by Alan Rimmer
“Every word fell like a hammer blow. Every word destroyed my hopes and dreams for a ‘normal’ life. I was devastated. I cried for two days and nights while Eric showed hardly any emotion.
“While I wept, Eric turned his wrath on his fellow officers. He wore a permanent stern expression on his face which struck terror into his subordinates. It wasn’t long before Eric’s superiors caught on to the fact there was something seriously wrong with him.
“From some of the other wives I learned that discreet inquiries were made about him. It wasn’t long before they discovered Eric had had psychiatric treatment. Things happened pretty fast after that. Eric was ordered to take further psychiatric treatment and was immediately posted to RAF Leeming in Lincolnshire. After years flying one of the RAF’s most sophisticated aircraft Eric found himself doing what he had always dreaded: flying a desk.
“The psychiatric treatment didn’t work and Eric spiralled out of control…as I discovered one morning when I was awoken by a noise in the kitchen of the cottage we were renting.
“I have always been a heavy sleeper, and it took a lot to wake me. But something jerked me awake in the middle of the night. Cutting through the silence was a sound that literally made my hair stand on end. It was a sort of rasping, scraping noise that for some unaccountable reason reminded me of the swishing of a scythe.
“Heart palpitating I stumbled to the top of the stairs; the sound appeared to be coming from the kitchen. Slowly I descended the stairs, every nerve in my body jumping. I looked into the kitchen, and my heart stopped.
“Eric was sitting at the kitchen table, bathed in a shaft of moonlight. He was stark naked, and a trickle of blood ran in a little rivulet down his chest. In his hand, glinting wickedly was a large woodcutter’s axe we kept in the garden shed. He was slowly sharpening the axe with a file. The rasp, rasp, rasp of the file was the noise that had awakened me.
“I stood in the doorway, but Eric never looked up, so engrossed was he with the sinister task he had given himself. I stood there for a long time trying to make sense of what was going on. In the end I stammered, ‘Eric, darling what on earth are you doing?’
“Eric slowly raised his head; it seemed to take an age before his eyes met mine. Even then I could tell by the blank stare that he hadn’t focused on me. He gazed at me for a long time before I finally detected a flicker of recognition.
“At last he spoke. In a matter-of-fact tone, chilling in its normality, he said: ‘What am I doing? I woke up and I had the idea that I might quite like to kill you. Then I might kill myself…’
“The horror of what he was doing suddenly left me and was replaced by rage. I rushed over to him and slapped him as hard as I could across the face. As his head jerked backwards, I wrenched the axe from his grasp and threw it into a corner.
“Eric’s eyes cleared and he looked at me with surprise. I wanted to hit him again, but he put his head into his hands and began to sob. I let him cry while I struggled to remain calm. Finally he went to the bedroom and slept for 12 hours.
“We never talked of the incident again, but Eric was deteriorating. He began to self-harm. At first it was just small nicks across his wrists and arms. It was enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to sever an artery. When I asked him about it, he merely said he liked to watch the blood flowing. He said it helped keep back the ‘dark cloud.’
“By this time I was so used to his miseries, I confess I took it in my stride, even insisting that he always wore long-sleeved shirts to hide the evidence of his disturbing obsession. But as his mental condition worsened, he was no longer able to mask it from his superiors.
“After many interviews with his commanding officers and several visits to doctors, Eric was prevailed upon to leave his beloved RAF. But as feared, it only served to hasten his descent into darkness.
“He got a job as a commercial pilot. He was getting paid more than what he had been getting from the RAF, so our circumstances improved. We moved into a pretty cottage near Oxford and tried to settle down.
“It was illusory, of course. The demons were always there, but I had become adept at ignoring them. He became more reckless in his everyday life. He began to drink an awful lot. He was still self-harming, cutting his arms usually, and always wore long-sleeved shirts so no-one at the airline would notice. I did worry about his ability to fly an aircraft, but he dismissed my concerns. As usual I shoved it all to the back of my mind. But there were some things I couldn’t ignore.
“One day I arrived home and noticed an odd smell of burning as I came through the front door. I shouted out, ‘What’s that awful smell?’ But the house was eerily silent. I was suddenly afraid. ‘Eric, dear, where are you?’ I cried. But there was still no reply.
“I sniffed the air; it really was a foul odour. I checked in the kitchen, but there was nothing on the stove, and no sign of Eric. I went into the living room and looked in the garden. Still no sign. I followed my nose to the foot of the stairs. The vile smell seemed to be coming from the bedroom.
“I ran up the stairs and threw open the bedroom door. Eric was lying on the bed, naked. He turned his head to look at me, but there was no recognition in his eyes. And then quite deliberately he took a lit cigarette and stubbed it out on his chest. To this day I can still hear the sizzle of burning flesh as my husband slowly extinguished the cigarette on his chest which was literally covered with blisters from charred and blackened stubs.
“I ran from the house and just walked for hours. When I returned I told Eric I couldn’t take anymore and that I was leaving with the children. We had four by that time. Eric took it surprisingly well.
“By this time he had composed himself and looked as though nothing unusual or untoward had occurred. He told me he understood how I felt, and that there was no need for me to leave. He would go and with that packed a bag and left.
“I cried for hours, but I knew I had reached the end of my tether. It was several weeks before I heard from him again. One of his colleagues rang to say he had booked himself into a psychiatric clinic. He said Eric hadn’t been sectioned, but was responding well to treatment.
“I was relieved that he was ok; despite everything I still loved him. As soon as I could I went to visit him. It was a nice place, with fresh flowers in reception and an air of tranquility. A doctor told me Eric was doing well, but like his predecessors, he didn’t have a clue what was wrong with him.
“Eric was very calm and we walked in the pretty little garden at the back of the sanatorium. We kept the conversation light; we wanted no shadows. But we both knew the dark cloud that enveloped his brain was still there. After a few days I took him home.
“Death finally took my darling Eric on July 8, 1976. His body was found in Bagley Wood about six miles from our home in Kennington.
“He had bled to death after slashing his wrists as he sat under an oak tree. He left a blood-stained note saying he couldn’t take anymore. It was a sad, lonely little death and I shed bitter tears that I hadn’t been there to comfort him in his final hours.
“The RAF sent a representative to his funeral, but there was no fly-past, the honour normally afforded to men of his rank. Eric was quietly ignored by the service he had dedicated his life to. It was a humiliation I never forgot.”
DID YOU KNOW HE WET THE BED?
Shirley Denson’s showdown with the Ministry of Defence took place at the Pensions Appeals Tribunal’s headquarters in Procession House, 55, Ludgate Hill, near London’s Royal Courts of Justice. Her appeal was set to be heard before a tribunal of three people, a barrister, a medical officer and a retired brigadier who would decide whether Mrs Denson was entitled to a war widow’s pension. It was 25 years since her husband died.
Mrs Denson was shown by an usher into a small ante-room near the main body of the court where she would wait for her case to be called.
“She is a tall, striking-looking woman with iron-grey hair and a very straight back. With her smart, expensively-cut navy blue suit and crisp
white blouse, Mrs Denson could easily be mistaken for a barrister awaiting a client. A leather briefcase and a copy of that day’s Times newspaper completed the ultra-cool, very business-like impression she wanted to create. In truth, her clothes had been bought in a charity shop, her briefcase was borrowed from her daughter, and her stomach was doing somersaults.
After a while there was a commotion at the door as the Ministry of Defence team arrived. It consisted of three men, noisy, boisterous, brimful of confidence and all very smartly dressed. Each had an armful of very important looking papers. Mrs Denson’s heart sank when she realised these were the people she would have to face at the tribunal.
One of the men, obviously the leader by virtue of his seniority and deference shown by the others, detached himself from the little group and strode across to her. He was very friendly; jolly even. “Ah, Mrs Denson, how very nice to meet you,” he enthused. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Good luck with today.”
Mrs Denson felt more at ease. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such an ordeal after all. When they were called, she was invited to sit on a single chair directly in front of a long, mahogany conference table where the tribunal sat. The Ministry people, obviously used to the routine, quickly occupied a couple of tables to the side.
They had a considerable number of bulky files and boxes spread before them, and they whispered importantly to each other as they waited for the hearing to begin. Mrs Denson eyed them with some trepidation. Her file of evidence lying forlornly in front of the panel looked positively puny by comparison.
Shirley Denson had been widowed in 1976 and with four young children to bring up, life, to say the least, had been a struggle. Three of her children were in poor health and she had been forced to live in charity accommodation provided for the families of ex-servicemen. It was only recently that she had been advised to apply for a war pension because of the unusual circumstances of her husband Eric’s demise and death. Although it hadn’t occur to her at the time, Mrs Denson now believed there was a link with her husband’s Christmas Island experience and his death.
She thought the least the Government owed her was a decent pension, and was indignant when the Ministry of Defence rejected her application out of hand insisting her husband’s death had not been ‘service related.’ Mrs Denson had appealed. The tribunal was now sitting to hear the evidence and decide who was right.
The chairwoman, a middle-aged barrister, started the proceedings by explaining that although the tribunal had all the powers of a legal court, every effort was made to make it as informal as possible.
The man from the ministry stood up, bowed and in a chummy ‘we know what it’s all about voice’ averred that that suited his team fine. The chairwoman ignored him. Turning her full attention to Mrs Denson she enquired if she was comfortable and would she like something, a glass of water perhaps? Mrs Denson felt that perhaps the panel was on her side.
The chairwoman switched her attention to Mrs Denson’s bundle of evidence. She explained the tribunal had already studied the dossier and were fully conversant with its contents. “If you have no objection, Mrs Denson, we’d like to ask the men from the ministry what they have to say about it…”
Mrs Denson said she didn’t mind.
The man from the ministry rose. Without preamble he said: “Mrs Denson. Are you aware that your late husband suffered from childhood nocturnal enuresis, which is bed-wetting to you and me?”
Shirley Denson gasped. She had expected them to challenge her appeal on the grounds her late husband’s depressive illness had nothing to do with his duties at Christmas Island. But this? This was beneath contempt.
She took a long look at her inquisitor and noted he held in his hands a bundle of medical notes, doubtless containing evidence of her late husband’s childhood bed-wetting.
Mrs Denson breathed deeply, but before she could say anything, the chairwoman interposed sharply. With a withering glance at the man from the ministry, she said: “Whatever your reasons, I strongly advise you not to go down that road. Do I make myself understood?”
The man nodded and shuffled his papers awkwardly. He had a lot of papers: two box files, in fact. He selected another bundle, but before he could speak he was stopped in his tracks by the formidable chairwoman: “I have one question to ask of you. Is it true that Squadron Leader Denson was ordered to fly through the mushroom cloud to collect samples of radioactive material at Christmas Island on April 28th, 1958?”
The man from the ministry looked at his papers. He looked at the panel. He looked at his feet and cleared his throat. Finally he said: “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Thank you,” the chairwoman said dismissively. “I don’t think we need trouble you further.” The man sat down, looking decidedly sheepish.
Despite the intervention, Mrs Denson was not about to allow the ministry people to get away with even suggesting her husband had psychological problems before joining the RAF, which was clearly why they had delved so far into his past. With the panel’s permission she told them about her husband.
Eric Denson had applied to be a flight cadet with the Royal Air Force in 1952, and was subsequently invited to a rigorous selection procedure, a four-week course. He was passed as being suitable and was accepted as a flight cadet. He completed two years of intensive training. He was placed under constant scrutiny. Those showing any psychological flaws or weakness were ruthlessly weeded out. Only a small number of entrants were accepted, her husband being one of them. He ‘passed out’ with his wings as a fully-fledged pilot officer in the spring of 1954. Mrs Denson strongly emphasised the point that her husband when accepted into the RAF was 100 per cent fit, both physically and mentally.
Mrs Denson turned to the matter of her husband’s involvement in the bomb tests. She told how he was sent out to Christmas Island under conditions of top secrecy and was expected to spend at least a year there. Then there was his abrupt return home after only a few months, and how he had changed. She told them of the strange rash on his chest, breathing problems, allergies, mood swings and restlessness. And he appeared to have undergone a dramatic personality change.
Her husband’s mental state deteriorated as the years went by. But not once did Mrs Denson link it with his involvement with the bomb tests. It was only some years after he died that she came across some authoritative research from America which suggested strongly that people exposed to radiation could undergo profound psychological changes. Mrs Denson reminded the panel that she had included this research in her statement of claim.
The chairwoman looked puzzled and conferred with her colleagues. Finally she said they were unable to find this research and could Mrs Denson show them where it was included?
Mrs Denson went through the paperwork with a rising sense of panic: it didn’t appear to be there. As a matter of routine, all Mrs Denson’s evidence had been sent to the Pensions Agency headquarters in Blackpool where it had been typed and prepared for scrutiny by the tribunal. But the vital evidence didn’t appear to be there.
She looked helplessly at the chairwoman who eventually called for a 15-minute recess. Mrs Denson went through her documents again, but with no success. The chairwoman said she had no choice but to adjourn the hearing to a later date, to give Mrs Denson an opportunity to find the missing material.
Then she did a strange thing. Leaning forward, she looked Mrs Denson straight in the eye and told her: “When you receive notification about the date of your next hearing you must insist on the same tribunal members as are sitting here today…and no-one else.” The chairwoman repeated this, “…so no-one could be in any doubt.”
Mrs Denson was mystified. A clear message had been imparted to her, but she was uncertain what it meant. She went home, her mind in turmoil. Was the chairwoman suggesting that she and the other tribunal members were the only ones that could be trusted? And if so, why?
She had been warned several times of suspicions that pension tribunals were routinely “rigged”, especially in matters relating to Bri
tain’s nuclear tests. She’d never really believed them, but now she wasn’t sure. Luckily she was able to get a copy of the missing research and immediately informed the Appeal Court.
Three weeks later, she received a letter from no less a person than the President of the Appeal Court offering a date for the new hearing. Astonishingly he announced that he, personally, would sit as chairman.
Mrs Denson, mindful of the warning she had been given, wrote back rejecting the president’s offer and insisting that the tribunal members who had sat previously on her case, be reconvened. By return of post she received a curt reply informing her that her request could take several months because the three people she wanted were, “very busy people.” Mrs Denson informed the president she was quite prepared to wait.
A month later, Mrs Denson received a letter from the Pensions Agency. To her utter astonishment she was informed she had been awarded a full war widow’s pension --- and it had been back-dated from the time she had first made her application. A phone call to the agency confirmed the award. The appeal hearing had apparently gone ahead in her absence and had come down in her favour.
At first Mrs Denson was delighted. But one thing concerned her: the reason given for the award stated that Squadron Leader Denson’s death had been marked down as “attributable to service.” This was far too vague for Mrs Denson’s liking. She wrote back asking for the wording to be changed to, “attributable to radiation exposure in service.” By return post, Mrs Denson was told the wording could not be changed. The tone of the letter left no doubt that as far as the Agency was concerned, the matter was closed.
If the “powers that be” thought that would be an end to the matter, they seriously underestimated Shirley Denson. All her life she had been a patriot. She believed absolutely in the British sense of justice and fair play. She had loved her husband and had always been immensely proud of him As far as she was concerned he was in the same mould as ‘the few’, the brave pilots who had defended Britain in World War II. Now she felt he had been betrayed by the country he gave his life for. She made a pledge there and then not to rest until the truth was told.