The War Memoirs of Edward Dennis Deane: Second World War

Showing posts with label Second World War. Show all posts

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Introduction

Edward Dennis Deane was born in 1895 in Longparish, Hampshire. Growing up largely in the Greywell area - with interludes in the West Country (his father was an insurance salesman) - Den left school at 14, and took apprenticeship as a motor mechanic at Thorneycrofts in Basingstoke. He joined the Hampshire Regiment in 1914, at the age of 19, was sent for training as a private soldier in Ireland, and a year later was fighting in Gallipoli. He subsequently fought at Ypres, in Italy and on the Somme. And he survived.

Yet he did not 'survive to tell the tale'. It was a tale he wouldn't tell for 30 years. Like so many of his generation, he returned home after the First World War, got on with his life and never spoke about his experiences. He married his childhood sweetheart, my grandmother, Dorothy, and in 1922 joined the RAF, rising through the ranks to Squadron Leader, and serving in Iraq, Kenya and Egypt.

In 1928 my mother, Valmai, was born. During the Second World War, there was a five-year period during which Den, by force of circumstances, did not see his wife and daughter once.

I remember Grandad as a warm, loving, affectionate man, completely devoted to his little family and, later to his two grand-daughters. He left school young, yet was an intelligent man, self-taught, a devotee of Mozart, a voracious reader of library books. Even when his sight began to fail through diabetes in the last decade of his life, he struggled on with large-print books until he could manage no more and turned instead to Radio 4 for readings, plays and news programmes.

He was a great countryman. He knew much about plants and trees and animals. He loved dogs, and always kept one by him during his RAF years. He reared geese and goats and, after his retirement, he hurled himself into the cultivation of his large garden in Odiham. Vegetables, fruit and herbaceous borders were his specialities. He had a weakness for dahlias, of the sort which are deeply unfashionable now - the bigger and more gaudy the better. Yet he didn't much care for cut flowers. Flowers should be in the garden, not in the house, he always grumbled - but in a good-natured way, because his wife and daughter loved arranging flowers as much as he loved growing them. Cutting his sweet-peas and carrying them back in a trug is an abiding childhood memory.

In the 1960s I loved my weekly visits to my grandparents' home in Odiham, and later their retirement bungalow in Old Basing. Apart from the wonderful gardens to play in, there was Grandad's potting shed - a haven of weedkiller, grass-seed and creosote, scythes and dibbers and shears, pots, hosepipes and dried-out bulbs and tubers (a health-and-safety nightmare by today's standards, but my playroom for many a long afternoon).

And also Grandad's workshop. Having spent his youth in a mechanic's garage, Den loved to tinker with cars - latterly his shiny black A30, with its fragrant leather seats - such a poignant smell - and endearing little 'trafficators' (I think they were called). He was very keen on woodwork and the new and exciting concept of 'do-it-yourself' caught his imagination. He was forever 'improving' and 'modernising' pieces of antique furniture - a practice many would come to regret, but it kept him busy and he didn't ever get his hands on anything priceless. He made great pull-along trucks for my sister and me, recycling old chairs and drawers and assorted odd wheels. His workshop smelled of French polish, linseed oil, paint and petrol. I loved it.

A few years before his death, Den shut himself away for several days in his study and wrote these memoirs. He had no notes or diaries to refer to. He had kept nothing from those days save photographs. The dates and times, the names of people and places - all had been ingrained upon his memory.

I have transcribed them here from his handwriting as best I can. He had beautiful copper-plate writing, and it is generally easy to decipher, but some names and other odd words have eluded me. Since I wish it to be a faithful copy, I have not expurgated some words which strike one now as shocking - nor glossed over the sentiments reflected in his use of these words. Den was a man of his times: he was fiercely patriotic; in Africa and the Middle East he treated the 'natives' with, I like to think, respect (he always spoke very highly of the men of King's African Rifles - admired their discipline and determination), yet not as equals; he was deeply conservative and loathed the fashions and music of the 1950s and 60s - he would always wear a collar and tie, even when gardening; he was a Methodist and had a simple, unquestioning Christian faith, but his God was an Englishman through and through. He never failed to stand for the National Anthem, and would have defended the King (or later the Queen) with his life. I loved him dearly, and I understand entirely how and why he held the views that he did. That I do not necessarily share or endorse those views does not make me love him less.

These memoirs are not literary or poetic. They describe great horrors in plain language - language which often seems quite inadequate to the task. He doesn't attempt to convey great feeling - he simply sets out the facts. The numbers of dead. His best mate being shot beside him. The details are left to us to fill in - we've read the poems, seen the documentary footage and the photographs, watched the movies, read Pat Barker, Sebastian Faulks and all the rest.

In spite of its simplicity - perhaps because of it - I find the First World War account quite painful to re-read. That his language does not express any great depth of anguish and horror makes it all the more poignant. Just as he and his fellow soldiers had at the time no means of even beginning to explain, on their return from the Front, what they had witnessed and taken part in, so at the last, thirty years later, Den can only begin to record it for posterity. This, and no more. It was as far as he could go. The bare testimony of an ordinary man, who did an extraordinary job, survived it all, told no-one anything about it, then wrote it all down and died in old age.

Friday, 9 November 2007

Part II: Royal Air Force Service 1922-1945

On the 22nd February 1922, I joined the RAF for service with the Armoured Cars in Iraq. Early training at Uxbridge, the intensive training at Manston, Kent. (The RAF Armoured Cars were formed to take over from the Tank Corps the duties of policing Iraq and Fighter and Bomber Squadron were to replace Army regiments.)

At Manston my signalling came in handy. I was promoted Cpl and signal instructor to the whole A Car unit. In addition, every car crew had to know how to drive and to be efficient with Lewis and Vickers machine guns, rifles and revolvers, as well as signalling.

On 15th September 1922 we sailed for Iraq, but trouble was brewing in Turkey, so we were diverted to Constantinople. I saw the wrecks off the narrows, and as we steamed up the narrows my thoughts went back seven years to the thousands of young men who had died trying to force these waters we were so calmly sailing on.

After about three weeks, we were on our way to Iraq again.

Arrived Baghdad some time in November and at once started intensive training. I was promoted Sgt and took over ‘A’ Section of cars up to the end of 1924, when I was posted home. My section travelled thousands of miles in Iraq, stayed for a while at Mosul and Kirkut and even went into the Kurds’ Territory. Arrived Southampton 23 November 1924. Posted to School of Balloon Training on Salisbury Plain. 29th November 1929 posted to Halton. Promoted F/Sgt July 1932. Apri 1933 posted to 601 Squadron Hendon as NC0 1st Class. August 1936, posted to Demon Flight Squadron. Assembled on Waterloo Station, trained to Southampton, embarked on HMT Neuralia for Malta. The Squadron was later named 74 Fighter Squadron. In August 1936 the Squadron was posted home to Hornchurch, Essex.

September 4th 1937, promoted to Warrant Officer 1st Class and posted to Grantham as Station Warrant Officer. January 1938 refused a commission in the Equipment Branch. April 1935 posted overseas to Heliopolis, Egypt. April 30th, posted to Nairobi as Station Warrant Officer and to enforce discipline, which I am sorry to say was sadly lacking. However, after a few months, a new CO arrived, Wg. Cdr Shaw. H e was the type of CO I could work with and very soon the Station became what an RAF Station should be. I made friends with RSM, KAR [King's African Rifles] and other white Warrant Officers and was made an honorary member of their Mess, the first RAF Warrant Officer ever to be given that honour and I considered it just that. I also made friends with Chief Inspectors and Inspectors of the Kenya Police and a special friend was Brigham Young. Donald was his real Christian name. He was Superintendent of the Pumwani native location, housing about 10,000 natives, with their own hospital, staffed with their own nurses, brewery, dance hall, recreation room, sports centre etc. Brigham took me around the countryside to spots of beauty when time permitted.

In April 1940 I was commissioned in the advisory staff branch and posted to Heliopolis, travelling by BOAC flying boat. May 1939 posted to Khartoum by the Nile Valley Route. June 1940 posted by air to Erkowit, with the skeleton staff of HQ 254 Wing, whose function was to operate the three Bomber Squadron against the the Italians. September 1940 promoted to F/Lt and as Staff Officer had to visit Squadrons and collect data etc and help and advise in the admin work. Air Marshal Tedder visited us for a few days at this time.

He was very nice to all of us and we thought he was the right man for the job. October 1940 the whole HQ took up residence in Port Sudan and operated the Squadrons from there. The CO was excellent. I liked him very much and we got along fine. G/Capt S D MacDonald, AFC. With the final fall of the Italians at ***, our HQ began to run down. G/Capt MacDonald was posted during March 1941 from Heliopolis to Command, and shortly afterwards I was posted to Heliopolis as Station Adjutant. I liked the job very much and was sorry when the G/Capt flew off with a Squadron of Wellingtons to quell the mutiny in Iraq.

October 1941 promoted to S/Ldr and posted to MEP [Middle East Pool] to Command. This was my toughest job ever. A tented camp to house about 6-7,000 Officers and men. The Camp was renamed 21 PTC (Personnel Training Centre). Our job was to take all drafts of Officers and men coming into the country, tent them, issue with bedding etc. All had to be medically examined and inoculated and paid. Then posting instructions were given me by HQME [Headquarters Middle East] and the men posted by lorry to Western Desert, Palestine and to other units throughout the Middle East. Some job. And we had to get organised to do it. The largest draft I ever took was from the Queen Mary, 8,900 in one go. I had to take over seven Army Camps in the Canal Zone and we finally got them in and posted without too much trouble. Air Commodore Sanderson, our officer I/C Administration Air HQ Egypt was a tower of strength at this time and got me everything I needed to help post the men to their Units.

In October 1942 I was posted home, with, I have learned afterwards, a very fine recommendation to Air Ministry by Air Vice Marshal McClancey. Left Suez 14th October 1942 and landed Glasgow 14 January 1942, via Aden, Durban, Cape Town, Pernambuco, Brazil, Trinidad, and New York. Ten days home and posted to Lossiemouth, Scotland. I retired from the RAF in September 1945 as a Sq/Ldr and given permission by the Air Ministry to carry my rank through civilian life and permitted to wear uniform on any special occasion. Was awarded two mentions in Despatches and the OBE.