Aircrew Book Review looks at Australia's Few and the Battle of Britain

Great review from Aircrew Book Review: http://aircrewbookreview.blogspot.com.au/2014/11/australias-few-and-battle-of-britain.html

 

Reprinted in full below ...

 

Australia's Few and the Battle Of Britain - Kristen Alexander

For as long as books are written about aviation there will always be books about the Battle of Britain.  It is perhaps the one enduring ‘household name’ from the war.  Indeed, even its ‘stars’ – The Few, Churchill, Dowding, Bader, Spitfire, Hurricane – still roll off the tongue.  It must be considerably difficult, given so much has been written about this period of the war already, for an author to come up with a new angle that will be of sufficient interest to publishers and, of course, the target audience.  The key, however, is “The Few”.  The aircrew.  Every single one deserves to have his story told.  Many have.  Many haven’t.

Such was the impact of the RAF’s victory against the odds that the campaign still resonates with astounding clarity.  It is a popularity that has seen myths and tales repeated until they are accepted as fact before, thankfully, being debunked through good old-fashioned historical research.  This research, and the continuing interest in the subject matter, has ensured documents are re-discovered, or re-interpreted, and crash sites continue to be found.

The household names are such because, for the most part, they endured.  They added to their achievements beyond that summer of 1940 and provided future biographers and researchers with enough material to generate countless volumes of work.  Those who survived had a life after the Battle.  They had a voice with which to tell their own story.  What, then, of those who did not make it?  How can their voice be heard when, perhaps, it is hidden safely away in a shoebox in the cupboard of a still grieving widow or relative?  For many they are simply a name on a plaque or on a headstone.  A pilot of the Battle of Britain.

What was he like?  Why did he fly?  Was he married?  Who and what did he love?  Where did he come from?  Someone always remembers and that is how the lost are heard.  In the case of this book, realisation came before remembrance.  The author became inquisitive about the Australian involvement in the Battle after reading one of H.E. Bates’ classic works.  There followed a journey of discovery that produced astounding access to the personal papers and records of eight men who flew in the Battle of Britain and who are certainly not household names.  The result is a perfect blend of military and personal biography.  Now these young men have a voice again.

Crossman, Glyde, Holland, Hughes, Kennedy, Millington, Sheen and Walch.  All were Australians in the RAF.  Some learned to fly at Point Cook.  Others in England.  Some became aces.  Some earned the DFC.  One survived.

As expected, there is a lot of combat but these sequences are, as much as possible, told in the pilot’s words through snippets from logbooks and combat reports and judiciously selected comments from diaries and other musings.  This is, of course, what we expect of a book about the Battle of Britain.  What is expertly woven into the narrative, however, is exquisite detail of the personal lives of the men – their thoughts when on station, the evident tension experienced as time passed and fatigue grew and, most importantly, their experiences when not on duty.  Here we really learn who these men were. 

The most valuable material is, however, in the pre-war/pre-Battle narrative.  Logbooks and diaries are expected sources when writing about pilots in combat.  Discovering their lives before their greatest achievements requires a much more personal approach and a desire to tell the whole story and not just the exciting stuff.  The result of such in-depth research and analysis, lovingly so in each respect, is an understanding beyond anything official records will ever provide.  There is a reason why Kennedy never smiled in photographs, for example.  Yes, there is some reading between the lines but, given the extent of the source material at hand, it is very much an educated, informed and perceptive interpretation.

All eight men come to life as their lives are laid bare. The reader develops an affinity with each to the point where the losses are keenly felt.  Hughes, a phenomenally aggressive (Point Cook might still bear the scars!) and successful pilot and flight leader, particularly got under my skin as he built the foundation of a loving relationship and potential future family (he was, of course, not the only one to find love while overseas). The progressive losses set-up the final chapters as the stories do not end as seven men are shot down.  They leave behind families and friends who struggle to accept their shining light has gone.  This is where the writing really benefits from the author’s unsurpassed ‘eye for the personal’, as I like to call it, developed in her earlier works (Clive Caldwell Air Ace and Jack Davenport Beaufighter Leader).  While the entire book is written with emotion and caring, the closing chapters are almost heartbreaking as each family unit comes to terms, more or less, with their loss over the decades that followed the war.  The immediate reaction by colleagues and loved ones to each death is recorded in the main ‘action’ chapters but the Battle moves on and, of course, so must the narrative.  The last few chapters, however, are a delicately and expertly assembled section of the book that serves to remind us that these men left so much behind.

Such sublime content deserves an equally well-crafted package to be presented in. As much as this is the author’s coming of age as an aviation history writer, the publisher has gone above and beyond in ensuring this book is well presented. Indeed, the sheer presence of this beautiful hardback demands attention on the shelf.  The hardcovers replicate the dust cover artwork and prove there is more to life than dark cloth and gold-embossed text.  The pages are clean and crisp, the text is (justified!) the perfect size for easy reading and the photo section, cut down from a large number of images the author had collected, happily focuses on personal and intimate images of the men rather than stock photos of Spitfires and Hurricanes etc.  The effort put in to the design and layout is evident.  Someone at NewSouth really understood what the book is all about.  Add the professional notes and index and we have an example from the very pinnacle of book design.

If I’m honest, and that’s what ABR is all about, I tend to steer away from books on the Battle and prefer to hunt down those from lesser known campaigns, battles, squadrons and theatres.  That summer of 1940, however, is what I cut my teeth on when I first ‘discovered’ the world of Second World War aviation.  It’s always there, in various forms, on my shelves, online or, most of the time, at a local bookshop.  Why then, in this world of a seemingly inexhaustible supply of Battle of Britain books, and with the 75^th anniversary just around the corner, would you buy this book over the others?  The question really should be “why wouldn’t you?”  From cover to cover it is the perfect tribute to eight Australian pilots and, hands down, the best-presented ‘package’ I have seen in a while.  It can be tricky, as the narrative changes to another ‘character’, to keep abreast with who’s who but this is really only experienced early on before the reader gets to ‘know’ each budding pilot.  The timelines of all eight are well managed and I hate to think of the headaches weaving them all together must have caused.  At a little over 400 pages of narrative, notes, bibliography and index, you’d think this would be a longish read but it flows so nicely, and there is always something to discover on the next page, that progress is swift.

Eight men have finally had their stories told.  It couldn’t have been done better.  I am bloody glad to have read Australia’s Few and the Battle of Britain.  I am bloody glad to have it on my shelf.

NewSouth Publishing 2014

ISBN 9-781742-234151

Review of Australia's Few and the Battle of Britain

From Andy Wright. Flightpath Volume 26, No. 2, November 2014-January 2014

 

The sheer presence of this beautiful hardback demands attention. The hardcovers replicate the dust cover artwork and prove there is more to life than dark cloth and gold embossed text. They are a taster as, once the book is opened, the crisp, clean pages, the superb layout and the professional notes and index are the pinnacle of book design. Such effort was required because the content is sublime. Yes, it’s another book on the Battle of Britain but, rather than another angle on this most famous of aerial campaigns, this one is very personal and re-introduces eight relatively unknown Australian flyers. Only [Pat] Hughes, [Dick] Glyde and [Des] Sheen were familiar names. Even so, for Glyde, this is the first time his story has been told in detail. Indeed, the same could be said for the others too—[Bill] Millington, [John] Crossman, [Ken] Holland, [Jack] Kennedy and [Stuart] Walch. Most, if not all, simply became one of ‘The Few’ in photos or on plaques and headstones in semi-forgotten fields in England. These young men have a voice again (notably Des Sheen was the only one to survive the war). Their lives are laid bare via an impressive collection of letters and diary entries. There is, of course, a lot of combat but these sequences do not outweigh the pre-war lives, training and personal lives and loves in England. The final chapters emotionally detail the families’ struggles to live without their beloved boys. Everything is so well done and, importantly, eight men can live on in the hearts and minds of all who read this book. They deserve it. Postscript. First published in Australia, a UK edition is now due in 2015.  



 

 

This and other reviews of Australia's Few can be found on my website at http://www.kristenalexander.com.au/media#283

War has consequences.

I had come to the conclusion that war has consequences some time ago and it was more than ever reinforced to me when I started researching the life of Ken Holland, the youngest Australian to die in the Battle of Britain.

My first question about Ken was: Why would a 16 year old boy travel to England to live, permanently, with a 51 year old son of a baronet, and how could his parents let him? The answers are revealed in his father’s repatriation files.

Harold George Holland—dubbed ‘Pugs’ by Ken—was born on 22 April 1892 near Cowra, New South Wales. At some point he moved to Waverley in Sydney and was employed as a commercial traveller. His route took him to Liverpool, where he enlisted on 30 June 1915 in the Australian Imperial Force and was posted to the 2nd Division Ammunition Column (2 DAC) as a corporal. He was soon promoted to sergeant and embarked on 16 November 1915.

After initial service in Egypt, Harold’s unit was transferred to France. 2 DAC was part of the 2nd Australian Division Artillery, which transported and delivered ammunition for their artillery unit. It was not an easy job. Germans constantly shelled artillery units and DAC drivers often carried ammunition under fire. Harold had been in France for 11 months when, on 16 December 1916, at Fleurs, he succumbed to a heavy cold and an infection of the larynx. He was on his way to a field hospital when he was caught in an artillery attack and was, in his words, ‘blown up’. In a daze, he was sent to Rouen Hospital for a month and then to Etaples where he began to complain of general weakness, loss of weight, and loss of voice, and became very shaky. He also displayed dyspnoea (breathlessness) on exertion and occasionally palpitations. He was assessed as employable, but only in a base environment, and so, on 17 February 1917, he was transferred to England.

Harold was attached to 2nd Command Depot (originally named 2nd Convalescent Depot) at Westham Camp, Weymouth, on the Dorset coast. The depot was a half-way house for casualties who no longer required hospitalisation but were not fit enough to rejoin their units. It is not known whether Harold met Ina Gladys Christopher, an assistant florist who was born on 21 July 1892 at Upway in Dorset, during his convalescence or earlier while on leave. Either way, they had not known each other long when they married on 23 April 1917. (And perhaps they continued to have little time together as, after their marriage, Ina remained in her parents’ house at 6 St Edmund Street, Weymouth). 

Harold’s health did not improve and at a medical board on 7 August 1918 he was declared ‘temporarily unfit for General Service for more than six months but fit for Home Service’. He embarked two days later on the Carpentaria, out of Plymouth, and arrived in Australia on 5 October 1918. He took a house in Bronte, a coastal suburb of Sydney, New South Wales, and later moved to nearby Bondi. With the end of the war and general demobilisation there was no place for Harold in the military, even on light duties. He attended another medical board in January 1919 and was medically discharged the following month.

At that stage, Ina was on her way to Australia. It must have been a shock to arrive in a new country and discover that her husband of less than two years continued to be unwell, had been discharged from the army and was unemployed, although receiving a small pension. Within a month or so, Harold resumed his old work as a commercial traveller on commission and Ina had fallen pregnant. By September 1919, Harold had developed a nervous disposition, was experiencing insomnia, and had lost about half of his normal working time through illness and was assessed as having lost a third of his earning powers as a consequence of the battlefield explosion.

To compound matters, he had been suffering attacks of acute appendicitis since December 1916 and was admitted to 4 AGH (Australian General Hospital) at Randwick on 30 October 1919 with appendicitis. The appendix was removed but Harold remained in hospital until 5 January 1920, convalescing from the operation. On discharge, his wound was still running so one can assume that, from the length of time in hospital, the operation was not overly successful.

The appendicitis and operation were admitted as war service related and Harold received a full pension for his time in hospital. This, however, was backdated, so it would have been a very difficult period for the pregnant Ina, not knowing when her husband would be discharged. The lump sum would have helped when it arrived but Harold’s health problems were not solved and, when Ken was born on 29 January, it is likely she was nursing her husband and his weeping wound as well as her son. Harold’s appendicitis-related problems obviously continued through the first months of his son’s life as, on 6 August, he reported that ‘there is only a slight improvement in my condition since my discharge from hospital. I am employed for about three days a week as a [commercial] traveller’.

Over the years, despite little or no improvement from previous assessments, and, in October 1923, a prognosis that future improvement was ‘problematical’, Harold’s invalidity assessments decreased from 25% pension to 15% pension. Harold’s 22 April 1926 statement—written on his 34th birthday—indicates how he suffered from the lingering long term effects of shell shock, the impact on his career and limits on his lifestyle:

I respectively wish to lodge an appeal against the reductions made. Naturally you must act according to recommendation of Medical Officer but in support of my appeal I have to bring under your notice the nature of my complaint ‘shell shock’. This, as you know from experience, is the worst type of recurrent complaints. Many days I feel quite as fit as before I enlisted, but at least a third of my days are marred by severe reminders that I have still got the complaint. Unfortunately I get severe attacks when I least expect them, which greatly inconvenience in the course of my duties. My work is as a travelling salesman and during the past I have been compelled to forego many opportunities of increasing my earning, just through inability caused by the Shell Shock. I might state that prior to my being in France I did not have one minute’s illness through any cause whatsoever. I am a strict abstainer and do not gamble. I am unable to participate in athletic sports through shortness of breath and attacks of giddiness, therefore, you can see I do nothing to exaggerate my complaint. I retire reasonably early and rise early and take the greatest care in regards to bodily cleanliness generally. The pension I was receiving does not nearly compensate me for lost earning power due to my complaint, but I am not unreasonable for having voluntarily enlisted must take my share of the knocks and consider myself fortunate in escaping as lightly as I did.

In addition to the above, Harold’s medical assessment notes that by that stage he was almost bald, which he put down to the shell shock.

A June 1931 Repat review, when he was 39, states that Harold was still suffering from nervousness, and it continued to affect his ability to work. All in all, he was so physically debilitated that, although he was alright in the morning, he ‘was not much use’ in the afternoon. His health declined further and, at his January 1934 assessment, he was unemployed and suffered from frequent headaches and shortness of breath on exertion. His dream-filled nights were broken by restless sleeping, where he would wake up with a start in a cold sweat. He also suffered from recurrent indigestion with heartburn and flatulence. His diagnosis was now neurosis and dyspnoea due to war service.

Somewhat contradicting his assertions regarding employment, Harold’s July 1934 assessment indicated that he had in fact been a casual salesman for four years, with him working more on a part time basis, but had not actually been laid off. The discrepancy does not reflect any intention to deceive, but indicates the uncertainly of employment, which was certainly not regular, during the worse years of the Depression.

The Holland family would have been frequently beset by financial difficulties. The small pension received by Harold, Ina as his wife and the component for Kenneth as a child under 16 would have been heavily relied upon to keep the family afloat. As would the government endowment Ina received for Ken as a child under 16. Despite their difficulties, Harold presented at interview as well nourished, indicating that Ina was a good household manager. Perhaps Ken played his own small part as a friend recalled him fishing from the rocks around Bondi.

The Depression years were marked by high unemployment. Official surveys were based on union members who were out of work but, as social historian Michael Cannon has pointed out, true figures, which included non-unionists, women and those who had left school but who needed work, would have been double, possibly treble the official figures. In 1932, the official rate of unemployment was 29 per cent. It began to improve over the next years and was down to about 10 per cent by war’s outbreak. Harold then was lucky to have maintained any sort of job in light of his illness.

Harold’s luck, however, did not extend to everyday life. Always breathless, he would have had few opportunities to play with his growing son or take him out-and-about as any father would. Indeed, by his own admission, ‘I am unable to participate in athletic sports through shortness of breath and attacks of giddiness’. His irregular working hours and varying wages meant he could not afford to buy his own home and so his family moved from one house to another. (‘Bingara’, Sir Thomas Mitchell Road, Bondi, Forest Knoll Avenue, Bondi; 3 Wonderland Avenue in 1934; and finally, 11 King Street Bondi in 1936, which Harold and Ina rented until Harold’s death in 1962 and Ina for sometime after before moving to a flat in Croydon Park.) Close living in small, rented houses with a husband and father suffering from sleepless nights and nightmares would have been difficult, and Ina and young Ken would have experienced the uncertainty of good and bad days. With Harold’s chronic illness having such an impact on their family life, it is not hard to see how he would have been drawn to another father figure in the form of Major Hugh Ivor Emmott Ripley.

Ripley, born in Yorkshire in 1884, was the third son of a Baronet, Sir Edward Ripley. Known to all as Toby, he was educated at Marlborough College and was admitted to the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, in January 1903. He was awarded the Sword of Honour when passing out and was granted a commission in the Worcestershire Regiment on 13 August 1904. On 26 February 1913 he was seconded for service with the Gold Coast Regiment of the West Africa Frontier Force. He continued to serve in West Africa until September 1917 when he commanded C Company, 2nd Worcester Regiment in France. In 1919 he was with 1st Worcester Regiment and the following year joined the regiment in India where he served until he retired in 1923.

Toby’s war experiences also left their mark: he had been gassed in France and wanted to live in a mild climate that was conducive to his health so, before he left India, he took what appears to have been a reconnaissance voyage to Australia. He then returned to Australia, arriving in February 1923, and settled in Hobart.

By 1930 he was living in Bondi and had joined the Tamarama SLSC as an associate member. He was well-liked and generous, often staking refreshments at club functions. It is not known when Toby and Ken Holland first met but, despite both living in Bondi, their different social circumstances were unlikely to have thrown them together until Ken joined the Tamarama SLSC.

Regardless of their backgrounds and despite the age difference, Ken grew close to Toby, who appeared to him all that a father should be. More than that, Toby gave Ken a glimpse of a different life and a means to escape his own. He begged the older man to take him to England. In May 1936, they boarded the Comoron and arrived in London on 12 June. Rather than return to Yorkshire where the harsh climate would play havoc with his gassed lungs, Toby decided the milder climate of Cornwall would be more healthful and—perhaps during this visit—he purchased ‘Melorne’, a house near Camelford in Cornwall.

Ken Holland, courtesy of Jonathan Falconer

Soon after arriving in England, Ken took a significant step in establishing new ties in a new land when he was baptized in Parish Church of St Materiana, Tintagel, Cornwall, on 13 September 1936. Within a fortnight, he and Toby had boarded the Orontes to travel first class back to Sydney for a final farewell to Australia. It was apparent that they intended returning to ‘Melorne’, as both had listed it as their address on their travel documents.

Melorne House, Courtesy Helen Wood <indianking@btconnect.com  19 September 2012

Meanwhile, shortly soon after Ken embarked to the UK with Ripley, Harold reported at his medical review that he had been working as a salesman but, since the previous review, had lost eight weeks work due to his disabilities and symptoms which still included frequent bad headaches and sleepless nights.

Ken and Toby returned to Sydney on 27 October 1936 and Toby put his plans to Harold and Ina Holland regarding Ken’s future in Cornwall. Ken didn’t have a job and only limited employment prospects during the Depression. (How did I come to this conclusion? Well, Ken had only passed four subjects in his Intermediate. There is no evidence to indicate that he had taken up employment when he left school and his Intermediate results were not good enough for desirable, secure jobs such as the bank. The Commonwealth Bank, for one, did not employ just anyone. It was selective. It certainly took into account references but interviewing staff were also interested in a prospective employee’s neat appearance, good handwriting and good school results, especially in English and mathematics. Even in 1936, competition for jobs, including good junior positions, was fierce.) Once their only son turned 16, the Hollands lost the pension component relating to an underage child as well as the child endowment; finances were already tight and would not improve if their son couldn’t contribute to the family income. Ken’s home life would always be at the mercy of Harold’s illness.

So, in framing a response to the first question I asked when looking at Ken’s background: given the apparent lack of a job and secure prospects, a difficult family life dominated by illness, tight economies and uncertain family finances, why wouldn’t Ken’s head be turned by the opportunities presented to him by a kindly English gentlemen, the third son of a baronet, who appeared as a benevolent father figure willing to sponsor his further education in England. Knowing the limited possibilities that life in Australia offered Ken, how could his parents refuse permission for their son to go to England with Ripley, to enjoy a level of society to which they could never aspire, to enjoy life in a large, established home never plagued by landlords demanding rent, to enjoy the benefits of gentry life which included hunting, shooting, tennis, golf, swimming, a large circle of friends and a decent allowance from someone who could afford not only that allowance but the gift of not one but at least two motorbikes, a decent watch, and the 250 guinea fee for an aeronautical engineering course.

The obvious answer was: they couldn’t. So Ken prepared to sail to England. He passed his examination for the surf bronze medallion on 20 December and in early 1937 farewelled his family and left Australia with Toby, trading the beaches of Bondi and Tamarama for the Cornish coastline.

(Some years after framing and responding to my question, I discovered another reason why Ken’s parents were prepared to let him travel half way round the world with a new father figure. It does not detract from my original conclusions and, in a way, probably springs from Harold’s circumstances. But that is another story and you will have to read the book.)

By June 1938, Harold’s pension stabilised at the 15 per cent rate and his health never improved. In 1943, while working in the Department of Aircraft Production, he suffered a coronary thrombosis. He had another attack in 1948 and a letter to the Deputy Commissioner, Repatriation Department, noted that he had not claimed for an increase in pension in 1943 because ‘I did not need financial assistance. I did not then or since smoke or drink due to my nervous and allergy state, did not/do not attend any places of amusement my living expenses were not heavy. I have fought my disabilities as much as possible.’ In about 1948 he commenced work at The Producers’ Co-Operative Distributing Society, which was a large-scale wholesale distributor of farm and dairy produce and, by 1953 had had five years employment during which he had had some time off through illness which, in aggregated, only exceeded his entitlement by one week. When he required time off for medical appointments, he worked in lieu of sick leave. Harold’s allergic state was recognised as war service related in November 1951 and coronary disease and arteriosclerosis accepted in October 1952, but the pension was reduced to 10 per cent incapacity. He died in 1962 of congestive cardiac failure. Ina died in 1968 of a cerebral thrombosis suffered after an operation. She had had nephritic syndrome for a number of years.

Harold Holland suffered much from his war service related injuries but, despite all, his 1943 letter indicates that he took pride in his ability to support himself and his wife. He did not even appear to regret the health problems and considered himself fortunate in escaping as ‘lightly’ as he did. But Harold didn’t really get off lightly, did he? Nor did Ina, nor Ken. The entire family continued to suffer the effects of Harold Holland’s Great War.

Ken never saw his family again. He made it perfectly clear that he did not want to have anything to do with his uncle who was visiting England. Although he wrote to his mother, he put it about that he was an orphan, and this was believed for many years after his death. When his life ended in Battle of Britain skies on 25 September 1940 his parents were not officially notified, as they were not listed as either next of kin or others to notify. He did not even include them in his will and left the bulk of his estate to Toby. His parents inserted a small notice in the paper regarding his death but it was Toby who arranged permanent memorials to their son. Harold and Ina Kennedy lived the rest of their lives knowing of their son’s emotional estrangement from them.  

War does have consequences which are not recognised when only the vast numbers of war dead are tallied. They continue to be felt many years after armistice or surrender for survivors and their loved ones. I am not sure a regatta held on a sunny Albany day does anything to reflect this.