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 Britain’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.