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
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