“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.