'Ever remembered'. James Catanach, Anzac Day 1944

Jimmy Catanach had been a prisoner of war for almost seven months before unburdening himself to his brother, Bill, on 28 March 1943. It had been a long journey from Melbourne, where he had been born on 23 November 1921, to Stalag Luft III, Sagan. He had enlisted in the RAAF when he was 18; was promoted to squadron leader; and had been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross for daring raids over Lorient in north-western France, and the German cities of Cologne, Hamburg, Essen, and Lubeck, all before his 21st birthday. The most recent stage of his journey to captivity had begun on 4 September 1942.

Numbers 144 and 455 squadrons had been deployed to Russia as part of Operation Orator, to protect a convoy taking vital supplies to Russia: Jimmy was 455 Squadron’s youngest squadron leader and was lauded as the youngest in the RAAF. He was a lively, boisterous man, much loved by his crew and squadron friends. His commanding officer, Grant Lindeman, recalled that, as they were lined up to depart, ‘Jimmy of course couldn’t restrain himself to wait his turn; he taxied into the first gap in the line and was off like a blooming rocket’. Lindeman had ‘never seen such a wealth of superfluous energy in any individual over the age of twelve as Jimmy constantly had at his disposal. He didn’t drink or smoke; he talked at an incredible speed; he couldn’t stand still for a second, but he hopped about all the time you were talking to him till you were nearly giddy’. In his opinion, Jimmy ‘was a most excellent Flight Commander, and was probably the most generally liked man in the whole squadron’.

Members of 455 Squadron, August 1942. 

L-R: Jack Davenport, Jimmy Catanach, Grant Lindeman, Les Oliver, Bob Holmes. Author's collection

Jimmy was piloting Hampden AT109, which experienced a great deal of flak as it crossed the Norwegian coast. He realised they were rapidly losing fuel. Rather than risk the engines cutting out, he took the first opportunity to land. He touched down safely on a strip of heather adjoining a beach near Vardo, in northern Norway. Jimmy, his navigator Flying Officer George ‘Bob’ Anderson, wireless operator/upper gunner Flight Sergeant Cecil Cameron, lower rear gunner Sergeant John Hayes and their passenger Flight Sergeant John Davidson, a ground crew fitter, attempted to destroy the Hampden, but they were fired on by soldiers from one direction and a patrol boat from the coast. The five were taken prisoner; Bob Anderson and Jimmy were sent to Stalag Luft III.

455 Squadron, April 1942. L-R  Wilson,  Bob Anderson, Smart,  Humphrey, Acting S/L Jimmy Catanach DFC, 

Miller, and Clarke. https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/SUK10124/

Jimmy’s handful of earlier letters to his parents had been upbeat and emphasised his good spirits. His letter of 28 March 1943 was more subdued. He told Bill as much of the truth as he could within the constraints of censorship. He confessed his part in the events precipitating capture: ‘my arrival in enemy territory was far from glorious. I force landed as a result of fuel shortage caused by a sequence of misfortunes, mostly due to my own foolishness and partly due to climate conditions and enemy action’. Although the memory of it still ‘gets me down a bit’ he tried to push recollections aside and conceded that ‘present circumstances are not so bad’. Food, thanks to Red Cross parcels—when available—‘is quite good’ and living conditions were tolerable, if ‘a bit trying’. By far ‘the worst thing’ was ‘the lack of comradeship male & female and the futility of the existence.’ Even so, Jimmy kept himself busy with exercise, cooking, study and reading. But even as he made the most of life behind barbed wired, he planned for his future: ‘The end of the war is the main interest and topic of conversation … I am going to try studying Gem[m]ology & Bookkeeping etc. but am considering the idea of staying in service’.

But, unlike the majority of Stalag Luft III’s prisoners, Jimmy did not experience a life outside of captivity. Almost exactly twelve months after writing to Bill, he was dead, one of fifty Allied airmen—including five Australians—killed in the ‘Great Escape’ reprisals.

 Jimmy after he had been captured after the mass breakout. Lifted from http://twicsy.com/i/6iideb

The men of Stalag Luft III were shocked, ‘shaken and despondent’ when they heard of the death of their fellow prisoners. They held a memorial parade after roll call. They wore black flashes. They observed a period of mourning. They commemorated the dead in their wartime log books. Later, they built a memorial to comrades who had merely been carrying out their service duty to escape.

Sagan Memorial to the Fifty, courtesy of Geoff Swallow

Jimmy’s loss in particular affected his friends: Ronnie Baines who he had welcomed and taken under his wing and into his room on Baines’ first day in Stalag Luft III; Tony Gordon who had trained with him and never stopped grieving for his first RAAF friend; Bob Anderson who had flown with him and whose friendship had been forged under difficult and dangerous conditions.

Ronnie Baines

Tony Gordon and Jimmy Catanach, courtesy of Drew Gordon

 Bob Anderson. Courtesy of David Archer  

On Anzac Day 1944—less than three weeks after they had heard the ‘crushing news’ that most of those who had participated in the mass breakout of 24/25 March had been killed on Hitler’s orders—Jimmy’s Australian friends of North Compound gathered in the theatre with their compatriots from New Zealand. There, Padre Watson took a special Anzac Day service. Afterwards, they assembled for a series of group photographs taken by one of the German guards.

Anzac Day 1944. https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/P00270.027

The Australian ranks were depleted: as well as Jimmy, Albert Hake, John Williams, Reg Kierath and Thomas Leigh had been executed. Dressed as smartly as could be in worn RAAF and RAF uniforms, they proudly declared that they were air force men. On the day in which Australians and New Zealanders, honour their war dead, their photos were as much statements of Australian pride, unity and defiance against the enemy as they were portraits of grief. Last year, Jimmy had stood with them on Anzac Day.

Anzac Day 1943. Courtesy of Ian Fraser

 This year he was missing, ‘his duty fearlessly and nobly done’. But, he was ‘Ever remembered’. 

Jimmy Catanach’s headstone, Old Garrison Cemetery, Posen, courtesy of Geoff Swallow, 

Photographic Archive of Headstones and Memorials WW2 by Spidge

 Jimmy Catanach’s letters are held by the Shrine of Remembrance, Melbourne. I would like to thank Jenna Blyth, Collections Manager, and Neil Sharkey, Exhibitions Curator, who allowed me to consult the James Catanach Collection in October 2016.

Anzac Day 1960

On a number of occasions during the 1950s, Jack Davenport DSO DFC* GM, former commanding officer of 455 Squadron RAF, provided radio commentary when the air force contingent marched past on Anzac Day. On Anzac Day 1960, he spoke about the meaning of ‘Anzac’ and the importance of remembering the actions of those who fought during Australia’s twentieth-century wars. Through this speech, we can see how much it meant to him to remember the sacrifices of his friends and comrades, and can clearly understand his personal commitment and dedication to honouring their memories and deeds. We also recognise themes which are still relevant to how we remember those who have fallen in our nation’s service.

*****

ANZAC

...What is Anzac and what has it come to mean? We not only recognise and remember the sacrifice and achievements of the dead, we remember all those who fought and all those who contributed. The concocted word ‘Anzac’ has come to mean a great deal more now than originally was the case. Sacrifice, heroism and uncounted odds, excitement and battle, monotony, dirt, tiredness, swear, fear and comradeship—somehow too—discipline and swy: being in the line and out of the line also get mixed up in it somehow. It is good that from time to time we set ourselves to remember those that were kicked, and those that came back, and probably most of all, the reasons why.

On this occasion I think it is well to remember the stark reality of the many scenes which to me mean Anzac. Without the memory and appreciation of these things and a conscious effort even on our everyday life, in recognition of and consideration of our fellow man, these things can and will recur—if we remember all the horror and the sacrifice it perhaps can be worthwhile.

It all began on the beaches of Gallipoli, the bleak hills, the bare beach, the murderous fire from the Turks, the lugging of stores from the transports to the trenches, sudden death and slaughter. An ill-conceived operation, typical of War. Australian and New Zealand guts making up for the incompetence of the planners of manipulators of War.

It goes further in that era—to the trenches of France, the cold, the mud, the rain, and the sheer misery day in day out, bayonets and patrols, prisoners and fear and always at hand sudden death and slaughter. For those that did not experience that era, to me, it is hard to visualise such stark, purposeless misery of static trench warfare.

At sea in the rough and calm, in temperatures way over the hundred, in freezing, with the enemy lurking everywhere; the terrible sight of an oil tanker on fire. I think of the engine room crew in those days in a ship in action. No eyes to see what went on outside, really hard work, but working harder and harder, hoping to lose the fear in exertion. Slightly dry mouths and always a great expectancy. Visualise the spirit of the men who flew the box kites of World War I. As far as death was concerned, they were their own worst enemy.

And eventually came the end of the war to end all wars, the war that eventually proved to be a great dress rehearsal for the slaughter and destruction and the new horrors developed in the Second World War. We have the more murderous weapons, the mighty guns, the submarines, the aircraft, the bombs, the rockets. The allies hopelessly unprepared have, as an aftermath of the political bungling, the fantastic scenes of Dunkirk and the incredible heroism and contribution not only of the soldiers and sailors, but of the ordinary man. A small group of pilots outclassed in equipment and numbers fighting a back to the wall, do or die battle. They did and they died. Blenheims, Fairey Battles and Hurricanes. Perhaps these three aircraft against three squadrons three times a day.

We go to the heat of the desert, sand and heat and heat and sand, aircraft in the sky looking lazy and peaceful but suddenly so deadly. The land mines, the mad frantic dashes from position to position, the discomfort. Can the supplies arrive in time? Can we unload the ships before the Luftwaffe sinks them? The wounded, the prisoners, against the heat and the sand. The waiting.

The aircraft over Europe, the incredible Guy Fawkes display [of] flak making the peacetime displays cheap unspectacular comparisons; the grasping, needling fingers of searchlights, their tenacity and refusal to let go when they [caught] an aircraft in their beams. Glaring blindness. The warning shout of a rear gunner as the enemy night-fighter comes in for the kill—diving and weaving—contortions borne of some panic. The glorious darkness as the cone of lights is shaken off. The cold, the freezing of the sweat of fear, the smell of flak, the blazing wrecks hurtling, apparently quite remotely, downwards. Fire and destruction.

The clash of the German battleships in the Channel—the death and glory. Attacks by 100 miles per hour Swordfish, by Hampdens with bombs. Men doing a vital job with practically no chance, but asking no questions. In London where death stalked everyone at all hours with the wicked V1 and V2. The hushed expectancy as the motor puttered overhead—the waiting for it to stop. Or the sudden explosion from nowhere. The fires and the amazing calm.

In the jungle of New Guinea, the swamp, the mud, the rain, the waiting, Sudden death in the jungle where so often disease too took sides with the enemy. The Navy in the Pacific. The terrible fires, the fanatical enemy with human shells. The beaches and more fanatical inhuman enemies. So often I think of those fantastic convoys though the North Sea to Northern Russia. Seas in which a human being could not survive for more than two minutes. Ships with their superstructure so thick in ice that they were in danger of capsizing, where the human hand could not touch any metal. Where living was almost impossible and fighting was frightful. Convoys proceeding, for many parts of their journey, unescorted, because of the decision of somebody sitting in a warm office in London.

Visualise the frame of mind of the lone Hurricane pilot sitting and waiting, day in and day out, in the most appalling conditions, to be rocketed off a rig in the front of some merchant ship, pitching and tossing in the sea, to meet a greatly superior numerically enemy force. The convoy must get through. This is the David and Goliath operation. If he is shot down, two minutes in the sea and he is dead. When the battle is over, if he survives what does he do? He cannot get back to friendly territory. If he has enough petrol he can fly and bale out over the snows of enemy territory. If he has not enough petrol he can bale out near the convoy hoping to be picked up in less than two minutes. Men volunteered for this work, truly brave men—I think of the Malta convoys—

Let us remember the fortitude and sheer guts at the prison camps, where only the Anzac spirit and heritage enabled survival at times. Let us too think of those left at home—for some of these the sacrifice was indeed great. And again more recently we have had the bleak, frightening fighting and cold of Korea. To me, all these things are the backdrop of Anzac. From these scenes come what today we call Anzac. It was there and it is the reason why we can and should now tell of these things. Some of them are great and brave—others are horrible but they all have a reason—they must have a reason.

Particularly at times like this we recognise all these achievements and the manner of these achievements we remember the background—let us also remember the reason. Let us try and carry some of these qualities, even characteristics, self-sacrifice in particular, not only in war but into our daily life. And in remembering try and construct our way of life, our attitude to our friends and our neighbours and to other peoples so that the scenes cannot again recur. For day by day the means of destruction grow greater and greater.

*****

(Edited extract from Jack Davenport Beaufighter Leader, Allen & Unwin (2009) http://www.kristenalexander.com.au/books/jack-davenport-beaufighter-leader)

Jack Davenport led the men of 455 Squadron RAAF at the Sydney Anzac Day march whenever business commitments allowed.

Sydney Anzac Day March (date unknown). Jack is second from right.

Jack Davenport (left) and Jack 'Bluey' Collins (right)

Close up of the 455 Squadron banner