South Melbourne. New assembly plants were opened in Melbourne (City Road), Sydney (Marrickville), Brisbane (Fortitude Valley), Adelaide (Birkenhead) and Perth (Cottesloe Beach, now Mosman Park), where Holden's bodies were mated to General Motors chassis.

GM City Road c. 1936 (Source: State Library of South Australia).

By 1928 the industry's total production had reached 100,552, of which Holden's accounted for 36,171. It was at this point that the famous "Lion and Stone" emblem was designed by Australian sculptor George Rayner Hoff, best known for his unsparing and evocative war memorials. Calling back to a prehistoric legend that witnessing a lion rolling a stone had inspired humanity's invention of the wheel, the badge was subsequently fitted to all Holden bodies and, although undergoing minor changes over the years, remained to the very end.

The partnership between General Motors and Holden's was off to a promising start, but going any further they would have to pass together through the crucible of the worst economic crash of all time. Though nobody at the time knew it, the Great Depression was just around the corner.

¹ I really appreciate how hard Rocz works to avoid implying it's the disasters that have slides.

² Just over £15,000 in GBP in 2023.

³ Just shy of $48,000.

⁴ $528,000.

⁵ His arrival in Australia had coincided almost exactly with the all-time peak of alcohol consumption in this country, around 20 litres per capita, with most of that comprised of spirits, i.e. rum.

⁶ Nearly $462,000.

⁷ Debts of nearly $4.9 million, with assets worth $6.2 million.

⁸ Or a Hotchkiss in 1916. There is a lot of conflicting information about when and what the "first Holden" really was.

⁹ Nearly $5.5 million.

¹⁰ Just over $6,300.