Thursday 17 December 2015

2015 ACT Writing and Publishing Award

I am thrilled to announce that my fourth book, Australia's Few and the Battle of Britain won the nonfiction category of the ACT Writing and Publishing Award.

While I am fond of all of my books, I firmly believe that this is the best book I have written. It might even be the best I will ever write! It is testament to the men I wrote about, but also to their families who placed their faith and trust in me to tell their stories. 

I first conceived the idea of recounting the experiences of young Australians in the Battle of Britain in 2008. It was a hard researching and writing slog. Perhaps the hardest of my writing career. The first inkling I had that this book was something special was about this time in 2012 when my agent sent me an email headed 'Have reached end of ms...bereft'. As all good agents should, she then waxed lyrical about the manuscript's good points and I finally began to appreciate that Australia's Few was VERY special.  

It is always wonderful to receive praise for your writing. Apart from the boost to my ego, it also validates the stories of the young men who fought in the Battle of Britain. Their stories are important, they should be told, and the men should be remembered.

It was a truly proud moment as I stood listening to the judges comments. Not that I am biased or anything but I felt that they had the write tone and balance. The judges recognised not only what I had written and its importance, the intense research that had gone into it, and of course the personal connection to the story and my emotional involvement, but they acknowledged that it was a joint effort of writer and publishing house. The stories of 'my' eight young men would not have been launched if not for NewSouth who realised their significance. 

And here are the notes: 

This is a very well-researched, well-documented, well-structured and well-written book. It looks at the role of the ’30 or so’ Australians who took part in the Battle of Britain through the lens of the lives of eight young fighter pilots. Each man’s story is brought to life using letters, diary entries, official correspondence, public records and family reminiscence. The eight stories are interwoven and, taken together, give readers a detailed perspective of how this historical battle unfolded. The use of family photos reinforces the ‘everyman’ nature of the pilots and brings home the real cost of war at many levels: individual, family, community and national. It is a book that can be read both for its engaging and sympathetic portrayal of the individual men and for its consideration of a pivotal time in the history of World War II. The writing is always fluid and engages the reader intimately with emotion and pathos. The need to convey accurate information never hinders the flow of the narrative. The author has an exceptional ability to set specific material, such as quotations from original documents, into a broader familial, social and political context, and in this way inform the reader at several levels at once. In addition to the incomparable writing style, this book stood out because of its very high production value, with excellent use of subheadings, maps, photographs, notes, bibliography, contents pages, author’s notes and index. 
 










Tuesday 27 October 2015

Alex Kerr: Shot Down. A Secret Diary of One POW’s Long March to Freedom.


Shot Down. A Secret Diary of One POW’s Long March to Freedom.
Big Sky Publishing, June 2015, 199 pages
ISBN: 9781925275179
$A24.99
Over the past decade or so, I’ve written about Australian pilots in the air war against Germany, exploring, among other things, how they coped in combat and with the after effects of battle. In some cases, their very identity was linked intrinsically to their capacity to fly and, indeed, for some, their need to fly was so strong they thought little of the cost. I began to wonder how they would manage when ‘wingless’, when they were taken out of operations not through combat injury but because they had been captured.
Even from the first day of the Second World War, Germany claimed airmen as prisoners of war. Australian airmen were a minority. Of the servicemen captured in Europe, 8,591 were Australians, and 1,476 of those were airmen serving in the Royal Air Force and Royal Australian Air Force. This equated to approximately seventeen per cent of Australian prisoners. Australian airmen were imprisoned throughout an extensive and ever-growing German prison network and many of those captured in Mediterranean and Middle East actions had previously been incarcerated in Italian camps. Each branch of the armed services managed its own facilities but, even after the Luftwaffe established its own camps, airmen were not confined exclusively in Luft camps. So it was for Sergeant Alex Kerr, a graduate of the Empire Air Training Scheme’s No. 1 Course, who was imprisoned by the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe.

Twenty-year-old Alex had been operational with No. 115 Squadron as second pilot on a Wellington for less than a month when, on 10 May 1941, he and his British crew members were on their way home after a successful bombing run to Hamburg, one of Germany’s most fiercely defended targets.
With little warning, a night fighter announced its presence by firing on, and hitting, the rear turret. The pilot made every attempt to evade but the German fighter pilot fired again. Bullets ripped through fabric and metal and Alex was knocked backwards as he was hit. As the aircraft began to burn, as the fabric-covered Wellington was apt to do, he lay there, cursing the German pilot, and, for several seconds, knew the stark fear of the helpless.

Alex lost consciousness. When he awoke, his fear had gone, replaced by a ‘lulling, lethargic calm, a slowness of movement that could well be fatal in an emergency’, and so it would have been if Dave, the rear gunner who had amazingly survived the attentions of the night fighter, hadn’t shoved him out of the stricken aircraft, thus saving his life.

The West Australian’s injuries were so severe there had been talk of medical repatriation. After months in German hospitals, he was sent to a prisoner of war camp. He had had a relatively easy time of it in the hospitals, even quite enjoying the ‘gentle and friendly attitude’ of medical staff and fellow prisoners. He had even valued kindnesses from orderlies working behind the backs of German guards to acquire treats for the patients. But now, as Alex ‘saw barbed wire close up for the first time’ he ‘realised its grim purpose’. No chance of repatriation now. He was just a number.
Alex was incarcerated in Stalag IIIE, Kirchhain, then Stalag Luft III, Sagan, Stalag Luft VI, Heydekrug, Stalag 357, Thorn and Stalag XIB, Fallingbostel. In the final months of the war, he trudged across Germany in the Long March. After narrowly escaping death when the column was strafed by Allied aircraft, he and a mate escaped to Allied lines and freedom. These are the bare bones of a fascinating memoir which, as indicated in the foreword, reveals a man of great resilience and integrity who demonstrated strength, courage and devotion to his mates.
I will just point out here that this memoir is an important addition to Australian military history. Not just because of some of the particular aspects, which I will touch on below, but because there are significantly fewer accounts by Australians taken prisoner by the Germans. For example, in a review article covering books written by or about Australian prisoners between 1980 and 1989, Hank Nelson listed 48 works. Of those, 40 related to prisoners of the Japanese, two dealt with prisoners of Japan and Germany, and six are about prisoners of Germany and Italy. In his 2002 survey of the ‘prisoner experience as literature’, Peter Stanley noted that of the 500+ books in the Australian War Memorial’s Australian prisoner of war catalogue, three-fifths deal with prisoners of the Japanese, prisoners of the Reich account for a third, and those relating to captives of the Italians take up less than a tenth of the shelf space. The proportions have barely changed. To its credit, Big Sky Publishing’s catalogue includes a number of prisoner of war accounts dealing with captivity in Germany.
But back to Alex. Largely based on the diary he kept during imprisonment, Shot Down is written in such a matter-of-fact style that the reader on occasion has to peer through the lines to the full emotion of living in close confinement without a release date in sight, where ‘wingless’ airmen could not contribute to the fighting war effort and were so isolated from credible sources of war news that they could only trust that the Allies would eventually prevail. It is hard to imagine just what being a prisoner of war meant, but I had a go at it, as I wanted to get a good look behind the lines that Alex did not write, and to hear what he did not quite say.
Imagine living in an environment where there was no silence, in such profound intimacy that every breath, every sniff or snort, every fart and stomach grumble, every nightmare, every mood swing, every shift on lumpy palliasse and bed board-deprived bunk, every surreptitious movement under threadbare blanket was heard by every other man in the overcrowded barrack. Even thoughts were not private because, after living in such close proximity, almost anyone could read them and so, the only real solitude was in the cooler. Just imagine the tension building as men from all walks tried to muddle along with people so different in personality that they probably wouldn’t have bothered knowing them in ‘real life’. Consider trying to be cheery, friendly and tolerant when all you wanted to do was wring the bloody neck of the bloke who spilt the last teaspoon of the communal store of sugar. Imagine having to fill your time with any sort of busy-work just so you wouldn’t go crazy with inactivity. It almost defeats me to picture it, and I am sure it would defeat me to live it.
Alex, however, was made of much sterner stuff than me and despite everything, fared so well that he gained from his experiences. He also demonstrates that community can exist in enforced communal living. Indeed, it is one of the strengths of this memoir that Alex portrays a balanced account of life in a German prisoner of war camp. Monotonous, with great deprivation, yes - if not for regular Red Cross parcels, the men would have starved on German rations - but to compensate, lifelong friendships developed and were nurtured, and the foundations of many future careers were laid. In addition, much was discovered about goodness, kindness and humanity, and evil, in enemy, friend and self.

Like many other camps, Stalag IIIE had some benevolent guards who treated their charges reasonably well along with its share of tyrants ‘who had maltreated us’. Indeed, ‘Stalag IIIE was a camp in which violence had earlier been used and prisoners have been bashed by guards and subjected to harsh treatment ordered by the commandant.’ And so, after they had left Kirchhain, when Alex and his fellow prisoners were asked the names of the Germans who had traded with them, they handed in a list which included only the names of those who had mistreated them, knowing full well that the malefactors would be punished severely. To Alex’s credit, he does not let himself off the hook by refraining to include a story where he and his friends, perhaps understandably, exact retribution, especially when it seems he is not entirely sorry for his part in the scheme: ‘In retrospect it is probable that most of us felt rather guilty about the result’. And here is one of the reasons I like this memoir so much. There is nothing pretentious or literary about it. It is simple and unassuming and Alex is honest and open.    

Counterbalancing the darker side of humanity is a story which reveals true kindness and highlights all that is good about the ‘brotherhood of man’. Harry Calvert, who was older than Alex, had developed a well-earned reputation as Stalag IIIE’s most successful trader. As Alex sat on his bed contemplating how to celebrate his 21st birthday, Harry poked his head in the door: ‘I heard it’s your birthday today’. There were no secrets in a prisoner of war camp. Alex confirmed that it was indeed his birthday. ‘Happy birthday, Aussie’, Harry said, as he placed a precious egg in Alex’s hand. It was the first egg the West Australian had seen for a year, and a gift from a man Alex had barely met, even within the close confines of a prison camp. It was a gesture of compassion and generosity he would never forget.
As well as revealing the positives and negatives of the human condition and how many adjust to life without liberty, Alex recounts little known aspects of captivity in Europe. For example, he and 51 other prisoners tunnelled out of Stalag IIIE. He was on the run for ten days. He never forgot that ‘feeling of triumph and excitement’ during that, and subsequent escape attempts. ‘It was an exhilarating feeling knowing you were winning a dangerous cat and mouse game with maybe a disastrous result if you lost. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins almost continuously.’ Alex was one of the last to be recaptured. Fifty-one of the escapees were returned to camp. But not Harry Calvert, Alex’s birthday benefactor. He was the only casualty, shot for no apparent reason.

The Great Kirchhain Breakout was the largest, most successful escape attempt to date, yet, surprisingly, little has been written about it. Alex’s account is thus more than just a wartime memoir. It is a valuable addition to escape literature and, because of Australian involvement, our military history. So too is his description of life in Stalag Luft III. Rather than the usual officer-centric escape focus of the prolific Wooden Horse or Great Escape narratives, Alex offers a rare NCO perspective of everyday life and friendship in that most famous of camps.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this review, I am interested in how men cope in captivity, and I was concerned that perhaps Alex had not ultimately coped with four years of imprisonment. This wasn’t because Alex had confessed to it (quite the contrary as I will discuss below) but because of the lack of emotion in some parts, such as Harry Calvert’s death, and a dispassionate style which might indicate that nothing had touched him. But Alex had coped and did so remarkably well. His prison life was full of activity such as arts and crafts, sport and music. When the prison education system was established, he signed up. Not only did he relieve the monotony of camp existence through study, but he received the sort of education few Australian lads could ever dream of attaining. He received a Certificate in Social Science from Oxford University (he did so well in this that Oxford considered the standard he had achieved under camp conditions to be equivalent of that required for University Honours) and a Bachelor of Science and Economics degree from London University. If anything, the dispassionate style is a reflection of the fact that Alex felt that his prisoner of war years had not been overly harrowing; ‘they did not seem so important to me at the time’. Yes, Alex had managed well in captivity and there are a number of reasons for this.

At the beginning of the book, when he talks about his formative years, Alex tells of his inbuilt sense of optimism, how faced with new, unexpected experiences he just got on with it. For example, when he was pulled from school because his father’s income had suffered during the Depression, he ‘commiserated with Dad over his loss’, found a job post haste, enjoyed what it had to offer and ‘matured quickly and tasted many new facets of life … made new friends and tried my hand at a lot of new activities…’ Alex could have easily written that at the end of the book and it would have been equally as apt because that is exactly what he did in a succession of prisoner of war camps. He clearly made the most of his camp life and the new friendships it offered. Friends coped better in captivity. They shared food and memories and supported each other. But camaraderie was more than just a means of survival for Alex. He had a gift for friendship, both giving and receiving and his relationships with crewmembers and fellow prisoners lasted a lifetime and beyond. In many ways, this memoir is a testament to friendship.
Shot Down is also a testament to optimism and, looking back, Alex believed his inherent optimism enabled him ‘to bear the vicissitudes of incarceration with fortitude’. Alex would be too modest to claim it, but I think his fellow prisoners’ ability to cope with seemingly limitless confinement would have been enhanced by his natural buoyancy.

That Alex considered his prison experience not so much ‘traumatic but rather exciting and overall beneficial’ is another reason why he survived captivity. So too is his attitude. ‘I had taken a positive view of life and had been determined to take every opportunity while in camp to improve my lot in life’. Apart from planning for his future through education, he grew in self-confidence, assumed leadership roles and developed important life skills. Without doubt, he ‘weathered the storm well’ and ‘came out of prison thankful that my life had so miraculously been saved’. Indeed, Alex admits that being shot down and imprisoned were perhaps the best things to ever happen to him. He survived for one, whereas many from Bomber Command did not. The statistics of his own training group are particularly telling. Of the forty members of his course, only twelve men were alive at the end of hostilities, and nine of them had been prisoners of war. Fully aware of how fortunate he had been, after returning home he promised himself to ‘make the most of the reprieve I had been given. I would live every day to the fullest’. And he did. The former newspaper office boy went on to enjoy a career in academia, where he became a professor and ultimately Deputy Vice-Chancellor of Murdoch University in Perth, Western Australia. Alex’s achievements and life attitude firmly demonstrate that his years spent in captivity were not wasted.

There is perhaps another reason why Alex coped so well in the post-war years. He may not have been entirely sorry for ‘dobbing’ in the cruel camp personnel but he bore no real grudge against those who acted with decency and later accepted the essential humanity of those of the enemy who, like him were just doing their wartime job. He may have cursed the Luftwaffe pilot who shot him down but Alex contacted him after the war and they corresponded. It is clear to me that there was a measure of reconciliation, given and accepted, in their exchange of letters and experiences. ‘I got a good feeling to get so friendly lines from a former adversary’, wrote the former night fighter. For Alex, along with reconciliation, came the answers to questions which had puzzled him for half a century.

Hard core aviation enthusiasts may turn away from this memoir because it is a largely an account of captivity. That would be a mistake. The book includes enough training and operational details to satisfy any aviation nut - Alex’s account of his last op is sheer, nail-biting, storytelling magic. Shot Down is also an incredibly rich life story that even offers a gentle lesson in making the most of difficult circumstances. It is also a significant addition to Australian military, aviation, and prisoner of war history. Uplifting and recommended. It is one of the best POW accounts I've ever read.

This review originally appeared on Aircrew Book Review http://aircrewbookreview.blogspot.com.au/2015/10/shot-down-alex-kerr.html

Addendum. Some time after this review appeared, Alex contacted me and told me that I had 'got it', regarding his experiences. It was a remarkable compliment, and one I treasure. Alex supported my research and gave me permission to draw from his log book (my friend Charles Page photographed it for me as I wasn't getting to WA in a hurry). Alex has figured large in my research since and made 'appearances' in some of my presentations. Just before Christmas 2018 (when I last worked on the thesis draft) I was consulting Shot Down and thinking of him and writing about him. Vale Alexander McBride Kerr, 23 April 1921-30 December 2018. 

Thursday 15 October 2015

Reading. You can never get enough of it.

 
Earlier this year, I conducted a writing biography workshop for the ACT Writers Centre. Funnily enough, with (at the time) four biographical works published and one in production, I had a lot to say, especially about how to go about writing a biography. But even before picking up pen (or placing fingers on keyboard) I urged the participants to do their ground work; to prepare themselves thoroughly for the massive task of undertaking—and completing—a book length project. And so, a key section of the workshop was What you need to consider before sitting down to write a biography’.

One of my suggestions—well, to tell the truth, it was not a suggestion, it was virtually a demand as it is so fundamental to good writing practice—was that every would-be writer has to read. And this applies to every writer, not just biographers. As I explained at the time, if you haven’t yet hit on your style, the way you want to tell your story, you need to acquaint yourself with how other writers have done it. What sort of biographies are out there, for example (that, after all was the topic of my workshop). What is selling. What sits on the remainder table. Read broadly, I stressed. Not just about your subject but about their time so you can get a sense of how they fitted in. Delve into biographies of other men or women whose lives your subject might have intersected; the story of someone brought up in the same area, for instance, at the same time. Devour biographies outside your area of interest to see how they are written and what works and what doesn’t. Lose yourself in novels of all persuasions so you can get an idea of good writing, what works, how to pace, develop the narrative arc. Crime and thriller fiction are very good for narrative arc and pace, by the way.
 

Don’t just take my word for it about the importance of reading, I told them. Hannah Kent, author of the mind-blowingly good, and award-winning novel Burial Rites, has five rules of writing and Read is top of the list.

‘To be a good writer’, she says, ‘first and foremost, be a good reader. How else will you learn what to do?’ She advises to ‘Read as much as possible, as often as possible, and if you read something you like, or something that makes you laugh, or something that moves you in a strange, ineffable way, ask why. Re-read it. Read it aloud. Pay attention to the use of words, and the narrative voice, and the comic timing. If you don't understand words, splurge on a really great dictionary and look those words up. The more words you know, the greater your control over language. Read everything. How else will you work out what is good and what is bad?’ Kent may be talking from the experience of a fiction writer, but it is sound advice for non-fiction authors as well. Her rules are at http://hannahkentauthor.com/news/2014/7/7/my-ewf-five-rules-for-writing  

I have spent a life time reading and perhaps that is why I was able to write my first book without benefit of courses, workshops, manuscript assessment, or freelance editing prior to submission, and was able to land a contract on my first pitch to a publisher.
 In my less confident moments, I consider I was just lucky. But then I remember what my first publisher told me when he first read my pitched pages and then promoted them to his commissioning meeting. It might not be PC but I treasure the words. ‘The chick can write.’ And the only reason I can write, I believe, is because I read. I read non-stop. And will never cease reading.
At any given time I have three books on the go: one specifically related to my current project; one other non-fiction book, whether biography or narrative, not necessarily related to my research such as a review book, or a topic I am interested in; and fiction, usually crime but I have been branching out into other fiction more recently. There is much to learn from other writers. Read and you will discover it for yourself. Your own writing will improve. Guaranteed.
 


 

 
 

 

Tuesday 21 July 2015

Taking Flight. Lores Bonney’s Extraordinary Flying Career

STOP PRESS! My fifth book will be going to the printers in less than a month, and the final artwork for the covers has been signed off.
 
As you know, I have been puddling around in WWII service aviation for over a decade and so Taking Flight. Lores Bonney’s Extraordinary Flying Career is a departure for me but, as with any writing project, it has been challenging and fulfilling and has opened up to me a whole new vista of Australia’s aviation history. Hopefully it will highlight a new perspective of that history to others who were not aware that women played their own significant part in it, and who do not know of Lores Bonney’s place it in.
 
And what did Lores Bonney achieve? (BTW: the name is pronounced Lo-ri.)  
 
Lores Bonney’s aerial achievements were remarkable; in her day she was regarded as perhaps Australia’s most competent aviatrix. In 1931, she set a new Australian record for a one-day flight by a woman. In 1932, she became the first woman to circumnavigate mainland Australia by air. In 1933, she was acknowledged as the first woman to fly from Australia to England. She made the first solo flight from Australia to Cape Town, South Africa, in 1937. This was to be her last long-distance expedition.
 
The former airwoman donated a considerable archive to Sydney’s Powerhouse Museum in 1984. She withheld some items and, in 2011, her goddaughter gifted them to the National Library of Australia. ‘MS 10127 Papers of Maude (Lores) Bonney’ includes correspondence with the Civil Aviation Branch of the Department of Defence, objects associated with the aviatrix’s flying career, news clippings and photos, scrapbooks, trophies, and even a flying suit and cap.
 
Taking Flight. Lores Bonney’s Extraordinary Flying Career is based on these two collections and, in particular, the most significant items in the National Library’s collection: the diaries Lores kept preceding and during her 1933 and 1937 flights.
 
I love it when covers tell a story and there is much more to this than just the image of a seemingly confident aviatrix. As you can see, Lores is standing in front of an array of radiant beams of light. They don’t just mirror her great smile. They directly relate to a potentially fatal flying accident.
 
Just before that accident (and you will have to read the book to find out about the actual accident) a photo was taken of Lores in flight. Afterwards, a friend commented that it ‘seems to show light rays from above meeting in an aura of brightness behind the pilot’s head in the cockpit. Moments later you were lucky to be still living’. Lores was deeply religious and often claimed that God flew as her co-pilot. Her friend wondered if the halo had anything to do with him. Perhaps it did. Looking back on it, Lores considered that the ‘only thing … which saved us both from being killed was that it was not our time to go’.
 
 
So, here is a sneak preview of the cover art for Taking Flight. Lores Bonney’s Extraordinary Flying Career which is due out in March 2016. Compare it with the photo taken before the accident. I think you will see the inspiration for part of the cover design.
 
I will advise full details of the book here in due course! Just try and stop me!
 

 

Sunday 7 June 2015

Pat Hughes' early life

One of the things a history writer has to face is that no matter what she digs up by way of research, not all of it will find its way into the published book. Such was the case with much of Pat Hughes' background. Much of that, sadly, was consigned to the literary equivalent of the cutting room floor. But rather  than sweep it all up and toss it out, I saved it. Pat has struck a cord with many aviation enthusiasts and some readers of Australia's Few and the Battle of Britain have asked for a little bit more of his childhood and formative years. And so, here is an Australia's Few outtake which I hope sheds a little more light on the man Pat Hughes grew into. 
 
 
Paterson Clarence Hughes Junior could trace his family back to the First Fleet. John Nichols was convicted at London’s Old Bailey for stealing and was transported to Australia in Scarborough, arriving in January 1788. He completed his sentence in 1791 and accepted a land grant at Prospect Hill. His fortunes waxed over the years; his land holdings increased; he became known as a successful farmer and he advanced from constable to Chief Constable of Prospect Hill. He started living with Ann, also a convict, in 1802 and later married her. John’s fortunes continued to improve and by 1814 he had ceased to receive any assistance from government stores and was solely responsible for maintaining his family, convict labourers and employees. In 1814 he sold his original land grant but during the following five years his luck waned and he found himself employed as a labourer. But luck smiled again. In 1820 he was granted land in the County of Cumberland and by 1822, the year of his death, he had a holding of 80 acres. John and Ann had eleven children. Their seventh child, Amelia, had been born in 1811. In July 1827 she married Charles Hughes, who, like her father was also convict but had received his ticket of leave two months before the wedding. They had ten children, the foundation of a large extended and thoroughly Australian family.
In 1851, the first alluvial gold had been discovered at Cowra Creek in the Monaro, an area of pastoral and mining riches at the foot of NSW’s Snowy Mountains. By 1888 mining of payable rock deposits had commenced and many miners and their families came to the area. By 1896, there were about fifty miners at the Cowra Creek mine, with a supporting infrastructure of general store, hotel, butcher and blacksmith. There were also enough children to warrant two school teachers in the one room-and-veranda school at Upper Cowra Creek.
At some point, John Nichols’ great grandson, born Percival Clarence Hughes but recorded on his marriage registration as Paterson C, came to the Monaro. It is now a mystery as to why he changed his name from Percival to Paterson (and the adopted name meant so much that he gave it to his youngest son, who was known as Paterson Clarence Hughes Junior), although he was known as Percy all his life. Born in 1874 at Belford in NSW’s Hunter region, he had trained as a teacher and had accepted a post at the Upper Cowra Creek school, which was located close to the mine. In 1895, he married Caroline Vennell whose own Australian roots were well established. Her father had emmigrated to Australia in 1841 and her mother in 1853, both settling in the Cooma area. Born in 1878, Caroline had lived all her life in the Monaro.
Percy and Caroline’s first child, Murial (known as Midge) was born in 1896. Their youngest son was born on 19 September 1917 at, or near, Numeralla, near Cooma. Paterson Clarence Hughes Junior, known as Pat, was the eleventh of twelve children—Elizabeth, the youngest, died while still an infant—and he appeared to take after his mother.
In an area where ‘every soul about the place is someone else’s cousin’, Percy quickly established his own roots. He and Caroline moved to Peak View soon after their marriage. Over the years, he held a number of teaching posts in local schools. In July 1903 he was head teacher at Jerangle school. It was a far from prestigious posting. Jerangle was a one-roomed, weatherboard school which had about 20 pupils and only operated a few hours each day. Percy resigned in October 1904 and soon after moved on to the Peak View School, another weatherboard one-room-and-veranda school which, until 1906, also operated on a part-time basis. He was one of its earliest teachers and he taught there for many years and his own growing brood was schooled there during that time.
Percy was tall, of slim build, moustachioed, and with piercing grey-blue eyes. His dark hair turned to silver and later, as he aged, to a shock of white. He had a great sense of humour and was very intelligent. He soon gained a reputation in the Monaro and even further afield as a literary talent. He wrote poetry and stories of the Monaro people and events, which were published in the local papers and The Bulletin. Most are lost, but the family still holds copies of some of his works, including one, ‘Little Plain, Jerangle or Jeringle’ which lent its name to one of the area’s local histories. Percy was also renowned as a great reader and was often so engrossed in his books he didn’t arrive at school until after starting time. Percy passed on his great love of reading to his youngest son, who was only too happy to settle down with a good book when he had the opportunity.
It was a happy life of close family and neighbour connections. There were visits to and from Caroline’s family and there were many communal entertainments including picnics, dances, cricket and every year on Empire Day their connections to England (whether as free or convict settlers) were remembered. The day’s celebration finished off with dazzling fireworks which delighted adults and youngsters alike, and lived in the memories of many.
Despite the twenty-one years difference between the ages of the eldest and youngest, Pat and his six sisters and four brothers were close and he considered his family the ‘best...in the world’. Later, he would admit to being homesick when away from them for the first time, and count the days until his return. And when he contemplated the commencement of what would become his final separation, he mused that ‘I would like to go [to Blighty] very much, travel and all that but being away from home for so long appears to be the worse part.’ Naturally enough, Pat was closest to those of about his own age, and one of his few publically-held letters to his sister Marjorie, known as Marj, shows their shared sense of humour and a clear fondness for each other. It also reveals Pat’s protective streak—he exhorted Marj to ‘see you are still a single girl’ until he returns home.
With a new addition to the family appearing regularly—four within the first five years of her marriage—Caroline quickly settled into motherhood. She proved a loving mother and, later, an indulgent, welcoming and doting grandmother but as the family expanded even more, she needed help. As the eldest, Midge was like a second mother to her younger siblings. She was the first to leave the family home, marrying in Annandale, Sydney, in 1916. She and her husband Tom eventually moved to Kiama and always welcomed her large family when they visited. These holidays at her seaside home were always much-anticipated and long-treasured times. Years later, the thought of his sister Marj sunning herself in Kiama while Pat was enduring England’s bleak 1938–39 winter ‘almost gives me apoplexy’. Somehow he managed to ‘gather my fleeing sanity together by thinking hard of things far removed from beaches, sun brown and sun’ by sucking on bits of sleet as they settled on his tongue.
Soon after Pat’s birth, Percy took on the running of the Peak View post office. Sometime after that, Percy accepted an appointment at Cooma Public School. By now he was well known in the area as a poet and greatly respected—the school library would be named after him. Young Pat attended Cooma Public School. He had inherited his father’s sense of humour but his took a more mischievous bent: he was remembered by an old school friend as ‘a bright spark and a practical joker’.
Percy continued teaching for only a few years. The 1921 electoral rolls indicate that in 1921 he was employed as a labourer at Tarsus, Cooma. He worked there for a number of years, but by the 1928 roll he was labouring at Bulong, on Cooma’s Mittagang Road. The family moved to Bulong as well. Pat retained fond memories of the property and years later would compare the ‘quite brown and flat’ countryside around Albury to it. Later that year, Percy, Caroline and those who were still living at home, moved to Sydney (at least Marj, Connie and Pat—the others were long married or, like Fred, had left as soon as they were old enough to get a job). Although they kept in contact with some of the locals after they left the area, Pat and his family’s ties with the Monaro were severed: they had all left, never to permanently return. The Monaro, however, remembers Percy’s youngest son.
Electoral rolls state that they first moved to 18 Knocklayde Street, Ashfield West. They were still there in 1933 but by August 1935 they were living at 5 Gillies Avenue, Haberfield. The rolls also state that Percy continued to be working (or at least identifying) as a labourer. Whether Percy’s permanent retirement from teaching was by choice (he was 56 in 1930) or whether he was a casualty of the Depression is not known but it seems as if the family experienced some financial difficulties. The many moves over the years indicate Percy did not own his own home and, with three school age children when they first arrived, money may have been tight. It appears as if Pat’s brother Bill and sister Valerie paid (or at the very least contributed to) the rent. It is highly likely that, as a labourer, Percy would have only worked sporadically during the Depression years. Whatever the family’s financial circumstances, Caroline stretched her budget to ensure that her family—those at home and visiting children and grandchildren—were well fed. She was a good cook and never lost her habit of keeping the pantry stocked for large family meals.
Pat attended Petersham Public High School from 1931 and attained good results in the Intermediate Certificate. He was remembered as having above average intelligence and indeed, with A passes in English, French, History and Elementary Science and B passes in Maths and Business Principles, he was ranked second of the school’s 106 students who sat for the intermediate. His conduct and attendance while at Petersham were respectable and he was made school prefect in 1932 and vice captain in 1933.
Pat loved sport and during his school years he devoted much of his leisure time to field, court and pool. He was in the premier team of the fourth grade Rugby League competition and played fourth grade tennis in 1931. He moved up to first grade league and also swam for the school in 1932–33. He was in the school life-saving class, held proficiency and first aid certificates, and had attained the bronze medallion.
Pat was also very handy. He had an early fascination with electricity and spent hours constructing crystal radio sets and tuning into programs from all over the world. As an adult he converted his school boy interest in science and radio to some experience in wireless telegraphy and telephony.
After Petersham, Pat attended Fort Street Boys’ High School for eight months, where he obtained satisfactory passes in all subjects before leaving to take up employment as a junior stock clerk with Saunders’ jewellers. It is not known why he did not continue at school but with the Depression still in full swing perhaps he felt the need to join the work force and contribute to the family income. Perhaps too, he had already decided on a career in the air force and he would need to save a considerable nest egg so he could afford the full range of accoutrements of an officer and gentleman in the Royal Australian Air Force. Certainly it was all hands on deck to help outfit him. His sister-in-law Ruby—who married to his brother Fred in 1927—had been a theatre costume designer and seamstress. She could sew anything at all from overcoats to pyjamas and she soon found herself responsible for part of Pat’s RAAF wardrobe, including a dressing gown.


It is not known exactly when Pat first decided that he wanted to be a pilot. It seemed as if Pat had always loved flying and was constantly making balsa wood model aeroplanes while he was at Cooma Public School and later, when he moved to Haberfield. He had read about the premier Great War pilots of both sides of the conflict, including Boelke and Mannock, who he considered ‘the best of all the British pilots in the war.’ Whatever that first spark, in an era of great aerial exploits and general airmindedness, Pat’s fascination for the models soon translated to something more substantial and he had taken a couple of flips with enough time in the air to qualify as flying experience. He later stated that he wanted to join the air force because it ‘will be the thing in [a] couple of years’. As far as he was concerned, his acceptance was a given—when he started his Point Cook diary, he headed it ‘The Chronicles of Hughes Junior. Air Cadet in Air Force (naturally)—and indeed he was accepted. On 20 January 1936, Pat was one of 43 young men, all dressed smartly in their best suits and carrying an assortment of sports equipment, kit, suitcases and travelling trunks, who found their way to RAAF headquarters at Victoria Barracks.


It is hard to get a measure of the personality of someone who is 70-odd years dead, but not impossible. Much can be learned of Pat from his 1936 diary and extant letters as well as from those who remember him, or who have heard the larger-than-life stories that have evolved. A self-confessed tardy correspondent, Pat admitted writing to his parents and siblings ‘every now and then when George RI can spare my time’ and often in response to some ‘gnattering’ (sic) by his siblings, as relayed by his mother, that he owed someone or other a letter. He may not have inherited his father’s poetic abilities but his letters and diary are well-written (in beautiful handwriting), full of wit and with a sparkling liveliness. They are also heavily laden with sarcasm. Even so, they are a joy to read and very revealing, which is just as well, because, in the photo he sent along with his RAAF application, he seemed to be doing his best to hide his buoyant personality and vibrant zest for living.
 
This photo, too, reveals that he took some time to grow into his good looks. Five feet 11½ inches tall, with grey eyes, brown hair, and a medium complexion he was, at 17, a bit gormless looking, with acne and a partly opened mouth, uncomfortably attired in his best suit and tie, with handkerchief peeking from his jacket pocket. Despite this unprepossessing image, it was not too long before he grew into a handsome young man who looked well in RAAF uniform (assuming he could keep it neat; he was none too tidy and on at least one occasion his tunic looked ‘as if the dog slept on it for about a week). He had a solid frame to match his height but soon fill out even more. A hearty eater, he grew into a big, well-built young man but not too overweight—although he did admit to being so heavy at Christmas 1938 when he reached thirteen stone nine pounds that he ‘used to get tired carting myself about’.
Despite that early photographic evidence, Pat never lost his boyhood reputation of a practical joker and the childish bright spark translated in the adult to ‘a tremendous joie de vivre’. He was remembered as having ‘more boisterous life in him’ than anyone else. He was personality plus, and his sheer zest for life was often expressed at full voice, despite not being able to carry a single tuneful note. He was often ringleader of great pranks such as the time he and his friends debagged one of their fellow cadets and threw the hapless victim’s trousers over the rafters of the mess anteroom; the time he and some RAF friends were caught erecting a toilet—pedestal, seat, cistern and chain—outside a pub; and the time he won a raw duck in the Christmas sweep, painted a swastika on its chest and then hung it by its neck over the front doors of the mess. It was so cold it stayed there for three days. He finally took it down and generously gave it to his batman as a present. There was no doubt about it, Pat lived life to the full.
Sport appears to have taken a back seat after Pat left school but, when he commenced his Point Cook cadetship, it became all important. Sport was compulsory and Rugby was played constantly. At first Pat did not appreciate having his precious leisure time filled with football and sarcastically recorded that the daily program was ‘all cared for by some far-sighted person who arranges our sport to suit himself. We have such a lot of recreation that if we were allowed our own way frequently we would become rather fat and lazy—or so were are told.’ But by the time the junior course commenced in July he was pleased to note that they were able to muster a good team out of them.


Pat may have been a school prefect and vice captain but it didn’t necessarily follow that he would be a paragon of perfect behaviour at Point Cook. He often felt frustrated at the school syllabus, his progress, the strictures of RAAF rules or just life in general and he would vent his irritation as energetically and rowdily as possible. For instance, ‘one glorious pillow fight and a bucket of water helped liven somebody else’s dreary existence’, followed the next day by spending the ‘entire morning playing practical jokes on friends’ after being bored witless during a session on signals, and ‘a concerted attack on the water supply in the form of a glorious water fight’. He would hide the bedclothes of a course mate for the sheer hell of it and, on occasion, he was so pent up that, feeling like ‘the proverbial ball of muscle’, he would head into the mess ‘to start a fight’. With so much vibrant but disruptive energy, it is no wonder that he was charged with ‘conduct to the prejudice of good order and air force discipline’ because he was caught talking and being generally inattentive during a lecture and, even when he was checked by his instructor, continued to disrupt the class. He was confined to barracks for three days to cool his heels. Pat’s own verdict of the charge? ‘Fat, illiterate little swine [i.e. his instructor] but I suppose I deserved it.’ He may have accepted the charge but was not impressed with the punishment: ‘Can’t read the papers, have to report like a paroled convict’ and he couldn’t appear in the anteroom until meals commenced. However, he facetiously noted that he was able to take advantage of the extra 10 minutes this restriction afforded him to ‘sit down and meditate on my crimes, so to speak.’


Pat had a strong sense of self which ranged from self deprecating—he thought the newest member of his family had better be ‘strong and healthy to stand up to the shock of having an uncle like me’—to the supremely confident—he never had any doubt that he would be accepted into the Royal Australian Air Force. Even so, his self confidence soon took a battering and he realised he would have to ‘try very hard to succeed’. Pat also had an introspective side and a few months after commencing at Point Cook, he displayed a growing maturity.


While many of his fellow trainees were watching, 19 year old Norman Chaplin tried to parachute from a plummeting aircraft. He had been flying solo and practising aerobatics when his port wing crumpled as he came out of a loop. He jumped from the diving aircraft but the parachute did not open fully. It had either entangled in the falling aircraft or there had not been enough height when Chaplin pulled the ripcord. Chaplin was still alive when he landed but was fatally injured and died shortly afterwards. Chaplin, ‘a quiet gentlemanly lad’ was well liked by his class mates. Pat, no doubt in shock himself, recorded Chaplin’s death bluntly: ‘Bloody awful. First death. Boys are taking it pretty badly.’ That night, the officers, who had witnessed many training deaths, ‘put on a show in the mess’ and, although Pat considered that ‘it has taken the sting out of things, the thought of Chaplin’s death still hangs around’. But the sting did not last. There was little time to dwell on the accident because the instructors kept Chaplin’s classmates constantly on the go. The official attitude was to just get on with things and the next morning it was business as usual with flying tests, formation flying, stall turns and—perhaps to ensure they all got back on the horse again, so to speak—loops. Chaplin was buried with full ceremonial honours on 18 April and by Monday 20 April, after a weekend off which saw Pat and his friends acting the goat in the mess playing chariot races with the easy chairs, Pat noted that ‘the effects of Chaplin’s death are wearing off completely. The boys are coming through OK’.
 
Pat, too, came through and went on to complete his cadetship, coming 28th in his class with 66.3%. It is interesting that Major Edward Corringham ‘Mick Mannock VC, DSO, MC and Bar was his Great War hero, as he proved a particularly apt role model, given the successes and stresses of Pat’s air force career. Mannock may have been the highest-scoring British ace of all time (Pat did not surpass him but proved to be Australia’s highest scoring ace of the Battle of Britain) and Pat was not alone in considering him the greatest fighter pilot of the war. Mannock was an aggressive pilot but later suffered from nervous tension, as did Pat. Among other things, Mannock’s posthumous Victoria Cross citation stated that ‘this highly distinguished officer, during the whole of his career in the Royal Air Force, was an outstanding example of fearless courage, remarkable skill, devotion to duty and self-sacrifice, which has never been surpassed’. Perhaps Pat’s qualities did not surpass Mannock’s but he certainly displayed fearless courage, remarkable skill, devotion to duty and self-sacrifice throughout his Battle of Britain career and until his death, 12 days short of this 23rd birthday.
My favourite photo of Pat, taken on 9 June 1940.
For what happens next, you will have to read Australia's Few and the Battle of Britain.
 
 
Signed copies of the Australian edition  are available from  http://www.alexanderfaxbooks.com.au/australias-few-and-battle-britain 
Happy reading!
 

Australia's Few and the Battle of Britain: Book review by Kathy Mexted, Australian Pilot

Another good review for Australia's Few!
 
I am very pleased that the book continues to strike a cord with readers.
 
This one is by Kathy Mexted, in the June/July 2015 issue of Australian Pilot, the magazine of the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association of Australia.